Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

He should be resting.

Russel knew this. The Imperial Doctors knew this. Even his new commander-to-be knew this. It was evidently apparent to all of the above that Cyclus and his Curse did not mix well. There was a stiffness that had spread to his bones, slowed his movements and lengthened his slumbers. The vines that wrapped around his veins seemed to constrict tighter and stabbed inwards with every move. Like a tree in chill, his steps were rigid, inflexible, and rooted into the earth. The doctors made a note, and his commander had not cleared him for active duty.

Russel should be resting. It was clear that the man, even young as he was, should not be out in his condition.

And yet.

And yet he found himself in the midst of a blizzard, trials out from his garrison in Cahryst, astride on a borrowed horse, with only the warmth of rapidly dying torch to keep him company amidst the rocky plains of Old Dynaash. The world was awash in white, icy fingers of wind cutting through his minithelite chain longcoat. Russel had wrapped himself up best he could, Imperial uniform tucked tight around his body and a non-regulation scarf wrapped around his face, but even with all the layers he could manage the cold still crept in and curled around his bones. The storm was fierce, unrelenting, and uncaring of the youth's meager attempts to press on. It cut a swath through the region, and the rest of the world merely had to adapt to its will.

Were it not for the imposing sight of an Imperial Watchtower, with its once bright-burning signal beacon now issuing a dull orange glow in the storm, Russel might have crumbled to the will of that uncaring element.

He would press on to the watchtower, as the wind whipped against his body and as black-bodied thorns needled his insides. People needed him, and he would not be restrained to a bed while he could be of use.

He had overheard that Ithecal Elders had gone missing trials ago, either lost or taken from their homes. His commander wanted to organize a search party, but the Imperial Army, while powerful, would always be slower to act than an individual. And while he had not been cleared for duty to act in an official capacity as an arm of the Eternal Empire, he was not here in an Imperial Soldier.

He was here as Russel Kandor. Here to be of use, and not a burden. Not an oddity that the ill-whim of an Immortal decided to curse. Here to be a person helping his community, just as he was meant to be.

He swung down from his horse as he reached the watchtower, holding the reigns of the animal in one hand and his torch in the other. Approaching the small, sequestered door of the impressive structure, he knocked loud and urgently. The door swung open, revealing an Imperial Soldier and a smattering of volunteers.

"State your name and purpose!" The soldier shouted over the storm.

"R-russel Kandor! H-here to h-help!" Russel replied, smiling despite his chattering teeth.

The soldier stepped aside, ushering the youth into the meager warmth of the watchtower. The door slammed and locked shut behind him, and, for a moment, he and his fellow volunteers had a respite from the cold rage of the blizzard.

A spreading warmth sunk into the marrow of Russel's storm-frosted bones as he moved into the watchtower proper. It was a small, sparse space, made even smaller by the shuffling bodies of the volunteers who had packed into the outpost's central room. They were of civilian stock, shaking in furs wrapped tight over patchwork leathers. Russel thought they were likely other community members, drawn to the Army's call by a sense of duty to the elders that found themselves lost in the horror of the storm. Out of all of them, including the local military, Russel appeared the most heavily armored amidst them.

The observation did not bring the youth any joy.

Russel moved deeper through the throng of volunteers towards the center of the room, where a table and a map of the local area had been laid out. Standing at the head of the was a dark skinned human, also wrapped in a winter-version of the Imperial Army's uniform. Her chains denoted her ranks as a Sergeant, though the deference all others were giving her spoke to her position more than her Army designation. She was in the midst of discussion with both volunteers and soldiers, not pausing to note Russel's late arrival.

"...and that was the last we had eyes on Phaerra or any of her group. Now, I'm not ruling out foul play completely, but I'd say it's equally as likely that she and the other elders sought shelter as the storm hit. We're flying a bit blind here, so keep your wits about you and weapons at the ready," She paused, surveying the souls that stood before her. .

"Team 1, she started, pointing at the individuals which would make up each search party as she continued. "You've got the Northernmost region, Team 2 the Easternmost, Team 3 the Westernmost, and Team 4 the Southernmost. Remember, keep within range of their last known location. We haven't got the resources to send out more search parties for missing volunteers. Any questions?"

Russel raised his hand with a slight tremor, the spreading vines from his wrist writhing in excitement as warmth flooded his system. The tremor spread to his voice as he opened his mouth to speak. "S-sorry, late ar-r-rival. I'm-m R-Russel Kandor. H-how big of a g-group are w-we looking f-for? M-might change track p-patterns if w-we're looking f-f-for a p-pack of elders r-rather than three."

The Sergeant tilted her head, considering Russel with a steady, appraising look. He could feel her gaze flick over him, measuring his worth to their cause with the practical acumen that the Empire was known for.

"Good to have you, Kandor. And it's Sergeant Moira, in case you were curious," she replied, her tone as even as her gaze. "The group is smaller. Four elders, all Ithecal, traveling back from a pilgrimage. You know much about tracking?"

"W-was a h-hunter on commune b-before the Hotlands W-War." He nodded with intent. No curse or cruel turn of his own anxiety could shake the confidence he had in his silent step or tracker's eye. Those two he could always count on.

"Good. You'll be with Team 3," She pointed toward a collection of volunteers. Two ithecals, one broad and one slender, and a human, head-to-toe in heavy robes, waved at their mention. "We're spread thin, and they're in the sorriest need of a tracker."

Sergeant Moria turned her focus back to the maps before her, bringing in another member of the Infantry to discuss something, but Russel's curiosity hadn't quite been sated. "Why d-do y-you suspect f-foul play?"

The officer paused again, and the eyes of the room turned to focus on her. Russel hadn't meant to cross lines or question authority, but the mention of the suspicion had peaked his interest. It would not be uncommon or suspicious that Elders were lost during a fierce storm, so mention foul play at all? From the eyes that had shifted back to Moira, it was apparent that the youth was not the only one to have the question in mind.

"We've...well, as I said, we're stretched thin. We haven't had as strong a presence in the region during Cylus as we should have, and bandits have taken notice. Kidnapping elders for ransom...wouldn't be an outlandish strategy for those barbarians to adopt." The guilt in the Sergeant's voice was evident, building as she explained her thoughts further. Though she kept a steady demeanor for her troops, even a stranger like Russel could tell Moira was beginning to fray as this situation stretched on.

His hand raised swiftly in response; a salute of support taking shape through Russel's arm. "We'll f-find them. It is th-the Empress' W-Will."

"If it was the Empress' Will, she's doing a bloody poor job of showing it."

The rare, blasphemous thought coupled with the biting cold placed Russel in a foul mood. The brief respite from the storm had been welcome, the warmth of the watchtower waking his rigid limbs, but now back in the blizzard the youth found his legs resistant to movement and his optimism in short supply. It had been some breaks since he and his volunteer group had set out from the Imperial base, and they had come no closer to finding the missing elders. WIth the storm raging as hard as it was, Russel was worried about how long they and their horses could stick out the weather to find the elders.

"No sign here!" one of his volunteer group, the thicker-set of the two Ithecal, called out. That was the third section of the Westernmost region they had dug through for any sign of missing elders, and the third section where they came up without result. And still the uncaring storm raged on, bitter chill pairing nicely with their bitter failure.

Russel and the rest of his group turned their horses and rode hard for the final section of their region, their torches burning with flickering light as the wild wind did its best to snuff out the flame.

They arrived to the next region without much in the way of optimism, silently spreading out as they had done dozens of times before. They each traveled in pairs, Russel with the slender Ithecal and the other two with each other, so that none would be seperated in the storm, and be lost like the elders had been before them. The region they searched now was a rocky stretch of scattered hills, and from the look of the rough construction an area that was once used for mining but had since been abandoned.

A small flicker of hope sprung to life within Russel's chest. With as old as the area looked, it was likely not on any of the newer maps of the area. Meaning that their Sergeant might have missed the fact that there was shelter here for the elders if they got lost in the area, and meaning that his group might've been close to finding the lost group.

Russel and the Ithecal rode their horses hard to the mine, slowing only as they approached the entrance. Dagger slipping free of its sheath, Russel crept forward closer to the heavy doors of the mine. Moira had warned of foul play, and with as uncooperative as his limbs were during Cylus he would not take the chance of being surprised. His body low, his step silent, and his blade ready, Russel pushed forward on the old wood.

He winced as the rigid wood creaked open, the sound echoing near endlessly down the winding shafts below. But his screwed eyebrows quickly shot up in surprise as he saw glimmering torchlight flicker from wall sconces through the tunnels. Someone had been here within the last few breaks, and did not seem to care to hide their presence. Which was either very good, if it was the elders, or very bad, if the bandits were brazen enough not to fear investigation. With nowhere else to go but down, Russel and his fellow followed the torchlight like a path.

His hackles were raised the entire way down. Russel had been a hunter on his family commune, so he was well learned in the setting of a snare. He couldn't shake the feeling they were walking straight into one, the noose closing tighter around their necks with every step they took.

The pair of them reached the end of their descent, and Russel could feel his dagger slip free from his hand and clatter to the floor. His jaw dropped in horror, and his partner fully retched at the sight of what lay before them. Russel had not been wrong, they had walked willingly into a trap. Yet it was not their bodies that were assailed, but their minds.

The elders lay before them, bound and barely breathing. Each of them was tied in such a manner that their bellies lay flat on the stone floor, with their limbs tied behind them. They were gagged, but the rags that circled their mouth were bloodied. With what lay in front of each elder, it was not hard to imagine why.

Before each elder was their own tongue, raggedly cut from their mouth. They were still wet with saliva and blood, shimmering like butchers meat in the low torchlight.With that blood, a message had been scrawled on the ground underneath Russel's feet, but he did not need to read it to know who was responsible for this crime. The cutting of a tongue was a punishment reserved for only the worst of the Empire. Traitors to her Imperial Majesty and all who reside within. Webspinners.

No lies, no secrets, only Sintra.

Russel made a quick count of the elders as he pushed passed the horror in front of them, scooping up his dagger to free the still bound elders. At the end of the count, he realized that there was one elder missing. One elder was missing. The one that had supposedly led the group on the pilgrimage that left this group abandoned in a snowstorm.

Phaerra, the only elder unaccounted for. And by Russel's estimation, a Webspinner within their own midst. The Sergeant needed to know, and she needed to know now.

The ride back to the Watchtower was silent and heavy. Russel reported the elder's location, as well as their findings about the Webspinner responsible. Sergeant Moira pushed past the shock of the betrayal and sent the rest of the search party to retrieve the remaining elders. Russel waited in the warmth of the Army outpost, but no matter how close he kept to the fire he could not shake the chill from his bones. The Sergeant congratulated him and his fellow on finding the missing elders.

After what he had seen, a small, dark part of Russel wish he hadn't.