B2C35 - Raven Words (Patreon)

Children smiling with a tired sort of joy was a balm to the heart, Elsbeth decided. She rose from where she had been crouched as the small gathering of young folk ran back to their parents. Such expressions had been rare over the last few weeks, more often than not, families were in mourning, mothers and fathers having fallen in the chaos that followed the breach.

She brushed her hands on her skirt before looking around the small clearing. A fire crackled on the eastern side of the camp, the deer roasting over the open flame filling the area with the scent of smoking meat. Small groups of adults stood here and there, discussing in hushed tones.

Munhilde moved from one group to the next, speaking quietly for a few moments with each. Elsbeth knew the pattern by now, offering words of comfort, asking what she could do to help, offering the support of the Dark Ones.

At the thought of her new Gods, her smile faltered for a moment before she recovered it. She could feel them now, ever so slightly. Once upon a time, the presence of the Goddess Selene had hovered over her, like a light hanging just beyond the corner of her eye. It’d felt stronger when she prayed.

Any sense of the Five Divines was gone now, replaced by a different sensation.

Rot, Crone and Raven. Not really their names, but rather words that evoked their spirit, something that people could understand. When she took a step, it was as if they hummed in the ground beneath her feet. The Old Gods were bound to the land, to the realm itself, in an intrinsic way she had only just begun to comprehend.

The Five always felt as they were above, looking down on their servants from some lofty position. The Three were not like that. They never looked at her, as far as she could tell, they simply were.

“Teacher,” she greeted the older priestess when she caught up to her between groups. “Is there anything else I can do here?”

Munhilde frowned. Elsbeth knew the woman well enough by now to recognise that the expression wasn’t directed at her, it was the face she made whenever she was thinking. The lines on her forehead deepened further whenever she tried to commune with the Will of the Old Ones, causing her to look positively furious.

“There are a few more I need to speak to. A few have requested that we perform a Rite of Knowing, which I will get you to do, but we will have to move apart from the main group. Many here do not approve of the faith and it isn’t wise to test them.”

Elsbeth nodded in understanding as she felt a knot of excitement bloom in her chest.

“Very well, Teacher. I will wait for you.”

Opportunities to perform the Rites were rare, at least so far during their journey. Elsbeth had only recently learned two of them, the Rite of Knowing, and the Rite of Health, and she’d only been able to attempt them once before.

Along with her growing collection of minor miracles, they represented the sum total of her progress as a priestess. She was proud. Tyron had grit his teeth and walked forward on his path despite everything arrayed in his way. The challenges placed in front of her were not nearly so significant, so she had gotten on with it, her newfound determination enough to have her badgering her teacher constantly for new bits of lore and wisdom.

After another ten minutes, Munhilde returned to her and then eyed a few people in the clearing, gesturing them to come over. An eclectic mix of men and women, some former mechants, others farmhands or tradespeople, walked towards them, excusing themselves with a few muttered words.

The small group wandered through the forest for a time, hardly speaking. Elsbeth didn’t have a mind for conversation anyway. She ignored the sounds around her, of rustling grass and snapping twigs, instead focused internally on the Rite she was to perform.

When sufficient distance had been put between the group and the clearing, Munhilde directed them to form a circle. Elsbeth stayed by her teacher’s side as the others moved to stand as directed, creating a loose ring with two metres between each person.

When it had been done to the priestess’ satisfaction, she nodded and gave her student a pat on the shoulder.

“Relax yourself,” the older woman advised, “you are a vessel. The Raven will give, or will not, neither result is in your hands.”

Elsbeth nodded firmly and stepped to the centre of the circle, taking slow, steadying breaths to calm her heart. To commune with the gods on behalf of the people was the primary responsibility of any priest or priestess. She had always expected to be an intermediary of the Divines, but they had rejected her. Now, an entirely different pantheon could enact their will through her, if they chose.

She clasped her hands before her, bowed her head and spoke, intoning the first words of the Rite.

“You come before the Raven,” she said, “the Watcher Who Rides the Storm, the Sky Father, the Wings of Doom. For what reason do you approach?”

Unlike the Divines, the Dark Ones did not welcome supplicants. They helped those who helped themselves. To ask a favour of them required no small measure of courage and belief in the sacrifices one had made. The faces of those around her were set and determined, ready for what was to come.

“We come for Knowledge,” an elderly man, approaching sixty judging by his iron grey hair and weathered features, spoke for the group. “Our homes are lost, our kin are dead, yet we endure still. We ask He Who Knows where we should go that will be safe?”

Despite her focus on the ritual, Elsbeth felt her heart break for these people. Their story was so common. The further she and her teacher had travelled east, the worse the damage caused by the break had become. The far western villages had been protected by the foothills and crags, but here on the plains, there had been no impediments to the ravenous rift-kin. Whole towns had been erased from the map with no survivors.

Please, Raven, she begged internally, these people have suffered greatly, yet still stand tall. Give them your blessing.

“I have heard your plea. Look skyward, and I will seek the Raven. May you be spared his wrath.”

The circle around her leaned back to raise their faces to the sky as Elsbeth began the Rite in earnest. In that same pose, her head bowed and hands clasped before her, she began to pray out loud.

The words that emanated from her mouth were in no mortal language, or even the words of power used by mages to cast spells. This was the tongue of the Old Gods, long forgotten by mortal kind. Only those devoted to their service were able to learn it now, via the Unseen.

To those around her, Elsbeth’s words were indecipherable, almost not sounding like words at all. One sound rolled into the next, seemingly without pause, each harsh utterance a staccato point in a dirge that did not seem to end.

When it seemed she must stop to draw breath, she did not, continuing to utter the Rite without pause.

Having learned this Rite only recently, Elsbeth wasn’t entirely clear on what she was saying. The language was almost impossible to understand, the meaning of any one word shifting and sliding based on the context. It was harsh, and it tore at her throat to speak it for too long, which limited her opportunity to practise with Munhilde, yet she had persevered.

In her heart, she continued to repeat her prayer even as the words rolled from her mouth.

Help these people, they deserve your care. Answer this call, they have suffered enough.

She believed that these people were worthy. Her mind drifted back to the children, and the haunted look that still hid in the back of their eyes. What more could be asked of them?

As she continued to pray, she did not heed the changes that slowly began to occur around her. The supplicants, their faces still upturned, grew nervous as a chill swept through, followed by a darkening of the light as clouds began to gather overhead with unnatural speed.

Seconds later, thunder crashed directly overhead. Many flinched, but all remained in place, never glancing away from the storm that had miraculously begun to form before them.

From a great distance, Elsbeth felt a pressure begin to form. It grew and grew, until she felt as if she might be pressed to the forest floor by its mighty weight. Her ears became filled with a rushing sound, as if a hurricane whistled through the feathers of a giant bird.

A voice sounded out from that vastly distant presence, yet as it reached her it thundered in her mind, driving all thought away.

Your Call is grating, hatchling. You peck without fear. Shall I teach it to you?

Unbeknownst to Elsbeth, blood had begun to flow freely from her ears as she continued the Rite. The weight of the Raven on her mind, for that was who this must be, was suffocating.

These people are strong, these people are worthy, she prayed fervently, grant them a sliver of your wisdom.

Like a mouse under the eye of an enormous hawk, she trembled in the centre of the circle as the Raven contemplated her.

I shall.

All at once, the pressure abated and Elsbeth felt a tiny parcel of knowledge slip into her mind. In an instant, all of it was gone. The thunder, the clouds, the pain and pressure, all of it vanished as if it had never been.

Elsbeth swooned on the spot, but caught herself at the last moment. If she failed to finish the Rite, she would invite the wrath of Raven.

Overwhelmingly tired, she forced herself to remain steady and spoke the last words. With that done, she opened her hands and held them cupped before her.

“Raven has recognised your strength, forged through suffering,” she intoned and the people looked down at her, the tension easing from their faces. “The Answer you seek is this. Head south and to the west. The village of Cragwhistle has room and work. They will take you in. Should you encounter the Necromancer…” Elsbeth blanched, but continued, “... he will protect you from harm.”

Every member of the circle gave thanks, relieved that their plea had been well received. Even more, they were grateful to have some direction in their lives. For weeks, they had drifted, seeking safety, but now, they had a clear path forward.

Munhilde flashed Elsbeth a look that told the young woman to keep her mouth shut and began to move amongst the people. She congratulated them, offered comfort and encouragement, before sending them back to the clearing. When the last had gone, she approached her student and touched her on the shoulder.

“How bad was it?” she asked, gathering a cloth from her pouch and wiping the blood that continued to drip from Elsbeth’s ears.

“Not great,” the young woman replied, trying to be stoic.

It did no good; she slumped down to her knees, all the strength in her legs suddenly gone. Munhilde caught her before she fell, lowering her slowly, familiar scowl on her face.

“Raven very seldom answers directly like that. I’ve only experienced it a few times myself. You must have pissed him off.”

Elsbeth smiled wanly.

“He said I pecked at him.”

“Well, don’t. You’ll get your mind squashed like a bug and your soul ripped out of your body if you aren’t careful. The Dark Ones don’t like being annoyed.”

She sighed.

“I know you want them to answer every prayer and help the people who come before you, but that isn’t how they operate. They’re whimsical, sometimes in the mood to help, sometimes not. Sometimes, they will crush the next thing that reaches up and catches their eye, deserving or not. We are not safe from them, just as we are not safe from lightning or flood.”

Elsbeth nodded, beginning to get back her bearings.

“W-what they said. About the Necromancer….”

“Clearly the Old Gods have their eyes on that boy. I find it interesting they would send people toward him rather than away. Fshaw!”

She spat.

“Raven is always plotting something, the bird brain. Who knows what he could possibly want.”

The young priestess couldn’t begin to imagine plumbing the depth of the god who had deigned to glance at her, almost ending her life in the process. Such a being was too lofty, too grand, for her to comprehend.

“Do you think he is safe?”

Tyron was her friend though, and a good person at heart. She wanted him to be okay.

Munhilde looked down at her apprentice with sympathy.

“For the likes of him, safety is always an illusion. At least you know that, for now, he is still alive.”