Echoes of Voices

[Askier]

The longboat cut through the turbulent seas as quickly as her rowers could drive her.  The bitter North Sea was in a foul mood and the white caps were battering the vessel's haul relentlessly.  Stinging cold spray was drenching the crew of three as they strained against the oars in an effort to reach the rocky north shore of Coerthas and relief from the tossing tide.

 

Behind them, the 'Median’s Kiss' sat anchored for the time being.  The largest of the three rowers; a large, stout Highland woman looked up from her task for a moment to inspect the anchored sloop.  Thus far, the ship’s captain was staying true to his word and the sails remain wrapped tight about the masts.  The highlander had no desire to be marooned on the forsaken strand of shore with nightfall coming on, and her muscles strained harder.

 

"Lady Echo," came a serpentine voice that seemed as if it might mix with a hiss at any moment.  The woman turned to her companion.  Beneath a drenched cloak and hood was a lanky looking miqo'te that seemed half-dead.  Grey flesh clung to his bones like wet burlap as beige hair, ripe with mange, fell about his tattooed face.  Indeed the only hues other than grey on his person was his hair and the black that tattooed the left half of his face.  "Sssomeone ssstandsss to greet usss."

 

The woman gazed past Yurt's fettered countenance and swept her eyes over the shore.  Indeed, as spoken, a single figure was now standing upon the rock beach.

 

"Perhaps it's our blond friend."  the highlander said.  A wall of water splashed over the bow and struck her, taking her breath away as the bitter cold sunk into her clothes and washed over her skin.

 

"No." hissed Yurt in a voice smooth as silk as he turned a wide-eyed stare over his shoulder while he continued to row.  "Sssmellssss different."

 

"We’ll have our answer soon enough." the woman answered as she pulled on the oars again, unphased by her companions incredible sense of smell or his relaxed countenance that seemed regardless of the bitter chill.

 

Despite the misery and pain of the cold, Anya Marlow relished this moment, just as she had relished every moment since her release from her Garlean prison just a few weeks ago.  After nearly five years locked away in Gyr Abania, any sensation that wasn't sitting in a cell was divine and she praised Nald'thal almost hourly for his mercy in seeing her freed.

 

Though in five years, things had changed.  And she could no longer hear the Voice, the leader of her church.  This was of concern because it meant one of two outcomes:  the Voice had severed his connection with her and she no longer bore the honor of being his heir, or more seriously, the Voice had perished.  She had languished in silence for so long.

 

Until the Liberation had come and she'd become a free woman once again.  To the people of the new Gyr Abania, she'd been a simple political prisoner arrested for being devout to Nald'thal.  While true, it was only half the truth.

 

The longboat jolted as it beached itself upon the rocky shore and came to a quick stop, bringing Anya back to the present.  Yurt rose to his feet, his spine hunched dramatically beneath his cloak.  Beside him Cathedral,composed and refined as always, rose daintily to her short height and pulled her hood over her delicate, narrow features as she gave Anya a small bow of her tattooed head.  Cathedral turned as she and Yurt stepped from the boat with an otherworldly ease. Anya followed their lead and disembarked the tiny vessel as she stared at their welcoming party.

 

The lone man dressed in worn robes was prostrate on his knees before her, mumbling excitedly.

 

"Praise Nald’thal!  For so long we've waited for the Echo's return to claim the mantle of Voice.  Many doubted, but not I, never I! I knew our god is kind and would restore you to us one day, here, as appointed."

 

Anya felt sadness and relief. The death of the Voice meant she'd not lost her god's favor but his death was finally concreted and that drew a sadness to her heart.  The Voice had been a great teacher and friend and she'd miss his wise council.

 

"Arise, faithful one."Anya said, stepping forward and kneeling to help the old man to his feet.  The elderly fellow was easily in his sixties and looked as if he'd been years without a proper meal.  He wore the battered robe of an acolyte of her cult and his left hand was clutching a tome of Nald'thal's teachings.  A true devotee indeed

 

"My Lady Voice," the man exclaimed,trembling from cold and excitement as she aided him to his feet.  "You honor me!  I...I am without words to-"

 

"It is I who am honored."Anya spoke in a reassuring tone.  "You have waited my arrival for..."

 

"Four years, my lady!" the man explained.  Anya blinked.  Four years.  What had become of her cult in that time?

 

"Four years..." she repeated quietly.  "Faithful please, tell me what happened."

 

"Not here, my Lady." the man shook his head.  "Come, come to the 'Last Assembly' and let us greet you!"

 

The Last Assembly Anya thought bitterly.  Then it's worse than I possibly feared.  Not just the Voice, but the whole church has been brought low!  The Last Assembly was only to beheld in the darkest of times....

 

Anya let herself be led up a small path between a field of boulders.  As they entered the maze of gaps between the stones, her two Crows slipped away, undoubtedly to watch for signs of ambush.

 

"How did you know today I’d arrive?" Anya asked.

 

"The seerer informed us of your recent freedom."  the man spoke.  He moved with a speed Anya would not have thought him capable of.

 

"The seerer?" Anya raised a raven-black eyebrow. 

 

"Indeed, he came to us a few days ago.  He's waiting for you at the Assembly to fill you in." 

 

"The blond cat?" Anya asked, feeling uneasy.  The mysterious, blond stranger named after a box of all things had come to aid her and give her both gil and a ship to travel here.  He hadn't said why he was helping, but he was an open non-believer and that meant there was some personal gain in helping her.

 

"Indeed!" the man nodded. "You know of him?  He's a strange fellow, but promises aid in rebuilding the church-"

 

"What happened to the church?" Anya inquired earnestly.  The man turned and blinked.

 

"You do not know?"

 

"I was...imprisoned and cut off from Nald'thal and the Voice." Anya confessed.  The man paused and gave the stones at his feet deep consideration.

 

"It was nearly destroyed by non-believers." the man explained after several quiet moments.  "A test of faith.  The seerer requested he be the one to inform you, but know your return is just proof that our god is kind."

 

Anya studied the devout man and nodded.

 

"Faithful servant of Nald'thal,what is your name?" 

 

"Me?" the old man blinked in surprised.  "It's, it's Tobin my Lady.  I was in Coerthas preaching when the hunters came for us. I fled here and was spared their wroth.  I came here as instructed by our ancient doctrine to wait your arrival to rebuild our order.  It was so hard, but I held the faith."  A pride shone in Tobin's grey eyes and Anya gave a small smile.

 

"Is there still a Herald ofNald'Thal?" she asked.  The old man shook his balding head.

 

"Nay, Lady Voice.  All ranks of the order are emptied or occupied by those that neglect their duties."

 

"Then you shall be the new Herald." 

 

"My Lady!" Tobin looked as if he was about to faint and he caught a boulder with his free hand to steady himself.  "I..I am not worthy of such honor.  I..I-"

 

"You waited here on this beach for years without proof I'd come.  That is a test of faith.  You passed."

 

"You shall not regret this, my Lady Voice!  Come, let us show you too the remaining faithful!"

 

Tobin's already surprising speed doubled and Anya, despite being easily twenty years his junior, struggled to keep up.

 

A short time later the pair arrived at a small collection of salt encrusted tents and huts arranged in a circle.  As they stepped through the perimeter, Tobin threw his hands up high and in a cracking voice announced:

 

"Behold, the Echo that sounded through the lands when the Voice spoke.   Behold, the Echo that was reverberated back home.  Behold, the Echo that is now the Voice so we might hear the words of Nald'thal still.  Behold her and give thanks to the Twin gods made one."

 

Anya grunted before she licked herlips nervously.  Despite her new position, she felt no different.  No gods spoke to her now.  No words came to her ears.  And no divine sights had been beheld by her eyes.  She was still Anya Marrow, even if Torbin viewed her as a sacred thing.  But she remembered her predecessor’s words:

 

"The Twins don't speak in ways we understand, and often times, you will act without knowing their will until later, when you look back and behold the pattern within the past.  You are my Echo, you do their will with your words and actions. You are chosen."

 

Her bodyguards slipped from the boulder field and stood behind her, their faces covered by hoods and their bodies wrapped in billowing cloaks as their eyes gazed at the faces emerging from the huts and tents.

 

Thirty souls in all had waited for Anya's return and the looks of relief on their faces made it clear how hard their lives had been.  They had fled certain death at the hands of adventurers and mercenaries to face the unknown here, on these shores.  They all bowed to her and ceaseless praises to their god filled the air as one figure went to a large boulder upon which was carved Nald'thal's symbol and lit a candle.

 

Anya wasn't sure how to respond.  She had much to learn before she could lead the people as she was destined too.

 

Thankfully a blond figure steppedout of a doorway and waved her over. 

 

Anya eyed the man, dressed in fine silks and gaudy jewelry and gave a frown.  To spend was the will of Nald, as trade was his realm of rule, but there was an arrogance to the blond’s actions that bothered her.

 

"You have all done well!"Anya announced, bowing to the crowd.  "You honor me with your devotion and I am humble to carry the torch of my forebears.  I am not worthy to lead you, you who suffered for so long.  But, by Nald'thal's will, we shall see our suffrage weighed by our god and soon great shall our reward be for our faith.  Let me speak with the seerer."

 

The mass bowed to her as she walked towards the blond male. 

 

"Herald."  Anya spoke as Tobin fell alongside her, clearly looking for orders.  "Tell the faithful to begin packing up.  A ship awaits us to ferry us south.  The time of tribulations is over."

 

Torbin nodded and turned to his taskas Anya stepped inside the house and shut the door behind her.

 

The blond male was now seated before a pot that hung over a hot fire.  In his hands was a baby seal that he was skinning like an apple.

 

"Well, you're just as good atleading fools as your master was." the blond miqo'te chuckled as his hands worked slowly.

 

"I want answers, little cat!" Anya spat.  "And you hold your tongue when you speak of Nald'thal's faithful or I'll cut it out."

 

"Oh no, not my tongue, ever Ido?"  giggled the blond man as he tossed the skinned seal into the pot.

 

A blade made from a femur was suddenly pressed to the blond's throat as Yurt seized him from behind.  The blond pursed his lips but didn't seem to be surprised that the tattooed miqo'te had managed to be behind him despite the fact he'd not walked through the door.

 

"Ah, you have Crows...surprising they follow you."  the blond seerer said carefully.

 

"I am the Voice, why wouldn't they follow me?" Anya snorted.

 

"Because you aren't the only Voice." commented the blond dryly. 

 

"Impossible, only I had-"

 

"You want to talk, or listen?" the male asked incredulously as he raised an eyebrow.  Anya glared at him and waved her hand.  Yurt hissed and slipped back into the shadows.

 

"Speak, little cat." Anya ordered in a commanding tone.  "And let's start with your name and why you're helping me."

 

"In time, my dear.  In time, though you may continue to call me Crate." Crate slowly began to stir his baby seal soup with a spoon.  "Okay it's time.  So, a year or so after you ended up in that wonderfully cozy Garlean cell, the Voice began efforts on creating a mortal coil for 'Nald'thal."

 

"The dragon form..." Anya said softly.

 

"Yeah, that." Crate rolled his eyes.  "Anyhow, the Crows -he- had at the time managed to raise enough attention to get people investigating your cult...church, thingy and their actions and their trade deals.  So, he had to deal with goody-goodies trying to stop him.  On -top- of that problem, many of the Crow's went rogue."

 

"That's...not possible."  Anya blinked in shock as she looked up at Yurt, who squatted in the shadows with his knife between his yellow teeth.  He was bound to serve her.  Crows were made to serve the Voice of Nald’thal alone.  It wasn't possible that...

 

"Oh but it was, and part of your current problem actually, but I get ahead of myself.  A Crow named Atrium made friends with several of those out to kill the Voice.  Several Crows sided -against- the Voice and ensured he died when he was found out by a group of hunters."

 

"So these Crows ensured their own death then." Anya stammered, in disbelief.  "They cannot exist without the Voice too-"

 

"I was getting to that."Crate said flatly.  "If you’d let me finish....okay then.  So, this bring us to the other 'Voice' called Rotunda.  Also a Crow, this little Crow managed to become the conduit for the other Crows’ continued existence by...somehow, I'm not totally sure how he did it but I suspect that your predecessor made changes in the ritual when creating those Crows that I'd not taught him."

 

"Wait,-you- taught him?"  Anya raised both eyebrows.  "What are you..."

 

"What, did you really think that Crow's were a -divine- construct made by Nald'thal's will?"  Crate cackled.  "Not even.  They're a form of revenant and anyone with the right knowledge could craft one up.  Made properly, they fade when their creator dies but clearly...your prior Voice made a mistake.  He made a way to transfer whom they needed to endure to stay ‘alive’.  I'm willing to bet he made this ability for them to pass to you upon his death but...well Rotunda fucked that up for you.  Especially since the Crows abandoned the cult members to reckless slaughter.  I mean, your two Crows might be the only two -real- Crows left at this point.  Only ones who serve you for certain."

 

Anya blinked in amazement at all this.  A fake Voice?  Rogue Crows?  A purging of her order?  How...what sort of test was Nald'thal asking of her?

 

"How...how do you know all this?"  Anya stammered.  Crate took a sip of his soup and then kept stirring the cauldron.

 

"I was a close advisor, friend,and college to your master.  As I said, I taught him much, but he, in turn had much to teach me.  Really, your master might have been one of the best minds this world has ever known.  Pity he was killed honestly.  But he and I talked and he had spoken to me of these concerns.  And, after his death, well, I kept my ear to the ground as it were."

 

"So...everything is gone?"  Anya said quietly, clenching her fists. 

 

"Mostly.  The purge was thorough and your cult’s wealth was plundered.  Plus your rival Voice has absconded with the rogue Crows and they are who knows where now doing who knows what.  No one’s heard from them in sometime.

 

"So why help us?  Why help me? You came to me the day I was freed from my cell.  Why not tell me then?"

 

"So you could see the truth for yourself.  I doubt you'd have believed me without seeing your flock.  And as for why?  Well, I respected your Master and felt I owed him, even if I don’t follow your cult.

 

"You lie." Anya growled.

 

"Half-truth." Crate commented, tossing some herbs into the soup.  "I also hope to gain something."

 

"And what's that?" Anya cocked her head to one side.

 

"I can supply you with gold,information, and more things you need to rebuild and grow once again." Crate explained casually.  "In return, I simply want the right to watch what happens, to document it, and have you attempt to complete the ritual your Master attempted."

 

"That ritual nearly cost us everything!" Anya rose to her feet.  "Now is the time for rebuilding!"

 

"I agree.  But the wroth of Nald'thal must come again.  The scales must be evened, is that not what your doctrine says?  I simply want to be around when that happens."  Crate gave an impish grin.  "For personal reasons."

 

Anya knew he was right. Their doctrine did call for a balancing for this affront against the gods' chosen.  She would have to see this righted and this cat could help her.  For now.

 

"Very well, Crate.  For now, the Church accepts your offer.  Just know, all scales will be evened."  Anya snapped her fingers and Yurt's knife came to Crate's throat once more.  "Even yours."