Chapter 3: Moral Dilemmas
Perhaps the most reclusive of the Churches in all of Arbre are The Merciful. Robes of the purest white linen, unadorned of course, and a polished silver face mask were donned in the privacy of one's own home. Lastly, the tri-edged dagger used by all the Merciful was worn openly upon the waist during meetings. The masks concealed the identity of the wearers, even from each other, as each were given their duties by The Goddess herself.
When a new Temple was set up in a city, a piece of the great Tapestry would be installed, and a loom was to be tended by a powerful Cleric. Daily, that sacred Tapestry would be added to by the loom, and its threads would be watched and interpreted by her clergy. It is said that the entire universe was recorded in its myriad threads, and that the faithful of the Lady of Mercy could see fate within them. It was their most holy task to carry out the divine word of Mercy, and tend the Garden of the Living.
When a gathering was called by one of the Merciful, it was usually to report on recent doings and to attend to the sanctity of one's own soul. In Memnon, the Merciful totaled seven, and they met on average once every year. This year, they had chosen a fig orchard just outside the city proper, and had gathered by lamplight in the cellar of the main house. They formed a circle, facing each other, as the light danced and played across the reflective masks as they regarded each other calmly. Such was the enchantment on the mask that the voice would be altered to a warbling, gender-neutral tone that was strange and alien. One of the seven gathered began to float slightly and grey mist began to form around his or her ankles. The other six immediately knelt in respect for their Goddess, as she had chosen among them one that was worthy to carry her Voice.
"My Merciful Ones, know that I am pleased at your work here. You tend the garden and you cull the herd when it needs it, you faithfully watch the Tapestry and have interpreted it well." The voice that emerged from behind the mask of the floating figure was distinctly feminine. "Our work is beyond good or evil, the Lords of Law and the Demons of Chaos hold no sway. We are merely the hands of fate. So that the many may flourish."
"So the Garden may Grow." Came the ritual reply from the others.
"A great threat to the balance and to the Great Cycle itself is emerging. Those who stand in shadow, profiting from the carrion of society seek to unbalance all. Those who harp are also aware of the situation and will undoubtedly interfere. I see threads converging here, we must be careful. A child of the Cycle is coming here, we must protect and guide them, the strand upon which they travel is very important. We will watch, intervening only if we see no other alternative. Act with purpose and alacrity, so that the Purpose is protected."
"With Mercy and Love." The others chanted in response.
The figure settled back to the floor of the cellar and with a gust of wind, all light was extinguished. The darkness cloaked the Faithful as they returned to their homes across the city, each of them burning with the zealous fervor of one who had spent time in the presence of his or her Goddess.
*****
All of this occurred several hard days travel away from Chrys as he trailed the caravan at a respectful distance. About an hour before sundown, the caravan master called a halt, selecting a flat area of rocky ground that seemed safe from the shifting dunes around it, dotted with sparse patches of yellowing grass. The camels found it quickly, yellow teeth gnashing at the dried clumps, greedily seeking the tender green chutes at the base of each stalk.
Chrys' own mouth was dry and swollen beneath his travelling cloak, the faint scent of Maegwyn's favorite tea still seemed to permeate it, and it made his stomach grumble. He removed the cloth from his face and greedily drank some warm water from his stores, being careful not to waste a single drop. He watched torches flare as the camp established a perimeter and he waited as tradition dictated until the same rear guard who had noticed him earlier waved him over.
The man was swarthy, having removed his robe for the comfort of leggings and a loose tunic, his scimitar plainly visible on his hip. He smiled with brilliant white teeth, and as Chrys got closer he noticed the slightly pointed ears of elven heritage. That, along with the stubble of growth on the man's cheeks, marked him as a half-elf.
"Greetings, hail and well met stranger. Twas a long and sandy day, was it not good sir?" The man's tone was gentle, but wary. Chrys held his hands palm up in from of him, clearly showing no weapons.
"Greetings to you, brave merchant. My day surely would have been worse had your noble beasts not broken a trail through the sand. I thank you for your welcome, I am hungry and tired. I bring no ill intentions with me, only the honored tradition of the traveler." His voice was raw and cracked from a day of silence. He slowly reached up to remove the cloth from his head and face.
"Thank you for watching our backs, honored guest." In a region where resources were slight and violence high, good manners and tradition were essential. "You may enter and take dinner with us as our guest. We have no extra water, nor a spare tent however, you must return to the perimeter of camp to sleep. Agreed?" Smells of roasting meat began to waft their way to Chrys' nose, and his stomach audibly voiced its desire.
"Agreed, sir. May I know your name, so that I may say a prayer for my savior?" Chrys kept his eyes downcast, allowing the man to take in his appearance. Devilkin by breed were rare enough, but this guard seemed cosmopolitan enough to have at least seen one before, at least he didn't stare for too long.
"You may call me Ahri, gentle stranger. And you?" His eyes lingered on Chrys' fine cheekbones, and traced down his lithe form beneath the beautiful cloak that Mae had bequeathed him.
Chrys found and unleashed his third most devastating smile/wink combination, he was pleased to note that Ahri had blushed. "Chrysanthemum, like the flower." He looked down at his cloak and gestured grandly. "Or Chrys' if I like you, Ahri." He held the pause for the perfect amount of time before adding gently, "Which I think I do." He handed his waterskin to Ahri and smiled again. Men were much easier to manipulate than women generally, and this fellow was proving an awful stereotype.
They made their way to the campfire and Chrys remained quiet by Ahri's side for a splendid dinner of roasted goat, spiced with local fiery goodness. He ate until his stomach was full to bursting, his chin slick with grease, it was the best meal he'd had since Mae had… since Mae. He shook sad thoughts from his mind, and nestled closer to Ahri as the sun began to sink below the horizon. Around him, the caravanners began the process of preparing to bed down for the night.
Often, as a child on the streets of Westgate, having a safe place to sleep was a luxury that a young Scarlett/Chrys didn't have. He had learned to fear that, learned how important it was, and so he was tempted to reach out with the magical gifts he'd learned from Mae to entice Ahri into sharing his tent, not really questioning if such a thing was right or wrong, just whether or not it was strictly needed.
Ahri looked about furtively and stood, mumbling something to the others about heading for his guard post, at the same time smiling at Chrys and gently taking his hand leading him in the direction of a small tent. Moral dilemma solved, he thought to himself as he smiled allowing himself to be led into the night...
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone