The God of Lesser Hollow 1

1 - The God of Lesser Hollow 1

"And thus the Fruit of the Earth, ripe to bursting, fell to the feet of the Father; of the seed that spread unto the soil, there were two: those that had grown wise and germinated into men, and those soiled by the Fruit's worms, who made like them and slithered away into the deep dark."

- The Crimson Tale

As the Flowering Season's solstice reached its peak, God hungered yet again.

By now, the village of Lesser Hollow had learned to adapt. Well in antecedence a gorgeous bride had been picked, her ceremonial dress weaved by their best tailor, all newcomers to the ritual prepared, and foremost of all, the Purple Ring Flowers God loved so much had been gathered by the armfuls, enough to cover his Throne.

The moment they became aware, the Herd left their homes with faces grim. By now they would probably understand none of their loved ones had been chosen, but even if they were, it was not like they could complain. They learned to accept it: it was God, Father of the Wilds, who kept the ravenous beasts of the Hollows at bay, who kept the ground fertile and poison free, who kept the game placid and slow, and above all who kept the vile outsiders from torching them in their own homes. Being ungrateful only courted his wrath.

And besides, he had been so kind lately, letting them choose rather than picking a bride of his own desire. Who would spit in the face of that?

And so the day arrived as any other. It was hot and damp, the sky lightly tinged in red, a show and a warning that would grow deeper as the hours passed, until the crimson moon above marked the beginning of the end.

Elder Florid Seneschal paid it no mind. His adopted daughter, Hazel, whom he had fought tooth and nail to bring to this point, was ready. She had been trained in the ways of the Ceremony, taught to dance like no other and to sing in a language that nobody truly spoke anymore, that few knew how to imitate, catching on like the natural she was. In another life, she would have been the perfect heir to his duties.

That life would not come. Dusk did, and they readied themselves for departure, for though the Throne of God was not far, once they were there there was no coming back without consequence. The elders met one last time for a homily and a good luck toast, the lads they chose for labor psyched themselves for the task, and Elder Seneschal tacitly ignored the tears and the screaming from his own flesh and blood.

And so they left. One last time, he admired his own daughter.

The Ceremony called for perfection, for the best of the best, the purest of the pure, and damn if he didn't know she the least fitting of his foolish peer's standards. She was no maiden, certainly not the youngest, frankly a wretch in disposition, and her blood… well, that had been the pivotal concern, suffice to say.

Impure, in every sense of the word

And yet, in nearly sixty years of work, he had never seen a more dignified Bride. It almost disgusted him, complimenting her now of all times, but how could he not? Even the lads specially chosen to help with the preparation stages of the Ceremony were pale, shaking, mumbling reassurances to each other just to stay sane. Her? She walked on like a soldier. Head held high, shoulders square and firm, pace even, silent as the wind. She looked gorgeous in her white dress, the purple flowers woven into wreaths around her head, her waist, her wrists, her neck.

It had to be her, and it had to be now.

Once they arrived, orders were barked in whispers, but nobody missed their beat: torches were spread around the base of the Throne, fires made to burn high. The Elders stood below, several paces away from each other, careful not to look up as the quick footed lads set to covering a wide area with the surplus of flowers.

Once done, the young left, leaving Hazel alone at the altar. She finally met the Father's eyes, bowed, rose, and then wordlessly began to move, the Ceremony starting in earnest.

As one, the Elders, their assistants and the bride sung, but here only Hazel herself danced, a tale as old as time itself told through the language of the divine and the motions of the body. A song of love and respect boundless, of apology, of regret and sin, a prayer for deliverance. A song whose lyrics nobody but he could suss, and even then so poorly he could only guess their true meaning.

No matter. God only ever demanded form, not understanding. All they had to do was recite, and every Elder knew the sounds by heart.

They sung. They sung until throats ripped and bled, and yet more. Those who physically could no longer were made to step away, least they roused God out of his focused lull. When the last refrain left their lips, as one they would start again, and again until their eternal benefactor deemed it enough.

Seneschal's heart hammered in his chest. The efforts of the ritual were grueling to his decrepit bones, yes, but that was the least of his fears. What truly scared him was the knowledge that it had to end eventually, that it approached with every faltered movement, every misspoken line. That Hazel's body lasting this long was the fruit of untold effort, of an understanding only the both of them shared.

Alas nothing lasted forever.

The moment came faster than the blink of the eye. One instant the chanting stalled as it ended, only Elder Seneschal and one more pushing through the agony, and the next she was gone, life snuffed like a candle. If nothing else it was mercifully quick, no chance given for screaming or suffering. She was taken, introduced to the myriad other brides, never to be seen again.

Just like that, it was over. A low cheer passed among the other Elders and their assistants, through hoarse throats and bloody coughs, but Seneschal fell to his knees, looking on to the site of her death, head numb to the world around. Now, they would leave and laugh in the warmth of their homes, drinking the last of their stolen mead, congratulating themselves for another job well done. Seneschal could feel his nails digging into the palms of his hands, eyes going red.

Only one other Elder shared his mood.

"You don't deserve more pity than anyone else here," she said, stone faced, violently shaking his shoulder. "Get up and come, least you wish to be punished for overstaying your welcome."

The words steeled his heart. Reluctantly nodding, he tugged at his son-in-laws trousers so the oaf would help him up, and followed right behind her.

Still, he lingered for one last second, looking back to the Throne. It was impossible to know if the ritual had been a success, here where the sky was permanently stained, only the morning would tell. He already had an idea, however.

Making sure he was looking at nothing in particular, he spat onto the dirt.

Just like that, it had began.

Should everything have gone well last evening, morning would have come like any other.

Father Celestial rose red in fury, painting the noon like dawn and growing worse from there. Elder Seneschal ill needed to hear panic from the village to realize that, however, barely needed his gifts to tell the rage in the unusually arid air blowing through the cracks of his window.

Pandemonium slowly began to build. Taking advantage of the moment, he had his son-in-law grab a couple of lads and sent the, scurrying to get the other Elders. They would have to be dragged from their beds, he presumed, since they were probably recovering from their own revelries of last night. The thought of it lightened the burden of the day just a little.

To the North and East of his home, sitting at the edges of the Lesser near where the Old Wall stood broken, there was a small hillock with a stout building made out of logs and clay roofing, a well preserved remnant of older times simply referred to as the Meeting Hall. There, the Elders always gathered to discuss issues and plan for the future, today hopefully the last time such matters were brought up.

He left with light preparation, just enough to look presentable. Together with him were his usual helpers: first, his son-in-law, Julius, a trunk of a man in height and girth, hairy as a beast and roughly as talkative, and second...

Cassia. His dear, poor Cassia, sole remaining of his blood. Green eyes sunk, face still swollen from crying, strands of her chestnut hair— so much like her mother’s— lining her face from the sloppy bun, all poise gone from her posture. In a brief spell of pity, he considered comforting her, but even if it had been the right moment, it was far past his right.

And speaking about moments not being right, his first annoyance of the day came when he arrived at the Meeting Hall, to find only three of the five other Elders present, each flanked by less help than usual despite deliberately taking his time.

The tables here had been arranged into a vague circle, and he sat himself at the furthermost, as fitting of his role as Godspeaker, the supposed sole person in Lesser Hollow who could understand God's language, but the respect was not afforded him. The two Elders at the front of the hall, engrossed in a half-whispered conversation, did not so much as look in his direction.

"Have I grown invisible or what, you idiots?" Elder Seneschal said, beating the bottom of his walking stick against the floor and coughing, still feeling some of the yesterday's strain. Both shifted to look at him.

"Seneschal," Smith, Second youngest Elder acknowledged, neutral tone and voice surprisingly intact, hand idly rubbing at his prominent salt and pepper beard.

"Smith, good morning. Willy?" he acknowledged.

"To the worms with your decrepit old body, Seneschal," said Willy in his usual whiny baritone, an Elder so old his hairline hadn't even started to recede, having earned his position with his father's sudden demise. "My family name is Willard! And don't think your schemes have gone unnoticed this time, I—"

"Elder Weaver." Seneschal nodded his head to the third Elder.

"Elder Seneschal," Her gravely voice answered as she lightly bowed back, before resuming her perfectly straight position, hands gently folded on her lap.

Elder Olivia Weaver was the only woman in the council of Elders in Lesser Hollow. Steel colored hair in a perfect bun, a serene expression and narrow countenance, she didn't look like she felt the pressure of the end on her shoulders, and that was exactly one of the many reason Seneschal had fought to get her on the Council after her husband's quite mysterious vanishing. Flanked by her equally stoic grandson, she looked the most natural among those here.

"Why are only you folks here?" Elder Seneschal said.

"Don't you try to evade me! I know you—"

"Elder Willard, if we may please—"

"Shut up, woman!" Willy whined. "Can't you see we have important matters to argue right now? I am making a statement, and would like to be heard!"

"My sincerest apologies, Elder Willard," Olivia said, in the tone of somebody who had lightly bumped his shoulder and immediately carried on. "I just simply wish to keep the Godspeaker up to current events."

"He can see these current events, he doesn't need a nanny to hold his hand through—"

"Pomen, Pomen! Come on now, the man came to the meeting willingly, he isn't going to run away! You'll get your turn!" Smith said with a smile.

"My turn, Elder Smith?! We don't have the time, we need to find a way to prostrate before the Father of the Wilds, before his wrath destroys us all!"

"Elder Weaver, carry on." Elder Seneschal sighed.

"Don't you—"

"Shut up, moron! Give up the stage! Elder Weaver, go ahead."

Ignoring the glare her grandson was giving Willy, she nodded. "Yes, Elder Seneschal, thank you. I'm afraid to inform you the four of us are the only ones who will be participating in this meeting."

He blinked. "What? Why?! Where is Elder Frankest?!"

"Elder Frankest has sent notice that, in the face of God's punishment, he will be praying and sacrificing fowl in his holy name as atonement until the evening. However, he has also sent that his vote lies with whichever consensus we come to." she said.

"Of course he did. As if that would fix things." Seneschal said, knocking the back of his head against his wooden seat. "And Tyrant? What's his excuse?"

"... The news only reached us a few moments before your arrival. It seems that, thanks to his advanced age, and the stress of both yesterday's Ceremony and today's revelation, he has unfortunately returned to the earth, may his body and soul nourish the Father's Sapling."

And may he never spit them out again.

"Well, I suppose that's that." He shook his head. "So, let's start this for real, starting by putting to rest most of what you people have come up with so far."

"Oh, not this time, Seneschal!" Willy said, practically the giddiest he had ever seen him. "You may have evaded my accusations so far, but know, this time we have a culprit and a solution!"

"Of course you do, Willy. Me, and what solution?" Elder Seneschal said.

"Your head, as submission!"

"Won't work."

"It was never tried before."

"Must I really remind you that my grandfather sacrificed himself to appease our Father, and we still lost half our Herd?"

"I remember it!" said Smith. "And the conclusion was that his blasphemies on paper and stone had caused that one, too."

"They were not blasphemies, Smith! He may have written, but never our stories, never the tales of the Father and his Sapling! Never!"

"Please, Seneschal, even you must understand that just having that material in itself was sacrilege! I mean, by your own father's words, that was the reason for our culling!"

"If I may ask, do you think this crisis will be of that same magnitude, Elder Seneschal?" Olivia asked, face severe.

"I fear so, Elder Weaver. I can feel God's rage over our village, and the sky reminds me of that day."

"Your grandfather, this I know, only gave his own life as a final resource, after it was already too late!" Willy actually ventured. "If we do it sooner—"

"Didn't work before, won't work now, stupid! Besides, how are you so sure of my guilt? What have I ever done, besides my duties?"

Willy looked beyond affronted, as if Seneschal had sneeze right onto his eyes. "Y-you feed, nay, force down the throat of our Father of the Wilds, maker of our Herd, tainted blood from an outsider, manipulating us into thinking it was our only choice, and you have the gall to suggest you had no part in this?!"

Seneschal chuckled wryly. "Willy, Willy, get your head out of your ass! Do you think I would have given my own daughter away without cause?"

"As you have before!"

Seneschal leaned forward, Gripping the edges of his seat hard enough to hurt his hands. "What did you just say?"

Before Willy could shit out of his mouth again, Elder Smith intervened. "Now, I don't question the need for the sacrificing of a tainted bride—"

"I do!" Willy again, of course.

"What would you have me do then, Willy?" Elder Seneschal said.

"Take a bride from the other Hollows!"

"We lost ten of our lads trying this year! Not to speak of those who will suffer the consequences when they inevitably can't do the fucking ritual right!"

"Then take a pure bride from the peasants! We have—"

The word drew a sneer out of him. Pure, he said, as if he could understand what it meant. "The villagers are at a breaking point, Willy, they are exhausted! We are already less than three hundred, nobody wants to lose more!"

"And yet, we will, many more, and why?" Willy said, somehow triumphant.

"I'd love to agree with you, Seneschal, really, I was more than happy to a couple months ago!" Smith opened his arms wide, smile not reaching his eyes. "After all, we can't land every arrow, can we? Sometimes we just have to do our best. But we shouldn't have forgotten where she came from, just because you vouched for her. Burning heavens, we shouldn't have forgotten who her sister was."

"I didn't. I reminded all of you of that accursed, worm-birthed child, and I was right! Seneschal tricked you all, and now he must—"

"Pay," Elder Seneschal said. "Damned incompetent, you talk too much!"

"... And honestly, I didn't either, Seneschal," Smith said. "I just saw things from your perspective. You made a good point! There wasn't a better bride left in the world. Just one little blemish from perfect, right? Somebody only you and your family would have missed, isn't that right, good Cassia? Lovely dress, by the way."

Even from his position, Seneschal saw his daughter flinch. Reeling unto Smith, he said, "don't you dare bring her—"

"But I like to do some due diligence, even when faced with the most perfect option, so I kept an eye out for you, for what you've been doing lately, and I found something pretty interesting. Thought, I suppose somebody better experienced with it might provide a better version of events, right, Olivia?"

The amused, victorious look Smith threw towards Olivia told it all. Their eyes met for a meaningful second, before he hurried the plan along.

"Elder Weaver?" he said. "What is that old coot saying?"

"If I may explain?" she said.

"Well, why else would I be asking you?!"

"Elder Seneschal, would you tell us where exactly in the woods you go every other night?"

"What kind of fucking nonsense question is that?! Nowhere? If it's night, I stay home! Ask my family, they are right here." Elder Seneschal gestured.

Of course, neither were great help for his case. Julius merely grunted in agreement, and Cassia simply stared down to the floor, mute.

"Elder Seneschal, I mean no accusation when I say this, but you have been spotted multiple times by our family leaving the village in the dead of the night. I have confirmed this with my own eyes at several occasions, including the last time, three weeks ago." Olivia said.

"Me? Ha! Don't be a fool, look at me! I can't even walk straight without my walking stick, how am I going to make through the woods alone in the dead of the night?!"

"I never said alone."

He grumbled, feeling sweat pooling in the creases of his brow. There were a myriad ways they could falter and stumble right here, right now, so he didn't hurry her, keeping silent and contemplating the reactions of the two other Elders. Smith chuckled lightly, but Willard...

"What?" he asked, so quietly Elder Seneschal was almost sure it was meant entirely to himself. "What am I missing here?"

"Just a moment, Pomen. Listen to this!" Smith said.

"Oak, if you would please?" she called over her shoulder.

"Of course, Grandmother." Oak Weaver, dressed in his usual light vest and trousers, old sword stolen many seasons ago sitting at his belt, adjusted himself in the spot, until he stood like a soldier overlooking the royal palace's gates. Only then did he speak, tone sharp like his grandma. "Elder Florid Seneschal, a few months ago—"

"Just call me Seneschal, kid, don't prolong this more than needed."

"O-of course, Seneschal, a few months ago we became aware through contacts of our family that the Elder, you, was disappearing westwards with certain frequency. I was sent to trail you, on more than one occasion, many in which I admit I failed to follow your tracks. Eventually, I discovered your destination at the feet of Mt.Sillas, one of the old abandoned mines."

"What is this?" Willy's face twisted into a baring of teeth that couldn't settle into grin nor bestial display, "S-since when have you known this, Elder Smith?!"

"A week?"

"A-and you still allowed this heretic, no, this apostate who broke into a place of taboo to dictate the Ceremony?!"

"He was right, she was still the only one that fit. Or so we thought, eh Seneschal?" Smith winked.

"If I may continue?" Oak said. "Very well. The exact mine is a short distance away from the others, now hidden behind rubble and shrubbery, but I managed to locate its entrance. Inside, however, I'm afraid I could not follow him, for the pathways were winding and further depths camouflaged against the uneven walls."

"You were wise, sonny, those mines might be untouchable by man, but they are still filled with Guts." Smith said.

Oak paled, but didn't react much beyond that. "That might explain the strong musk from inside."

"But doesn't explain anything useful for our little situation here, right? Though, I'm aware that there is more. What else did you find there, sonny boy?"

"Most of what I could see were old equipment, mostly rotten and unusable. Cages, too, the kind to hold animals. What disturbed me the most, however, was what I heard."

"Don't be dramatic, tell us! Tell us already!" Willy, eyes bulging, skin tinged like blood, said.

Oak frowned, but continued. "There was a conversation being being held in the far distance. I mostly heard it through the echoes so I couldn't quite understand what was being said, but I could identify the Elder Seneschal as one of the parties."

"And the other?!"

"The other... I would struggle to even describe it as human."

"Could the echoes have distorted the voice of somebody we know?" Smith leaned forward. "How did it sound like?"

"I do not believe so, Elder, else I wouldn't have identified Seneschal. No, I believe the latter belonged to something different, but I could not tell you what. As for how it sounded... hard to put into words. Inhuman, I suppose. Even a beast trying to imitate human speech wouldn't make that sound."

"Anything else?"

"No, that is all."

"Good! That'll do, I think." Smith dismissed him with a wave of the hand, before clasping his above the table, grinning like a cat who found the mice's brood. "So, Seneschal, what did you think of that story? Anything to say?"

It was not Smith, however, whose attention occupied his mind. Olivia's look right into his eyes would probably appear nothing beyond detached and humble to the other two, but years of knowing her let him read it well enough to tell what exactly she thought of bringing her grandson into the plan. No faltering now.

"... And how could it be me?" Elder Seneschal spoke. "Like I said—"

"There is not a soul in this damned village who doesn't know the Godspeaker holds more command over the woods then the rest of the Herd together. You could have made your way there with your eyes closed!" said Willy, slamming his palms unto his table.

"And if I may interject again," Oak said, "I have seen you leave with your son-in-law on occasion, him always carrying heavy bags."

Despite himself, Seneschal smiled. "You're one quiet lad. Never saw you, but you've been following me for quite a while, haven't you?"

"Not long, no, Elder Seneschal."

"Just Seneschal, I told you."

"And why haven't you said anything when you knew a vile plot was underfoot?! Could you have lost your mind in your cloth basket, woman?! Answer!" Willy said.

Olivia sighed. "Please understand, Elder Willard, we simply desired to do due diligence, as Elder Smith put. In fact, once we knew for certain we immediately took the information directly to him, whose wish was for our silence."

"Smith?! Explain yourself!"

"Well there were a couple reasons, but I think we would all rather hear what Seneschal has to say, right?"

Long ago, Seneschal feared the day would come when he would be caught and she would be revealed to these half-witted coots and their half-baked children while they still weren't ready to accept what she was.

That the day were he would need to reveal her out of his own design should have been unthinkable.

Squeezing the top of his walking stick, he took a deep breath then said: "I would never want to hurt our Lesser. You all must know that! None of you are stupid enough to forget how much I sacrificed for our home!"

"... I knew it. I knew it!" Willy threw himself out of his chair, twirling and cackling. "I knew it! I knew the Seneschal's were plotting our demise! I told everyone, but who listened to—"

"Quiet!"

The change in Smith's mood caught even Elder Seneschal by surprise. Willy took a step back, but caught himself early enough he avoided looking like a coward, even posturing a little with his chin held high and a pouty glare at his fellow Elder.

"It's her, isn't it? Your beloved outsider daughter's sister," Smith said. "The Rootgnasher."

"Her name is Holly. And a Rootgnasher she is not!"

Smith leaned back, face settling unto a relaxed, if smug smile once more. "Well, can't say I'm known to bother learning the name of every monster who tries haunting the Father's domain, but she seemed pretty Rootgnasher to me."

"She—"

"Well, Seneschal, let me agree with you on one final thing: you did lose a whole lot to this place, won't dispute that. So, why? Why undermine it now? Was it out of mercy for the little demon? Was it some weird ploy for more power? Or maybe... I can think of worse things, I suppose, but let me leave you some dignity. After all, you're our only Godspeaker!"

"You idiots would never understand. Think what you will, Smith, I don't give two shits what your perverse little noggin comes up with, you haven't seen the real her and I be won't explain myself."

"Shame. I really did... well, not like, but I did respect you. So, what do you think, Pomen my good man?" Smith said.

"What I think?" Willy licked his lips. "I think we have a veeeery clear solution to our conundrum."

"Won't go so far myself, but I think we just got a better chance than the last. How long did it take us to find and burn those blasphemies again?" Smith said, shaking his head. "So, would you like to atone, Seneschal? We can drag you to the Throne if you aren't willing, but—"

"I do."

Smith frowned.

"... I'm not a moron. I've been pondering my own mistakes for longer than you've know them," Elder Seneschal hesitated, then continued. "So yes, I would like to atone, and in fact, I have a better idea how to fix this mess than any of you. "

Afternoon came and went. The sun was soon to disappear over the horizon, the crimson moon to take over.

Few knew this, but Lesser Hollow had been a town before it was wiped off the maps. By the time of its demise, the royal projects it had been founded on had all failed: Neither a safe passage had been found through this notoriously dangerous section of the Ivian Chain, nor did their mines pay off, the Mountain Guts within unusually deadly and unproductive. Thus, its people were abandoned by their realm in this utterly inhospitable place then forgotten.

If you knew where to look, you would know this. And if you did, you would also know where to find its one entrance.

The Snakeway had been there since the beginning, watching the rise and fall of Lesser Hollow. Well known for the treachery of its sinuous twists and hilly wheel breakers, once a hunting grounds for unspeakable predators that fought with fang and claw against any attempts to maintain it, infected with growing shrubs and weeds who would devour even cobblestone roads if left unchecked for a couple days.

Eventually, neglect won the fight. Those from the Domain it had become could only leave with permission, both divine and mundane, so long as the Herd feared heretics fleeing with their secrets to the arms of their enemies. So long as a god reigned, the surrounding woodland was a labyrinth with no logic, where all entrances lead away and all exits to its heart.

But so long as you knew what to look for, you knew how to pierce the borderlands. Early noon, a Stranger arrived to a tall boulder on the road between the towns of Higher and Greater Hollow, and entered the forest.

Knowing the way didn't make its path easy. Time, nature, and Divinity had eaten most the landmarks mentioned in ancient documents, leaving nothing but glimpses of what once was: roadside obelisks worn faceless by weather and moss, old farms devoured by gullies and leaving nothing but glimpses of tiled roofs above, and the woods only grew denser with every passing minute.

No resistance met them, and the Stranger safely reached the land of red among turmoil.

Of the ghost town, only a village was left, a scant few islands of unbroken or hastily kludged small houses in a sea of vegetation covered ruins and rubble, all inside the remnants of a long rotten palisade. Beyond that, luscious farmland laid down hill, the glints of a small river peeking from further away.

Tensions had boiled the sparse settlement into a riot, and now neighbors fought one another over faith and heresy, accusations of betrayal flying like spears, arguments aided by fists and kicking feet. There was some sort of militia here, a few young man armed with clubs and the occasional knife, but for each who seemed to be trying to stop the fights another joined them.

The first person to notice the Stranger ignored the anomaly, too preoccupied with the situation at hand.

The second tugged at the cuffs of her father's shirt, whose attention brought further eyes. An argument about to burst into violence died in half a dozen throats as the nonchalant interloper made themselves known.

It didn't take a genius to know that this shouldn't, couldn't be happening. Strangers didn't come by Lesser Hollow. Two older men spoke in harsh whispers, one breaking from the crowd in a rush.

The Stranger was short, covered from head to shin in a bizarre cloak of white fur with a dizzying pattern of light gray stripes, unbelievably heavy for the weather. Peeking from beneath the cloak, they saw dark leather boots and not a single other thing, for the Strangers face and body was unnaturally covered in a black haze that neither torch nor fading sun could dispel.

Without warning, the Stranger stopped, but didn't look to the people around them. A hand, also gloved in dark leather, emerged from the cloak with a small cloth pouch. Deft, they quickly unwrapped it, and two faint lights emerged from within, one red as the coming night, another too weak to tell.

"It is here, then," they spoke, voice muffled but loud enough to shock the witnesses with its soft and lyrical quality. They returned the pouch to its place, took a good long look around, and almost began talking somebody finally interjected.

"And what do we have here, now?!"

Recognizing the voice, most fled the scene. Emerging from the thick of the crowd came a man in his thirties, somewhat tan, longish hair combed back, dressed in light robes reaching above his knee, the skull of a small horned animal worn around his neck. The symbol painted at the front of his brown wear, a trunk with both ends fractured and splayed into lines bending in straight angles, immediately told them of his allegiance.

Flanking him were four of the militia, even at a glance more experienced man than the ones left dealing with the people, armed with old axes and large clubs.

"Greetings!" the Stranger said with a light bow. "I have come before your... village for urgent business. Would you know where the village's leadership is at the moment?"

The man frowned. "I am the leadership of this village at the moment. They know me as Elder Pomen Willard!" he said, then smiled. "And I take I'm not the one you expected to meet, correct?!"

"Expected? No, I expected nobody, I just need—"

"If you would, please satisfy my curiosity: How did Seneschal contact you?" He strutted forward, guards spreading out. "He has truly fallen low if he would not only stoop to betrayal, but betrayal to an outsider! How much has he told you? How many of our practices, of our dogmas, of our founding stories?"

"None," the Stranger said.

"I wonder how he payed for your intervention, but I suppose the most pressing matter is how many more are coming."

"... None."

"Do you think you are in any position to lie, stranger? you, who so foolish showed yourself alone without assurance of your victory?"

Of course, the Stranger was very much aware of the men surrounding them, coming from behind the few still too curious to escape, circling in between houses, carefully joining the main force in front, unsheathing weapons of all sorts with surprising coordination between different groups.

"I understand your concerns, but I'm here to help! Look around you, at the sky! You know what it means, and I am the only one who can stop it. I must meet with the leadership—"

"And I said, I am the leadership! So long as the other Elders are dealing with the situation at hand, and your little master too, I am the sole authority of Lesser Hollow, and if you will so brazenly disrespect and deceive me, then you force me to be unkind."

The men stepped from hiding, now openly surrounding the Stranger.

They stilled. They kept their eyes firmly on them, weapons raised and ready for a fight. Some of them noticed the Stranger appeared to not be breathing. A few of those, veterans of operations outside the Lesser with actual battle experience, felt a strange chill seep into their stomachs, but couldn't pinpoint the why.

"Very well," The Stranger nodded. "I hope the next one I find is more cooperative."

Elder Pomen Willard snarled. "There won't be a next. Lads! Break him, and bring him to me!"

As one, they charged, yelling battle cries.