On the northern mountains, pyres burned, and the night was lit by souls on their way to heaven.
On one such high plain, the wind flowed soft and cold as the green of the forest met the dark of the night.
The ground was barely visible to the eyes of the living, as the only sources of light were the torches lit outside the tents and the pyres where the dead burned.
"The hill tribes have lost another battle for their home."
One of the men spoke to another.
He had short hair, brown eyes, and a small face.
Next to him stood another man covered in a black cloak. His long hair swayed over his face, eyes of blue colour set beneath a double-slashed scar that ran across his right eye and nose.
"And soon they'll come for us."
The short-haired man said as the other looked him in the eye.
"Look, Garren of the Nameless."
One of the men standing close to the pyres noticed as he and his few approached, clad in iron armour.
"And what business would you have with us today? Perhaps you're here to put out the flames of the dead?"
The hill tribe man commented angrily, but Garren stood silent.
"You're not alone, it seems," one of them said. "He is here with his twink, Cole."
"We mean you no harm. We came to see them on their way to heaven."
Garren calmly stated as he smiled humbly.
At his smile, the hill tribe men grew almost frustrated by his serene expression.
"They're dead because of you. You have no right to mourn the ones you yourself have doomed."
The man at the front said.
Garren looked at him, a man of large stature with a long black beard, and beneath the helmet his eyes tested his patience.
For a moment, his gaze shifted to the pyres.
He saw the priestess with her disciples as they sang silent prayers for the withered, dressed in long black gowns, even the men.
"Be on your way back and never show us your face. Not like your scars are a good sight to us."
The man said to him.
"We will be, and I assure you that you will never hear from us again. But I would like to have a word with her."
Garren replied as his eyes darted back and forth between the man and the priestess.
The priestess and her disciples finished their prayers, joining their hands in unison before wavering the right hand from the head to the heart.
She looked directly at him, giving off a faint smile. A smile not fit for a holy woman, but for the likes of sorcerers.
Garren walked past the men, but before they could place their swords in his way, their motion was halted by Cole, who drew his sword with unmatched speed.
Every tribesman knew of his swordsmanship, but just as swords meant nothing before the dark barrels of guns, his skills posed no threat to the many hill tribes that had gathered there for the funerals.
"Draw back your swords, brave men."
Her soft voice commanded them as they all turned to her presence.
"For blood has already spilled enough today."
She added.
"Blood that could've been prevented, had these boys fought bravely instead of cowardly turning their shallow backs."
The man exclaimed.
"And what would you have them do? Face death prematurely?"
Her voice rose.
"We gather here to mourn the men who died protecting our peace, and fighting amongst each other will make their sacrifice pointless."
She added as her eyes rested on Garren.
"I would like to talk to this one," she commanded, "alone."
Cole sheathed his sword as he moved toward the pyres to offer his prayers.
The hill tribe men, still salty, gave them an upsetting look before dispersing.
"Words of gods, so divine yet so manipulative."
Garren said to her.
"Oh, don't be misled. It is my wisdom that people desire, and people always get what they want, even if they don't understand that it is not good for them."
The priestess answered as she intently looked into his eyes.
"What kind of witherling are you?"
He asked, deciphering her actions.
"I am no witherling."
She replied, smiling away at the pyres as she watched Cole close his eyes and murmur his words.
"Do they know?"
Garren asked.
"My powers grant no victories to anyone. They only tell what Her Holiness demands."
She told him as Garren looked at her, amazed.
"And what does your holiness demand from this bastard?"
He asked attentively as he smirked with her.
The priestess stepped closer, both her hands softly placing themselves around his cheeks.
She looked deep into his eyes as she searched his mind from within.
"You have the blood of a ruler. A prince taken from his subjects. An infidel that never was, yet blamed and cursed from birth."
She began, tilting her head.
"She wishes great fortune for you, for your past was nothing but a thorn in your path."
She ended her insight as she pulled away.
"What kind of withered power is that?"
Garren asked as his breath hastened and his words hesitated.
"No power," she said, looking away before locking her eyes on him. "Only the blessings of her mercy."
Confused, Garren had one more question before leaving.
"How old are you, truly?"
He asked, catching her attention as her smile vanished for a moment before emerging again.
"Not the right kind of question to ask a woman."
She answered jokingly.
"The Ramanians need someone who will make them understand that they're no different from us," she said. "You have the destined blood, but do hurry for your throne."
"And you think people will follow me? I have no name, no right, no land, and no claim. The Nameless banner was made for people like me, people who can find a home in this game of blood and power. If I begin to speak of blood, who will savour my words and give their life to my cause?"
He asked furiously, beginning to leave.
The priestess had lost interest in his words as she shifted the conversation away.
"Our brothers and sisters report from the Witherfalls," she began. "The rains of dust have been inconsistent, and the waters have retreated from the shore."
This caught Garren's attention as he looked back at her.
"The Mother is coming for all of us. To cleanse us of our sins and harbour her children with her grace."
She said.
"Just get your point across."
Garren commented furiously.
"In your words, the storm is approaching."