The Strategist's Awakening
He opened his eyes to see the dark ceiling above him. Blinking once. Twice. Before taking a deep breath and lifting his head mechanically from his pillow and climb out of bed. Heading for the sliver of light creeping from the curtains, revealing the daylight of another muted grey day.
The Priest of Crellan went about his morning routine just as he did yesterday, just as he would tomorrow. Splashing his face with warm water, cleaning his pale skin and dressing himself in the colours of the Creed. Before heading downstairs to the lonely dining table and quietly consuming a bowl of food that was patiently waiting for him.
He did not like to be disturbed whilst eating. He found he could think more clearly when alone. And when you are in charge of an organization full of dark souls and necrotic users, private time was difficult to find. And so, the morning routine of the Strategist allowed him the time required to prepare his mind and body for the responsibilities and uncertainties of the day ahead.
Listening to the weekly reports presented by his disciples, his mind took in all the information gifted before him. Knowledge is power, a mantra he believed in since childhood. For example, Cilame the former assassin and latest to be promoted to disciple had reported an incident in the town of Hoppson. A town still recovering from an outbreak of infectious flowers, leaving many unwell. One of the stable girl’s made an attempt to resist the collection of taxes by the Creed. Before interfering however, the stable girl’s family had intervened and quickly hid her away, paying more than what was expected as an apology. An interesting unfolding of events, the Strategist thought. A family with a rebellious child in nature, gave into fear and complied with the demands of the Creed. Something which would be considered a success in the eyes of another Priest. But instead, the calculated leader still considers an act of rebellion a possibility for concern. A small possibility. But that would soon be put to rest with his latest project. A project which he was running late for.
As the Strategist ends the meeting and steps into the streets of Greystream, he looks around to see the citizens meet his eyes. A kind gesture to many however he could see the subdued expression behind glazed eyes. A symptom of the calming charm pulsing over the town. Keeping a constant state of peace over the lesser minds. One of his first actions put in place as he became in charge, one that has proven useful against anyone who chooses to disagree. He returns a cold smile to his subjects and continues to walk down the cobbled streets before turning into an alley between a two-story building and the headquarters of the Golden Nail Banking Company.
The pale man stands before a crack in the wall. Rooted in the base and creeping to eye level, splitting the off-white brickwork to show a distinct dark crack that seems as nothing more than the effects of time. He pulls from his right pocket a fragile dry leaf, holding it in his palm. Slowly crushing it between his tainted black fingertips whilst simultaneously whispering in ancient Scryptian. As the broken fragments of leaf float down to the ground, they transform into small embers. Sparking the stone below and ignited a series of small fires. Fires that race towards the cracks in the wall, replacing the black void with a smouldering red. Ripping away the wall, making the crack bigger to reveal an unnatural shape acting as a doorway. The Strategist looks up and down the alley for prying eyes, before entering the mystic entrance and descends down a long, dark staircase.
The echo of footsteps announces the presence of the Priest, forcing the old man dressed in dark leather to slowly finish his writing, swivel in his creaky chair and adjust his frames to greet his boss.
“You’re late… A whole two minutes.” The old man emphasizes.
“Should I fear you are unwell? Or perhaps you got over excited and had a drop of alcohol last night, eheheh.”
The man chuckles to himself as the Strategist walks into the candlelight illuminating a messy, disorganized mess of papers, test tubes and medical tools sprawled on the table. The expression of the Strategist is stoic, no sign of emotion. Only business on his face.
“You know, I can’t help myself sir. You are far too serious. Maybe that’s why you’re the one in charge. No time to laugh when there is work to do.”
“What updates do you have for me regarding the subject?” The Strategist calmly relays as if practiced a hundred times.
“Right, time to get serious. Ahem. The subject is the same as before. A stable condition, breathing on his own accord. No signs of struggle, wounds have been healed and no traces of additional magic besides the residue of our previous testing. They have responded positively to our morning checks and is ready for today’s trial. Not that I expect it will go any differently.” The man in leather sighs.
“Why do you share pessimistic opinions Doctor?”
“Oh come on now. We’ve been at this for months! I’ve done everything I can possibly imagine to get the desired affect and nothing seems to change the outcome. They are perfectly healthy, they should be receptive to the spells and yet, its as if the body simply rejects it. They are purely too stubborn for this sort of thing. Of course, when I usually try this, they are usually more... You know, dead.”
The Strategist looks ahead, choosing to ponder the response of the doctor. Silence lingers in the air for a minute, turning cold and spawning a sense of awkwardness for the old man. He returns to his desk and begins preparations for the spell.
As he does so, the Strategist listens to the conversation again. Fixating on the words, ‘I’ve done everything…’ Referring to himself, the doctor. The priest asks himself if he has done everything. Relying on the doctor has proven successful up to a point. What factors are stopping the desired outcome? The subject. A Minauran. A naturally stubborn creature. No. A person. Yes, a person that can be reasoned with. Words. Words are powerful when used correctly. The right combination of words could work. The exact words to evoke an emotion. Create a catalyst that will change a number of variables. Words are the key.
As the doctor pulls up his sleeves and cracks his fingers, ready to begin. The strategist simply raises a hand and commands him to wait. Taken aback, the doctor looks around the empty room with a mask of bewilderment.
“What?” is all he can stutter out of his mouth.
The Strategist lowers his hands and turns to face the doctor. Simply stating again to wait. He lets his feet guide him to a table positioned deeper inside the room. Surrounded by various light sources and pentagrams. Strapped to the table is a person resting with a steady heartbeat. A scarred face. A face the Strategist has met before. The Creed Killer.
As the Strategist towers over him, deciding on the right combination of words, he thinks back to their last encounter for inspiration. Finally after a dozen iterations of what to say, the priest dressed in black and red clears rubs his throat and leans in close to the killer. Simply stating in a calm and controlled voice,
“Time to wake up Mr Boare. There is a boy that needs saving.”
He pauses to let his words resonate in the ear of the Creed Killer before returning to an upright position. Meeting eyes with the Killer for the first time in months. He does not smile, Nor does he show sign of relief. Instead, the Strategist simply stares. Turns away. And walks out of the room, telling the doctor to commence testing.
A continuation from my previous short story. Exploring the character of the Strategist further and the relationship with the Creed Killer. A hero which is the focus of a solo campaign I played a few years ago. I am excited to try continue this story and I hope you enjoy reading it.
I don't often like things like this but I have been trying to push my abilities for World Ember. If you have suggestions or advice on how I can improve that would be really cool :)
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