An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Svaltha III: Spirits Left Unseen

Svaltha III: Spirits Left Unseen

The Sixteenth Day of the Forth Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Warcamp, Hoarsoil Valleys, Scelopyrea.

Speaking with her superiors had never been a particularly easy feat for her. She'd always been so intimidated by them, and as a child she had privately wished to see them just a little bit scared so she knew for a fact that they were as mortal as her. She'd gotten close enough to that almost forgotten wish recently, and now she never wanted to see such a thing again.

The druids had been what looked like a mix of surprised and apprehensive, leavened with perhaps a little joy. They'd known some of the giants were abroad, but if something really was pressing on their mountain homes and driving them south...

She'd never known her elders to look scared before, and she had still yet to see a member of the order higher than herself look afraid, but that was the closest she'd ever seen to real fear on their faces. But why? The giants themselves, whilst terrible foes, were far from a real threat to the druidic order. All except Dragrr, perhaps, but he hadn't been seen in an age and a half. Maybe it was... what if they knew something she didn't? What if they knew what might be driving the giant folk south? The other seasons were growing shorter and shorter, winter ever longer and colder, and the land itself rarely saw the sun anymore. What if something truly was pushing in on them? What if that was why the druids had grown so desperate to resurrect their god these last few decades? Oh, for certain, decades felt a long time to her, but for an order who had spent a millennia trying and failing to find their fallen lord thirty years was just a blink. Why this sudden drive? Why now?

Why?

She didn't know, and it scared her a little. She didn't like to admit it, but if even her elders were beginning to grow afraid, if even they were left in nervous anticipation at what was coming...

What hope did she have?

She shook her head a little to rid her mind of such treacherous thoughts. She was a child of the Raven-God, and that was strength enough for her. Her god would see her through whatever storm lay on the horizon, no matter how dark the clouds appeared. Her god would protect her and her ilk, and if that was the truth then it didn't matter how many lessers were trampled into dust and spent as callously as lesser men spent gold. The druids would endure, as they always had. Not the druids of the far west, but the true druids. The Scelopyrene druids. Krakevasil's druids.

In an age long past the gods had all abandoned the people of Scelopyrea, the Corvid Pantheon turning their backs on their own faithful during the dark days of the silence. Of the seven gods only one remained, only one true protector to shield them where seven should have stood. The Raven-God, the Father of Carrion, the Lord of Slaughter, call him whatever you will. He had remained, and the others had left them.

And then, when the floodwaters receded, the Brythonians and their ilk had the gall to call them the traitors for turning away from the rest of the gods! For walking away from gods who never cared! Was it the Jay who ensured their fields were fertile? No! It was the Raven who watered the soils of Scelopyrea with blood. Was it the Magpie who brought about wealth from trade? No! It was the Raven who taught them to take what they needed! Was it the Rook, the half-forgotten and faded Lord of Death who-

She stilled herself again. The other gods were traitors, and were to be shunned as such. The Raven was all that mattered. Krakevasil was all that mattered. One day he'd return to them, and lead them to unending glory and slaughter. They just needed to wait a little longer. Just a few years more. And if she were able to keep her three new friends from the slaughter when the time came... well, what could she say? She'd grown quite fond of their company these last few weeks, and it helped that the three of them were all really rather good at their jobs. Krai was still alive, somehow, and was healing fast. He'd even gone around the camp for a little bit of light exercise today, and though it wasn't much she was still surprised that someone who was as badly injured as he was could physically be jogging at the moment. She shook her head a little as she remembered how the one-eyed man had  needed to be physically stopped from trying to spar by Syren and Kætil himself, the two young men half-grimacing and half-laughing at their friend as they guided him to a tree stump so he might sit and watch instead.