ANATHEMA - Inferno's Vow

Chapter V: Matches In The Snow

Cast into the drenched night by the poorhouse mob, consumed with wickedness and wrath, Ander found no refuge in the wild storm. The hammering winds and rain kept him from sleep, stringing out whatever endurance he had left. By sunrise, he was left weary and wet, betrayed by his fellow man, and by the 'omen' forged by the gods. Whether they had any part in his misery, or not, he cared little for it. Contempt took hold of him through the night, leaving him bitter and cold at dawn. The boy needed someone to offload the blame for his torment, someone he could point to to understand all that had burdened him. While, at the moment, he had no target, the seeds of his disdain for the gods were planted that horrid night.

The following day, he again approached the poorhouse but found himself keenly rejected. Word had spread to the staff and overseers about his origins in Sylrel, who proceeded to slam the doors in his face, bellowing similar phrases about 'omens' and 'gods'. Being such a small trading village, the people were quick to recognize and reject the boy, offering him no business, work, or sanctuary in the town. With no other option, Ander was forced to flee Ver Del, taking up travel with whoever flowed through the village. If Sylrel insisted on being such a plague to him, he would do everything in his power to distance himself from its ruins. And so he traveled south, hitching rides and hikes with all likes of men, and even other sapient species. A peculiar day found him traveling with a band of Dark Alffs - the Svartálffa - who, out of entertainment, agreed to ferry the boy further on his way. It was the first time he had ever come in contact with Dark Alffs, but he found them a merry band, a mix between strange remarks, yet undeniable elegance.

As the weeks progressed, so did the young man's journey. Starting from Ver Del, he came across a great assortment of villages and hamlets, but all were too small for him to take an interest in. His sights were set on a larger town, one with a variety of work opportunities, somewhere he could legitimately survive. Each passing day bore the building fangs of Autumn, with Summer fading into the recent past. The trees, once green and mighty, now flourished with pallets of red and yellow, flanking the woodland roads with boundless beauty. It tore the boy apart. How could the world be so beautiful - so grand and wondrous - while also being so vicious and ruthless? Vivid images of the past became commonplace in his dreams, torturing him even in his sleep. Truly, there was no escape.

Eventually, after much wayfaring, there came a day when Ander found himself faced with the northern branch of the river Brux, a mighty waterway flowing out from the Sea of Enkaai situated in the east. It ran all the way from the Peaks of Aeon to the Gulf of The Centre. Being a wide channel, it was often exploited by ships and merchant crafts, gliding up and down its length to reach all of Sylvee. Along the river, only a few miles downstream from his position, was the bustling town of Vimbaultir. Being the major port of the upper Brux, it maintained quite an active population, composed of fishers, farmers, tradesmen, and the like. Filled with an excess of folks of all kinds, it was the largest settlement in the region, bar the capital some odd hundred miles east.

Even from a distance, Ander's weary eyes could spot multiple labor stations, all marked with the telltale sign of the rune of Essa. Essa, being the goddess of growth and prosperity, as well as the consort of Aldrr the all-knowing, was often the champion of the poor and underprivileged. A class he found himself cast into. And so he journeyed to Vimbaultir, accepting his status as a castaway in the gutter, shunned by the upper echelons of the city.

He found occupation rather easily during Autumn, working alongside men and Feylings as they harvested field after field. It wasn't all agriculture he found toil in; he took up as many lumber-related jobs as he could. Through it all, he made sure to keep his lips sealed, and his gaze turned downward. He couldn't risk anyone discovering who he was. He couldn't risk anyone discovering where he was from. Tales of Sylrel's destruction, and its relation to being a work of the gods, had spread far throughout Sylvee. Thin ice paved every step he took, and he made it a note to not get too close or too open with anyone, regardless of how kind or caring they appeared.