One destiny. Two paths. One war.
Sheala and Cass have chosen their sides. One seeks to bring meaning to her life that has been in shambles since the day her father and mother were killed and weighs the prospect of assuming the mantle of her uncle's...
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For the word will not be denied. It shall persist. And it shall always be.
Book of Earoni 15:2
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The smell of squalor and poverty consumed Daphney's senses. With a heavy sigh, she emerged from the plain house of straw and mud bricks between wood studs into the waterlogged streets of the modest village of Kannas.
"It went that well?" A man replied from where he leaned near the door. He'd been assigned personally by Rwan to be an ever watchful shadow to the cleric, although he looked like he should be stealing money from widows in the market rather than a acting as a bodyguard.
Daphney cast her eyes to the dreary and overcast sky. "You couldn't hear?"
"Every word." He laughed. "I think they heard Ubuer Yawin's bloviating boasts in the next village over."
"He wanted assurances that I'm not willing to commit to. And even more that I simply cannot give." She felt dirty. Not just physically from the inevitable conditions following a heavy summer rain, but also from dealing with an insufferable blowhard like Ubuer. The increased volume of his voice was still quite easy to distinguish. Even though she had left him and the ongoing conference, Daphney could hear the continued ranting that emanated from his mouth. "I think more than anything it upset him that he had spent the day talking to me and not Rwan."
"He never liked Rwan. Definitely didn't vote for him. And he does understand that Rwan is about two steps beyond death's door already. Doesn't he?"
"Please don't talk like that, Kilan. I tried to explain the situation to him." Daphney turned to look back inside the meager home. but she couldn't see too much. Ubuer was there, this arms covered in jagged scars gesticulating while he shouted at one of his aides, and then another. There was a silent man standing away from the fray sporting a short-cropped beard and wearing fairly common garb except for one peculiar thing.
What stood out about him was the battered breastplate he wore. It seemed ancient. The symbol of the eagle over the inverted triangle was still predominant, even under years upon years of rust. And he hadn't said a single word over the course of the hours the meeting droned on. He just stood there like a sentinel, but one guarding nothing at all.
