Not on my watch

Light flakes of snow drifted through the evening air. Standing on the edge of a low cliff, a tall cloaked figure stared across an open field at a small manor overlooking the nearby town. With the sun setting to his right, bathing the sky in a deep red glow, the man turned to find a safe route down when a motion in the fields below caught his eye.

Someone, a man ill dressed for the cold, burst out from the tree line heading towards the town. Before he could make it more than a dozen yards an arrow shot from the woods, piercing his leg. Seconds later a half dozen other men casually emerged from the woods brandishing swords and axes. With a sigh and a quiet curse, the cloaked figure leapt off the side of the cliff, slid more than 20ft down a near vertical rock face and took off through the woods.

Gerald lay face down in the snow, panting. He could hear the crunch of snow behind him as someone approached. Desperately Gerald pushed himself up, trying to get to his knees, to get up and run. But before he could lift himself more than a few inches a heavy boot slammed into his back, blasting the breath from his lungs.

“Gave us chase there lad” said the man standing on Gerald’s back. “Name be Breck, and I be executioner tonight. But first, we got questions.”

Gerald gasped for breathe as Breck took his weight of Gerald’s back. “What. What do you want?”

“Tell us about old man in manor” said Breck, kneeling beside Gerald’s head. “You give good answer. Quick death. Throat slit. Nice and clean. Yes? Give bad answer.” Breck shook his head. “You not want that. I not want that. No one want that. So give good answer.”

Gerald franticly looked twisted his head, looking for some way out. But all he saw was Breck and the five grim faced men surrounding him. “I don’t know anything about the old man” he cried. “I’m just passing through! Honest!!”

Breck lowered his head and sighed. “That not good answer. Why you make me do this?” Breck asked, standing. “I not bad man. I good man.” Said Breck, as he plunged his sword into Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald screams, tensing with pain, but Beck continues as if he didn’t notice. “But old man make people angry. Powerful people. People who ask Breck to make old man go away.” With a sharp jerk Breck twisted the blade, sending fiery jolts of pain trough Gerald. “And these people. When they ask, you do.”

As Gerald desperately pleaded, trying to convince Breck that he knew nothing about the old man, the cloaked figure crept behind one of the outline bandits. In a single quick motion the cloaked figure grabbed the man’s hair and brought a long knife up to the man’s neck. “I shall give you a single chance to explain your actions” the cloaked man called out.

Breck looked up from Gerald. Squinting, he took a look around the field. Not seeing anyone besides the tall cloaked figure, Breck shrugged. “He alone. Kill him.”

“So be it” the cloak man muttered, slitting the captured bandit’s throat.

The four men charged, yelling at the top of their lungs and weapons held high. Breck turned back to Gerald, ready to continue questioning poor Gerald, but stopped as the field went suddenly quiet. Confused, Breck pulled his sword out of Gerald’s back as he turned again to face the cloaked man.

“Huh” managed Breck before a knife entered his skull, collapsing to join the four other warriors at the cloaked man’s feet.

Gerald groaned, barely conscious, as the cloaked figured carefully lifted him up. Breathing heavily, Gerald couldn’t make out the face under the cloak. “Who are you” he managed, his breathing short and laboured.

“Priest”, the cloaked man replied.

“Priest of what?” he tried to ask, but the siren call of sleep proved irresistible.

Off in the distance, the sounds of barking dogs could be heard. Priest smiled. At least the old man sent some sleds. Now, time to find out what the old man had called him for.

And then there was two

Crow perched on a small outcropping high in the torch lit cave, and smiled. Wrapped in the black feathered cloak that gives him his name, Crow was invisible to those below. He loved the rush of power he felt, looking down over his slaves pressed tight in the cages. Wild, fearful, pleading eyes peered from the faces of every kind of race, watching as the guards made their rounds.

Humans, dwarves, elves and things he didn’t even know the name of. All creatures have worth, whether as servants, entertainment or food. Crow didn’t care what his men brought in. There was always a buyer.

A shout from one of the guards in the corner drew Crow’s attention. His men had managed to grab a young feline and its containment was proving difficult. Brutally cunning fighters and incredibly stubborn, a properly broken feline can fetch a huge sum as a prized pet among certain noble classes. As difficult as it is to get a child away from its tribe, they were well worth the effort. Crow had lucked out with this one. Its tribe had faced a brutal winter, loosing most of its members during a extensive cold snap. Weakened as they were, his men were easily able to dispatch the few remaining tribe members. It was a shame the two other children didn’t survive. They were worth only a fraction as much as meat.

Leaning in to get a better look, Crow reached back to grab the rope he used to climb up for support. But instead of rough, thick rope, his fingers wrapped around smooth, cold chain. With a start, Crow let go and tried to spin around, but his foot slipped on the narrow ledge. Before he could even cry out, four ink black chains unfurled from the darkness above and wrapped tightly around him.

Crow tried to scream for help as a small, thin, naked man dropped from the darkness onto the ledge, but the chains had crushed all air from his lungs. He couldn’t move, scream, or even breathe.

The small man sat there hunched, staring at him, as Crow had stared at the slaves. The man’s pale skin was stretched tight over his ribs; his long dark hair was thin and greasy and reaching out from behind his back were six long, oily black chains. But worst of all was the man’s eyes. Open wide, his eyes glinted with a hint of madness and burned with a fire from deep within.

Silently, a chain rose to between Crow and this terrifying man. At the end of the blade was a smooth blade, the light of the fires below glinting off its metal. “My church has fallen and so have you” said the man, as the blade slowly drifted over Crow’s heart.

Desperately, Crow tried to struggle, tried to break free. But it was no use. The chains would not budge, and his lungs burned from lack of air. With one quick motion the blade sunk into Crow’s heart. As his vision faded, Crow could hear the man’s final words. “Your soul has been weighed. Your life has been judged. They have been found wanting.”

Po looked at the cooling corpse for several minutes before lowering it onto the ledge behind him. The guards must die as well, for there was too much blood on their hands to be washed clean. But first, Po must find the young feline. Before she died, Po promised the mother that he would save the child, and Priest would not forgive Po breaking such a promise.

First Priest of the Church of Retribution

It was a late night in a small tavern in a small town. The bartender was chatting with a patron. The kitchen busy cleaning the pots and grills. The dozen or so patrons relaxing after a long day. It was a night like most others, quiet but welcoming, in strutted a finely dressed man surrounded by six guards. At once, conversation stopped and an air of resignation filled the room.

"Mmmmhmmm. Mighty fine place you have here Roberts. Such a . . . quaint place."

"My lord Hendricks" sputtered Robert, scurrying out from behind the bar. "What brings you to humble tavern?"

"Oh, me and the gents were just returning from the Morgan's farms. Seems they lied about how much livestock they raised. And after going through the unpleasant business of confiscating their food stocks I figured the boys could use a good hot bowl of stew."

"But sir, the maids just cleaned the pots. There's no stew left."

"Well then, make some more. Lads, throw some tables together!"

Robert stated blankly as the guards dragged several of the patrons out of their chairs and swept the plates onto the floor. "But sir! The maids are tired!" Robert cried. "You can't. ."

With a loud crack Robert stumbled backwards, reeling from the the lords mailed back hand. Blinking, he staggered, tasting blood and feeling a sharp pain in his jaw. "Do not tell your lord what he can and can not do" lord Hendrick said with a snort. With a look of utter contempt he took in the shocked faces of the peasants. "I think we shall dine alone tonight."

Slowly Robert bowed, trying not to loose his balance. As the patrons carefully made their way around the guards to the door the kitchen staff, having seen everything, began preparing the kitchen once again. "As you wish." He said.

Within moments, the tavern was cleared of everyone save lord Hendrick, Robert, and hooded man in a back corner calmly eating his bowl of soup. While Robert was trying to remember who the poor fool was, a guard strolled up to the old man's table. "Dinners over drudge."

"Not done soup." replied the man, in a frail, quiet voice.

"Oh yes you are" said the guard, sweeping the bowl of soup onto the man's lap. At least, thats what the guard tried to do. Instead, without realizing how it happened, the guard was on his knees, screaming in pain as the man wrenched back a finger with his right hand. The hand that was holding the soup spoon. Calmly, the man continued eating, now with his left hand.

As the other guards rushed forward, the man released his grip. Gasping, he got to his feet, the other guards raising their swords to the sitting man.

"Wasting foods a sin." The man replied, calmly. "You aren't a sinner. Are you?"

The guards shifted their, looking between themselves. The subtle shift in the mans voice coupled with his perfect calmness signaled that primitive part of their brains that all men who fight, and survive, learn to listen to. And it was saying "DON'T SAY YES!!!!"

"What are you doing?" blustered lord Hendrick, far to slow to catch on. When the guards didn't answer, still unsure how to react, lord Hendrick shoved his way through his men, face redder and redder.

"What is the meaning of this! Do you have any idea who I am? Are you even listening to me?!?!"

*slurp*

Eyes bulging and face bright red, lord Hendrick pointed his finger at the man's temple. "Guards! Kill this. . . this. . . *gurgle*". A disbelieving hand shakily raising to the black pommeled knife protruding from his throat, lord Hendrick collapsed.

"Your life has been judged and found wanting." The man lowered his spoon into the empty bowl and stood. His body unfolded slowly and the guards had to look up into the face of this seven foot tall man. If indeed he could be called a man. His pale gaunt face framed was by his long grey hair. The man had a filthy grey, blood soaked bandage wrapped over his eyes, but still looked directly into the face of each of the guards.

Wordlessly he stepped over the fresh corpse, the guards stepped aside and quickly lowered their eyes and weapons. They'd all heard the stories. They knew they lived or died by this mans whim.

As the man walked by Robert, broken jaw slack, he dropped a heavy bag on the table. "Good soup."

The guards watched the man's back as he left, not one making a move for the throwing dagger at their belt. No one would strike a priest of the fallen church. Not even in the back.

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