Chapter 1: High Justice
Chapter Text
Aedyr, Fonivèrno 2823 AI -
Idunn's first taste of Highcrown was the bitter jeering of a bloodthirsty crowd and the chafe of humidity-slicked irons.
Her hair sprung around her in ratty coils, unused to the tropical weather. Dew dripped off the fungal fringe around her eyes. Everything about the Capital was a far cry from her home in the farthest north of Kulklin, across the mountains. It was drier there. The deer plentiful. The people honest and hard working farmers - though their honesty ended at their work. She supposed she'd take the open derision of this gathering of pampered nobles over the villagers' leering whispers constantly lingering at her back.
She even considered herself lucky, after a fashion. Were she caught poaching the local lord's game any time of year other than during the High Justice she would have been summarily executed on the spot. Instead she was carted a few hundred miles to be offered to the Burned Queen in brutal and public fashion.
And perhaps being party to Woedica's justice would earn her a sliver of divine attention. After all, Galawain had abandoned her at birth and now he had abandoned her to her early death. Would not the flames of judgment feel like succor in comparison? What more could be hoped for in the aftermath of the Godhammer?
Indeed, many of the mob gathered beneath the colossus of Woedica were quick to notice the fungus around Idunn's eyes. A curse to the Huntsman would not go amiss as the headman's axe fell.
Yet the most curious thing happened as Idunn was led to the chopping block. She looked up to the royal box, ignoring the metallic tang of the blood soaking the plaza beneath her, and found Queen Eina herself staring unblinkingly at her. Time seemed to stop as Idunn felt the Emperor's consort herself gaze into the depths of her very soul. In the back of her mind, Idunn was aware of the shouting of the guards and their kicks to the back of her legs. The harsh thud of her knees against the stone barely registered, her impending death now feeling like the least important thing on the face of Eora as she faced the Queen's withering gaze. A gaze that followed her even as a retinue of Tall Grass approached a very confused executioner and led her away from the morbid spectacle, only ceasing once she had been lead around the corner and into the Imperial Palace.
In the palace, staff stripped her of her ratty tunic and washed her down with soaped up rags, handling her rather coarsely, so much so that Idunn nearly wished they'd have just let her die instead. The mildewed walls and cracking paint of the servants' quarters was a step up from the smell of the muck outside, but not by much. Worse by far was the fact that nobody had spoken a word to her as to why she had been wrangled away from her fate and into the palace.
The wait hadn't been long, in truth, though it had felt a minor eternity for the elf. She was draped in a fresh toga and brought before the Emperor himself having just arrived from the executions.
"I understand you were caught poaching one of the peerage's game. A serious crime, though to have you killed would be a tragic waste of the talents I'm told you possess. Instead you will work for your freedom." The Emperor paused, his voice echoing off the slick tile of the throne room. "Have you killed another kith, before?"
Idunn shook her head.
"It is no matter. It would only have made what you must do easier for you, but regardless it must be done. There is a Skaenite prophet in the wilds of the Cythwood. . ."
Chapter 2: The Woedican
Summary:
The Five Dales were a series of villages atop a fertile plateau, equidistant from Fior mes Iverno and Paradis, and home to just about the only Aedyrans in the Living Lands. For decades it had been home to peaceful farmers who upheld the law. But the arrival of a zealous priest of Woedica, as well as some Dyrwoodan refugees threatened to upend this small idyll.
Notes:
CW: blood, graphic violence
Chapter Text
The Living Lands, Tarivèrno 2823 AI -
The Woedican was no longer alone. New arrivals from Highcrown had appeared just days before the pass was snowed in on the New Year, haughty and glimmering with gold filigreed armor and black tabards sporting the broken crown. Patronizing. Polite to a fault. Wulfrun did not like them. Yet even on this plateau, in its relative safety, the wilds were never far from encroaching, so when it came to the security of the Dales she was to endure them. And she did until the day of the hollowing.
That morning talk among the militia was incessant. The Woedican had found a totem to the Burned Queen, a set of golden scales and inlaid with a gem that glowed like an ember. Wulfrun had gone to the chapel to see it with her mentor, Aelfryd, who despite being of the Order of St. Elcga was an ardent woedican. When she went to touch the totem, the angry essence it contained nearly burned her hand.
Wulfrun did her best to follow Aelfryd's example, especially since no one else had thought to bother with the pale elf. Most in the Dales thought glamfellen would burst into flame in the sun, but Aelfryd was different. He looked past the parochial prejudice of the villagers and saw her potential, both in the way she could move and in the way she saw how essence animated even the mundane things of the Living Lands. He administered her first oaths; he taught her loyalty, kindness, forthrightness; and he taught her how to handle a sword.
But the arrival of the Woedican had changed Aelfryd. In degrees at first. Fewer prayers to the other gods. Quicker to anger at the end of a patrol. He spent less time helping the villagers and more time finding criminals to hunt. Then when the other woedicans arrived, he had stopped wearing his Elcgite colors. And on the day of the hollowing when word reached them that one of the Dyrwoodan refugees had given birth, Wulfrun would see just how deeply his character had been marred.
The Dales had seen a dozen or so Dyrwoodans arrive in the last few years, nearly all pregnant couples. They brought with them horrific tales of soulless children being born. Sometimes, they said, entire villages had not heard a child's laughter or a baby's cry for over a decade. But here in the Lands every one of them had given birth to a healthy baby, thanks be to the gods. But the child born that day was different, a cold tendril of the heresy of the Eastern Reach had come to haunt the Five Dales.
It seemed as though the whole valley had come to see the thing, crowding around the door to the Dyrwoodans' hut. Even the fervent whispers of the crowd felt as though it were a bitter fog writhing just above a frosted meadow. Aelfryd and Wulfrun shoved their way inside, as was Aelfryd's right as senior militiaman. Wulfrun was not prepared for what awaited. It was a pathetic sight, the orlan infant staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Wulfrun thought it dead before she made out its shallow breathing. The mother, slumped over and exhausted, buried her face in her tear-soaked hands as the midwife attended to the child. The father simply stared, nearly as much of a husk as the newborn.
"I didn't want to believe such a thing was possible," Wulfrun whispered to Aelfryd.
"Nor I," the man replied. He turned behind him and ordered the villagers to bring the Woedican around. "This threatens us all, Wulfrun. The Dales. The Lands. All of Eora."
"It certainly is dire, but I think you far overstate the danger, sir."
"No. If anything, I have understated it. It is a grave, grave thing we are seeing."
"What of the mother? The father? You talk of threats to Eora, but surely their well-being-"
"Where is the abomination?" The Woedican had arrived wearing an irate frown that burrowed into her jowls. "We must rid ourselves of it and pray Woedica does not prosecute your hesitation."
In response, Aelfryd unsheathed his sword, grabbed the child from the midwife's arms, and drove the weapon through its chest.
Even if Wulfrun had let herself believe the changes her mentor had undergone, she would have been appalled at what she had just witnessed. The unflinching nature of the act alone . . . "What the Hel did you just do!"
"What had to be done," Aelfryd answered.
For a brief moment his composure threatened to break, and Wulfrun prayed to all the gods that he'd recognize what he'd just done. But alas, before the possibility could present itself the Woedican spoke, breaking through the stunned sobs of the Dyrwoodans and the midwife.
"We cannot be sure which of these three is the source of this plague on our lands, so we must be swift. We cannot brook this rot to spread." She looked to Aelfryd and Wulfrun in turn. "I call on you both to fulfill your oaths."
The Woedican advanced on the quaking midwife and strung a garrote around her throat. Aelfryd, blood still dripping from his blade, advanced on the mother.
Wulfrun responded on instinct. As if her limbs were not bound to the flow of time, her own sword was out of its scabbard and slipped between her mentors ribs in less than an instant, between the scale plates and up through his lungs into his heart. Just as he'd taught her. Just as he'd had her do to an ailing bovigrand decades ago when she was first learning. And as his body slumped to the floor, she could not bear to look into his eyes. She would never know what amount of anger and betrayal they held. She never wanted to know.
"Oath breaker!" the Woedican hissed as she extricated herself from her prey and began to channel divine retribution, sparks of flame dancing around her hands. But the priest was not quick enough. Her chanting silenced by the pale elf's blade through her throat.
By the time it was over, the villagers had scattered, screaming in fear of the ghost who would honor a cursed creature over the health of the village.
"You must flee." Wulfrun said to the Dyrwoodans cowered together at the head of the bed. When they gave no indication of moving, she said again, "You must flee. Listen to me! Hie yourselves away from here. The rest of the Woedicans will not rest until they see you dead as well. Please."
"But m-my wife. There's no way she can travel like this," stuttered the father.
The din of the fleeing crowd had given way to the jangling of iron greaves and chain mail as the militia approached, likely with torch-bearing villagers in tow.
Grunting in frustration, Wulfrun grabbed the orlan woman in her hands and yelled at her husband to follow close. It was taxing, and especially difficult without the usual use of her hands, but Wulfrun managed to summon a winter gale to blast a hole in the wall of the hut just as the militia arrived to mete out their fell justice.
The three fugitives ran for miles into the wooded foothills. Wulfrun dared not stop channeling whatever remained of her essence into a thick bark for all of them lest an arrow or bullet find its target in their backs. And when they did stop running it was due to simple exhaustion rather than any sense of safety she might have felt in the glades under the mountains. So they made camp and hoped for the best.
"Your wife is running a fever, but this springberry tea should see her through the night."
The orlan man nodded and prodded at the fire with a stick. "Ok. That's good, right?"
"As good as can be hoped for, considering." Silence settled between them. Wulfrun was grateful that the bears were in hibernation. And that the woedicans hadn't been in the Living Lands long enough to know the terrain like she did. None of them were great trackers to begin with. Still, she doubted she'd get any rest even as tired as she was.
"Where will you go? Once we're sure we've lost them?" the orlan asked.
"Don't you worry about me. I'll find someplace."
"You know, there's a captain sails out of Paradis to New Heomar every spring. He's the one who got us to the Living Lands."
"The Dyrwood?"
"Sure. I mean, it's nice enough so long as you're not, well. . . you know. Or you could charter to the Vailian Republics once you're in New Heomar."
"Fiorians talk poorly enough about the Republics. Might be worth it to see if they're not lying."
"Aye."
"Paradis is big enough to get lost in, you know. Figure I should see you two safely there at the very least."
"Thank you. From both of us."
"It's nothing."
"I mean it. I'm not sure how, but we'll rebuild. Never would've had the chance if not for you."
"You should sleep. You need it."
Wulfrun watched the flames dance as eventually both orlans found the embrace of sleep, adding logs as needed to keep them warm enough through the winter's night.
New Heomar. Not an handsome name. And Wulfrun doubted if it was a handsome place. But it could be a new start.