Father Jovali was alone in the chapel, looking over the holy texts. The chapel of Dunfirath was a small, cozy temple of roughhewn stone, assembled by the devout peasants of the village long before Jovali was born. On one side of the grounds was the small cemetery where the dead of the village were interred. Opposite it was the small hut where Jovali lived, as had the priest who had ministered to the village before, and the man before him. The chapel was large enough to accommodate roughly two dozen plain wooden benches, arranged before a small, stone alter. Behind it was an icon of the Platinum Dragon, Bahamut. Though it was only a wooden statue, painted rather garishly by a local artisan with more faith then skill, Jovali could not help but be at peace in the presence of this humble symbol of the god he served.
“Father Jovali!” The priest’s reverence was interrupted by a shout. He rose from his bench and turned as his lone acolyte, Hillia, ran into the chapel. The young, female half-elf was in quite a stir. “Father Jovali, something’s happened!” She cried. The hem of her rough-spun cloth robe flapped wildly around her ankles as she dashed up to the priest.
“Peace, Sister.” Jovali said, walking to her. “What is the matter.”
“One of the villagers’ daughters, she was out in the fields when she entered into a trance!” Hillia said, a little calmer. “Some of the village lads saw it. They said she looked up into the sky! A strange light shone over her!” Jovali turned and glanced out one of the windows. The sky was heavily overcast, as it had been the last few days. “In the village they’re already talking about it! Some say this is a miracle! Others say the girl has been touched by demons or witches!”
“Which girl?” Jovali asked, concerned. “Whose daughter did you say?”
“Mattern’s daughter, Sarai.” Hillia replied. Jovali knew the girl, a pretty, cheerful lass of about 16 summers. A quiet and unassuming peasant lass, he’d always thought her. “They’re bringing her here now.”
Not long after Hillia said this, a small group of people entered. The man in the lead, Jovali recognized as Mattern, the town’s woodcarver. Behind him was his wife, Donim. With her was their daughter, Sarai. The young girl was dressed for work in the fields, in a homespun brown tunic and leggings. Her scraggily cut brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. She walked forward, slowly, a strange look on her face. Her eyes were unfocused, looking at something far beyond the walls of the chapel.
“Please Father.” Mattern said, anxiously, walking to the priest. “You must help us.”
“Something is wrong with my daughter.” His wife followed. “Please do something for her.”
As they spoke with Jovali, Sarai had walked past the three adults to the front of the chapel. She looked up at the icon of Bahamut. Jovali turned and approached her. “Child, what happened out in the field? Did someone speak to you?” The girl turned to him and nodded. “Who? Who was it?”
She smiled and turned back to the icon. “The Lord Bahamut, father.” She said, cheerfully. “He told me there is a great service to which I am called.”
That evening, Father Jovali questioned Sarai about her vision. In awkward, halting sentences, the young girl told him everything she had seen. The look on her face, when she spoke convinced the older man she was telling the truth. He knew what needed to be done. Leaving her in the chapel, Jovali walked to his small hut. Beside his straw bed was a small, wooden chest. Picking it up, the priest carried it back to the chapel.
“My child,” he told Sarai, opening the chest. “Those in the service of Lord Bahamut are called upon to be servants of Justice, to fight in his name for the protection of those who cannot defend themselves. When I was still a novice, I traveled the land, seeking injustices to right.” Reaching into the chest, he drew out an old iron mace, a battered old shield and a dusty suit of chainmail. “Take these. Use them in the service of justice.” As the young woman awkwardly put on the unfamiliar armor, Jovali pulled out a small, leather codex.
“You might also need this.” He said, handing it to her. “I know you never paid much attention during my sermons. If you are going to serve our god, you should brush up on your scriptures…”
***
“Aha! Good work lads!” Logrim One-Eye said with a cruel snarl. The notorious bandit leader looked over his men’s handiwork, while wiping the blood from his hooked dagger. The two coachmen had not given up their coach easily, one of Logrim’s men was busy bandaging another where the guard’s crossbow had punched through his leather armor. Still, given what they had been carrying, their stout defense was understandable. The bandits would live high off the spoils of this catch for some time: a chest of silver coins, gold and gem-encrusted jewelry, fine silk clothes…
The two passengers who had, until recently been wearing those luxurious clothes and jewelry, sobbed quietly, lying on the ground. After dragging them from their coach and relieving them off their valuables, the bandits had tied the two young women up with rope. They appeared to be sisters, the daughters of some rich merchant or country-nobleman. Logrim leered at the frightened captives. They would fetch a fair bit of coin as well, whether as a ransom from their family, or from the slave traders. It made little difference to Logrim, so long as he got paid.
“Gather the loot up, men!” Logrim called. “We’ll take it back to the hideout and stash the gold and jewels…” he chuckled, evilly. “And have our fun to!”
“Hark Evil Doers!!!” Logrim turned in surprise as someone shouted behind him. The bandit turned, just in time for the iron mace to slam into his face, dropping the outlaw to the ground, knocked senseless. His men turned, eyes wide in shock as their leader slumped to the ground. Standing behind him was a young woman, a girl really. The chainmail shirt she was dressed in was too large for her. It hung on the girl like a tent. In one hand, she held an iron mace, one that looked far too large for someone her size to wield. Her other hand held a battered shield.
“Easy there, girly…” One of the bandits said, chuckling as he drew his sword. “You know you could get hurt, playing with nasty weapons.” Holding his blade out, he walked towards her, nonchalantly. “You drop those things and we won’t hurt you…much!”
“I have no need to fear the wicked!” Sarai said, lunging forward, far quicker then the bandit expected. “Surrender and atone for your crimes, or face the Lord’s punishment!” The man howled as she brought her mace down, with strength, if not skill, onto his sword arm. He stumbled back, dropping his sword.
“Augh!” The man groaned. Biting back pain, he shouted to the other two men. “That’s it! Kill the bitch!” The other bandits roared, grabbing for their weapons. But as they charged towards the cleric, her mace suddenly flared into a white fire. The two bandits suddenly had second thoughts about this fight. Turning, they fled into the woods, the young maid in hot pursuit.
For a few minutes, the two captives could heard people crashing through the undergrowth. Finally, a triumphant shout rang out, “Take this, evildoers!” followed by a smack and a loud yelp of pain. They day was saved…
***
The Flayed Elf was definitely not the sort of place any respectable young lady was likely to visit. It lay on the outskirts of the village, a squat structure of mud daub walls, half sunken into the marshy soil. The thatch roof had not been changed in many years. Hanging over the door was a weathered old sign, painted with a graphic depiction of its namesake.
The clientele was also suitably wicked; thugs, brigands and cutthroats of every sort. Smugglers, pirates, assassins all came here, to seek employers for their wicked deeds, or to trade tales of their sordid lives while imbibing spirits most foul to both their physical and spiritual forms. Afterwords, these evil men would slink off, in the darkest hours of the night, to ply their heinous avocations, preying on the meek and helpless villagers of the surrounding area. Which was why one young maiden, though pure of heart and body, who would never willingly enter such a wretched abode, found herself compelled by the holy task which her god had called her forth for, to come here and forcibly kick the door in.
“Hark, evil-doers! Know that your reign of wickedness is at an end! The time of your righteous punishment is at hand!” Sarai shouted, triumphantly as the splintered remains of the door settled on the dirty floor. In the dim light, the cleric caught a glimpse of a large room, packed with tables. There were many people seated at those tables, caught in the act of drinking when she had kicked the door in; cruel mercenaries in their black, dented armor, black-cloaked assassins, pirates, thieves and rogues. In an instant, a veritable armory of wickedly curved, serrated and pointed blades was in every hand.
“um…hark!?!” Sarai was just about to wonder if she’d bitten off more then she could chew, when suddenly everything went black…
Subject: Hark Evildoers! 
4th January 2015, 11:58 pm
