Arthurian Cultivation

The hidden outpost was alive with the sounds of armour clashing and squires shouting. Mordred had received the order for his unit to present themselves in their hall. From the calls he heard ringing through the corridors it was clear all the other teams had similar orders. Mordred hoped that this marked a fresh purpose for them. Skulking round towns was hardly proper behaviour for a paladin.

He and his two Squires were in their arming room, donning their gear at a quick but not frantic pace. Not his errant disguise but his true mantle.

Mordred fitted on his Paladin's cuirass. The shining metal centre of his true, honest and resplendent armour. How he had missed its polished form. The Guiding Star said material things should not be coveted but it outlined exceptions. The Clergy had their books, and the Paladins were encouraged to care for and respect their armour and weapons. To do so was not a weakness, it was a way to make yourself a greater warrior. A greater instrument for them to work with and see their will done.

Mordred was nothing if not a faithful follower of scripture.

He had maintained his armour carefully and now, as it slid onto his broad frame, he felt whole in a way that had been missing since he had donned the scuffed and plain disguise.

He was helped into his armour by his two Squires. The pair, Hargrev and Pilston, were both aligned with the Ray of Mercy just like him and maintained a proper level of conduct and solemnity. Neither was blessed with the most holy expression of mercy, which was death, but Hargrev notably wielded Decay and Pilston could summon the Withering Cold, that power beyond ice that ate flame and brought all things to stillness.

Both held blessings the Order of Mercy held in high regard. It matched their diligent and moral conduct. The third squire he had been provided had been found wanting. Tobias had not been pleased when he had taken the man to task.

The priest had not approved of the Mercy he had bestowed upon him.

It had, however, served as an excellent lesson for his two remaining squires. And he had, through extensive training, whipped them into a respectable fighting force. The pair had toughened up wonderfully, and he believed they would find their path forward in service to the Ray of Mercy in time, just as he had.

"How go your meditations? Are you nearer to understanding your purpose?" Mordred asked Hargrev. The man was older than him by a few years, yet he had never allowed pride to sully his work. He recognised his faith was not as complete as it might be and allowed himself to be guided by his senior in cultivation.

"Yes, Paladin Mordred, I feel something. A place waiting for me if I can just ensure I am worthy." The Squire said as he tightened the straps of the pauldrons.

"Hold onto that thought. Would you care to share what your musings are upon?"

"I view myself as a tool to break down the stubborn lies of the heretics, to speed the inevitable collapse of their false faith." The man said calmly, and Mordred nodded in support.

"A noble pursuit. My own focus is upon delivering the inexorable will of the Guiding Star. It is right and proper to sculpt yourself as an extension of the Star’s mission. Pilston, do you still struggle?"

"I am poorly served, the heretical teaching of my youth is most insidious." Pilston replied quietly. Mordred felt pity for the man. While he normally distrusted converts, he had found the Squire to be deeply faithful. It was too bad that being raised by heretics had so injured his path forward.

"Yes. To think they are so arrogant as to set themselves apart with their 'Intent'. To create an identity beyond the fae they fear and venerate in equal measure. The fact they contest the very beings that they also worship is but more proof of their poor foundation." Mordred mused, having been appalled when he had learned of the heretics’ concept of 'Intent'.

Mordred was repulsed by the idea of an intent. It went directly against his path to understanding his divine purpose. He had reached Iron through realising his 'Role', the first insight into that special way he fit into the Star's ineffable plan. His role was 'To deliver the inevitable judgement of the faithful'. It guided his actions and enhanced his cultivation and power.

To hear that all the heretics were running around creating 'intents' that were indulgent statements of their own identity, ways to stand apart from each other and the powers that shaped them, had left him with absolute confidence in the church's superiority.

It was a wonder the heretics ever agreed on anything long enough to put up actual resistance.

"Are you all ready to assemble?" Tobias appeared, and Mordred checked both his Squires, looking them over. It was a sight that nearly brought a tear to his eye. All three of them were resplendent in their holy vestments. Their armour polished, their weapons ready. It was as it was supposed to be, not that falsehood of battered, nondescript armour.

He felt whole for the first time in months.

"We are indeed." He nodded to Tobias, who was in his priestly vestments, shining gold at the edges of his frock indicating his hallowed position in the clergy.

"Then it is time, come with me to the main courtyard."

Mordred strode beside Tobias as they swept into the hall. The doors slammed shut behind them, telling him that his was the last team to join the group, but he could not help noticing that they were the most well suited. The others’ armour and gear lacked the polish and refinement he had achieved, as they had rushed to appear before the Saint. Fools, the lot of them.

He had come to know that the Saint preferred things done well and slowly rather than quickly and poorly. It was something that had come up often in their private prayer sessions.

All the Rays had been pulled together for this moment. Sacrifice and Protection were absent, but the representatives of Bonds, Labour, Health and Truth were present. Sir Fallowmere, the Paladin of Labour, turned and sent him a smile. Mordred ignored the vexing man. The others studiously ignored him as was their way. He focused instead as the Saint stood before them.

She rose from her seat, having been resting on a high backed wooden chair. She stepped forward, a spear appeared in her hands from nowhere and her presence doubled, the weight bore down on them all.

Mordred would never tire of her presence. The weight of her faith meant she stood closer to the Rays than anyone he had ever met. He also had to admit that she was beautiful. With her flowing copper hair that cascaded over her armour, she looked like some vengeful angel.

She roughly struck the floor with the butt of the spear, and the stone beneath cracked from the simple movement.

"Our work continues, my faithful hounds." She said, a smile upon her lips.

"Squire Slekva has brought news to us. A vile insult has been levelled against us. They are the sole survivor of an effort to reclaim an artefact of power conducted by the Rays of Protection and Sacrifice and their priests." She spoke, ignoring the gasps and growls from the crowd. Mordred remained silent, the only sound the squeaking of metal as the steel of his gauntlet complained as his hands formed into tight fists.

He would kill them all. How dare they slay the faithful, lay their filthy heretical hands on a divine item. It was a travesty. Tobias placed a hand on his shoulder, and Mordred almost lashed out, only to realise his wrath was leaking. Both of his Squires had gone pale, and Tobias’ face was strained. He pulled himself together.

"The Paladins and Priests detected an item of power being brought through the mountains. They paused on their path to infiltrate Corbinec and struck at the heretics who call themselves the Order of the Round Table.

"Despite a valiant attempt and doing much to claim the artefact, they were beaten by ignoble trickery and deception. Attacked as they tried to parley with the vile curs in an effort to minimise the shedding of blood."

Quietly, Mordred was a little surprised to realise both the priests had also perished. He would have expected them to be the first to run. His views on the clergy were complicated. Tobias was the last man to get directly involved in a fight. He knew that this was their role, and so it was a shock to find both priests had stood with their Paladins to the last. He would remember this.

"The heretics found this item when hunting down a man who had expressed interest in our faith. Sadly his pleas for help reached us too late. But clearly his faith was what gifted us this warning. They do not understand what they have, the unfaithful carry it on their backs like mere camping supplies." The Saint's voice lashed out and Mordred stood firmer for it. Again fighting down the surge of rage which ran through him at such sacrilege.

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Mercy stirred in his heart. His role sounding in his mind, 'To deliver the inevitable judgement of the faithful'. He would bring them to heel.

"This is unacceptable. We have found our target and we shall see it collected, the heretics who dare sully our divine artefacts punished for their hubris.

"We shall set out to hunt them, to uncover where they have hidden this artefact. We shall see it returned to the holy light of the Guiding Star and bring ruin to all who would dare to stand in our way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Saint." They all chorused, their voices ringing off the walls and shaking the dust from the rafters.

"Your role is now to be my hounds. To run these arrogant fools down, to see the unbelievers slain. I release you of your chains and trust in your faith and purpose. I do not expect you to act as mad dogs, arrayed before you is no small force. You will come together to hunt them and be sure to find the holes where they dare to squirrel away what is rightfully ours, but do not slay all of them."

"Know the Prophets have delivered unto me whispers. They inform me that their agents will guide the clergy, using the sight of the faithful to track down these heathens. They also share a commandment as to how to dispense justice. Amongst them is a blond haired man, a little lost prince of Albion, and a dark haired bard in red and black. One is too valuable to kill outright, make sure he survives so we may impress our mercy upon his father." If she were not a saint and above such things, Mordred would say she wore a greedy grin as she spoke.

"The bard is the weakest fighter amongst them, the easiest to suppress. Still we hope he knows much, so we wish him captured so the Inquisitors may speak with him. The others you should capture if possible, learn their secrets, but those are the only two the Prophets order you to capture.

"So take this mission, know I shall follow you from the shadows. If you should encounter a true artefact of legend, you shall alert your priest. They have methods of contacting me to bring it to my attention. Do not waste my time if you are wounded. I have no use for a lame hunting hound, am I clear?"

"Yes, my Saint." They all chorused.

"Now go. Carry the faith and purpose of the Rays of Sacrifice and Protection, but stand stronger. Slay our enemies and bring back what was lost to its rightful owners. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, my Saint, the Prophets’ will be done." Mordred roared with the rest of them, all of them full of divine fervour. The months of deception and trial were over, it was time to deliver the inevitable justice of the Star. They had a piece of divinity in their sights, and it would be returned to its rightful place.

He would not allow the weakness of the others to stop him.

Already he could see the others looking to each other, no doubt thinking of plotting and scheming. Mordred had not enjoyed his fellows’ company and now cursed their incompetence.

At least he would no longer have to handle the now deceased Sir Breuse Sans Pitié, the Paladin of Protection. Like much of his Ray, he had been particularly irritating, a lazy, feckless man who seemed only to covet power that would make him stronger. His faith and vision had been lacking, his mind racked with sins of pride and lust. He was one whom Mordred had had to school most often since the Spear Saint had begun to summon him for 'private prayer sessions'.

Mordred paused before he marched out.

Leaving would mean a break from such sessions, and he still was not sure how he felt about them. He did not think he got any closer to the Guiding Star through them. Though he would admit it was not an unpleasant way to spend some time and proved to be very demanding of his physical endurance. The Saint said he was getting better, so he assumed that there was some point at which he would start seeing greater returns. Then again it was a sin to hurry such divine revelations. Maybe he could permit himself to enjoy the journey for once.

He shook off his musings. He would miss such sessions, and yet as the others set about beginning their arguments he could now leverage her favour to ensure that he took a leading role. He would not allow their mission to fail due to pathetic infighting.

His own cultivation and development were nothing compared to the mission. They had a true purpose, and he would see it through.

Genevera watched from the window over the gate as her hounds charged out. Full of divine vigour and spurred on by hate and the desire to stand over the heretic.

Walking back through the empty stone halls she drank a bit of the wine she had imported, it was getting low. Hopefully this would all conclude before she ran out. She was impatient to leave this fetid swamp and cold block of stone behind.

She mused on the fact she was a far better huntmaster than she was a shepherd. She hoped that they might be able to handle the threat before them without her having to risk herself. That, though, was probably wishful thinking. A century plus of experience had given her a sense for how things unfolded, and she could sense she was on the edge of something significant. Something dangerous.

She would soon have to follow them out on the hunt herself. She had received intelligence from the faithful warning her that the Steels of the enemy were on the move. She just had to remain one step ahead. Trust in her divine gifts and personal power.

Ginevra was the Spear Saint, it was not just a title, it was an extension of her power. The underlying aspect of her that she had dedicated to the Guiding Star. Her spear was without compare in battle, but the enemies arranged against her were unlikely to meet her on a clear plain where she could make full use of her power.

Rowena the merciless bitch was the biggest combat threat, she came as close as any heretic did to matching the focus of the zealots. Her very being seemed to be wrapped up in duty and serving her family, her power reinforced in the pursuit of their goals.

The Rensliegh woman was discretion itself. Even for someone as powerful as Ginevra, she felt herself almost forgetting about her. She slid to the back of her awareness. It was maddening to know just how dangerous she was and yet find herself discounting her as just a background character.

Finally there was the witch, Elaine. The newly forged Steel should have been the one she was most confident against and yet she held the greatest threat. She used to be some manner of seer and assassin if their intelligence was to be trusted. Her effectiveness at Steel was unknown, as the only battle she had participated in had seen all their agents wiped out, so it was impossible to conclusively say one way or the other.

Ginevra did not like the idea of going up against a dream and poison user one bit. It made her spine crawl. Especially given the horrific things the Iron rank priest who had had the same blessings had been capable of. Too bad he was among the dead or she would have used him as a shield, no matter how thin.

The one thing that kept her from fretting was that none of them dared spend any real time in the petty mountain kingdoms. They all feared the green tinted shadow cast by the demon who waited for them upon his oaken throne, his erratic attention keeping them from coming closer.

Ginevra was not any more welcome but she checked her holy seal. The magics here helped shield her from that thing's attention. If the damned thing came close the seal would warn her and she could effect her escape. She still had to be careful but it was enough to keep her safe and able to take action in a single operation.

It was now looking more and more like she would have to test the true limits of the seal.

She checked on the missives she had been sent. A courier arriving by Gale Kestrel last night had delivered her guidance and a demand for a communication ritual from the Prophets themselves. She shivered at the timing as if they were fully aware of what she had only learned the day before herself. The sight of the Prophets was great and terrible in its scope.

She was not sure if she believed that they saw everything that the faithful did, but it was not far off.

She retreated to the room beside her chambers. Even if the Prophets were aware of her excesses, flaunting the wealth and luxury she had brought with her did not seem sensible.

There was the ritual of communication. It had been set up by the priests before she had left. She walked round lighting the seven bowls of incense before stepping into the complex collection of runes that would help hide her connection. The Prophets could in theory reach out to her at any time, yet with the Green Demon waiting for any disturbance, certain precautions had to be taken.

She knelt and drank deep of an elixir, letting it guide her into a meditative state. Near sleep, her awareness was still lucid enough to brace herself when she felt the immense wave of power that marked their attention wash over her.

Ginevra stood alone in an endless cathedral. All the holy city could likely fit beneath its dome, seven corridors split off around her, each one covered in sublime art depicting the Ray it led to.

Sunlight cascaded through windows of stained glass as tall as the hills. And as that light fell upon her, a voice that could only belong to a Prophet spoke to her.

"Some of your hounds have perished." The voice was everywhere, she felt it in her very soul. The tone was deep and resonant.

"My Prophet, they saw an artefact of power. The one who reported said both Paladins and priests were in no doubt as to its divine radiance. It was in the hands of an enemy."

"We are aware."

"How can I serve you, oh Prophet?"

"Saint, we smell change and blood on the wind. We feel the stirring of ancient powers long buried. Enlighten us, clarify these divine whispers with your insight."

"My Prophet, it seems the Round Table has either stumbled upon this relic or they are secretly here with a hidden purpose. Their cause has taken them the width and breadth of the land, and while they have sought out quests that match up with their supposed goal, now with this revelation it appears that they could have been conducting a search of their own."

"Your instincts are good. The weave of fate, the plan of the Star, tells me that which we seek is still beyond our hands and those of our enemies. Yet our enemies are closer to it than we are." Ginevra nodded, she had gleaned as much from the missive.

"I have sent my hounds to hunt them down. I was anticipating following them discreetly, at a distance so I can interject. Yet I feel like we are after a fox. Their survival from the first ambush showed their low cunning. I am concerned that with their additional Steels, while of course individually weaker than an ordained Saint such as myself, the sheer number of them may pose a threat."

"We shall send reinforcements, yet this will take some time. The eye of the enemy will be watching most closely. Your goal is not this Order’s destruction, not the survival of your hounds, but the return of the artefact we hunt. We can sense its power but ancient forces shield it from our sight. It has power and potential that is incredible, we must have it."

"Can you reveal what it is we seek to this humble servant. I do not even know what I am looking for and as I can act only the once, my success will be more likely if I know all that is to be known."

"What you look for is a drinking vessel. Something long thought lost. It will radiate an aura of Mercy and Bonds. When you obtain it do not spill your blood or that of anyone you care for onto its surface."

"I thank you for the trust, oh great Prophet."

"Do not disappoint us, this is a matter of grave importance."

"I shall succeed."

"Yes you shall or your failure will not be forgotten. Let the Star know your dedication, in success or death."

The vision cleared and Ginevra woke from her meditation with a start. Her hands shook and her body was coated in sweat as if she were some pathetic mortal. She stopped herself from cursing out the indignity of the threat. She had to focus, she could be angry later.

Time to follow her hounds.