Sorore was bored, which wasn’t at all a common occurrence. Usually, she’d be positively enthusiastic for a chance for more sermons, but today was progressing at a snail’s pace. The trees and snow-covered hillsides repeated themselves like the same painting over and over again, framed by wooden shutters of the waggon. The roads this far north were also brutal, her back and legs aching at the constant rattling.

“Lady Sorore, are you listening?” came the voice of Niche.

“What? I mean- yes, yes I am?” she started, turning to face him.

The paladin had a small book in his hand, his short brown hair pushed back to scrutinize the passages contained within. For many others it might have looked silly, held in the enamelled gauntlets. As for Sorore, it was natural, indeed made mundane by the weeks spent across the continent with his preaching. Sword in one hand, scripture in the other, thought Sorore, slightly proud of her new aphorism.

That being said, if anything was a sticking point, it would’ve been his voice. It was higher than one might expect, and was subject to a certain shrill quality when he got to the more fevered portions of his literature. She would’ve thought that one of the light-lord’s number would’ve had a more… sonorous oration. That particular disappointment was quickly washed away in chapter after chapter, however. Sometimes quantity overrides the quality of delivery, she supposed.

“It’s not like you to be distracted,” said Lillian, a rare interjection from her.

“I just… I hoped we’d be there already, I guess,” she confessed.

She found it hard to deflect in front of Lillian, especially when those piercing blue eyes settled on her. Lillian had a particular way about her, as if she could see straight through you. Sorore was certain that Lillian would know if she lied, if she ever dared to.

“We are getting there,” Lillian said as she pushed back her own hair, thick and black, “in fact, we should be there fairly soon, by my reckoning. Focus on the scripture, and it’ll seem like a few moments.”

“I’m trying, but… today seems particularly slow,” she said, and instantly regretted it. It sounded like a complaint, and she had made it a point of pride not to complain.

“What she means to say is that we’re tired of sermons and want to actually see something happen,” chimed in Frare, as if from a stage queue.

“I’m sure that we’ll be there soon. There’s a village up ahead, I believe we’ll stop there to plan out the assault and resupply as necessary,” said Niche. He’d given up on arguing that scripture was actually interesting with her twin some weeks ago. Sorore was still hopeful that the endeavour might lead to a result.

“You’ve been saying that for days,” said Frare, pausing to shoot Niche a sharp glare. The paladin nearly stammered out a reply, but thought better of it at the last moment.

“When we get out, I’ll train with you,” said Lillian.

That was about all it took to brighten her brother’s temperament.

“You promise?”

“I keep my word,” she said, a slight smile beginning to play on her lips.

“You won’t go easy on me?” he said pointedly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, the smile now fully breaking out, despite the slightly aghast look from her partner.

Sorore liked Lillian when she smiled, it made her eyes less scary, and was generally less uncomfortable compared to her general neutrality.

“You’ll take me too, right?” she said, looking back and forth between her brother and the paladin.

“I don’t see why not,” said Lillian, her pauldrons rising as she shrugged. This earned her another glare from her companion, who ahemed and raised the book.

“Now,” he began, “let’s begin again. Lady Sorore, do you recall where we left off?”

“Secelo, one through fifteen, I think.”

“Correct,” he said, before clearing his throat, “Secelo, one through seven. ‘And facing the children, Secolo took a branch from a palm to their side. He spoke, saying ‘do not break your backs, to force the iron into its mold. Find the tree from whence this frond came, and plant the seeds. Then by the grace of Nafthatazia, you will find that it will grow into plenty. And so the children of Hebeen planted the seeds, and grew into great prominence. Secolo walked through the-”

“Prosperity,” interrupted Frare.

“My apologies, lord Frare, but I did not misread. It clearly says ‘prominence.”

“Pros-per-ity,” said Frare, seemingly enjoying the slight annoyance on the paladins features, “Episical Jeushiah said that it was a mistranslation. Second lesson before we left, whenever that was.”

Sorore remembered it, but was unwilling to grant her brother’s behaviour a reprieve for his accuracy. Reaching over before he could react, she yanked on his ear - loud protestations following.

“Oh, you behave Frare. We’re almost to the village anyways, you’ll be out of this cabin soon.”

“I didn’t say anything wrong. You were there too,” he complained, rubbing his ear.

“I swear, if you actually used that memory of yours…” she huffed, ignoring the accusation from her twin.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, continuing to rub his ear, now a little red, though whether it was from the pulling or the scolding, she couldn’t be entirely sure.

She apologized for her brother’s behaviour, and asked Niche to continue.

“Yes, well. Uhhhh…” he said, eyes scanning the small pages to resume, “right, so ‘Secolo walked through the battlefield, blood and body strewn around him. He came across the Dumiume, said to be formed for the tears of Nieth women who find their child has not survived Hebeen, and knelt. He prayed to Salahazdrey and said, “Lady of the waters, whose domain stretches o’er all the world, whose embraces is that of calm and soothing, I beseech thee, let this river rise beyond its borders, to wash away the rightful dead, and take them into your peace. And so the river rose-”

“Speaking of, who is the Bequeathed for Salaha- Sala-, the lady of the waters?” Frare interrupted again.

“Are you going to be doing this the rest of the way?” said Sorore, who could barely hold in an exasperated sigh.

“Maybe,” he said, as he leaned over and poked her.

“The Bequeathed for Salahazdrey has not been found yet,” said Lillian, “the search is continuing as we speak.”

“Maybe she’ll never be found,” said Frare, as Sorore considered which part of the ear to grab next.

“The church has never failed to find a Bequeathed,” said Lillian, either not noticing the bait or not rising to it.

“You never know,” Sorore hastily cut in, trying to counteract her brother’s influence, “we might find her at the village.”

“Would make sense,” mused Frare, “no one else would’ve found her if she was in the wilds like this. Maybe she was raised by wolves!”

“Maybe so. Perhaps then you’ll have someone you keep you entertained for the rest of the trip,” said Lillian pointedly.

Frare rose slightly, looking like he was about to argue, and then thought better of it. Niche, who clearly had something he wanted to say for some time, raised the book as Frare sank back into his seat.

“And so the river rose, claiming the bodies and the swords and the shields, and swept them down into its depths, to sleep in peace. The children rose, in awe of this display of the lost ones, and asked to be taught as their disciples. Secolo brought forth the smiths and the artisans of the church, to instruct them in the secrets of Elazharhein, and to forge plow and hoe. Lastly, the priests of the church came to show them the ways of worship, and so revealed the path to them, as Falekaze showed.”

“Except that they still have a standing army,” snorted Frare.

As much as Sorore wanted to give him a good cuff for the interruption, it was accurate. The sand-shell legions of Nieth were quite famous, and their father had even told them about a parade he’d attended as part of a trade delegation.

“Some have erred,” said Niche, Camel, “failed to learn from their past mistakes. But there are many that still hold true to the faith.”

“But not the Takrimre, no? The one that actually commands the army,” Frare responded.

Sorore decided that enough was enough, and gave her brother’s leg a quick kick.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his shin, although Sorore suspected that it hurt her more than it had hurt him.

“You shouldn’t be so disrespectful. The faith puts all things to rights, eventually.”

He muttered something under his breath, but refrained from any further comments. She found it ironic that a Bequeathed, quite literally a living reinforcement of all the stories that Niche told, could be so flippant about them.

“You must forgive my brother again. He’s just a little grumpy that we’ve been stuck in the carriage this whole time.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Niche - a least he had some concept of propriety, “I understand that this may have been rather frustrating for you, Lord Frare. I only ask your patience for a little while longer.”

“How ‘little’ are we talking?” said Frare.

“About now,” said Lillian, who had been looking out the window during the banter, “that should be the lower reaches of the Giant’s Spine proper.”

She pointed a gloved hand out, indicating a set of dark forests, set in the foregrounds of rapidly ascending peaks. To Sorore, it seemed much the same terrain as they had seen over the last few weeks, with a healthy dusting of snow for good measure. But Lillian was known for having a good sense of direcetion - when she and Frare had been ‘misplaced’ by their escort in the holy city, Lillian had been the first to find them. To navigate the winding sprawl of alleys and promenades of Anogrrah was no easy task, even for city guards.

“I suspect that we’ll be in the village soon, so I think we’ll need to pause the lesson for now Niche. Lady Sorore, lord Frare, it’s time to prepare.”

The next few minutes were filled with the usual fuss and preparation - cloaks and gloves, strict instruction to stay by their side and avoid interacting with the locals… much the same as the previous dozen times or so that they had wandered through a populated district. As she drew the fabric over her arms, she thought the felt the faintest of buzzing.

She and her brother shared a look, one that confirmed that he was experiencing the same feeling. Drawing back the sleeves, she examined the thin dark lines that twisted up and down her arms. The faintest light glimmered between the folds of flesh, barely noticeable.