Ahlmazedi’s Wheel, or the Ahlma Clock as it was most commonly known was the most regularly found of rudimentary time keeping devices up and down the land. Every town, village, city and keep had one, normally affixed to the town hall, on a tower for all to see.

They ranged, naturally from the ornate to the basic, where large cities held several intricately carved pieces resplendent in gold and jewels, and small villages held a single basic wooden one.

The whole thing consisted of several wheels stacked atop one another, the largest at the back depicted the seasons, where one full turn took a person through the harvest time all the way past the bitter cold and back again to the beginning. The second wheel had more sections too it and broke the full turn into twelve separate sections, three per season. The third wheel broke those twelve sections into thirty separate ones, these were the days, the fourth wheel, which Yerin eyed intently, feeding into his frustration showed the hours.

He had been watching it turn for a very long time.

Yerin spat on the ground and kicked dirt over his phlegm as the poorly carved farm hand followed the clicking gears of the fourth wheel closer towards the buxom wench he was meant to look to be chasing.

“Nearly there you little shit” he muttered under his breath.

Yerin was never convinced that the Ahlmazedi Wheel was actually built and designed by the same King from the folk lore told to children of some distant land where a King battled a dragon only to be consumed by greed at the site of the beasts riches and become one himself. Though through this accreditation it was normally Knights charging at dragons that were depicted on the wheels in lieu of large breasted women and drunken farmers. Though Yerin deemed it a more appropriate depiction of the standard happenings of a day.

He looked around the town square seeking out his comrades. Ross had abandoned him a while ago after he eyed a pretty young lady exiting a store with a basket full of bread. Chances were he wouldn’t be seeing him again soon unless it was half naked being chased by an angry father or husband. The door of the town hall shutting drew Yerin’s attention, but no one was about, someone going in that he missed rather than Wiesse and Troit coming out.

“What is taking everyone so bloody long” he asked the vacant centre as a very loud click of gears signified the wooden farmer got closer to his prize.

A high pitched scream came from the edge of town from near enough to where Yerin knew Lichter had been left basking “Great, now I have to deal with the lizard boy all by myself” he stomped off in the direction of the scream and no doubt one very inappropriately acting Kkyrunnig.

Inside the Guild Hall Wiesse and Troit were looking at what they both could only describe as the very origin of the words ‘complete and utter batshit crazy’.

A man stood before them blocking the doorway. He was far from large, bald and shorter than both Wiesse and, rather unsurprisingly as most people are, Troit. He was thin, but his wiry arms clearly had some well used muscles. His eyes were open abnormally wide, almost to the extent that the lids had receded into the bag shrouded sockets, the by-product of some substance abuse Wiesse could only fathom and he wore a wide, gum revealing grin that showed off his filed down fang-like teeth.

He took a step toward the pair, that until now had stood gobsmacked, mouths agape after their intended route through the door had become blocked.

Wiesse and Troit took a step back, Wiesse gulped and through his thoughts ran a lot of screaming, phrases along the lines of “oh sweet Gods and all that is holy what the fuck is this and why is it walking towards me” taking precedence.

The eyes and grin alone would have been off putting but enough to ignore and yet the crazy did not stop just there. All the man wore were a short pair of black shaggy trousers that seemed tattered and chalk stained. No shoes or wrappings on his cut and blistered feet, but a series of maces and flails hung around his waist along with leather straps, bonds and bindings. The most prominent featured weapon had a long metal handle bound tightly in black cloth with four separate chains protruding from the end, each weighted down with a spiked iron ball. They swung haphazardly by his ankles and bruises and scabs indicated that they frequently caught his flesh. On his exposed chest and covering a lot of his skin were tattoos that Wiesse could identify were the sigils of most the Gods he knew, with some other inscriptions that he didn’t.

From the man’s waist to his neck was the largest tattoo, a wide eye atop a cross with a featureless blurred outline of a person ascending to the heavens.

Wiesse’s eyes fell on the most off putting facet of the person before him and once they locked on he couldn’t pull them away, vaguely aware that he was now glaring at the man with a baffled expression and the surety that today is the day he died.

“Are those fucking skin pockets?” Wiesse murmured. He didn’t mean to say it, it came out as little more than a whisper, but the sheer bafflement had overridden his brain and put thought to word in the least opportune moment possible.

The man did indeed have skin pockets. He heard Wiesse’s remark and looked down to take them in. On either side of his stomach were two gashes, part carved into him and yet from the poor stitching Wiesse reckoned it wasn’t all this man’s own skin. But two of the short-handled triangle bladed daggers, that the former actor recognised as the favoured daggers of the Kislin region, protruded from as his mind rightly put it, two mother fucking crazy ass skin pockets.

The new arrival took in his abnormal holding method with a long drawn out inhalation of breath, he brought his hands up to them and feigned a caress though never touched and turned the whole manoeuvre into an exaggerated stretch, throwing his arms wide, face cast to the ceiling and the long breath pulled out into a contented “ahh”

Run Wiesse thought, a sensible and concise instruction

Run!

Run!

Run!

“Hello there” Troit said, his bawdy booming voice cutting through all sane logical reasoning.

Ru- Oh Shit….

“Hello indeed fellow adventurers” the main said, almost giddy. He sounded exactly how one expects a crazy person to sound and that is to say, alarmingly normal. He forcibly took both their hands to shake vigorously, proving that he did indeed have considerable strength in his slender frame. “it’s such a good day, in this the world where the old Gods are dead, is it not?”

The desired option of simply crying passed by Wiesse as the man continued to lead the conversation for them, he clasped them in turn by the shoulder, thumb and forefinger groping the neck as he gingerly kissed each of their foreheads and bestowed his ‘blessing’ upon them each.

The fuck Wiesse thought

“Lovely” Troit spoke.

“I see you have come as I have, to seek out the sinners from this world and pass them unto the next” He raised his arms wide again and strolled towards the ‘Bounty’ section of quests on the wall. Wiesse realised the bounty he had collected for his and Ross’s arrest was still in his hand, easily identifiable by the green wax seal it bore. He recalled the line very clearly stating that only his head was required for payment and caressed his neck with a newfound admiration for the body part.

“For when the old gods abandoned us, it was a sign that we, we were to carry on in their place. To right the wrongs!” he said this last part with fervour, punching a fist at nothing in his religious conviction, which made Wiesse jump from even the other end of the room.

The man turned his attentions back to the ‘Bounty’ wall and began collecting up every last scroll without scrutiny, or even a second look. “Plenty of sinners across the land” he said to himself.

Wiesse and Troit used this opportunity to edge closer to the door, all the while familiarising themselves with the back of this individual. Two parallel lines of piercings lined his back like small hooked spikes of metal, a chain ran from his skin pocket deposited knives to a couple of piercings connecting the two. But the more important factor for Wiesse was the back tattoo. The piercings had been used to create three columns for this particular piece. The tattooed words at the top of each reading “Killed / Tortured / Maimed” below each a tally showed a startling number of entries in each.

The former actor began pushing Troit towards the door before the dimwit could inquire what differentiated torture and maiming. But they failed to escape before the man returned his attentions.

“Good luck on your journeys my children” He said, arms filled with scrolls, he took a theatrical bow “and remember should anyone wrong you that I, The Priest, shall come for their sinning heads” with he kissed his hand and blew it towards the pair who eagerly vacated the building.

Outside they found Ross laying down by the old defunct fountain of the town centre, face covered with a book and Yerin leaning against Lichter nearby. The Crocodile man had an armful of small white buns and was eagerly scoffing them into his gob three at a time.

“Took you long enough” Ross said without moving from his lounged spot.

“Let’s get to the inn, I’m tired and thirsty for some beers” Yerin added

Wiesse briskly marched passed them shaking his head “Nope, time to go. Leaving town right now”

Everyone responded with confusion, Wiesse turned and re-iterated the point “Time for us to get the fuck out of here, right fucking now.” Then walked away, leaving the rest to follow after him.