An oblate’s robes hid as much as they revealed. Those that saw him knew him by his habit, a puer novus of the local mission church. It was a role that was accorded much respect, for a youth to devote himself to the orders, and sacrifice what the Magisters often called the ‘wastrel years’, was a worthy thing. Not that he had much of a choice, bundled under layers of itching wool and his placid contemplative gaze, was festering resentment. As the third son of a noble house, he was something of a liability , and - given that - he was more than liable to have his throat slit if he stayed around for too long. This prospect had become more tangible since the last harvest celebrations, when he had caught his elder brother’s eyes. He carved the Hero’s Portion rather too suggestively, cutting bone and flesh without any apparent design. Thus, he had decided - against the wishes of his mother and sisters - to partake in the tradition of mission work. This particular mission was established last year thanks to the reluctant benefaction of one of the Brego’s recalcitrant sons. Having been barred from hunting in the Wealde by local officials, the aetheling had instead taken to hunting neighbouring peasantry. Such scandals were dealt with through a public apology and a hefty donation to one of the Church’s many missions abroad.

He had been on the island for almost four months now. It was one of many, the archipelago had only recently been discovered, stretching endlessly to the east. Lifeless rocks,for the most part, patterning the cold seas haphazardly. These lands had previously been hidden to sailors, the great fog wall shielding all inquiry. Since its dissipation the Church had been in chaos, an ant’s nest kicked up. The theological implications of the sudden loss of what had been a geological feature of divine ordinance . For a almost a decade the Arch-hierophant had forbidden all to sail that way , and the coastal lords had set patrols to prevent any boats from feeling overly curious. The first sign of change came soon after.

In the ports and harbours, new schools of fish appeared. In colours and patterns unknown to local fishermen, they populated the shallows. There was chaos in the resorts towns as high ladies, screaming, fled the beaches. Giant tentacled fish began to claim new rocky homes in what was, unknown to them, one of the most desirable locations in the land. Though these creatures turned out to be harmless, it caused enough of a stir for the status quo of ‘Splendid Isolation’ to be reassessed. Under the banner of the Church, the Brego decided to fund a great Crusade eastwards. The martial aspect to the endeavour was due to the religious conviction that behind the fog wall the creator had sealed off the adversary and his vassals. So it was that this last year, The ‘great armada’ sailed east, with the King’s eldest son as commander. So far the force had only managed to conquer scuddy outcrops of rock and islands whose only inhabitants were bizarre varieties of bird. This did not play well to those reading at home. So the ministers had decided to shift the focus from a physical to a spiritual war. Thus the church had been receiving generous grants from patriotic sorts to fund various missions. To evangalise the rocks I presume.

The thought amused him as he walked past the dull eyed laymen who had been sent to this rock to aid the church’s efforts. Some were volunteers, the sort whose eyes seemed to bulge out with their attempts to convey the depths of their faith. Others were just unfortunate enough to have lost whatever farms they had to the strange disease that had swept the lowlands the last three years. It was unknown where it had come from, but many said it blown in from the west after a great storm. Regardless, the men who were desperate enough to take up the offer of work in these godless lands could attest to the diseases virulence. These lands truly were god forsaken, and not even the church could change that.