And the Gods sought shepherds for their mortal children.

So Ethinia did birth Her husband Children as Gods.

And Renya was borne, Ancient Scholar, ever wise.

To teach their children of all things known and unknown.

And to look upon the world in wonder and pursue its wisdoms.

-Book of the Dawn 1;26-30

Gardinal marched through the mud-caked streets of Southshore in bloody armour. He had not learned to march from his years as a priest initiate, nor from his training to become a brother in the illustrious Order of the Golden Hammers. No, he had learnt to march from his time in the war, and that had carved the practice deep into his soul. It was useful though, the marching, as the dirty slum-folk of Southshore cleared way. Few dared get in the way of an angry marching Khazimi warrior-priest. Especially one covered in blood.

A dirty beggar tried to paw at Gardinal’s leg, he met the hand with slap of his gauntlet. He was angry, there was no doubt about that, the hard part was controlling that anger. As the poor man recoiled with a whimper, Gardinal felt a sliver of guilt. Guilt quickly smothered with a toss of a copper coin, not much, but certainly more than that man was worth. The beggar mumbled a thanks and crawled back to whatever hole he came from. Gardinal sighed as the man disappeared.

Being apart from The Prophetess put him on edge, and that was compounded by the relentless reminders of where he was. His eyes wandered across the street ahead of him. To his right, the huge, towering wall that separated Southshore from the city proper stood tall and proud, a reminder to all of the power of Terminia. Two or three storey shacks leaned up against it, scavenged wood and awkwardly shaped stones piled to imitate walls. The people of Southshore had no concept of quality building practices, and as a Khazimi he found that offensive.

Gardinal had grown up on the other side of that very wall, in the district of Silvermarket. It was often called the Merchants district, and for good reason. All across the world it was known, if you couldn't find it in Silvermarket it didn't, or shouldn't, exist. It was near the top of all this wealth, that one would find the Kin Belnur, his family. The Belnur estate was a staple of Silvermarket, their long decades of mercantile success forging a fine home. More than a few of his ancestors had tried to buy their way into a title, but such things were forbidden. Only Fereni, Sherya, and the Fershya could be nobles in Terminia. A rule rooted in the ancient history of the land. Gardinal nearly cursed at that. His family was richer than half the noble houses in the Kingdom.

“Bloody fucking count.” he spat, thinking on that Lord Vallerian boy from earlier. Today had been a rotten day, and that one had only made it fester. Who did he think he was, approaching the Prophetess like that? He probably called the king by his birth name and referred to the Lord Bishop as Shelezan. Impudent little brat.

It didn't take long for Gardinal, in his stewing rage for that nobleman, to reach his first destination. The tall building Gardinal arrived at wasn't far from the Temple. He could even see its white marble domes and silver marked towers from just over the ratty shacks that lay scattered across the street. The Prophetess would be there already. He ached to head over there, to protect her. But no, he had orders, and a goal.

He pushed through a simple iron gate onto the property, into the unfortunate place he called home. Compared to the rest of the wretched grime-coated shacks about, Gardinal's home stood as a relatively clean stone and wood structure. The simple well cared for iron gates kept the rabble from his property, and the clay tile roof distinguished it further from any surrounding buildings.

Gardinal passed the gnarled old caretaker his brother had hired to look after the building. A Jöln, one of the small-folk even shorter than he, the man tinkered about the property in exchange for room and board, as well as some small coin. Gardinal didn't see the need for the man, but he hadn't seen the need for the whole building. He was one man, who even had rooms at the temple, but that was not how his brother had seen it.

His brother had bought Gardinal the building a few years back. He had not known the only reason Gardinal had rented his old room in the first place was for private affairs. Affairs that he had intended to keep away from the Bishop’s gaze.

Gardinal sighed as he pushed open the carved wood door of the building. He tracked mud into the home as he marched past the well-furnished foyer, a space he had not spent more than a few brief moments in. The only room in the fair-sized home he ever actually spent time in were his sleeping quarters. Gardinal made his way up the stairs towards his chambers.

He passed a handful of unused doors heading to his room, guest rooms or small storage spaces. They were all furnished prim and proper, but all full of dust from disuse. He pushed his way into his room at the end of the hall.

The space itself was quite stark. A well made if simple bed sat in the center of the chamber. Across from it, was a small wardrobe with what Gardinal thought were far too many clothes. Certainly ones too nice to wear in Southshore. In the corner stood a small shrine to Ethinia, for evening and morning prayers, for the rare time he couldn't make it to the temple.

With a snap he began unclasping his armour, letting the heavy metal pieces fall to the floor in a heap. He would need to wash and polish them later, but for now he could ignore them. His muscles did not ache as he peeled off his sweat-drenched outer clothes, a side effect of being around The Prophetess all the time. He often thought that was the reason that the Bishop managed to be so spry, despite his ancient age.

Gardinal changed into a pair of loose cotton breeches and a matching tunic. He buttoned up his thick leather vest and pulled up a pair of knee-high leather boots. It was a practical outfit for where he was going. Though he did fasten a gleaming gold amulet around his neck, the shimmering hammer a symbol of his order. To finish his dress, he wrapped a teal silken sash around his waist, a mark of his faith.

Before leaving, Gardinal stopped at the door. The Bishop had asked him to reach out to some of his war comrades. The kind of people who would have their ears to the ground about the darker side of the city. That, more than even the snot nosed Count, had set him on edge. Gardinal still felt the lingerings of the war in the back of his head. And that was even with the intoxicating bliss the Prophetess' presence provided.

It was for her though, that had him leaving his home in search of an old friend. He would do anything to protect her. And right now, it required an old friend in a low place. Gardinal stopped at the shrine, whispering a blessing to Ethinia, then headed out to the Mudport.

***

The Mudport of Southshore was no place any good natured or well-intentioned soul should ever wish to be. Despite being upstream from the other districts, the Mudport was where much of the refuse tossed into the river eventually washed up. The Academy Magi claimed it was due to a twisting of water by some hole in the bay, but Gardinal had a hard time believing that. Regardless, the stench alone was enough to drive anyone with good intentions away from the wretched place. It was a breeding ground for criminals, and it vexed Gardinal to be here.

Walking through slick muddy roads and past dank alleyways, he passed mid-day drunkards lounging on overturned barrels and unused troughs. He muttered a small prayer to Ethinia, asking Her to cleanse these wretched men of their sin. Only small rays of sunlight graced the space, blocked by the countless warehouses that creaked with every breeze. Every time one of those structures collapsed, another would grow like mushrooms in the mud only days later.

Although an accredited port by royal decree, little legal cargo came through the Mudport. Few port officials bothered to come down here. The few who did tended to be as crooked as the docks they managed. The lack of royal presence had led the Mudport to be the go-to dock for when you didn't want people knowing what you were bringing in. This, of course, was where Gardinal's old war friend Gervin wasted his days drinking.

It wasn't hard to find the Red Boar. The signature sign hung limply from one chain, the other dangling dumbly beside. The wooden boar itself was a weather worn thing, with barely a chip of paint left to mark it red. Some patrons had taken to calling it the Hung Boar, though the owner cursed out anyone who did.

Gardinal pushed through the half-rotted door. Rusted metal hinges creaked as he entered the large room. The scents of bubbling stew and stale ale mostly masked the putrid stench from outside. Mostly. The pub was busy for midday, a large group of raucous sailors sang drunken sea shanties in the corner, filling the room with a sort of mirth. The sailors' energy contrasted sharply against the sorry shapes that sat at the bar, drinking away old memories like Leren’s own hope was at the bottom of their glass. Hundreds of pubs like the Red Boar littered Southshore, festering like fungus anywhere the shade of sorrow and regret touched. Cheap booze and cheaper patrons kept the places afloat.

"Oi, Braghan. A pint of the house special." Gardinal ordered, deepening his Khazimi accent as he spoke. The barkeep behind the counter, a stout redheaded Khazimi with a bulbous nose, nodded and set to work cleaning a mug. Gardinal had been here a few times and had even assisted Braghan with some ruffians a few months back. They had turned out to be just a bunch of street kids, a few now even helped around the temple.

Scanning the dim room, Gardinal spotted Gervin bent over a half-finished mug of ale. He sat on a wobbling stool at a matching table in the corner of the room, his back to the wall. Few who made it back from fighting the Theremya left their backs exposed. Gardinal strode past the counter, swiping his mug from the barkeep.

"Gervin you old fool. What are you drinking now?" Gardinal took a stool across from the man. Gervin was a Fereni, the War-borne that made up a large portion of the city's populace. His strong musculature and handsome jaw indicative of his people. He had grown pale from too many days spent in a pub, with a messy, unkempt beard to match his hair. His eyes though, those carried the look that haunted too many who had fought in the war. The Prophetess's goodness had kept that same look from Gardinal’s own eyes. Gervin faked a smile in response.

"Gardinal you old bastard. How the hell are you still alive?" Gervin’s fake smile shifted to an almost genuine grin.

"Not but the light of the First Mother keeps these bones a going." Gardinal took a swig of his drink. "How’s the family?"

"Good, good." He shook his head. "Y'know my boy Gerton, he’s serving on a ship now. Should be coming into port sometime tonight." He seemed genuinely proud, but the implication of which port that ship was coming into spoke volumes on the work his son did.

"He always was a strong lad, like his father I reckon." Gardinal nodded at the man, Gervin was made uncomfortable by compliments. But that was the way of old friends, discomfort from an old comrade had a way of being comfortable in its own way. "I am here on business though, old friend." said Gardinal. Gervin cocked an eyebrow.

"Business? What business does Her Radiance have with anything that goes on in the Mudport?" Gervin took a long drink as Gardinal weighed how to approach this.

"The business of troublemakers in matching black robes." Gardinal watched as Gervin’s eyes darted around the room at the mention. Gervin pulled up his drink, finishing the whole half pint in one draft, then lowering his voice while leaning in.

"That's dangerous business old friend. Something I don't think you want yourself wrapped up in."

"Too late." Gardinal finished his ale as a tense silence spread between the pair. The gentle cracking of embers in the nearby hearth and the now quiet snickering of the drunken sailors the only sounds in the stale air. A long moment passed before a serving man came and replaced their drinks with fresh ale. Gervin took another long swig.

"They're an odd sort, callin themselves the Cult of X." He shook his head. "A bunch of street kids..." Gervin pulled at his loose collar slightly, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "They err... they're not bad y'here? Just poor kids offered..." Gervin began coughing, roughly covering his mouth. He took another swig to clear his throat.

"You alright Gervin?" Gardinal grew worried.

"Aye, I'll be fine. But look, these kids, they just need some food and housing. But everything else has failed them and its easy for them to get round up in trouble like this. Makes em feel like they belong to something you know?" He was starting to sweat profusely. Gardinal furrowed his brow, something was wrong. "But if ya need to find them, word on the street is..."

Gervin cut off as he let out a rough wheezing cough, blood and bile flying into Gardinal's face. Gervin’s eyes bulged as his face shifted purple. He tried to cough once more but only managed a desperate rasping as his throat expanded, violet hue deepening. Gardinal's eyes shot across the room to meet with the cool gaze of the serving man by the door. Their eyes locked and Gardinal realized his mistake: Braghan never employed anyone. The man dashed out the door as Gardinal leapt from his seat in preparation of pursuit.

Gervin crashing to the ground behind him gave him pause. If he caught the man, he could find out who wanted to hurt the Prophetess. The frantic banging of his friend's spasming limbs against the wooden floor held him back. No, he would not lose another friend, not here so far and so long after the war. Spinning, Gardinal heaved the table away, leaning next to his friend.

He looked bad, his bulbous eyes meeting Gardinal's with panic. Gardinal cursed. He was an alright healer, good at staunching wounds and healing small cuts and sprains. But this, poison? The only person he knew who could handle it completely by themselves was The Prophetess. If he tried, he risked taking some of it into himself. But by Ethinia's mercy he had to try.

“First Mother bless me, I need your help now.” he whispered, pressing his hands against his friend's clammy swollen throat. Focusing, he let himself open up to Ethinia's divine light as he began chanting an ancient Sherya prayer. The gods answered all prayers from all tongues, but priests were trained in the old tongue of the Sherya people. The power flowed into him, filling his vessel up before trailing out his hands and into his friend. He tried to imagine it healing him, tried to imagine the poison within his friend being swallowed up in a torrent of water and life.

Gardinal finally breathed as he saw the swelling on his friend shrink. It was a short-lived relief as he felt a tightness in his own throat. Not as bad as Gervin’s had been, but it could be deadly if not taken care of. The healing had backfired, just as he'd feared.

“Bloody fucking bastards.” Gervin coughed out, a raspy thing, but he was breathing. “I'll tell you all you want to know. Just kill a few of em for me, you hear?”

Gardinal would have laughed had his throat not been so tight. “It's good you’re alive Gervin, but the both of us best get back to the temple if we intend to stay that way.” The temple always had a few dedicated healers around for emergencies. Not enough to help with everything, but they saved enough lives to be worth it. “Come on, no time to waste.” From his limited knowledge of poisons, they had maybe an hour to get back to the temple before they both looked like Gervin had on the floor. “You can tell me all you know about this cult along the way.” They departed, a profusely apologetic barkeep in their wake.