The air grew colder as they moved further north. For Anneliese, Galamon, it was no issue—indeed, it may have been some respite. Argrave was largely unbothered. After the experience in becoming Black Blooded, it was easy to overlook minor annoyances. Durran, though, who’d spent his whole life in a desert, suffered all throughout the journey, and requested more blankets at night.
Argrave’s Brumesingers, desert creatures that they were, sought refuge in Argrave’s warmth during the night. At daytime, they scouted when they rode. Anneliese bound all of the spellcasters in the party with the druidic spell [Progenitor]. It decreased the maximum magic that she had, but it remained constantly active without expenditure. Anything Argrave’s druidic bonds informed him of, she would know if it, too. Like this, she became the perfect advance scout, all while remaining in the safety of the party. They had to sidestep roaming horsemen many times. They might not be dangerous… but considering it was avoidable, they took no chances.
Despite these factors, they made steady progress. As they strayed further from the temperate south, they started to see snow. It was thin at first, but soon it blanketed the barren hibernating trees of the forests they traversed. They had chosen to travel on horseback to better conceal their movements, but it made the journey more than a little difficult. Without three spellcasters enabling a little recklessness, the journey would not have been as simple.
Though they struggled, after about a week and a half, they came into the Midwest portion of Vasquer—the County of Veden. Though not as grand as the mercantile city of Mateth, Veden was rich. The city had walls perhaps twenty-feet tall, painted white by snowfall. A fortress stood strong at the top of the hill, separate from but overlooking the city. It was the seat of Elgar, the Count of Veden.
Several rivers passed through the area, making farmland abundant. Veden’s fields were empty during the winter and blanketed with thin sheets of snow. Or rather, the unoccupied fields were snow-covered. The plague brought with it refugees from the rural villages of the Midwest, seeking the aid of the Count of Veden.
Argrave had been preparing himself to see chaos… but things were better organized than he thought. Instead of being barred from the walls, the people had been divided into orderly camps in the harvested fields, watched over by the city’s guards and knights. There seemed to be no efforts to aid, but the refugee crisis was certainly maintained. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ the chaos had disrupted many of Veden’s vital operations—to see it halted here by efficient handling was a welcome, if perplexing, thing.
“We stopping here?” questioned Durran, rubbing the back of his horse’s head. Even without druidic magic, the man had a natural affinity with animals. He wore the Humorless Mask just as Anneliese did.
Argrave watched the camps, gaze distant. “No reason to. We have food enough to make the rest of the journey, and Galamon is an able hunter even if we run out.”
Durran cursed, but Argrave was too distracted to pay him any heed.
Argrave pulled on his horse’s reins, then said to the rest of his party, “Wait here. I want to go check something out. No more than two minutes,” he directed, then led his horse away without waiting for a response.
He rode near the camps for refugees, not entering them properly. The tents were filled with the disease-ridden and seemed to be given only simple mats of straw. People eyed him cautiously, and eventually, Argrave found what he was looking for—a household knight, bearing a white hare across his breastplate. That hare was the symbol of House Veden. He rode up to the man.
“Hail,” Argrave called out, drawing his horse to a stop. “These are camps for the refugees?” he questioned.
“Aye, sir, they are,” the man confirmed, voice echoey from beneath his helmet. “Best keep your distance. Dangerous, they are. The plague rots all. Rots away a man’s everything. The waxpox, they call it.”
Argrave shifted. The disease had been given its official name already—the waxpox. Argrave wasn’t sure if it could be classified as such—the waxy skin seen in the diseased might not qualify as a pox—but the name matched with what it had been called in the game.
He focused back on the matter at hand, following up, “And the Count of Veden ordered this?”
“…aye, that would be the natural order of things. Sir,” the knight finished respectfully. Argrave presumed it was the horse that lent the knight that polite attitude—not many could afford horses in this day and age.
Argrave looked around once again. “But I know Count Elgar. I don’t think this is something he would do without counsel. Can you tell me anything else about these camps?” Argrave fished into his pocket and pulled free a gold coin, holding it up to the sun.
“Well…” the knight trailed off, the shine of the coin making him work his head. “People say it’s because of one of his children’s advice. This one, she returned from an academy of sorts, head brimming with ideas—she’s the one to suggest it, sir, to the best of my knowledge.”
“Does the name Mina of Veden jog your memory?” Argrave followed up.
“That’s it, sir,” the knight nodded, helmet clanging against his breastplate.
“Then that’s all from me. Catch,” Argrave flicked the coin and then rode away, lost in thought.
She shouldn’t be here. Mina should be at Mateth, with Nikoletta, Argrave reasoned. And even if she were, Mina was never the sort to order something like this built. What’s changed?
He was curious, and somewhat apprehensive, about the answers to that question. He rejoined his group of three. His companions had questions written on their face.
“It was nothing important,” Argrave shook his head. It did nothing to think on this—thought it might be he’d ruined something, the plague still took his priority. “Two more days, I’m certain, till we make it to where I don’t want to be. Let’s ride. There are problems to be fixed.”
#####
What sort of geography might one associate with disease? Tropical forests, surely; those places had strange parasites, infectious bacteria, all the works. The continent of Berendar had sprawling jungles, to be sure, but that wasn’t the place they were heading to. No, the northwest of Vasquer was wetlands. Argrave wasn’t sure if it was a bog, a swamp, or a marsh—frankly, he didn’t know the difference—but it was wetlands; a little Florida hellscape, though half as hot and a hundredfold deadlier.
The whole of the northwest had a fittingly gloomy air. Cold fog blanketed the landscapes and obscured visibility, and rising waters submerged much of the road, especially during winter. Overnight, the water would freeze at the surface, barely thawing out by midday. It became difficult to travel by horseback—the horses would either have trouble with their hooves in the water or slip on the thin layers of ice frozen over the road. Still, it was better than being on foot.
After the two vulnerable people of the group drank a potion to enhance their constitution, they pressed into the heartlands of this desolate place. Anneliese scouted out ahead, spotting a vast camp formed around a ruined castle in the marsh. They headed for that—it matched with Argrave’s memory of where Orion would be. He dreaded the meeting. The environment did little to abate his dread.
The dead lined the marsh. Argrave had seen many corpses in the months he’d been here; some of them he had made. These corpses were still unsettling, though, even though he knew what to expect. Wherever the plague touched never decayed. Some of them were half-rotten. The waxy, warped flesh marking one as plague-ridden persisted undecayed while the rest of their body rotted, succumbing to death. Though insects were plentiful, the plague-ridden corpses went untouched, like monuments to the disease laid throughout the road, blanketed in low-lying cold fog.
They passed by abandoned villages. Some of them had been left for so long the wetlands had already begun to reclaim them—houses were caved in, granaries were broken and raided by rats, and fields were left unharvested, claimed by the elements and winter. The trees, hibernating for winter, painted a very grim image. The entire northwest told a grave tale—it was even in the air, that constant smell of death. It was a meaty, savory smell, reminding Argrave of… uncooked veal, bizarrely enough.
As they headed ever-nearer towards the abandoned fortress, he got the distinct feeling that his Brumesingers had noticed something. He was used to this feeling—it warranted further investigation. Nearly in-sync, he and Anneliese said, “Wait.”
Anneliese locked eyes with Argrave, and he gave her a nod. She closed her eyes, holding her hand near the Starsparrow at her shoulder. A spell matrix whirled about in her hand, dissipating into green light. The bird vanished from her shoulder, and Argrave watched her patiently, keeping his horse at heel.
“I see… footmen. They bear golden armor,” she said. “Enchanted, and heavily.”
Argrave took a deep breath. “Orion’s royal guard.”
“They traverse the wetlands ably,” Anneliese continued. “They travel the road. Should we veer off course?”
Durran shook his head, silently expressing his displeasure at the idea of going off-road in this terrain.
“No,” Argrave said, and Durran lifted his head with his golden eyes a bit brighter. “We have to deal with them sooner to later—best to talk to them now, be escorted to Orion by them, personally.” Argrave clenched the reins of his horse tighter. “Like servant, like master—I suspect these men will be as demented as Orion himself. These are armed men. Dangerous.” He locked eyes with Durran.
“I got the message, Argrave,” he held up his hands to profess innocence. “I’ll live like the dead.”
Argrave lifted his head. Durran had stopped using the term ‘leader man’ since that display at Foamspire, he found. He supposed it had been undermining the entire time.
“Let’s go, then,” Argrave spurred his horse onwards. He and Galamon led with Durran and Anneliese travelling just behind.
Argrave cast a druidic spell. After a couple minutes of travel, Argrave’s Brumesingers returned to him, ready to aid in case he needed it. More minutes after, something golden sheened between the trees. As soon as Argrave saw it, he directed his party to stop, waiting passively in the center of the road.
Orion’s knights walked into view. They bore the golden armor of the royal guard, undefaced by the harshness of the wetlands. Their armor gleamed like the sun even still. Their leader had removed his helmet. His face was wrapped in loose white dirty bandages, strands of which swayed in the light winds. The others, too, had bandages on them—some of it stuck out from the armor, waving like a flag in the wind.
What little flesh of theirs was exposed was waxy. They didn’t seem sick, though—they were full of vigor and power, every step of theirs seeming to shake the earth. Galamon took a deep breath as they grew closer, uneased.
Orion’s Waxknights, the game had dubbed them. They were not merely royal guards. They were his own personal order of knights by this point, morphed by the plague and his blessings into something horrifyingly strong and possessed of a devoutness not a bit inferior to his own. He served the gods—and these Waxknights, they served him.
Argrave spurred his horse a bit forwards, ready to tackle his most important challenge yet.
“Hail, traveler,” the leading knight said, stopping them. “If you’ve come here after ignoring the stacked corpses, writhing with waxpox even in death… you must have a purpose.”
“I do,” Argrave nodded. “I’ve come to see my brother. It’s clear to me he needs help, despite his abundant capability. I’m told Prince Orion is ahead, tending to the plagued.”
