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The Apostate Saint: Chapter 12 – The Bearer of Bad News

Andrew Michael Miller1 Comment

Alaric marched his charger through the streets without a word to anyone. Despite the stares and the questions and the whispered confusion of the onlookers standing in his way, Alaric had to report his failure to the Son. It would not be easy, and Alaric knew there were no words he could use to lessen the blow. Not only was the Spear stolen, the betrayer was someone whom the Son and Alaric had loved dearly. All of that now was thrown to the wind, and Alaric could not understand why Fridok chose to do the unthinkable. Vitus. Oh, Fridok, you fool. You have leapt into the abyss from which there is no return.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 11 – The Art of the Sword

Andrew Michael Miller1 Comment

Fridok had thrust a fate worse than death upon a man who was simply trying to do his duty. Vitus Malleator was one of Alaric's men, a young and upcoming guardsman whose enthusiasm was his only sin. He should have known the dangers involved with attacking a man wielding a Soul-arm; these weapons were the main factor in why so many demons had been slain by the Crusaders. Their power extended into the realm of the spirits, and thus were able to not only kill the body but destroy the soul. Now, Vitus Malleator was ash and his soul was destroyed. There would be no salvation waiting for him. And it was Fridok who bore the blade that cut him down.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 10 – A House with a Big Hole in it

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The walk home brought about a sort of ambivalence to Alaric's mind. Everything he had done today should have given him newfound confidence and a sense of great achievement, but something in the great mist of his mind nagged at him, limiting the upper range of his treble clef of satisfaction. It was as if the Nete string was broken on his harp. The song of victory ran through his ears, but something was certainly missing from the music - perhaps something that only a trained ear could hear. By the time he arrived home, that which was missing was all that Alaric could hear.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 9 – Hospitality

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As the exquisite food filled his belly and the wine washed out the remainder of his feelings of failure, Fridok allowed himself to celebrate. Perhaps he had been too hard on himself, thinking that the only acceptable place was first place. The end result was the same as if he had won everything, after all. He would still get to prove his worth to the Son. He still would be counted as one of the best swordsmen in the city. He would still get to finally have a chance to crawl out of the hole he had known all of his life. Mother, if you could see me now.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 8 – A Lively Feast

Andrew Michael Miller2 Comments

The feast was already in its early stages about an hour and a half after the final competition had completed. The Son had extended the invitation to dine to all immediate families of the day's competitors. Even though that cast a wide net for a potentially integrated crowd, the audience still looked an awful lot like a typical elite gathering in the City. Everything from the servants offering fresh fruit and libations to the entertainers scattered throughout the gardens where the event was taking place screamed upper class private gathering. At least there was music. Alaric would have preferred to be among the musicians rather than being overwhelmed by all of the well-wishers and social climbers now bombarding him with niceties.