None of the Priests were willing to touch the body for fear that the curse would transfer to them as well. Kazak thought this to be utter ridiculousness. The Warrior Goddess was more likely to kill her victims herself than to send a curse their way.
Kazak snarled in angry disbelief and glanced at the body again. The weight of failure settling on his shoulders. He had failed his mission, Folkher was dead. The ice shifted under their feet causing several to stumble as it groaned in seeming agreement. Cracks sound farther out as it pulled away from itself. Kazaks claws were digging into his hands as he hissed in anger for having let the Head Priest die while he was under his protection
“What happened?” Kazak growled.
One of the wide-eyed apprentices was all too eager to explain in similar horrified tones that the priest had used. “Nobody knows. One moment Master Folkher was preparing the ceremony and in the next moment his skin turned grey and he dropped down dead!”
“So nobody saw an assassin? He just fell down dead?” Kazak asked. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to assemble themselves in a clearer picture. There was an infamous assassin that was said to leave his victims without any visible means of death other than dull grey skin. The Soulless.
Kazak had always wondered what kind of weapon would have that effect, or perhaps the Soulless was sorcerer, a holder of one of Sena’s Zrikia.
There was a mass shaking of heads along with some confused looks, Kazak gave a huff of frustration. The previous second in command took charge glancing up at the sky “The Crown of Heaven is in position. If we are to perform the ceremony, we must bury the late Master Folkher quickly! Kazak’vur, would you make the grave?”
“But he is cursed by Sena! We dare not!” One of the onlookers cried.
Kazak scowled at both the outburst and the fact that he was finally getting some respect from these fanatics. “He wasn’t cursed by Sena, It’s the work of the Soulless.”
Then one of the priests ranted “The Head Priest was assassinated on the day that the Crown of Heaven is to be completed! That is blasphemy of the highest order!”
Kazak'vur didn’t believe that the Soulless would care about such a thing.
There was a short silence following that proclamation before the priests finally took the body away to prepare it for burial. Kazak left to make the grave. At a safe distance from the camp he breathed a gout of flame onto the ice melting a watery hole in the approximate length and depth of the late Folkher. Breathing out the occasional flame to keep the ice from reforming, he waited for the priests to come with the body.
He was not kept waiting for very long but it was long enough. He decided that he would chase after the assassin and relieve himself of the burden of failure through vengeance. The priests came carrying the body wrapped in a thick fur cloak and masked. The priests positioned themselves around the grave and lowered the body into the freezing water. It sank to the bottom almost at once under the weight of the heavy cloak. Oil was poured into the water. At a nod from the priests, Kazak’vur breathed fire onto the water for the last time. His flames lit the oil on the surface of the water as the priests then tossed in several of Folkhers personal belongings, at least the ones that were burnable, so that their ashes would remain with him forever.
Kazak’vur thought that that little ritual made more sense when the body was in a pit of earth but as that was unavailable the priests were making do with what they had, regardless of practicality. Some of Kazaks earlier skepticism returned as he considered. Priests were always burned at death to avoid the possibility that they would be used for the Dark Magicks, what the dead priests belongings had to do with it was unclear to him, because no one would bother to awaken some old clothes or charms. Priests fanaticism made no sense to him but he had never been very religious in the first place.
It was his responsibility to avenge Folkhers death. The Priests blood was on his hands until he was avenged. So Kazak’vur did not wait long. He packed up the few things that he had brought with him. There was little he could use to track the elusive assassin but it did not mean that he wouldn't try. He had lost precious time during the burial and it was time to go. The vague footprints were his best lead but it would have to do. If all else failed, he would just have to follow the trail of death that the assassin was sure to leave in his wake.
One of the apprentices saw him leaving and called out “Where are you going?” There was a fearful note in the youths voice.
“To avenge the dead,” Kazak replied
“But it was the Soulless.” The apprentice said, voice quavering.
Kazak’s resolve did not waver, The land was, once again, groaning as he replied “Soulless or not, the assassin will die by my blade.”
He left and did not look back.
The Soulless traveled across the shifting, groaning land of ice with ease. His lightweight made it easy to walk through the snow. The next target was a poor street thief in one of the border towns of the kingdom of Glalik that had stolen from a certain shopkeeper one too many times. The next in a long line of assassinations that he had given up keeping track of, years ago. Sometimes, he wondered if he should feel something when he killed, others assumed that he did. But he had not felt emotion when he killed for a long time. He was aware of the golden Dragonkin that had been tailing him for the last few days and had deliberately left him a trail to follow. It would be amusing to watch him struggle to keep up until he died or cracked under the weight of his burden.
Kazak snarled in angry disbelief and glanced at the body again. The weight of failure settling on his shoulders. He had failed his mission, Folkher was dead. The ice shifted under their feet causing several to stumble as it groaned in seeming agreement. Cracks sound farther out as it pulled away from itself. Kazaks claws were digging into his hands as he hissed in anger for having let the Head Priest die while he was under his protection
“What happened?” Kazak growled.
One of the wide-eyed apprentices was all too eager to explain in similar horrified tones that the priest had used. “Nobody knows. One moment Master Folkher was preparing the ceremony and in the next moment his skin turned grey and he dropped down dead!”
“So nobody saw an assassin? He just fell down dead?” Kazak asked. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to assemble themselves in a clearer picture. There was an infamous assassin that was said to leave his victims without any visible means of death other than dull grey skin. The Soulless.
Kazak had always wondered what kind of weapon would have that effect, or perhaps the Soulless was sorcerer, a holder of one of Sena’s Zrikia.
There was a mass shaking of heads along with some confused looks, Kazak gave a huff of frustration. The previous second in command took charge glancing up at the sky “The Crown of Heaven is in position. If we are to perform the ceremony, we must bury the late Master Folkher quickly! Kazak’vur, would you make the grave?”
“But he is cursed by Sena! We dare not!” One of the onlookers cried.
Kazak scowled at both the outburst and the fact that he was finally getting some respect from these fanatics. “He wasn’t cursed by Sena, It’s the work of the Soulless.”
Then one of the priests ranted “The Head Priest was assassinated on the day that the Crown of Heaven is to be completed! That is blasphemy of the highest order!”
Kazak'vur didn’t believe that the Soulless would care about such a thing.
There was a short silence following that proclamation before the priests finally took the body away to prepare it for burial. Kazak left to make the grave. At a safe distance from the camp he breathed a gout of flame onto the ice melting a watery hole in the approximate length and depth of the late Folkher. Breathing out the occasional flame to keep the ice from reforming, he waited for the priests to come with the body.
He was not kept waiting for very long but it was long enough. He decided that he would chase after the assassin and relieve himself of the burden of failure through vengeance. The priests came carrying the body wrapped in a thick fur cloak and masked. The priests positioned themselves around the grave and lowered the body into the freezing water. It sank to the bottom almost at once under the weight of the heavy cloak. Oil was poured into the water. At a nod from the priests, Kazak’vur breathed fire onto the water for the last time. His flames lit the oil on the surface of the water as the priests then tossed in several of Folkhers personal belongings, at least the ones that were burnable, so that their ashes would remain with him forever.
Kazak’vur thought that that little ritual made more sense when the body was in a pit of earth but as that was unavailable the priests were making do with what they had, regardless of practicality. Some of Kazaks earlier skepticism returned as he considered. Priests were always burned at death to avoid the possibility that they would be used for the Dark Magicks, what the dead priests belongings had to do with it was unclear to him, because no one would bother to awaken some old clothes or charms. Priests fanaticism made no sense to him but he had never been very religious in the first place.
It was his responsibility to avenge Folkhers death. The Priests blood was on his hands until he was avenged. So Kazak’vur did not wait long. He packed up the few things that he had brought with him. There was little he could use to track the elusive assassin but it did not mean that he wouldn't try. He had lost precious time during the burial and it was time to go. The vague footprints were his best lead but it would have to do. If all else failed, he would just have to follow the trail of death that the assassin was sure to leave in his wake.
One of the apprentices saw him leaving and called out “Where are you going?” There was a fearful note in the youths voice.
“To avenge the dead,” Kazak replied
“But it was the Soulless.” The apprentice said, voice quavering.
Kazak’s resolve did not waver, The land was, once again, groaning as he replied “Soulless or not, the assassin will die by my blade.”
He left and did not look back.
The Soulless traveled across the shifting, groaning land of ice with ease. His lightweight made it easy to walk through the snow. The next target was a poor street thief in one of the border towns of the kingdom of Glalik that had stolen from a certain shopkeeper one too many times. The next in a long line of assassinations that he had given up keeping track of, years ago. Sometimes, he wondered if he should feel something when he killed, others assumed that he did. But he had not felt emotion when he killed for a long time. He was aware of the golden Dragonkin that had been tailing him for the last few days and had deliberately left him a trail to follow. It would be amusing to watch him struggle to keep up until he died or cracked under the weight of his burden.
