The Priest Part 1

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From the journal of Father Rillian Cortan:

It had been well over a year since the last time I held a sword in my hands. There were times that I felt positively naked without it's weight tugging at my belt. My palms nearly itched for lack of a blade as I peered cautiously around the trunk of the tree that I was crouched behind. My little vantage point concealed me from the small army I saw below. I really wasn't sure they were looking for me, but I'd be damned, quite literally, if I let them catch me. All in grey with that strange matte armor they always wore and the dark serpentine blades at their waists, these men were obviously soldiers in the service of the Shadow Host. Unless I missed my guess or had suddenly been struck color blind, The dark banners they carried, the color of congealing blood, marked them as Crimson Legionaires. Fanatics. They were still far enough away that I couldn't even say for sure if they were human. If the rumors I'd been hearing had any ring of truth to them, then it was very likely that some of those below were not my fellow man. I had my doubts as to whether or not they could find me in my cosy little hideaway, but I've not lived through what I have by taking unneccisary risks.

I offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to whomever might be listening that it was the Priests of the Green Order who took me in and helped my shattered body mend after the Host overran the town my company had been hired to defend. As my Order's name might imply, We wear a habit that, not suprisingly, involves lots of deep forest green robes and vestments. I was rather smitten with their utility at that point, Serving as they did to allow me to move through the dense underbrush and mountain laurels without drawing undue and sincerely unwanted attention to myself. Sometimes fame isn't all that nice a thing.

I fumbled for my battered ironwood walking stick. It was a stout piece of lumber, a little over four feet long and capped on either end with dull iron and laquered to an oily black finish. Though twice the thickness of my thumb and quite sturdy, It was not the sword I so dearly missed. If the need arisesI can still use it like one though. I just really hoped it wouldn't be necisary.

Using my short staff for leverage, I rose ponderously my feet, careful not to put my weight on my bad knee. It still ached and gave out on me from time to time even after having a year to heal. Keeping my balance with the stave, I leaned against the tree trunk, transferring more weight from my knee as I did so. Leaning there, taking stock of my situation, I ran my fingers through my hairshaddy red and seriously in need of a trim. Seemingly of their own accord, my hands eventually settled upon the task of scratching my chin through a wild and bushy beard, also in desperate need of a barbers ministrations.

After two hours of waiting, shadowing them, and marking their every move, I realized I needed a distraction, badly, if I had any chance of escape. I reclined there, wracking my brains, hoping to rattle an idea out before the sun could shift enoughin the sky to dislodge the shadows kindly hiding me just then.

I closed my eyes, letting my inner vision roam the wilderness and terrain about me. I had to take extra care and go slowly. One of those soldiers might have been more than he seemed. A sloppy probe on my part could give away my comfy little hiding spot beforeI even realized my error. I sorted through and discarded a number of possibilities before settling on one that just might now get me tortured, killed, and stripped of my immortal soul. I let my inner sight drift over my adversaries, and saw, to my dismay if not my surprise, that one of them burnedd from within with a pale green witchfire. They had a mage after all. I fixed my physical sight on him as well. I marked him out quite easily. Tall and slender. Human enough looking at this distance, he was swathed in a deep charcoal grey cloak that hid most of his features. If the strength of that eldrich aura was any guage, that man below me, (if that's what it truly was) held an enormous wealth of magical power within him. I knew I had to be really careful. My little plan had to be executed perfectly. There was no room for error.

I extended my awareness again, this time directing my questing thoughts, not outward, but downward, my gentle probe burrowing into the earth at my feet. Using the probe to make a connection, I tapped into the subtle energies there, giving them a slight push here and a little nudge there as they bubbled to the surface. To my hypertrophied magical senses, I'd created a slight bulge in the ambient energies surrounding me. It wasn't true magic, not as anyone would recognize it. I was counting on that fact to keep my presence secret. Anyway, I've never been any sort of a mage, so I guess there was no harm done to my self image. Using a sharp mental smack, I sent the bulge sailing low and to the left of the enemy sentries. The image of a mouse scurrying under a wrinkled rug ran through my mind as my handiwork went into action.

The underbrush rustled loudly and was accompanied by a chorus of fluttering wings as that magical bulge rippled its way under and past a flock of roosting birds. The mage dispatched three of his scouts to investigate the noise. All eyes turned away from my hiding place as the trio investigated my little ruse. Taking advantage of the distraction, I quietly padded my way past the soldiers and into the forest on the other side of the trail. No cry of alarm, no pursuit. Good. None noticed my passing I allowed myself a small sigh of relief once I was well past the legionaires.

"That was far too close," I remember muttering to myself. "I'd better pick up the pace if I want to get home before nightfall."

Who would have thought that a one time knight and mercenary like myself could ever get into so much trouble on such a regular basis. My wiser self prompted me with a double score of reasons for trouble following me without evn being asked. I sighed again, this time with exhaustion, and continued trudging on through the wilderness.