Rewyn Horne
Scourge, Herald of Vayt, Death's Hand
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Born: 52nd Winter, 477 A.V.
Birthplace: Ravok |
| Those who have heard of Rewyn Horne do not call him Scourge for simply no reason. His appearance could be regarded as deathly, hollow, and even plagued. Eons of suffering have seen his physique transmute itself into a mere carapace of flesh and bone, one aged well beyond its years. For a man of thirty-and-eight, he seems fifty or older. His once brawny, robust frame has become sickly and broken, his once-chiseled face now weather-beaten and gaunt. His lips are thin and dry, his nose straight and crooked. Rewyn's deep brown eyes stare out from beneath the crags of his brows, with eyelids stained the color of soot and ash. As he ages, his face becomes seamed, forming lines where lines once were not. A perpetual stubble of white, grey and brown line his gaunt cheeks, extending down around his neck and throat. Rewyn's hair is scraggly and thinning, made of a thousand strands of grey and brown and white that cascade down to the top of his neck. He is generally unkempt and disheveled-looking, his pallid skin covered in a coalition of both ash and dirt that can often be mistaken for a bronzed complexion. Years of laboring and crusading have left his now wiry hands callused, and his skin thick and rugged. His entire appearance is a marriage of weathered and sickly. His body is riddled in scars, often concealed beneath layers and layers of cloths and leathers. He is not as brawny as he once was, but there is still muscle upon his bones, though time has all but starved him of the broad figure he once flaunted. Despite his growing weariness through age and his imperishable limp, Rewyn still manages to carry himself proudly, remaining as deadly as he had been in his youth. |
Rewyn's personality is a twisted maze of ideas and values. He is diligent in everything he does, but more often than not this diligence is perceived as derangement, and a dismemberment from the confines of reality. This is partially true. Rewyn has, through his life, both suffered and witnessed grave tragedies that would unmistakably tamper and twist a human mind. He has seen relatives tortured, friends killed, and observed his own brother be flayed and dismembered without reason. The weight of these tragedies became one Rewyn could no longer bare, drowning himself in his cups to the point he has become eternally sallow. Yet for all his past misfortune, he is ambitious. Rewyn is a devout acolyte of Vayt, and through the god of pestilence he is empowered, seeking a higher sense of enlightenment through preach and practice. He is grim in his mannerisms, always brooding and temperamental, with a tongue that curses like a sailor, and is vile besides. He is oft introverted, mentally subjugating others of lesser value to him, which is oft the general population. His devotion to mastering the art of Spiritism exhibits his unwavering desire to achieve his own form of 'mortal godhood', as he craves recognition for his artistry. Rewyn's mind may have flaked from its former self, but there is still an intellectual gravitas about him. He is a man who ceaselessly searches to learn more, whether it be music, or magic, or the lands he travels tirelessly. His mind is a flowing river of wisdom that is constantly filled by the rain of his travels and his studies, a river he does not intend to run dry. Yet, on this river of Rewyn's unhinged demeanor, there is a presence even he cannot grasp. A voice, the voice of someone who he remembers but seems to forget. He calls it Other, for it is both ungodly and unknown, a mysterious apparition that plagues his mind and fills it with notions and ideas. Rewyn believes it is a curse from Vayt; perhaps a fragmented shard of his dead brother, who has returned as a spirit. Sometimes he believes it is much more, something darker and more harrowing than even he can comprehend. Other is not always around to plague his mind, often arising in times of great peril or choice. The voice is known to contend with his own ideals and opinions, often creating conflicts inside his own mind. He speaks to Other more often than humans, yet all the same wishes to be rid of it, so that his mind may stay clear. Rewyn is much a zealot as he is a philosopher, and as much a philosopher as he is a bastard and a drunkard. For all his wisdom and worshiping, there is nothing he revels more than a tankard of ale. Ale, the wetness of a painted whore, and the reverence of steel sliding through flesh and muscle. Cunning, brash and filled with contempt, Rewyn will go to perilous lengths to achieve his goals.
|
 Rewyn was born a twin. There are few who know that, and seldom ever will. Nor would he tell you if you were to ask him. Neither he nor his brother were born into nobility, mothered by a beautiful maid and fathered by an honorable knight. They were born to a whore, and fathered by a man considered a sellsword. There is nothing noble about their birth, nothing strikingly intriguing. They were bastard sons both, and fell from their mothers legs in an alley behind the brothel where she earned her living. She did not even offer them names upon their arrival into the world, and instead offered them to the wintry stone pebbles of Ravok's back alleys before she fled with a river of scarlet and bile still dripping from her legs. And so there lay two new born boys, covered in blood and mucus and the pale flakes of snow that cascaded from the winter skies. He and his brother were picked up by a passer-by, who would soon become the man they would call father. He named the two babies Rewyn and Horwyn, after two great warriors in a book labelled The Lord Valterrian. Rewyn and his brother traversed childhood as close enemies, vigorously combating for dominance. There were days when it was Horwyn the victor, others it was Rewyn. They fought a ceaseless war amongst themselves, grieving their father, who was a shopkeep of a simpler nature. Though that simpler nature was still devoted to Rhysol, and when he saw the prowess either boy had with a sword, he enlisted them into the Ebonstryfe.
The Ebonstryfe took younglings for the sole purpose of defining and shaping their mindset before they can develop one of their own. Rhysol was their supreme commander, the man who called himself Ebonlord was a meek pretender. Horwyn bowed to the commandments of his superiors unquestionably, but Rewyn was stubborn, a twelve year old boy with a disposition of his own accord. He would not bend as easily as his older sibling. And when something would not bend, men often broke it. Young Rewyn became attuned to the punishments before his thirteenth year, revelling in the lash of the whip and the slice of the dagger. The teachings of Rhysol seemed to elude him, a concept flawed and ungraspable. If he was the revered lord of lies, then mayhap his existence had been one. By ten and five, Rewyn was cast from the Ebonstryfe's training initiative, while Horwyn thrived. His defiance against Rhysol fabricated a rift between he and his brother, who had become a devoted acolyte to his teachings. His two years in service had left him scarred and broken, but through the pain he thrived. Rewyn knew there was more to his existence, he knew that he had not been cast into the world for a jape. He returned to the domicile of the man he had called father, to find through illness he had become fodder for the crows. Nobody had discovered his rotted corpse, and so it fell on Rewyn to bury him accordingly. He was a betrayer in his brothers eyes, and his fathers no longer saw anything at all. Where was he to go?
Seeking solitude and comfort, Rewyn drowned himself in cheap, honeyed wine until his mind became a contoured haze of thoughts and judgements, one that would inevitably lead him into the entourage of a renown sellsword, the very man who had spilt his seed to create Rewyn and his brother. Murs, a former knight exiled from Syliras, took the young boy under his wing, unaware of the relation between them. Unknowingly, he put a sword in his sons hand, and his teachings inevitably would guide his son into a honed killer. Murs and his sellsword company left Ravok in the winter that year, days prior to Rewyn's sixteenth birthdate. They roamed the outside world for four long years, taking contracts wherever contracts would arise. They lost some men to fever, others to the cold of the winter, but most to the pikes and the flails of their enemies. The name of Murs' Company soon became renown, but with fame comes jealousy, and with jealousy came their undoing. Upon the Suvan coasts of Kalea they fought, and upon the same they died. A hundred men descended upon their small camp in the night, armed with crude steel and adorned in boiled leathers and sallets. Grass and sand soon merged to form a scarlet river, and bloody corpses were strewn across them like leaves to a forest floor. 
Several of the company managed to escape, Murs and Rewyn included, as well as Murs' trusted general, Rook. They reached a rowboat before the enemy put it to the torch, and escaped only after Murs took an arrow to his thigh. After three days at sea, the wound had festered, wreaking of pus and coming death. He quickly grew ill, spending his time coughing up blood and bile and complaining that Dira would take him. Another three days at sea and she did, his body cast to the salt to be cleansed as he passed to the afterlife. It was the second occasion he had lost a father, though this time Rewyn was unaware of it. They rowed the Suvan Sea until they came across a merchant vessel, the captain of which allowed them safe passage to Sylira. He had lost both of his fathers to death and his brother to his devotions, but Rewyn still believed hope could be found in the latter.
Ravok, I must find Ravok, he thought, the very second his foot touched the hard stone of the docks.
He traveled as the guard of a merchant caravan from Syliras to Ravok, but when he arrived in his birthplace, something felt awry. He searched far and wide for his brother, only to learn he had gone astray. Horwyn had been overcome by the teachings and prejudices of his order, and attempted to flee the city, to start life anew in a different land. Regrettably, the soldiers of the Ebonstryfe had found him before he got very far, and dragged him back to Ravok with his foot chained to a saddle. They made his desertion a public affair, one observable by any with the stomach for it. Aged only twenty, Horwyn Horne was forced to drink a fast-killing poison, then whipped and flayed before a thousand spectators. Rewyn would never forget the look in his eyes as the poison burned his insides, or the screams in agony as his skin was pared from his flesh. When they were done, the Ebonstryfe unbound him, and were to leave his skinless corpse on the street as a warning to any others who would defile their cause. Rewyn returned that night, and took his brothers corpse back to the house of their father; the house he had taken residency inside. For a day or so Rewyn just grieved for his sibling, drowning himself in wine once more. But when the alcohol wore away and his head became clear, Rewyn began reading. He read and read, submerging himself in the knowledge of the musty tomes that lined the old bookshelves of the house. It was then he discovered Spiritism, the act of interacting and binding a human to a ghost. Mayhap he could not resurrect his brother from death, but Rewyn believed there was a way he'd find company in his spirit.
Trial and error. With his minuscule knowledge in the field of magic, there was not much Rewyn could do but trial, and error. A week transpired, and so did over fifty attempts at bringing his brother back as a spirit. He only wanted to speak with him, to hear the only voice he had ever cared for. Try and try he did, but there was no end to his failure. The corpse was beginning to rot and decay at an accelerated rate from the poison, and soon his brother would be charred bones and a memory. It was not until dusk on the eighth day that something transpired, something more dark and mysterious than he could comprehend. A voice spoke to him, but from where? He could not say. It spoke to him, all charismatic and aristocratic, from what Rewyn thought was inside his own mind.
''He is dead, Rewyn. It may be best you leave him that way. I took him, it was my doing. Poisons are my affair, and you trying to bring him back -- ghost or otherwise -- is meddling in my affairs.'' Vayt said plainly, and the sound of an inhaled cigar followed. He is dead.
Stubborn as a mule, Rewyn continued until dawn the next day, when the voice came to him again.
''Do you not listen to my words? Can you not hear me well enough? Don't act a pretender, Rewyn Horne. I know who you are, I know who your brother was. I know your brother is dead, so stop it. Stop this jape of yours.'' Vayt's voice was angrier this time, yet the charismatic tone never left it. He sounded collected, yet irritation lingered beneath his calm demeanor.
Rewyn swung a fist at the air like it could harm the God of Pestilence. Vayt laughed, and it seemed to echo on for an eternity.
''You have been troubling me for too long now, Rewyn Horne. Perhaps I should teach you of my power, perhaps I should show you why you do not meddle in my affair. Would you enjoy that?'' He laughed again, and Rewyn felt the air in the room turn cold. His body gave way to goose-prickles, and the candles that had kept the room lit all burnt out simultaneously. A smoky apparition formed before him, cloaked in swirling black mist. When pale, bony fingers adorned in rings forged of ruby and silver reached for him, he tried to move away. But his efforts were fruitless, and the wiry hands coiled around his throat like a snake to its prey. They did not choke him, but he felt a pain worse than that. Albeit brief, the burning sensation felt like he had been thrown into a boiling cauldron, scalding his skin with a thousand hot needles. Vayt released his grip and his apparition took moved away, gliding seamlessly across the wooden floor.
''Maybe now you will learn, maybe now you will stop this meddling.'' He said coldly. Rewyn felt his neck, but there was nothing there; no scald marks, no burns, no cuts. Not even a scratch. What has he done to me? It was not until he looked at his wrist that he realized. A scar had formed at the bottom of his palm and extended half the distance of his forearm. The flesh was pink and soft, but the scar looked a season old. It did not burn when he touched it, only when Vayt spoke did the scar throw him to the floor in agony.
''A gnosis, a gift from me. Mayhap you should think it a curse, for your bothersome meddling. Every time you continue to defy my domain, that scar will cause you. . . A nice amount of pain. You see,'' The apparition stepped forward and helped him to his feet, but as it did, it turned into a man. His stubble was black and his face smooth, though his body and eyes were hidden beneath a thick black hooded cloak, ''I could help you learn to use it, against your enemies, just as I. But I cannot do that yet, not until you learn to respect me, to worship me. Pretenders and meddlers see my Gnosis as a dastardly curse, but my followers, well. . . They see it as something far greater. I have also given you something of more value. You will meet them soon enough, I am sure. For now Rewyn Horne, I suggest you stop this jape.'' The man soon faded back into an apparition, and apparition turned to strands of smoke that danced and slithered until they disappeared completely.
The day that Rewyn felt Vayt mark him was the day that his life were to change forever. He purposely suppressed his relationship with society, and began delving into darker things. It was as if the Gnosis opened a new door inside him, a door that desired all the knowledge in Mizahar to enter it. For three seasons he became lost in his books, malediction, webbing, the laws of reimancy, summoning, morphing, and any other text he could discover on magic, its fundamentals and its properties. He knew the divine art was shunned and dwindling, but he did not care. Knowledge was power, Rewyn knew that now. For many moons he tried to unveil more information on his own gnosis, but the resources were either non-existent or forbidden, and he never found anything. The pain had seemed to go away, and he thought that it was dormant.
At least, until a voice began speaking to him from within his own head. The voice was thin and silvery, and echoed ever-so-slightly whenever it spoke. It would not say its name, for it did know it, and began filling Rewyn's heads with thoughts and ideals that were not his own. Other, he came to call it. The voice praised Vayt, and urged Rewyn do the same, not only for the sake of religion, but so he would one day be able to use his Gnosis against his enemies, as the God of Pestilence had told him a year prior. Rewyn never truly believed in the gods, not until one had stood before him, hazy and ethereal. Their existence had been confirmed to him, but how was he to follow the very one who had forsaken him with a scar and an otherworldly voice inside his head? There was simply no logic in it.
Initially, all that Vayt had unlocked to him was his thirst for knowledge. He did not care for the god, and only wished he would leave him to lead the rest of his life in peace. But Other was persistent, revealing that the voice would not leave him until he lived his life to spread Vayt's workings. A god of pestilence, plague and poison, Rewyn refused to worship and herald a being that had taken part in the demise of his own brother. And so he refused the voices urging, time and time again, continuing to focus on his studies and training. He drank, he drunk and he trained for another three years, denying the feeble voice of any request it made. Eventually he left his home in Ravok, and used the coin he had made from his sellsword past to buy a horse. He did not only want to study the lands, he wanted to see them for himself. Quarrels with the ethereal voice had left him dismayed, and the four musty wooden walls that had surrounded him for so long had left him claustrophobic. He needed fresh air, he needed to see Mizahar for what it was; not for what his texts and tomes had told him.
He took his horse and the pestilent voice in his head through the Syliran Wildlands first, surveying the lands. He journeyed through the Bone Fields, the Filrian Bog, and The Everstone Forest, before stumbling across Sahova, the isle of the undead. Rewyn had heard of the promise the Great Library held, and wished to view its extensive shelves of tomes with his own eyes, perhaps even study a few for himself. Though the Nuit were wary at first, warning him of death if he betrayed their law, he was allowed passage to the library, and spent nearly three weeks reading the little amount of books that were written in common. He left at the request of the Nuit, yet did not mind; for his knowledge of Spiritism and Reimancy was heightened satisfactorily. He traveled for another week in the saddle of his horse, on his way to Zeltiva, until the great brown beast collapsed beneath him, whinnied a last time, and passed on.
''That's the work of Vayt, I told you Rey, I told you.'' Other said mockingly, shrill and irritating from within his own head. Get the petch out of it.
''The horse must have been tired, or sick, or thirsty. It was the work of nature.'' Rewyn grunted aloud, closing the destrier's eyes and uttering it a silent thankyou. He felt odd, talking out loud to his own mind. Other laughed, albeit faintly.
''Look Rey, look at his legs and look at his flank!'' The voice said excitedly. Rewyn lifted the great horses leg up, grimacing at what he found. Grey and green spots ran like a vine up the horses rear legs, coiling up over his side. When he took a harder look, the destrier did look sickly. He crouched down to unpack his saddlebags, so he may begin a prolonged walk in search of an inn, and perhaps another horse. He would not let Other feel victorious, and so did not say anything at all. If it was the doing of Vayt, in attempt to display his sovereignty and persuade Rewyn to his cause, it was a fool's endeavor. Now he had taken his brother, scarred his arm and mind, and taken his horse. Only a stupid man would considering following such a cruel deity.
Dusk that day found him a small town, of whitewashed stone buildings and slate roofs. A small wooden wall had been erected around it, for the Wildlands were dangerous and full of terrors. The town was named Elaria's Nest, after the woman who had founded it. It's dozen residents were hospitable enough, and offered Rewyn a bed in their tavern until he wished to leave. The blacksmith offered him his horse for a small price, and he accepted gratefully. On the morrow he was to ride out, and continue on his way to Zeltiva in his quest for knowledge. The Hare and Horse tavern was crude, its wine bitter and its bread stale, but they were friendly enough; and the coin he had to pay was negligible. There were few other foreigners inside the establishment, save a plump man in leathers and a hooded man who sat in the corner in his cups. Merrymaking started early and ended not long before the sun rose, though as it did, something terrible transpired.
 ''A toast,'' An elderly man shouted cheerfully, stumbling up onto the crude oak table that they all sat around, ''To good health, and to survival! Elaria's Nest has stood for years, and will do for many more to come!'' He and the other townsfolk cheered and laughed, and drank from their copper goblets until the wine was run dry. Then, the plump traveller in leathers began to cough. It was subtle at first, until he began vomiting up his wine, and the salted pork he had eaten hours earlier. He toppled from the bench and onto the floor, coughed thrice more, and turned the darkest shade of purple before dying.
The townsfolk surrounded him, trying to revive him, but they did not have much time themselves. One by one they fell, coughing and spluttering and screaming for help. Rewyn ran from his bed upstairs to find all but the cloaked man lying on the floor, purple and cold. The stranger still sat in the corner, calm as a summer sea, drinking from his own goblet and flicking calmly through a book.
It's him. . . Rewyn pulled the dirk from his belt, and stormed over to the stranger, panting as if he too had been poisoned.
''Who are you?'' He demanded. The cloaked stranger took another sip from his goblet, and swished the red wine around in the cup. His other hand traced the words of the book, as he muttered them beneath his breath. ''Who are you?'' Rewyn demanded again, moving the dirk closer to where he assumed the throat would be. Then he saw it. Wrapped around the man's index finger was a ring, silver forged, with a huge ruby encrusted in its centre. The ruby caught the light of the flickering torches, and the man turned to face him.
''It is so pleasant that we meet again, Rewyn Horne.'' His voice was calm and sophisticated as Rewyn remembered. His face was smooth, his nose curved, and his scent sweet. Vayt smiled from beneath his hood, revealing polished white teeth. Rewyn moved the dirk closer to his neck, but Vayt pushed it away almost jadedly.
''Please, Rewyn. Must you always greet me with such hostility?'' He said sadly, and took another sip of his wine. His face was different from the last time Rewyn had seen it, yet it was all too similar.
''Hostility? You just killed these people, do you expect a thanks?'' Rewyn shouted, but the God of Pestilence did not flinch. Instead he waved a hand at the wooden chair across the table, and advised Rewyn to sit in it.
''I will not bow my knee to you, you craven. You kill people through vile tricks, vile, vile tricks. You are no god, just a foul jape.'' Rewyn took a step back, wishing he knew how to use all the magic he had been studying. He would've incinerated the cloaked man to ash if he did. Vayt seemed offended by the way he drooped his head, but only said, ''Please, Rewyn, you wound me. Sit, you have my word the chair is not plagued or poisoned.''
Reluctantly he sat, but never let the dirk leave his hand. He pulled his chair back so he was further away from the cloaked man, and Vayt seemed even more offended. ''You are a wise man Rewyn, I know that. Surely you are wise enough to know I am harmless, aside from my petty poisons and my blight? I would thought a man like you would know the extent of my power,'' he took a sip of wine then continued, ''Some say I am the god of plagues and corruption, but my followers believe me the god of balance. What do you think of me, Rewyn Horne?'' His voice was lathered in curiosity, and soon his lips were lathered in subtle remnants of red wine. He licked them off, and rubbed a hand over his smooth chin.
''I think you are a vile, vile deity.'' Rewyn replied bluntly, hands clenching his dirk tighter. Vayt noticed, smiled, and poured himself more wine from the copper jug beside him.
''That little dagger will do you no good, Rewyn Horne. I'm afraid you would only hurt my host, perhaps even kill him. This body is just a faux, an acolyte who would allow me to use his body to reach you.''
''What do you want from me?'' Rewyn snapped, slamming a fist against the table. Red wine poured from the brim of Vayt's goblet and ran down over the musty wooden floor. Disappointedly, the deity sipped on his wine again, staring down at the cup as he said, ''You treat me so ill, yet I have done nothing to harm you. Tell me, Rewyn, has your scar been hurting you so?'' He looked down at Rewyn's arm, which had been covered in a roughspun shirt.
''No.'' Rewyn replied drily, and wish he had not. A burning sensation overcame him, all too similar to the one he had felt in their last encounter. Rewyn dropped his dirk and collapsed to the floor, writhing in the agony of it all. He pulled up his sleeve, to discover the scar had opened, and the same grey-green spots covered him as they had his horse. They coiled around his forearm and up to his shoulder, and his entire arm looked as if it were made of mossy stone. It burned and it burned, until Vayt laughed, and the pain disappeared as fast as it had came.
''If it has not, then perhaps it's my duty to make it so. It is not pleasant, is it Rewyn Horne?'' Vayt spoke calmly, and poured wine into the empty goblet beside his own, ''Come, have a drink. Wash away that pain. This is good wine, from Zeltiva, none of the poor shyke that innkeep served here.'' He lazily pushed the goblet across the table, and Rewyn rose to drink it. He had felt the power of this deity, and the control he had over his Gnosis.
''What do you want from me?'' Rewyn asked again, this time less threateningly. The pain had been too immense, he dared not defile him again. Vayt had been right about one thing; the wine was far better than the stuff they had given him earlier in the night.
''You think you have lived your life on your own accord, I assume? You think you are a free man, a man of your own devices? I digress. I have been watching you closely since we last met, following your efforts to learn nearly everything there is to learn about you. You first received my attention through your meddling, but I believe there is potential in you yet, potential to serve, and serve well.'' He paused for a moment, pulled forth a cigar, and lit it on the torch nearby, ''You would make a promising acolyte, and an exceptional herald, I assume. I mentioned earlier of the quarrel between my believers and the ones who wouldn't, and how I am seen in different lights, well. . .'' Vayt inhaled on his cigar, and blew a thin ring of pale grey smoke toward the sconce, ''I am the god of balance, Rewyn. When an entity grows too strong, I destroy it through my vile ways. There may be alternatives, but for me, there is none. If something spreads too wide, I make sure it is made small again. Do you understand that?''
Rewyn looked around at the pile of dead bodies that littered the tavern, their faces still struck with grief and fear. Some had clawed at their faces as they were dying, others had tried to slit their own throats to stop the pain. Some had scratch marks over their cheeks, others stab marks in their necks. Their deaths had been a gruesome affair, and not merciful. Rewyn breathed deeply, trying to compose himself. ''Then why did they have to die?'' He asked. Vayt frowned.
''You killed them, Rewyn Horne, you killed them all.'' He said plainly, staring down into his cup again. Rewyn wanted to hit him for that, but knew it would only do him harm.
''How?'' He asked angrily. Vayt smirked. ''You failed to follow that little voice, you failed to listen. Had you came to me sooner, perhaps all these people would still be alive and happy. Perhaps that pretty horse of yours would still be galloping through the Wildlands, aiding you on your grand quest of wisdom.'' The deity said mockingly, pleased by his jests. Rewyn held back his anger.
''You came to me, I did not come here for you. I came here to sleep, and to replace the horse you killed.'' He replied, voice reaching at the strands of anger that were lingering inside him. The God of Pestilence barked a laugh, and put out his cigar on the table.
''I brought you to me, Rewyn. You are a hard man to reach, even when I implant an acolyte inside your mind, you still managed to evade my call. I have been waiting for this encounter for some time. It is knowledge you seek, yes? Then it is knowledge I will give you. Knowledge far greater and more powerful than those silly books you waste your time reading. Perhaps I can teach you how to control that pretty Gnosis of yours, too. The Ebonstryfe banished you for doubting in Rhysol, and rightly so. He is a treacherous deity, unlike myself. I am as honest as a mirror. I killed these people to prove a point, Rewyn. That you cannot evade me, no matter where you go. Whether it's the stronghold of Syliras or Wind Reach, I will follow you with plague and with poison. I humbly request your loyalty, and in turn you will receive all the wisdom I have to offer.'' His tongue was laced with threats, but he conveyed them so calmly, his dark brown eyes never leaving his cup.
If I refuse, will he kill me? What will happen then? I cannot run from him all my life. . . He offered me knowledge, he offered me wisdom. That is what I want, is it not? And this damn scar. . . If I could use it . . . His thoughts were a jumbled mess, a puzzle lacking the key pieces for its completion. If he joined this deity, then his life would be forfeited to his own, but if he refused him, he might lose that very life. He had no choice.
''What would you have me do?'' Rewyn asked reluctantly. Vayt smiled, and together the two drank a skull of wine.
''Worship me, sing appraisals of my name. I am scarcely followed in these lands, but those who do follow me do so admirably. I am not asking you to spread the plague, Rewyn Horne, only that you revere the man who does so. My cult has become a secretive one, cut down by those who do not approve of my work. Allow my name to rise above the hushed whispers of sewer rats and craven beggars, and I will reward you justly. I should be a name to be feared, like Myri and Dira, not one long-forgotten. Help me with my status, Rewyn Horne, so I may heighten yours.'' Vayt took the last sip of his wine, then slammed the goblet down so hard the table shook violently. ''What say you then?'' He asked impatiently.
I have no choice, do I? He is a deity, and I am in no position to refuse. . .
''I will do as you wish, but only if you are to rid me of this damned voice.'' Rewyn replied respectfully. The deity frowned from beneath his hood.
''As it may, I cannot. Yet, it will be sated should you swear your fealty. There will be no more pestering on my behalf, if your fealty is sworn. Maybe it will go quiet for a time.'' He stood up, and seemingly became seven feet tall, the faded black cloak cascading down to the floor in thick layers.
Rewyn knew that was it, there would be no turning back. If he swore his loyalty, then he was a man of Vayt, and nothing more. He would follow and serve as commanded, and that was all. His old life, one of family and the acquisition of power, would all be set behind him. This is it then. . . He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, and surprisingly it was easy enough. Vayt placed a hand on his cheek and he felt a cold overcome him, albeit for a moment. When he rose, something felt different. The cloaked man smiled.
''Welcome to my pantheon, my herald. Rise, rise and be born anew. You have been searching for your purpose for such a long time, and finally it has come. Rise.''
Rewyn departed as the sun rose over the horizon. The shoddy town of Elaria's Nest burned brightly at his back, along with the life he had once lead.
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Rewyn Horne 
by Rewyn Horne on March 12th, 2015, 5:37 am 
