Herbert stood at the entrance to the church grounds, his hands cold now from the frosty air. There was a gentle fog at the top of the hill, lazily drifting across the gravestones which lay scattered around the church. The grass around them was tall, the stones old, beaten, and cracked. Some remained upright, while others slouched to one side where the soil had given way to the weight. The small dirt path was just visible through the tired, trodden grass, which led to the main hall of the church, where the daily service took place.
The church's tower was the oldest part of the building. It had shrubs that surrounded its base, bare now with the coming winter, the branches looked dead, like thin bones held together only just. The tower was connected to a small hall which had a decaying thatched roof, it was going black with rot like that of unkept teeth of a dying man. The walls were made out of thick gray stone chunks. At one point, the outer layer was painted with white, the colour of the gods, but now the paint was faded, almost non-existent in parts. A heavy wooden door held together with small iron nails lay on the side of the church with a large black keyhole.
Herbert walked quickly to the door and took from under his clothes a large key, which he placed into the lock. The graves always made him nervous. He had seen much during the Dark Days, living corpses were not something that leaves the mind willingly. After all, it was for that very reason that there was a whole ceremony when burying the dead to keep them at peace for eternity. He remembered the ritual well as it had been repeated again and again to the priests, almost driving them mad. The grave must be 6ft deep, one course in each grave. A prayer must be said, and the loved ones of the deceased must be present to say goodbye and offer the dead soul up to the stars. Then they would be covered in the holy dirt, never to be disturbed again. For quick burials from wars or plague, sometimes they would have to simply burn the bodies instead. The corpses piled high. Herbert could smell it, the harsh eye watering smell of burning flesh, the smell of leather scorching in flames. He was glad to have only been a witness to one mass burning.
The key turned smoothly in the lock, the door opening with a creak inwards to reveal the interiors of the church. The walls were cracked but still had the whitewash. The floor was made from square black slate, though some were cracked or had missing corners filled with loose dirt. The pews of which there were only 6 lay looking east, toward the direction the gods rise. These pews were simple wood and wooden rivets holding them together. Simple, polished, and uncomfortable, to make sure all paid the utmost attention to the priest's words. Religion was not a choice; it was a necessity to survive in these outer places away from the larger populations of humans. At the front of the church, looking back at the benches, was the altar. The only thing in the church that seemed well cared for and kept in its finest glory. It was made from marble, finely carved was the sun on its face, with beams of light pouring down on many beasts. Trolls cowering in the corner, trying to cover their faces, humans with sharp fangs running away, burning, goblins, orcs, hobgoblins, all cowering in fear of the sun's righteous glory. The Elder god. The god of Light.
Herbert closed the door behind him, taking the key out of the lock and placing it back within his folds. He moved swiftly to the altar on which a large old tattered book lay, its pages closed held together with a small latch made of gold. The book had no title, the cover had no graphics, it lay bare too important to need a marking of what it was or what it was for. This was the book of the Elder from which spells, prayers, and morals were written; it contained all knowledge of beasts, good and foul.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Herbert walked over to the book and unlatched the gold case, muttering as he did so
“In Light we follow”
His hands sofly opened the book to the first page, a page which was far less tattered then some of the other, a page in which was written at the top “Lights Protection”, the page described the required steps for casting a spell of protection around the borders of the village in which everyone must be present in the church and all say the spell together while the priest channels the energy to the tower and up to the symbol of the Elder in which the spell would be cast around the church and village protecting them from many of the darker creatures that resided in the wild. It was a daily spell, a ritual to keep them all safe. Herbert had received this newer version of the incantation from the clerics in the monastery recently, it had arrived by bird, as was the usual way. This particular spell was updated often to be more powerful each time when weakness was found in the last.
Herbert read the page a few times, his mind racing. He had indeed done and said everything right, he was surely not to blame for the misfortunes It was a great crime to missform any spell given by the High clerics, Herbert knew this for a fellow student fell foul to saying an incantation wrong once, and his mouth was stitched shut forever for in his wrongful casting he summoned a great storm that drowned many innocents in the village the abbey herbert trained at resided. He did not wish to fall foul of the same fate that his pupil had fallen to. Especially with the Witch Hunter here, he would for sure see the laws of the Elders were carried out to their full. It was no secret he hated priests; they were, after all, the ones who made him what he is. A living horror, a necessary evil.
The priest's eyes suddenly looked up as a ray of sun hit the far side of the church at the back of the pews, where the sentence lay to the tower. The sun's beam came from a stained glass window set atop the altar. The window was made from many panes of glass, stained blue, white, and yellow. The top of it was made to be the sun with beams of yellow coming off it onto the blue background, representing the pale blue sky. There were parts of the glass work missing, fallen out of place, broken, or cracked, just like the rest of the village; it had been neglected. The craft needed to repair it only existed in the cities nearer to the City of Kings.
Herbert quickly walked over to the tower entrance, where a long, thick rope hung to the rafters connected to a small brass bell. The rope was old and soft now from being used so many times that the brittleness of the rope had given way to smooth, soft wear. The bell that hung in the rafters was old, dented, and rusted. It still worked, however. Herbert remembered when the village had received this bell as a gift from the city, it had been grafted by the dwarves as a gift to the human people, hundreds of thousands had been made for them all to protect them and allow them to communicate with each other, for communication was encoded to the dwarves way of thinking and wanting to give the humsnt he best chance they passed on this care onto them.
Herbert strained himself as he tugged at the bell rope. The bell cried out across the valley, a low, dim clang echoing sadly, making the birds around take flight in panic. It called to the villagers, summoning them to the morning's ritual before their daily activities could start. The priest let the bell fall silent after a few tugs, he was ready to begin.
