XXXV.
Ngel looked over the railing, staring at the black waters of the ocean, the distant horizon still yet to show signs of land. He felt a tremor travel through the fingers of where the corpse-glove had fused with his flesh, the arcane sigils that had once covered it now fused into the skin of his palm.
Once, he had thought himself cursed, but after living a long life he knew that it was a gift of the greatest proportion. To think that he, who as a boy had been ridiculed for his congenital disability, was now the recipient of cosmic truth and power, was impossible to truly comprehend.
But he had learnt the necessity of keeping his power secret early on. As a result of his guarded nature, he had no one to call a true friend, but, then, such were the possession of weaker men, and he had a higher calling.
Even though he was beloved by poets and bards, treated with respect by Kings and Royals, and adored by the masses, none of it mattered in the face of what was now his true calling. Even the irreplaceable badge on his necklace was like a trinket that a lesser species had fashioned, crude when compared to the majesty of his corpse-glove.
When the Divine spoke directly to his mind, he was called Envoy, but when the Mundanes referred to him, he was called Hero. He found the latter a great irony, but as a Rose-Gold Adventurer, a one-in-a-thousandth of a one-in-a-ten-thousandth, he supposed that it was a convenient moniker, if only to grant him passage to all corners of the Mundane Realm, so that he might spread the teachings of his Benefactor to those minds that were receptive, few as they were.
It seemed an odd thing, but, in the Great Game of the Timeless Ones, humans were an important tool for obtaining cosmic power, though, truthfully, Ngel had no clue as to why. But his place was not to question, only to obey, and he served willingly.
Another tremor flowed through the fingers of his corpse-glove, and he turned instinctively towards the cause of it. The powers in his right hand, gifted to him through cosmic providence, seemed ill at ease when anyone dared lay their eyes on him in anything but adulation, but Ngel found he did not care. In truth, very little stirred his stone heart, his emotions, good and ill, ground away into nothingness by the decades of harsh non-stop fighting to attain his current rank.
The Captain seemed momentarily stunned by Ngels gaze, but then cleared his throat and announced, Milord, we are approaching pirate waters. We had best stay on guard, as those that hunt these waters are led by Garven the Bloodletter.
Ngel turned away.
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As you wish, Milord. We will maintain course for the port of Hillfang.
With a bored sigh, he returned to leaning on the railing.
Whooping cheers and jeering calls sounded off the sides of their small vessel. Even though it was built for speed on the open waters, the nimble boats of the pirates were so much quicker and had easily caught up and surrounded them.
The pirates were spindly and frail, as a life on the open water was not an easy one. Ngel wondered briefly if most of them had even eaten in the previous two weeks, though it would not matter when he was done dealing with them. In truth, their weak constitutions made his task much simpler since he needed not use much of his power.
With a tap, he roused the man.
We can continue unimpeded now.
The sun was hidden by the mountain range that ran along the western horizon, when Ngel left the port town of Hillfang atop a zealous young buck, whose antlers must have recently fallen off, given its bare head. Sharm would stay in Hillfang for a couple months, but Ngel doubted they would be reunited before then, given that his tasks seemed to be of the sort that would not easily be solved. He enjoyed the challenge of diplomatic tasks, despite his unique power being unsuited for anything but total annihilation, but such tasks were always drawn-out.
As the hooves of his eager mount thundered across the understory of a dark forest, he mulled over the missives he had received from his contacts across the continent.
The Pope of the Eight Saint in Heimdale had written frantically about a war brewing between Octland and Helmsgarten, due to the brazen new King of the latter nation. Ngel knew that Archduke Octavio must surely share some blame as well, given his recalcitrant nature and strict purist mentality. It was always troublesome to deal with his kind, touched and warped as they were by this new upstart Saint of theirs. Saint Olemn had yet to become Vice Incarnate, like the seven Saints before him, but he was still wet behind the ears and, given the history of the previous Septet, it was only a matter of time. Purity was after all just another way to frame authoritative control as something just, but the way they dealt with internal matters in their fledgeling principality was demonic in its own uniquely-horrible way. At least their Pope was flexible and accommodating to outside pressure, but perhaps that was also why he resided in Heimdale and not Octland.
His second letter had come from one of his oldest acquaintances grandchildren, who it seemed was now a Major in the Royal Guard of the Helmsgarten Crown. She had spoken of the brazen murder of the Guild Master of their local branch of the Guild; monsters and demons running amok in the metropolis; a boy who could manifest otherworldly horrors; and a dark secret behind the recent ascension of King Patrych the First.
The final missive concerned a decades-long investigation undertaken by a Gold-Ranker named Harland, whom Ngel had mentored back when he was still a Gold-Ranker himself. Harland had been obsessed with a bogeyman of mythical proportions, known as the Wicked Doctor of Lilibeth. In his message, he wrote briefly about his findings, and how he had connected this Wicked Doctor to a different bogeyman two nations distant, who was called The Llemanian Widowmaker. Of the three messages, this was the matter that interested Ngel most, given that the incident in Lilibeth half a century prior had exhibited signs of arcane magic that still influenced that region of Heimdale with strange bottomless lakes and entirely-new breeds of invasive wildlife.
He pondered what link there could be between these two bogeymen who operated within the same decade, given that the Widowmaker had simply been a notorious serial-murderer. But Harland had mentioned that he would reveal all that he had gathered when they reunited.
Suddenly, Ngels buck began to froth and sputter from the intense strain, and he slowed it to a halt, before dismounting. When he pulled his corpse-glove from its head, it abruptly kicked into a skittered retreat, vanishing amongst the ferns and brush in moments.
While deer were certainly fast, they seemed to tire far quicker than well-bred horses, but it was also not entirely under his control what creature manifested itself to aid him, and he was not one to refuse what the Gift provided him.
Ngel fired splayed his fingers before curling his right hand into a fist, lifting it above his head, and uttering the litany of Beckoning Bell.
O Keening One, sound the bell that provides to the seeker the aid they require!
From his curled hand came a susurrating wave that washed over the blackened bark of the nearby trees and ruffled the crisp leaves and brush, vibrating all it crashed against, until, minutes later, reaching the ears of a willing beast-of-burden, which came to find him.
As he beheld the grizzled bear, he wondered if perhaps his Patron was not being a bit too vague in providing suitable aid, but, regardless, he mounted the beast and continued west towards the Octland border.