Chapter 37: A Laying of Hands (1/2)

Chapter 37: A Laying of Hands (1/2)

~ [Orson] ~

Human | | Knight Errant LOCATION: The Western Pass LEVEL: 100

Hands run over his body, passing as they move. One by one, the people of the city and the region run across the bridge. As they go, one after the other, their palms swipe over the body of the old bridge-guard, the knight-errant Orson. He serves no master, no lord, having only found a quiet contentment in this strange position he had stumbled into decades ago as the sole guard for a lonely bridge, road, and region on the side roads of the region that had, decades ago, been plagued by banditry and monsters that the capital city neglected to the plight of those living here.

He wandered in by sheer happenstance, or maybe fate, and took care of the problem. For all of those years since, he has remained here, guarding the roads, guarding the bridge, and guarding the people who live not in the heart of the world but just a little off center and to the left of it.

It makes little sense from an outside perspective; however, his life led him here, and he has been here since, finding contentment and purpose in the simplicity of his task in a way he had never managed to find in any court of king or queen.

Orson! yells a girl, pulling on his other arm as best she can while her own mother yanks her away as they flee.

A hand runs over his back.

Go! screams the man as loud as he can, his voice carrying through the night as the carts and carriages roll, their axles screaming as they veer, almost falling off of the bridge in their uncontrolled escape. The girls hand slips free from the sternness of his voice and face. Soldiers and the people of the villages run, scrambling. Thousands of people, survivors of the region, are evacuating after the unexpected and sudden destruction of the bastille to the south. Even if it was the Demon-King the fortress has been there for so long and has always been seen as the steel shield that guards the beating heart of the nation that its loss is surreal in a manner that they cant quite grasp, even after everything that has happened to the world.

Two women, the seamstresses from the village across the off-corner from here, graze his shoulder as they run with the crowd.

Orson, you idiot! barks a mans voice to his face from up close, which is reasonable given that hes yanked the man towards him by his tunic.

Its all coming close to home now.

Knight Errant Orson lets go of the fabric of the other mans top. Get out of here! he barks at him. Fool. He looks past the man as people stream down the bridge in a caravan into a deep ravine below.

Power

The ground resonates with it, rumbling and shaking. The air is thick and heavy with a miasma that could choke a beast, crushing its lungs from the weight of it. The steam raindrops seem to shudder, vibrating as they fall down toward the ground in a rhythmic cascade, sounding to his ears like the endless steps of a skittering thing with more legs than there are stars in the night so many of which gleam and shine, watching the world down below, despite the danger to them being present and unhidden by the thick clouds.

Why are you still here?! barks Orson, looking back at the man who is standing in front of him. He shoves him back with both hands, but the other man grabs Orsons wrists and presses his palms against his own chest rather than being offended.

Just giving you something back, he says.

An old woman hurries past as best she can, carrying an infant that cant be her own. She stops, grabbing its small hand and pressing it against Orsons shoulder.

Everyone runs and everyone leaves, but everyone touches Orson as they go, apart from the man standing apart from him. The man nods and lets go. Orson nods back, watching as the familiar stranger runs off with the crowd.

The laying of hands.

It is a ritual of the Holy-Church the laying of hands. A person who is meant to be blessed is touched, embraced, and felt, by the hands of those who are there. It is meant to signify the fact that a person is not alone, meant to reinforce this feeling of community, of togetherness, by the act of touch rather than just pure words. It is meant to signify to a person that they belong to a collective in a deeper, more true way than just words and promises could hold. In theory, it imbues the blessed individual with the magical residue of everyone involved.

And while this region here is not too deeply religious in the traditional sense, they are indeed superstitious, and old Orson has become sort of a local legend, almost a good-luck charm, that people would always touch as they passed. When they went to the city and crossed the bridge while he was there, they would stop for him. When they go down the roads that had once been eyed by bandits and find him clearing the way from fallen branches, they would stop for him. When they go through the forests, once plagued by goblins and monsters while foraging and hunting, they would stop for him.

Its one of those obscure traditions that only really makes sense when you grow up and develop in them. A man from the high-court would hardly understand.

In fact, old Orson hardly understands it himself. But he doesnt mind, as odd as it might be to have others touch you all day, because these people are his.

He turns to look back toward the distance, toward the looming danger that is coming closer and closer The Demon-King, whose presence is undeniable beneath the deeply crimson, ruby sky in which the clouds burn and the stars shine with a screaming intensity, as if in anguish themselves.

The spirits bicker and observe, examining Orson as he resumes his footing and returns his sword to where it rested. No, they agree. They smell different.

He smells bad remarks one of them.

Stinks! says another, floating away a little further.

A foggy hand reaches out toward him from the front, spinning a finger in the air. A strand of white, wispy substance pulls out of Orsons chest. His soul He lifts a hand, swiping the spirit away. The string pulls back into himself. Mundane. But

The smell

They nod to each other in agreement, floating back toward the recuperating mass of demons. The hole, pressed into the army of the Demon-King, is filled as bodies flood in from all sides like blood filling an open wound. Thousands of twisted, rotting faces turn his way, the horde looking at the sole man who is blocking the path of his most wretched highness the Demon-King.

Orson just shrugs and nods his head to the side. Youre going to have to leave, says the old man rather dryly, his voice carrying across the swarm, their cackling voices interwoven with the crackling of the great burning, as if the fire were laughing too.

But all of their voices, all of these noises, are overpowered as a growl fills the air, a crushing note that causes the swarm to cease their undulations and causes the flames of the endless fire themselves to lower their burn, as if cowering. And why is that? it asks, amused.

The ground around Orsons feet shake as the power of the presence and of the voice that can only belong to the master of the endless night, the Demon-King, washes over the land. Limbs break off of dead trees. Stones fall into the ravine. The clouds fray and tear.

Bridge is out, replies Orson dryly, nodding back behind himself to the bridge that is, very clearly, still there. What can ya do? he asks, shaking his head.

The quaking stops, coming to a slow pace. You would be surprised, replies the heavy voice, surrounding him from all sides as if he were fully immersed in it, like he were underwater in a glass tank, and being spoken to from above.

The heat of the world intensifies. Sweat mattes his hair and brow, the quivering air doing little to take it away as it is so thickly humid from weeks of endless rain and fire, that breathing itself feels like an almost useless effort.

And Orson stands there, amidst that deep laughter that envelops him.

What do you think you are? asks the voice, as the carriages of the Demon-Carnival right themselves up again by an unseen force. The broken undead all around them pull back together, thousands of twisted, rotted bones reconnecting loosely to recreate the shapes that they once held.

It can sense something around him a familiar feeling that lingers, that floats in the air like so much wafting smoke from the wildfires. How does this man have so much power in him? He is not a man of rare blood or ancient courage, a man of legend or renown. He is simply a man, alone, with a smell about him that is distinct.

The flames of a thousand burn-sites pull in, press in, and shape in together they move deeply unnaturally, enveloping hordes of screaming monsters that are in the wrong place at the wrong time in a conflagration as the fires come together into a shape, into a whole mass that slowly, thunderously, walks toward him. Its steps shake the world.

Knight errant Orson stares at the Demon-King, who is walking toward him, looking almost curious.

There is something residual about this man something familiar. It is something that the beast had once known and felt. It had sensed it once before too, on a man it killed long ago who was preventing him from entering a city a mayor. This fellow feeling here is akin to that one that emotion the man had kept secret from him to his grave.

In your way, I suppose, replies Orson, finally.

The Demon-King, pressed free from his foul castle, looks at the man that he wants something from; he wants his secret, a thing he had been denied before.

Tell me, starts the Demon-King, his voice carrying back and causing the legions of the damned to cower. What are you? he asks, lifting a great, massive hand. Tell me, and you will be spared, it promises, wanting the beautiful thing that it can sense, smell, and taste but never quite touch.

Orson stands there, looking back over his shoulder for a second at the bridge, which is now long since cleared, and then back at the world-eating beast standing seconds from him, towering above him.

He straightens himself up, his hand grabbing the hilt of his sword. Like I said, replies the man, looking at the Demon-King. Im in your way, he says, pulling the blade free again a second time everything cascades with white, a raging energy pressing against everything all around at the same time as a red tyrant simply barrels toward him, waves of power blasting off of its exterior as it walks through the tsunami of energy, trailing smoke and souls drifting out and away, its massive claw pressing forward and reaching him, clutching the blade of the sword as it strikes.

Is that so? asks the Demon-King, looking down at the man in rage at being denied, the world rupturing between them. YOU WILL TELL ME! roars Swain, the Demon-King. The swordsman pulls his blade free as the two of them collide, a burst of light blasting into the air like a beacon that shines over the world as they fight.