The House of Priests

 Trystan, albeit a proficient navigator of the woods and forests, found it difficult to keep track of the streets, buildings, and directions they went as Ysolt wove them through the districts of the metropolis. It wasn’t until the throngs of citizens thinned and she slowed their pace that he was finally able to take in the details of at least one building.

It was a roundhouse built of multicolored bricks, designed to instill unease in the casual passerby. The colorful bricks imbued it with a radiance unlike anything the wayfarer had ever seen in the wooded regions he was used to. The clothes of the woman next to him barely stood out against them, as if they had been designed to blend in with the auspicious building. “What is this place?” Trystan asked quietly as they slowly approached its main entrance. “House of Priests,” she responded as her chest puffed out with a sense of pride. Vibrant green eyes looked down to meet with her deep teal hues. “Like an administrative building for the more official disciples of the gods?” Ysolt grinned broadly at his deduction and nodded. “Yes. Offices. Dorms. Dining hall,” she added for clarification. She brought them to a place where they could rest and wait out the approaching storm. He was unsure if they would allow the young wayfarer to take up one of their beds, as he was not devoted to any one god. Bordering the building, he could see the different temples dedicated to the pantheon of deities, some of which he recognized immediately. The most prominent being that of Elnir, Nagil, Sig, and the twin gods Alvir and Valmir.

Elnir he understood to be the god of the sky, the high ruler of the full pantheon. Nagil ruled over the underworld all souls passed through upon their demise. Sig was beloved by musicians and tricksters. Alvir and her brother Valmir shared responsibilities over the oceans and seas. The fact that Ysolt was not leading Trystan to either of these shrines likely meant that she was not an acolyte of these gods, but rather worshipped another whose shrine held little sway in Marlock City.

Two warrior priests of Tyrnai, the god of war, stood guard at the tall entrance of the House of Priests. With spears in hand, they blocked the priestess and her companion from passing through. One of the grizzled warriors who looked as though he could have been a former gladiator asked, “What is your business here?” Ysolt pulled a scroll case from one of her belt pouches and unfurled a long sheet of parchment from it. “Summons. Ysolt Ynys. Priestess of Maka,” she declared and held the scroll high for the two men to skim over. The second guard sized Trystan up; his beady eyes examining the wayfarer’s attire and gear. He noted the sword, bow, and quiver of arrows; suspected he was not a priest unless he gave offerings to Lacuna, the wild moon goddess of the hunt. The guard promptly asked, “And you?”

Before the young man with the wide rim hat could respond, the priestess chimed in. “Escort. Guardian. Dutiful. Always my side.” The guards exchanged glances, one of them snorting as a smirk played on his lips. Always by her side, huh? The spears uncrossed, and both guards stepped aside so the duo could step through. As they walked through the main hall of the House of Priests, Trystan leaned to whisper in Ysolt’s ear. “We only just met today. Why did you lie to them like that? What if the gods find out?” There was a subtle sense of panic over how easily that worked. The priestess of Maka paused in her steps and giggled quietly.

“You need shelter. Free shelter here,” she explained before raising her free hand to rub her fingers in a gesture for payment. “Inns demand shard. Costly. House demand work. Clean, quest, protect. Not costly. Free. Gods no mind. Gods benevolent.” All Trystan needed to do was assist with any chore requested of him. The House of Priests would shelter and feed him so long as he helped out when asked. Most inns didn’t charge more than a shard for a room, but the rain might outlast how much coinage he had. Ysolt had also been summoned, which meant she was extending whatever accommodations she would receive to him. Helping him again, in exchange for his assistance.

The young man looked at the oak staff he had been entrusted to deliver to the Willow Druid. He would need to venture north soon to accomplish that task. “I have someplace to be,” he admitted, though that did not seem to bother the colorful priestess of Maka. “We all do,” she said, as if his statement didn’t take her by surprise. Her response was an admittance that their acquaintance would only be temporary. The offer to stay for free still stood. Judging by the pitter-pattering sounds that echoed from the dome above, it finally started to rain. “Ok,” Trystan said, agreeing to the momentary arrangement.

The duo was directed to the chief administrator’s office further down the hall. After formal introductions were made and Ysolt produced the scroll of summons, the priest of Elnir gestured for the pair to glance through the crystal ball stationed by his desk. He was an elderly man, with well-groomed grey whiskers and slouched shoulders from years of writing and filing documents. The bags under his eyes would tell a story of sleepless nights and worries beyond his control, yet he still held himself with an air of dignity.

Through the crystal ball, Trystan and Ysolt were granted an aerial view of the fortified metropolis. The wayfarer’s eyes could not help but marvel at the walls surrounding the bustling city, for it was believed that they were built over a thousand years ago by the olden empire known as the Shadar. Their craftsmanship was a sight to behold. The young priestess, however, could not help but notice how the rain clouds looked peculiar. Nothing like what she expected to see. The clouds’ shapes morphed into demonic-looking creatures that reached down to rake at the city. Ysolt gave the chief administrator a concerned look. “What these?”

“What you are seeing is the world above from the realm of spirits,” he explained gravely. “You cannot see them without the aid of this crystal ball. Those are storm demons who are determined to destroy our magnificent city.” It was only after the words registered in his mind that Trystan finally noticed the way the storm demons roiled with electric anger and mischief. Raising his gaze to meet with the older priest, he said, “I always thought that the gods maintained some sense of balance. That they kept the demons and other supernatural beings at bay so that we would not need to worry about these matters.” The administrator nodded in agreement. “That is usually the case. But these are unprecedented times we live in, young man,” he said before gesturing for the duo to take a seat across from him at his desk. “Our divine Ruler of the Sky, Elnir, tasked his son Sul Veneris, the Lord of Thunder, with keeping these storm demons under control. We were always under the impression that the sound of the thunder we hear was him smiting such creatures,” he explained further, just before a crack of thunder was heard from outside. “We recently learned this is not always the case,” he continued regretfully. “The storm demons have found a way to enchant Sul Veneris to sleep.”

“What create thunder now?” Ysolt inquired, leaning forward in her seat after another muffled roar of thunder resounded. The administrator shook his head. The best explanation he could give was that it was somehow tied to the storm demons, but he didn’t specifically know how. “I have summoned many adventuring priests such as yourself to look into the matter. Sul Veneris sleeps atop the Devil’s Peak to the north, just before the Forest of Larun. It is several days' travel, but none whom we have sent prior have yet to return. The crystal ball reveals that he still sleeps, which means none have been successful in finding or waking him,” the older priest said as he leaned back in his chair, his body nearly deflating with stress.

“I have heard stories of Devil’s Peak,” Trystan said as he pulled out the map to get a clear look at where it was. “That is a sheer climb, a nearly straight pillar of volcanic rock. There’s no way anyone could climb it without the proper gear. It’s no wonder no one has been able to wake him!” The younger man was appalled by what the priest was suggesting, without even offering to cover any of the expenses for such a venture. Ysolt sensed that her companion was about to fly off the handle over such trivial details, and quickly reached over to grip his shoulder. “We find way,” she said in an earthy, reassuring tone before she repeated herself to the chief priest. “We find way. Will wake Sul Veneris.” Determination graced her expression, though Trystan’s face still betrayed the bewilderment he felt about the situation.