Old hinges creaked as Arc pushed open the heavy doors to the Temple of Grandbrook.
Even with his natural might and a generous serving of Strength, the doors had a weight to them. It went beyond the simple inertia that he could feel tugging at his grip as he forced the door to slow without slamming — it was a holiness, an intensity he could feel in his soul.
Inside, the Hall of Gods opened up before him. Thirty longstrides wide by a hundred long, it was an immense space with an arched ceiling that rose far above his own head. Large as he was compared to a human, it made him feel small.
It was almost enough for him to wish to eschew his traditional garb — a heavy kilt and pouch-laden belt — in favour of a more complete human coverage. Alas, his natural bone armour and layered spine-scales snagged shirts terribly.
The feeling of exposure was intentional. There were no prayer booths here — no pews, or dais for a priest to speak to their clergy, and no columns to hold up the weight of the intricately carved stone above. It didn’t even have windows, lit only from strips of wardlights that had been deftly hidden where the walls met the roof.
All of that would have stood in the way of its true purpose.
Excluding only the floor, every surface within the hall had been carved with the likeness of the gods.
Feeling the judgement of a thousand pairs of eyes as they weighed the blackness of his oath-breaking soul, Arc pushed the door closed behind him. There were no other petitioners, just as he’d hoped. Little reason for most to visit the temple at so late an hour, even if it was open and staffed at all times. He stood there for a moment, frozen in his perdition as his eyes traced the likenesses of the gods.
Even after all this time he recognised few of them, and those he did were hard to find.
Ellyntir, with her matronly smile and an arm swept wide in welcome, ushering all those lost or scorned by fate into the revealing light of her lantern. Her gaze burned: he was unworthy of her grace.
Mut’ra the Stormlord, bearing the chitinous visage of the people of the It’thrak Isles, ever protected by his dark clouds and quick fist. The Lord’s arm was raised, a crackling javelin poised to skewer him where he stood. He would bear the penance willingly, may it leave his bone-carapace forever cracked.
Jorosh the Bound, chained to his totem with his head bowed beneath the weight of his oaths. The texture of the god’s natural bone armour had been rendered lovingly, as had the thin spine-scales on his throat — raised and bristling to show the sincerity of his conviction.
A god of his own people, the hirgost. It was under the judgement of the Bound that he withered most of all.
Arc averted his eyes, scanning the hall to commit more sacred forms to his memory. It was only right to treat the gods with such honour.
No matter the popularity of their worship, none was given preeminence over the others — all but one were carved the size of a man. A crowd of holiness that skewered him.
He settled on the lone standout — a featureless enrobed figure, wearing a blank mask that stood sentinel over the doorway at the far end of the hall. The Unfound and Forgotten, a representative for all divine beings that civilisation lacked the means to offer their piety to directly.
Arc took a breath, letting the weight of attention settle on him.
It was a terrible thing to be an oathbreaker. A sin that had weighed on him for many decades. He had thought he had grown used to the stain on his soul, had grown to persevere in the face of his wanting honour.
Already he had left the comforting warmth of his desert home, had endured his armour lacking the polish of sun-bleach. It was only fair that his body take on the sickly pallor of his own moral soiling.
Yet despite his fortitude and conviction to continue on — to prove his contrition and grow strong in the defence of others — he was forced to endure the mocking whims of fate.
To break his word once more. To relieve himself of the final crumbling remnants of his honour.
All because of a poorly given oath he had made in his youth, to a boy who had grown up to become hungry and cruel.
He’d thought the boy dead — had thought himself callous for being relieved at such a fate for one so honourable.
The fates had not been so kind. Now more than ever, Arc felt the weight of his years. Three-hundred-and-seventy-four levels he had gained since his exile — since his dishonour — and he was still helpless before their whims.
He sighed and raised his head. Crossing the hall, his bony plates of natural armour clacked against the stone.
Pausing in front of the door that would lead into the temple proper, Arc spent a final moment to feel the magnitude of his shame. He closed his eyes, pushing his wants to the sacred ones who stared down at him.
“Forgive this one for his weakness. For the naivety of his long-past youth.”
He pushed open the door, stepping into the next room.
Far smaller than the Hall of Gods, it was a space dominated by the warmth of yellow wardlights, and cushioned benches that waited for the early morning petitioners.
Upon the stage at the far back of the room, Arc spied an aged Holy One deeply entrenched in a large tome that took up almost the full size of the table he sat at.
Arc shut the door, the noise causing the holy man to jump.
“Oh! Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting a visitor at this hour. Monk Thrial, at your service.” The Holy One smiled, smoothing down his ruffled brown robes before he peered through the soft light of the worship hall to get a closer look at Arc.
Arc saw the Holy One’s eyes widen.
“Arc’theros! Please forgive me for not recognising you, my eyes aren’t quite the best in this light.”
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The holyman raced to their feet, stepping down from the raised stage to make his way down the gaps between the pews.
Arc tugged at one of his horns anxiously, watching the limp in the Holy One's step. He’d lived in the human lands for long enough to know that one with silvery hair and leathery skin was a venerable elder
“Please, Holy One Thrial, do not strain yourself for one such as me.”
Holy One Thrial gave him a shocked look.
“What? Nonsense! How could a humble man of the cloth like myself expect the Defender of Grandbrook to give such deference?”
Arc frowned, hurrying forward to offer the man his arm. Holy One Thrial gave a sigh of discontent, but gripped his bone-plated forearm all the same.
“I suppose I should expect such respect from someone with your reputation, Arc’theros. You do yourself credit.”
“Please, Holy One, call this one Arc — this one is unworthy.” Inwardly, he wondered if plucking his spines would be less uncomfortable than hearing the regard in the Holy One’s voice.
“If you insist, Arc,” he holy said with a sigh. “Now, before you share what is troubling you, why don’t we take a seat? These bones aren’t quite what they used to be, and I lack both your hirgost and Golden vigour.”
Arc bowed his head, accepting the Holy One’s wisdom as he led the aged monk to a nearby padded pew. Once Thrial was safely seated, he took his place next to him — tugging as his kilt so it lay flat underneath him.
“How did you know I was troubled, Holy One?”
Thrial laughed, filling the worship room with his mirth.
“Oh, forgive me, Arc. I mean no disrespect.”
“You could not disrespect me, Holy One.” he bowed his head again.
An aged hand slapped the back of his shoulder. Arc looked sharply at the Holy One's hand, concern clutching him — his bone-carapace had grown jagged and sharp in the decades away from the polishing sand-winds of his birth.
“Stop that, I will have no contrition from you. Not with how much you have done for this city, and definitely not when you refuse even to join the Guild and earn the rewards you are due!” The Holy One’s impassioned words were followed by a warm smile. Arc squirmed in his seat.
“As for your question, I am your elder — even if only just — and I have seen much in my time with the temple. You visit frequently, but never at such a late hour — so tell me, lauded Defender, tell me what is bothering you.”
Arc crumbled.
“One as dishonourable as this one deserves no such veneration, Holy One.”
The Holy One sighed sadly, patting him on his shoulder. It was a familiar response, but he would never understand why the humans could not see.
“This again, Arc? My predecessors and colleagues have told me a little of your story. I know the ways of the hirgost are different from our own, but it has been nearly a century of self-flagellation — for something that the vast majority of peoples would consider nothing more than a childhood tragedy. You were a boy, must you torture yourself so?”
Arc nodded. “This one must, Holy One, but it is not this old war-wound that brings me before the judgement of the sacred ones tonight. This one finds himself forced to dishonour himself once more, and knows not what path to take — what branch will stain this one’s soul the least.”
He waited for the scorn he was due for having been so foolish as to fall into such a position. It never came — the Holy One only sighed sadly, heavy with the weight of his years.
“The ways of your people are harsh indeed — a reflection of your home, I suppose. Tell me of this crossroads, Arc, and I will do my best to counsel you.”
Arc nodded in relief. He was much in need of spiritual guidance.
“Ninety-three years ago, when this one was but newly exiled, this one was new to the frontier. This one did not know the perils of winter, and lacked the Vitality to withstand it. This one was caught in a storm, and succumbed to frost and sickness. This one would have died.” Arc said his words plainly, withholding his unworthy grief.
The Holy One watched him with concern and curiosity in equal parts.
“How did you survive?”
Arc shuffled, uncomfortable with the memory — the warmth had been sucked out of it with everything that had happened since.
“This one woke in a small home, tended by a young boy. The boy was poor — destitute and alone — and scared of this one's stature and appearance. Still, the boy tended to this one diligently, shared that which he had little to give, to ensure this one's continuance through till spring.”
“A kind soul.” Thrial smiled warmly. “Though, I struggle to see how this relates to your current circumstances?”
Arc paused for a moment, gathering his words.
“It had only been a year since this one's exile, and the wounds of my lost honour still ached greatly — this one was surly, insisted on continuing his journey of penance. Still, this one had known that such an act had saved this one's unworthy life — that a price was due.”
“Ah.” Thriel nodded gravely. “A blood debt — an oath.”
“Indeed, Holy One. As the years passed, and the debt was never called upon, it faded to the back of this one's mind. This one tried to find the boy several times — to return the debt that was owed by sharing the wealth that this one had been fostered with. This one never succeeded.”
“I assume that, until very recently, you thought the boy had passed?”
“This one did as such, yes.”
The Holy One rubbed their forehead, his soft human skin wrinkling. “What happened, Arc? What debt was called?”
Arc leaned forwards, drawing his arms close to his chest as he remembered the night, the message that had arrived at his humble dwelling.
“This one received a letter calling on the blood debt two nights passed. At first, this one was delighted to return his blood debt to the boy, to uplift them in any way this one could.”
He sighed, his spines pulling tight to his skin, “Holy One, it was vile. The boy requested I assist him with capturing a team of valiants — to hold them secure until he could pilfer their secrets from their mind!”
Turning to the Holy One, Arc found only a face filled with sadness. An aged hand fell on his shoulder.
“And now you are caught at a crossroads, forced to choose between breaking your word once more, or acting in opposition to your code.”
It was a painful thing, for his weakness to be spoken so plainly by one so venerable. Arc leaned forwards, resting his horns on the back of the pew in front of him.
“Indeed, Holy One. This one is stained once more.”
The Holy One patted him on the back.
“I think not, great Defender of Grandbrook!”
Arc sat up, looking to the Holy One in confusion — how could he be so sure?
The Holy One gave him a warm smile, “The boy you gave your oath to is not the man who would make you commit such black deeds, your oath remains unbroken — taken to the boy's grave.”
Arc tilted his head, “Apologies, Holy One, this one does not believe that is the way of oaths?”
A withered finger jabbed him gently on the forehead, “You would take on the burdens of Jorosh the Bound, and you have not even read his teachings?”
“This one—”
“No, this discussion is tabled until we have read and discussed the Book of Binding, Honour and Clan, and The Spirit of Sand and Bone — it will only take a handful of hours with your mental stats.”
“Holy One—”
“Give me your arm, Arc’theros! There are a great many stairs between here and the library.”