Finn Thaener 2
Lower Wind Month — Day 25
When midday arrived, the ring was gone. Finn had no desire to endure the side effects of the thaumaturgy bound to it. After all, there was wisdom in the design of nature, in granting her children the capacity to hunger and tire—those limits were there for a reason.
The arcane—that force so often bound to maleficence—required indulgence tempered with caution.
…like fire.
Finn was not prone to temperance, and he was not willing to acquire that discipline. Hence when met with things that would instil in him compulsion, he deemed the smartest action denial.
And so he sat within his tent, meditating. For despite his earlier misgivings, the station of captain bore little in the way of true responsibility or demand. What few tasks it required, he could delegate—a mercy he wielded with ruthless precision.
Or at least, such was his judgment.
He exhaled, his breaths measured, his spiritual presence held in perfect balance. His body eased into relaxation, shedding the weight of accumulated fatigue. This was no true sleep, mind you, for his wisdom forbade him such vulnerability in lands so recently scarred by acts of villainy.
And those villains—the dabblers of necromancy—were still out there, hiding. Plotting.
It felt a dream, this new world.
When they still dwelled in the vanir-realm, every evil he had faced was born of creatures soused in malice or corrupted by twisted nature. The demons, the monsters, and the fae-remnants driven mad by the primal forces. Here, in this realm of nature, their immediate foe had been men given to delusion and greed.
Of course, Finn was no child settled with a sight of rose and fantasy. He knew men was no benevolent being—even his own lords of nobility had been prone to evil throughout the millennia. But he had never suffered that experience throughout his existence.
Perhaps, that was why this current situation irked him so.
He took a deep breath, his gift giving him the freshest of the world’s essence, and let it out slowly. His affinity siphoned from his raw reserves, filling the meagre pool of his mana. He channelled the gales in him, and left the ground.
‘Twas a feat he had seen the monks perform. Though they, unlike he, achieved such through enlightenment rather than hovering by the aid of their elemental affinity.
Though it was not the enlightenment he was intend on mimicking. No, Finn took to this practice because it was one of the few ways he could hone his Gale.
He surrendered his hearing to the wind, letting it carry his senses outward, expanding his perception. The art was tricky… dangerous. He had ruptured his eardrums far too often in its practice, leaving his sight diminished and his body unsteady in its aftermath.
A dozen pathetic attempts had rendered him merely adequate in the sensory art, and a hundred more dutiful practices had honed him to skillful precision. He knew he owed a thousand more to reach mastery, and only then would he become a sensor capable of such feats without the crutch of meditation.
And so he meditated, attuned to the sounds beyond the realm of ordinary perception. He heard the laughter of the children, their spirits momentarily free from the weight of their trauma, lost in the joy of play. He felt the elders, too, their minds haunted with worry, their future uncertain as their livelihood lay in ruin, scorched to ash.
Some—those rare few who loved deeply—plotted and wept, pleading with his men to allow them to recover the bodies of their kin, to honor their faith and perform the rites they believed their souls demanded.
But Finn knew, as did his men, that it was this very custom—burial without the blessing of a divinely-touched hand to pass the rites and surrender the spirits of the fallen to the heavens, while laying their bodies to rest in the earth—that had led to Carne and its neighboring villages being overrun by the undead.
Burials were acts of the sacrosanct, and as such, they ought to be performed by those beloved both by the heavens and the divine.
Hence the barriers he had commanded Norbert to erect, along with the talismans they had used to contain the spread of the taint. He would not allow the miasma of the dead to spawn a plague and claim yet more lives, lives still holding futures before them.
And while the villagers would hold him responsible for their suffering, he would not hate them for it.
"It’s only natural to loathe the closest hindrance to your will when the true culprit is absent."
But time would see them quelled.
The priests and clergy would come to cleanse the land of this foulness, while the druids would renew the soil. Finn, however, would bring those responsible to face justice—and vengeance.
Even if that would see him reprimanded by his superiors.
One of his men arrived, breaking the fragile stillness of his moment of zen. Duty called to him once more.
"Private Brutus," he greeted, descending to the ground, one leg touching before the other. "Or would you prefer a different title of address?"
With measured ease and practiced dignity, he moved toward his desk, Widow finding its way to him through some obscure witchery. He welcomed the sword with an ease born of years, and sheathed it just as gracefully.
"I’ve no preference for titles, captain." The man—a pure human by the looks of it—said with an accent that suffered no pomp. He was part of the new batch folded to his old unit to form this platoon he now led.
Finn observed him closely, his gaze drifting from the man’s face to the robes of magehood he wore, and finally to the package in his hands, cloaked in a faint shimmer of Divine Grace.
Cursed Artefacts.
Finn nodded, approving of the honesty. "Good man," he said, the praise slipping from him instinctively. "Too often have I seen magi demand reverence. It’s never a good sign."
"I’m of the milatur," Brutus replied plainly. "Trained for combat and utility—not to tinker and bicker in those towers."
"You’ve humour too," the amusement played in his eyes. "But don’t be too opposed to the profession, the tower folks enjoy lavish beyond that of us soldiers, no matter our capabilities."
And it was true.
Though Finn held a distaste for thaumaturgy, it was no secret that those gifted with the talent had greater opportunities for wealth if they pursued its more valued disciplines. Potioneers, enchanters, spellcrafters, healers… such roles were ever in demand.
The milatur, for all its glory, only favoured martial prowess—and a combatant caster was no magi of lavish. Hence why he advised for casters to take a secondary discipline at the expense of the army.
The frontlines were fraught with dangers that could strip a soldier of their ability to fight—curses being so common that entire protocols existed to address them.
It was for this reason that people needed a fallback plan, in case they fell victim to one of those wounds riddled with hexes, the kind that stifled both recovery and a return to normality.
Finn’s own fallback plan was farming. He intended to establish a farm that would cultivate luxury crops, the kind he could sell to the landed knights and barons who lacked the privileges and resources of the great houses.
If he got big enough, he could arrange his boy to marry into nobility—that had a far greater chance of success than knighthood.
He pushed these daydreams aside and refocused on Brutus. "Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, do tell me the reason for your visit."
The magus straightened, presenting the box with dourness. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it, revealing three orbs of black, faintly pulsing with a corruption-tinged purple glow.
Finn suppressed a reaction, and feigned speculation.
"Necromantic artifacts," the soldier said. "Crudely fashioned, yet rich with foul energies—enough to raise a host in the thousands. They’ve… complex workings, like conduits, though crafted solely for Death Calling."
Finn did not know what that last part meant—he did not understand half the words used by those who took to magery.
Instead, he turned to matters of greater urgency. "Complex workings, eh?" He spared the foul things no further speculation. "You’ve divined the nature of their design? Tell me what curses they bear—and whether we might employ witchery to track the whereabouts of the undead lovers."
"The curses are the usual fare for necromantic artifacts—life force drainage, compulsion, madness, and unwieldiness." He paused for a moment before continuing, "As for using divination to suss out the cultists’ location, I’m afraid that will prove difficult—these items are choked with anti-divination measures."
Unsurprising, but still irksome.
Finn pursed his lips, thoughtful. "What of the villagers? Have we obtained any useful intel on the cultist’s identity?"
The despicable curs had left no trace of their origins, no clue as to their purpose.
"Nothing but hearsay," Brutus spoke. "One of the more constant is of a group of slavers headed by a man of rot—a lich."
And that was the other thing about these villages that angered him. It was not only the evils of the unnatural they suffered but also slavery, reaving, and, in times of great winter, goblin and orc raids.
Bloody archaic, was what this society was. A people plagued with barbarism and apathy.
And now, Finn was hearing of a lich that headed a band of slavers?
He sighed, suddenly tired. "Then keep to our old routine. The bastards are bound to wonder at the disappearance of the hordes. We’ll capture one of them and tear the truth from their flesh."
And he would do just that. The bastards had slaughtered children—infants, even—in their mania. Finn, and gods knew how many of his men, had been forced to put down the undead remains of babes.
That ought to be an evil punished in suffering.
He pushed back into the chair, the item like clouds the way it gave him comfort.
"Secure these accursed things—stamp a hazardous warning on them—and have them guarded until the retrieval squad arrives. They’re foul, but the bonus we’ll get for them will make the trouble worthwhile." Not to mention, if he lost them, the sorcerers up in the towers would ruin him. "Also, write up a report on their acquisition, capabilities, and any exaggerations we might get away with."
Might as well grovel while they were at it.
Brutus saluted—unquestioning—and made out of his tent in eager haste. Finn pulled out his flask at his subordinate’s departure, and took a sip of the cheap iskra in it.
'Now, all that’s left is convincing the villagers to migrate to Elgroth,' he mused.
"’Tis a grim fate indeed, what these villagers have endured," Norbert murmured beside him, his words shaped in the clipped tones of High Ulik.
Overly fine speech, that tongue. But it kept prying ears at bay well enough.
Finn cast his gaze skyward, where heavy rain churned the heavens into a brooding gray. Fitting, he thought, that the world itself should weep for the ruin left behind—even if its sorrow was but a shallow echo of the true loss.
'It’ll snuff out the embers well enough, I suppose.' So ran his thoughts, steadier now, with schemes of wealth and deception set to begin.
Softer comforts, grander things.
He had been blind to the chance before—if he were honest. But his friend hailed from a merchant’s blood, and such opportunities were never lost on him.
"The king will show them mercy, I believe. At the very least, he’ll take from them the accumulated struggle of this life with those fancy procedures," he told the Traverser.
In truth, the villages would want for nothing but luxury if they accepted Elgroth’s aid. They would be rebuilt—crafted with charm and quality beyond what they had ever known. The once-villagers would become indulgers, their days spent in ease, with only the calmest labors expected of them.
They would sacrifice no great freedom, and if they had the vision to see it, they could emerge from this with power and capabilities greater.
"Mayhaps," Norbert said, cautious. "I heard the crafters’ guild has been contracted to build a temporary settlement near the outskirts of Petuios. And Jila—the nursemaid—mentioned a host of personnel being assigned to quarantine duties near the watchtowers."
"That does explain the shots we suffered." The realization should not have taken this long, but hindsight was a fickle thing. "You think the natives carry some plague?" He cast a glance at the army of tents and frowned. "They certainly don’t look diseased."
"’Tis the sciences—a confusing mess of variables and nuances and whatnot. You’re lucky to not have attended the Institute."
That caught his attention, and his gaze tore away from the sky. "You’re an Academic?" he asked, incredulous. After all, what moron would rub shoulders with nobles, only to end up a private in the milatur?
Norbert looked surprised for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Oh no, friend. My family has yet to win enough favor from the nobility to earn such a sponsorship." He steadied himself, a smirk still on his lips. "I merely had the tutelage of a magus who enjoyed such privilege."
Finn scoffed, "You wealthy families are a wasteful lot."
"Says thee, who longs for noble blood to run in thy grand descendants."
The bastard mocked him—mocked him as if that dream were not common among those born low and bound to the mundane. Of course, his own outrage was faux. But his dream was not.
His son—the boy he had sired with a barmaid who had no right to steal his heart so—deserved all the greatness this life could offer. Finn had poured his own thirst for nobility into him, shaping it toward the honor of knighthood.
Though still a boy, the child had already shown to boast more raw reserves than himself, and he also seemed to have been loved by the Great Mother, for in the boy burned Flame.
Once he turned five, he would teach him the sword and virtues expected in those high strung warriors, and shape him a knight before even the selections of the Squire Ceremony.
Of course, Finn knew the slim odds of his boy making it through—the selections were notoriously fickle. That was why he had dreamed of starting a farm… farms where he could cater to the barons and knightly houses to earn noble favor.
All this was to say, he needed noble blood in his descendants for them not to suffer the constraints of mundanity.
Norbert shook off his laughter and sighed. "’Tis a tough life, this one of ambition." Finn gave a silent nod, conceding the truth. The Traverser pressed on, "Though I believe we’ve lingered long enough on comedy."
"Aye, though we still have yet to settle on which villagers to rope into this scheme."
It was a simple plan. Since the villages were free of noble rule, all lands within them—at least to a certain extent—were owned outright by the villagers. In short, once the king claimed these lands as his, he would grant full ownership of whatever lands—farms, homes, businesses—the villagers chose to keep.
…of course, that would be before he bought the rights from them, as the laws of base-blood dictated.
Land ownership was a privilege reserved solely for nobles.
Still, before that point, there would be chances to profit from royal coin—the king had plenty of it to spare. A simple get rich scheme.
Unfortunately, they needed a group of villagers—preferably farmers—to struck a deal with. The farmers will claim sizeable plots of land as theirs, and Finn would approve them. The king’s men would pay heaps of coin for those lands, and half of the payout would come to them—not physically, of course.
When the time came, Norbert’s family would stage a false exchange of goods, turning the plots into farms at reduced rates, and funneling out crops for at least half a decade—all without spending a single coin.
It was…perhaps not the most virtuous of schemes. But Finn was tired of drinking cheap iskra, and wine, and ale, and all manner of drinks that lacked the taste of true quality.
"We’d have a better idea after you had talks with the village leaders, me thinks." His friend told, rising to his feet. "For now, let’s focus on discovering the whereabouts of these necromancers."
"You’ve a clue of where they might be?" Finn chanced.
Norbert paused and frowned. Thinking.
"Not the location, but the intentions behind the savagery." A harsh breeze came, carrying with it the rumble of distant thunder. The magus continued, "Though I boast no capability in the unholy art, I did have some fancy for the discipline in my youth—the bloodfallen phase."
"Do spare me the foolishness of your teen-hood." The half-elf scoffed, waving the man to be on with the primary point.
"Fair enough," he laughed. "The point is, when planning to host a necromantic ritual, one needs a considerable surplus of Negative Energy. And in the absence of raw reserves, one could always compensate by harvesting Death Miasma."
Finn did not understand, not truly. But he kept quiet.
"Now see, when the Finder—Brutus—was busy with one of the artifacts, I cast an appraisal spell, Shatter Point, on two of them. By no means a wondrous spell—it’s merely used to gauge the quality and durability of an artifact. And even that, it does with questionable accuracy."
When Norbert glanced at him, he found Finn unamused—he had no fancy for the nuances of spells and rituals.
"What I’m saying is, one of the artifacts was on the verge of collapse from miasmic accumulation. That led me to think they might be converters—turning Miasma into Negative Energy. In other words, the things were meant to serve as batteries for a ritual."
He was still lost, and he said so. "I’ve still yet to see the point of your ramblings."
"We have their batteries, captain. All we need to do now is to discreetly monitor the villages that have yet to suffer attacks. The bastards will no doubt try to ravage them to satisfy the vacuum these lost items have caused."
That was…more plausible than his idea.
In fact…
He stood, turned to his friend—the greedy intellectual—and drove a fist straight into his liver. The blow shattered the barrier woven into his uniform, and the Traverser crumpled like a sack of potatoes.
"You ought to have told me that sooner, you lackwit!"
Finding a group of men adept at stealth took even more time, though when evening came, they had a group of robed men bound and ready for torture.