Axiom ~ 16!

~ Sixteen ~

Head Cleric Tarrean was pleasantly leafing through real paper once more in his personal tent. Smooth, crisp, light paper. None of this awful vellum for him! When he could get away with finery, he would. His polished, ornate armor was a testament to that. Just file such ostentatious tidbits away under some kind of basic need, and you’d find someone willing to cave and sign-off on the expense document. 

After all, he was the Head cleric of this expedition! He deserved this! It was his right to display his rank proudly, a beacon of righteousness for the church. As a mighty D-rank seven, he was the most powerful cultivator of his entire expedition-wing. Then again, he had also been bestowed with two strong affinity channels rather than the pitiful singular one most people could count their blessings to have.

Tarrean took a moment to relish in his continued good fortune. This mission had been tailor-made for him, clearly with divine guidance. His prayer was going to be extra juicy during the noon session to thank the heavens for their abundance. Yes, it was good to be Head Cleric. 

This was an easy mission in the ‘secret’ category that carried sizable prestige. He was putting the final scribbled touches on the mission report right now. The majority of the expedition would continue pursuit of the raiders under the watchful guidance of Jiivra. She was always seeking opportunities to prove herself, and this was a decidedly easy one to allow her. 

A handful of hand-picked priests would remain behind with him, along with the wounded, to tend to the local situation and safeguard their excellent forward base prospect. In the old age, building was not allowed here. 

Such times had passed, and he had such visionary plans. Stealing a swift glance at the entrance flap of his tent and finding it secured and closed, he retrieved a vellum liberated from the exhausted raider group that had just walked into their weapons. A proper and fully signed mundane deed of land ownership. The problem was, it was signed by someone with very angry hand-script, and that was suspect. If he could not obtain an exact copy from the present Elder, then this document–while prized–was a fake.

Rules were twisted in the Fringe. Mana signatures didn’t work here. It made for an exceptional mess in bureaucracy; a piece of land where one could not bind ownership with absolute certainty. He wondered if all locations near celestial dungeons had this problem, but quickly shook that from his mind. Celestial and infernal dungeons were too dangerous. It was all too well known that they caused wars through their own, seemingly innocuous means. At least celestial ones did. He would not spare a thought on what a blasphemous infernal dungeon might do to a person. 

Extermination was the duty of the day when that Essence type became involved. It bred necromancers, extremists, and… ugh, Demon Summoners. The Head Cleric felt a sour taste in his mouth, and he swiftly bundled the vellum. Back to his precious paper products! If the signature matched, he could outright claim ownership of a chunk of the Fringe. He would obviously do so under the protective wing of the church, but he knew he was destined for grander things.

Tarrean snapped from his distraction, tapping his quill in the inkwell. Let’s see. Himself, and the few injured would stay in camp. Tibbins had been assigned babysitting duty, he had to stay. Irene was a must as Keeper, and needed to stay to keep a proper tally of all the goods they were going to find and claim in this village. Jiivra unfortunately was getting her chance to be the bigshot; so, squad lead it was. Therefore, that thankfully meant she wasn’t going to have a presence in the forward camp. 

Did he need any of the others? He could do without Tibbins, but had no interest in dawdling around a drooling old fool. He supposed he could see to the healthcare of the injured young priests. It would let them see his own magnanimous value, and their respect for him would rise if he personally attended to them. Yes, that was more than enough to hold down his small encampment. 

By himself he was more than a match for anything the Fringe might have in store for him. Without the common threat of beasts, his only real concern was raiders. Wouldn’t you know it; that’s exactly what the majority of his people were about to set out to take care of for him. His plans were falling into place perfectly!

Heavy supplies could be left behind as well, Jiivra always did like her fast attack tactics. She’d appreciate the mention in the report, at the very least. Yes… that would do. Scribbling down some details, the bump of a spear hitting the ground twice outside his tent flap reached his ears. 

“Enter.” The Head cleric called without looking up.

Tibbins entered the tent, saluted, and waited to be addressed. The Head Cleric drew some finishing lines, and then laid down the quill. He addressed the young adult, wondering why he’d been bothered, “Acolyte Tibbins?” 

“Sir! The Elder of the village is awake, and mostly lucid. Perhaps not quite stable, but lucid.” 

Tarrean clasped his hands together with a smile as he leaned back. “Excellent! You have managed to procure the needed documents from the Elder then?” 

Tibbins squeezed his lips into a flat line. “There’s a few problems, sir.” 

“A few, Acolyte?” Tarrean’s mirth melted from his face like hot butter. He blinked at the younger man. “Not one, not two. A few?” 

Tibbins nervously swallowed. “Perhaps… allow me to walk you through it, Sir. It threw me for a loop when I heard it the first time.” 

Tarrean remained calmly in his seat, ready to hear what was likely going to be the start of a longer than wanted day. Tibbins followed suit, seating himself on the other side of the Head Cleric’s desk. “When I tried to confirm if our man in blue was the Elder. He looked at me and asked: ‘Would you like me to fetch him for you’?” 

That received the appropriate eyebrow raise from the Head Cleric so Tibbins continued. “So he gets up, and fetches this cup from the longhouse.” 

The young man put the wood with the word ‘Elder’ carved into the poor excuse of a wooden cup on his superior’s desk. “He told me: ‘there you go. I’ve brought you the Elder’, and proceeded to calmly shamble back off to the medical tent without a care in the world.”

Tarrean rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “I… see. How... this might be the start to a set of a few more complicated problems. Did you get an answer as to who the woman was?” 

At least this he was hoping to get a solid answer for. 

“Yes Sir.” Tibbins replied, but he still had that incredibly flat lipped expression. More uncertain news. “In his exact words. ‘She’s Nobody’.”

The Head Cleric now matched Tibbins’ thin lip-lined expression. He rumbled with a wholesome and yet demeaning monotone voice, eyes locked firmly on the Acolyte, “Tibbins.” 

“I know, Sir, I know. I do have good news.” The Acolyte quickly retorted, his hands waving frantically. Given that there was no response from his superior, he quickly filled the void. “When I asked if there’s anything he wanted, all he asked for was some water, a pillow or two, something to write on, and to be told about cultivation so he could indulge in a fantasy while he slept. I imagine he saw the clerics and thought of their Essence as something akin to mystical powers.”

“Possibly, he’s idolizing us. I don’t want to jeopardize a useful view like that, even if it is… deceitful.” Tibbins did a poor job concealing that he disliked being a liar, and didn’t want to be one to a gentle old man in the last stages of his life. Tarrean–on the other hand–had a glint in his smile as it spread across his face.

“No Acolyte, that’s alright. Indulge the man. Tell him everything, and then more, and more, until you’re out of things to say. A man that old has no chance of doing anything with the knowledge, much less spreading it about all alone in the Fringe. When you’re all out of things to say, and the old fool still hungers for more to feed his nightly dreams… send him to me. I will do the hard part, Tibbins. I know you’re a gentle soul, not forged in war and fury like I was. Ex-adventurer, right?” 

Tibbins nodded. “Yes Sir. F-rank eight.” 

The Acolyte’s expression turned somber. He never made the cut as an adventurer. He never made it to the D ranks, solidly stuck in the upper F’s. The fishy rank. The failure rank. Tibbins then glimpsed a different path his future could take. “Would you tell me about your cultivation secrets along with the old man, Sir?” 

The Head Cleric unfortunately was ready to crush such a hope, yet found that, incentives could be applied here. “I tell you what, Tibbins. You’re a good soul. You keep that old man interested enough to the point where he comes to ask me things, and I will overlook whatever he might tell you in return. How’s that?” 

It wasn’t direct knowledge, and using the old man like a filter wasn’t ideal. It did get the required motivation for the Acolyte to stop slacking so much in his care of the Elder. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, the old man wore an utterly dour expression when he was referred to as ‘Elder’. He decided it was best to keep that to himself. “Yes, Sir!” 

Tarrean nodded and was about to dismiss him from the tent. “Good lad. Before you go. The old man. Does it have a name?” 

Tibbins nodded, “Artorian, Sir.” 

He saluted and left the tent as the Head cleric pondered on the name in bewilderment. Artorian? What kind of a name was that? What region was that from, nay, what country or kingdom? A dukedom, perchance? Naming conventions and types changed depending on what corner of the world one was from, but this… was out there. He shook it off and decided he didn’t care. With the Acolyte motivated to take care of his charge, it meant one less thing on his plate, and more time for… other pursuits.

Tibbins arrived at the medical tent with some pep in his step, and heard some warm laughter from inside before he ever moved the flap. Ducking his head in before pushing through fully, he saw one of the wounded soldiers nearly hacking up a lung with a helpless smile on his face, strongly hitting his knee while the old man sat there with hands folded, plainly self-satisfied. 

“What happened?” Tibbins’ voice was full of bewilderment. 

“Oh, just a harmless joke,” Artorian answered with pleasant mirth, his eyes lazily moving to look at Tibbins. The particular method in which the old man had replied to the Acolyte made another snorting fit assail the laughing, injured priest. 

The Acolyte composed himself, or tried to as he felt the old man’s gaze. No, no that’s not what it felt like. Tibbins didn’t feel like he was being looked at, it felt like he was being looked through. As if there was an object behind him that the old man was inspecting instead. The gaze felt awfully familiar. 

Had his charge possessed Essence, he would have thought his Meridians might be under inspection, but the old man clearly wasn’t using Essence. It might be a good idea to have a proper look at him after Irene’s warning. “Right. Well, I’ve the go-ahead from the Head Cleric to indulge you and answer your questions concerning cultivation. I must warn you, I’m no expert. Give me a moment to look at your center, and we’ll begin.” 

The laughter behind Artorian sputtered to a halt as the peanut gallery noticed the ten-yard stare their technically-superior-officer was dropping into.  The wounded Cleric shouted, “No, Tibbins! Don’t!”