The Wolf, the Jackal, the Blades, the Ash - Sorrel tools up

Written with the mighty Lykksie

Be like the wolf, Sorrel was taught by the strike team leaders in the House. The lion and the tiger may be more powerful, but the wolf does not perform in the circus.

She doesn’t feel much like the wolf at the moment. She’s been kicking in in the temple of Selûne for the past couple of weeks, because Protect the High Diviner, right? She wanders from her cell to the library where she pretends to read books she doesn’t understand but spends most of her days at the door, searching suspicious visitors and trying to organise crash High Diviner protection runs.

After the fourth such attempt, as a couple of monks try to hustle Rholor from the altar during a midnight service, the High Diviner arrives in her cell, with Melissa and a couple of muscular clerics in tow.

"Sorrel, I know we’ve had this conversation, but I do not need protecting, thank you," Rholor begins.

“I understand,” Sorrel nods.

“So this will all stop?”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid,” her face is set.

“How can you not do that? I am the High Diviner!”

“I have been told to protect you and you are not my client,” Sorrel explains patiently. “If you send me from the temple I will hole up in a shop across the square with a clear line of fire and a well paid informant because I do not report to the High Diviner and my instructions are very specific.”

Rholor throws his hands up in despair and stalks from the room.

Melissa gives Sorrel a pointed look. "Girl, you are…” she catches Sorrel’s eye and changes tack. "Ok, but at least take a walk. We've got him for an hour. You're going to lose your mind."

Sorrel looks tired. “I would need to check there was someone in place and that we have an arcana cleric who can call me if there is trouble.”

Melissa holds up the silver staff she carries around all the time and, with a flicker, it transforms into a frankly terrifying greatsword in the blink of an eye. She smiles. “We aren’t all clerics here.”

Sorrel remembers the stories about Melissa – a barbarian called by the Moonmaiden… she’d assumed they were temple gossip. Clearly not, she realises as Melissa gently steers her out the door.

With a shamefaced nod she accepts Melissa’s guidance. “Sorry, it’s been a messy month, I don’t know how I forgot… we should talk sometime, I’m interested in the…”

“For sure,” Melissa says. “I’m always down for brunch.” And she slams the temple door shut.

Sorrel sees Castleside stretching out around the temple square. It's late evening, and not many people are out. Spring seems to have finally sprung so it's not a bitingly cold night - one could be forgiven for calling it refreshing.

Something keeps nagging her though, something poking in the back of her mind, like a faint ringing of tinnitus in her ears that won't stop. She's grinding her teeth against it, trying not to stomp back to the temple and bar the doors from the inside but it's hard to resist the brutal unease. The ringing increases in pitch suddenly, almost cutting through her mind and then a gruff voice calls out from down an alley.

"You won't find it in there, girl."

She stops... there's something about that voice. Has she heard it before or is this deja vue?

Her sword hand twitches but she doesn't reach for her weapon

A figure moves in the shadows, stepping closer but staying just out of the swath of moonlight cutting the alley in two.

"She gave you an order. You won't find the key to carrying it out in the temple. That would be too easy."

It's a man's voice, that much is clear. He appears to be quite tall, an imposing build. Sorrel can hear the muffled sounds of full plate. He doesn't sound smug about what he's saying. More tired and gruff.

Sorrel's hand adjusts her belt, almost accidentally moving her grip closer to her rapier hilt. She runs through one of her tactical drills: Full plate is tricky on a well-trained opponent but they don't have the speed or mobility. The weakness is in the eye slits. It's important to stay nimble and not allow them to close.

She stays where she is. "The order was very specific. Protect. How do I protect someone if I don't have eyes on them?"

"You don't stop an arrow by keeping your eyes on the bow. You do it by taking out the bowman before he can let it loose," the figure replies.

Sorrel nods. "But you would need to know where the bowman is. I don't have that sort of intelligence capability. It is just me." She sags. "And I am so tired..."

There's a moment's pause and then there's a derisive little laugh from the man, just a small huff of an exhale really. It seems to be aimed not at her or the topic, but at himself, somehow.

"Well. We can change that."

He turns on his heel and walks down the alley. "If you're done sittin around doin' fuck all, that is."

Sorrel shouts after him "wait... what is this? Who are you?"

In the blink of an eye he disappears from view only to reappear right next to her. "Will you kindly lower your fuckin' voice, Darkfire?"

"If you stop showing off with misty step, sure," she snaps back then bites her tongue.

The man beside her is a warrior unlike any she has met before. Any she has met more soldiers than the average dragon has gold piece in its hoard. He is tall, in plate armour that almost seems too big for him and his face is scarred and dirty as if fresh from battle. He has a pride and a dignity about him that feels both holy and dangerous and there's something so inspiring about him that her curt responses vanish and she stutters.

"I mean... how did you know my name, sir?" Sir? She can hardly believe her ears. What the fuck was that?

There's a miniscule tug at the corner of his mouth at the stutter and the honorific.

"I know plenty of things. I know you've been sat on your arse tryin' to carry out orders while your friends have been bleeding from their every orifice fightin' these fucks."

"With respect," with respect? What has happened to her? "You do not know how hard it is to keep guard..." she trails off. She suspects he does. She bites her lip again. "I prefer to attack,” she nods. “Always. But where? Against who? And who will be there to place their body between the High Diviner and the enemies of the goddess? I am not at ease but I don't know what to do. And also I don't know your name, which seems a little unfair."

There's an eyebrow, bisected and distorted by one of the vicious scars across his face, that lifts as she accuses him of Not Knowing and then lowers as she understands how wrong she is.

"I'm known as the Jackal. They're known as the Heralds of Blades and Ash, and they're coming. This is their end goal, yes, but they need things to carry it out. They can't make certain moves yet."

Sorrel smiles. She trusts him for many reasons, but his nickname clinches it.

"The Jackal is a good name. I am acting... I thought I was acting alone. There are young clerics - Seraphina, a child, and Velania, who has vanished it seems, but they are not warriors. There is the halfling Marto and the paladin Zola who fought the fiends... but I have no way to find them and they may have troubles of their own. Marto was marked..." she stops. Again she has the feeling he knows all of this. "Perhaps I should start again," she says eventually. "If I won't find it in there, where will I find it?"

The eyebrow climbs a little again when she describes Seraphina as a child. "And you're what? Older than the oceans and a battle hardened motherfucker?"

He shakes his head before she can interject.

"You're all children playin' at war. That's not your fault though. You'll find what you need by rememberin' your trainin', Darkfire. Keep a level head on your shoulders, an eye on the periphery and listen for the call. And like I told your friend Velania; inaction is worse than the wrong action. Hesitation gets you killed."

He considers for a second.

"... or someone else killed." he adds.

Sorrel nods respectfully. "I understand. I will take your advice - or orders if that's the stage we are at. But let me say this - I can see your service and suffering. But I promise you, I do not play at war. I lost my first love to its hunger, and I have lived with it ever since. I have forgotten the number of gates I have defended or stormed, the rearguards I have helped escape, the villages I have tried to save, the children I have helped parents bury. I have my scars. You cannot see them, but they are there. I do not play at war."

His face doesn't change, it just remains this marred, tired and worn thing. But he hears her words and there's the slightest hint of sadness in his eyes as he recognises something in her that he knows all too well.

Their eyes meet and she bows

"You understand me..." she says softly. "I am rarely understood."

“She is the solace," he murmurs. "The promise of someone to cleanse our wounds at the end of it all."

Sorrel looks up, hope in her eyes.

"So we strive to make ourselves worthy of her grace," he concludes. The silence that follows speaks all too plainly about how he hasn't found himself worthy yet. "Be ready, Darkfire. Look for my call, or that of my associate. Can't miss it."

Sorrel can hardly speak, her voice is choked with emotion. "She saved me from the Hunger Spirit. She welcomed me into her church. She has my life in her keeping. I will be ready."

He nods once then turns and walks down the alley. Sorrel watches him go but between one split second and the next, he is gone.

There's a flare of light in the sky as the clouds part wider and moonlight spills over her like water.

The ringing doesn't return.

She stands for a few moments, lost in thought, then shakes her head and looks around at the empty street.

She checks her bowstring, touches the handle of her rapier, lifts up the moon-touched charm of Selûne to her lips then lets it fall. Her eyes close for a second, and her face, if anyone had been watching, is suddenly grey with exhaustion. Then she looks up, squares her shoulders, and strides back to the temple.

The time for books has passed.