Stories

Malika strode with purpose back toward the ruin of her village, caring little whether or not the holy man Orthael followed. She would complete her task, with his help or without it. It mattered not to her which way the work at hand was done.

As silently as the High Angel before it, Judgement whispered echoes of its past to Orthael. There had been many who had made similar vows in a time long before, when the Dead had arisen in such numbers that the darkness had very much threatened to overwhelm the light.

Malika stalked away, caring little if the Orthael followed. She had no care for her own life anymore. Everything she had ever known and cared about had been stripped from her in a single night.

A parishioner had requested aid against the Dead. The task of returning the dead to rest was beyond import – it lay somewhere in the realm of the sacrosanct.

At last Malika leaned away from the stranger, shrugging off his embrace like a cloak. She wanted her pain, needed it in order to do what must be done.

“Who be you,” Malika whispered once more, her head leaning still against the stranger’s chest. “Orthael you may be. Paladin you may be. But you be not like the others who would have come before, the others who would have seen me yet not seen me. They be complacent and indifferent.”

There was a silent explosion of glittering light that swept through the forest in a radiant blast.

Malika was suddenly overwhelmed by the cleansing intent and purity of Flame. It flowed through and over her like an all-consuming heat — and as it did, it drew much of the pain and fury from her slight frame.