Lead and Gold

Godricke Sylvas crept through the underbrush, eyes trained on the pinpoint of light that marked an exit from the forest. His sable robe molded to his form protectively, seeming to hungrily drink in the scattered light filtering through the treetops; he might as well have been the shadow of a fleeing deer. He stopped a moment to look back the way he had come, the forms of the townspeople just receding pictures of detail. They had all chosen to remain behind,—“So as not to hinder your heroic mission, Sir Godricke”—but he knew better; they were just cowards seeking the easiest way to rid themselves of their problems. He loved them, because they loved him, but sometimes he felt as if he did do much for them, as if their dependency was exactly what made them so miserable. He did not feel as if this ‘mission’ they had sent him on was desperate for one of his nature. They claimed there was a monster stalking the countryside, one that had been driven from village to village after relentless effort. Upon being questioned, none of the ‘victims’ could give an accurate description of this creature. The most they could give as a response was the feeling of a presence, or unusual shadows—in other words, the very same things that basic fear is made of. He half expected to reach his destination and only find a rabid wolf or dog, nothing that required a crossbow and stealth. Reluctantly, however, he bore their weaknesses, if only for the sake of their happiness. Not all of them were so selfish, however, and he had seen that in an old, leathery woman that had approached him. She had yanked a small trinket off a cord around her neck and dropped it into his palm, wordlessly turning away, with no explanation or demand of thanks. At the time, he had seen it as inappropriate to scrutinize it to closely—he did not want the old woman to think him ungrateful or too quizzical—but here, away from the disruptive murmur of the excited people, he retrieved the object from the coat pocket he had deposited it in.

It was simple, a t-shaped piece of wood, devoid of any detail save for the natural patterns of its cut. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, though he could not place a name or a purpose to it at that moment. Despite the odd manner in which he had received it, the emblem comforted him in a way he could not describe. He only wished he could put a name to the soothing object. What was it? A cruz? Cr—Godricke was jolted from his thoughts by a violent report that reverberated through the forest, sending flocks of blackbirds barreling from their treetop roosts. Instinctively, his hand dropped to his crossbow, gripping the polished bronze stock, already beginning to draw it from his hip. It was only after a few moments that his mind processed what he had heard—it was the sound of a massive door closing. He cursed to himself silently for his moment of fright, stowing the weapon in its original position. Composed once again, he started off at a trot, hoping that his lapse of focus hadn’t cost him his mark and the favor of his people.