My Lady's Tapestry of the Fall of the Unhallowed
Garden of the Prophet > Libraria Chroniclis

A reckoning there would be between my Lord and Aelth, youngest of his sons, but that would not come until two full years past the peasant's festival of vaults within spired Turyth. The seed was planted well in Aelth's heart by Brother Hura, and by my Lady Mese, was it her intent or otherwise.

The sand-winds died to their very least with the first days of Char, and my Lady's thoughts turned to journeying once more. Within tread and wheel of stern forgen, eased little by bright pennons of fine craft, my Lady knelt in prayer for the souls of the red realms whilst we crossed sands and grasses. The highest spire of Turyth's forgen walls soon enough faded from view, and few peasants of the half-desert sought to petition or follow my Lady's modest procession. Broad Rephe of the guard dealt roughly with such within the Outer Spires of Turyth, as was his wont, and all beggars and ribalds soon knew my Lady's complexion as his. I was gladdened we had not to suffer the stench of peasant souls.

Aelth did not share our noisesome travel of clanking tread upon forgen wheel, and was joyful for it. He and his favored of the close-guard had swathed themselves in gere-fat and leather many days past in Awe, the better to travel in the manner of peasants. Afar they went to the great Cathedral and vaults of the Unresting Order upon Great Olimpan, whilst sand yet blew high, harsh and about. That pilgrimage is worthy of record, and such I have vowed to accomplish before the Prophet calls upon my soul.

All knew what lay in the heart of my Lord's youngest son, for he was given not to hidden intent, even from his earliest years. Upon his tongue was naught but the Orders of the Prophet and questions of the Faith across the days of Awe spent beneath Turyth's high spires. Those close-guard most loyal to my Lady spoke better of my Lord's youngest son than ever I had heard - even scarred Rephe, who was most faithful for all his peasant's countenance. Truly, to accept the Prophet's calling is to stand higher upon the flanks of Great Olimpan in the sight of men, no matter what has passed before. Aelth's soul was in my prayers in those days also, for all I saw the mighty sand-storm to come.

Many days from Turyth, the Great-bridge of the Disciples stood just as before; sand-drifts against forgen vault-works and a league of bridge-deck muffled from tread and wheel by spreading hard-grass. The deleth seeds thrown down by my Lord so long ago had grown fine and thin across the sword of Arteheban - enough to give pause to the faithful for reflection upon the passage of years. Not since the time of the High Ordained Rusul have men journeyed in great number to the mighty chasms. The realm of hills and half-desert beyond has fallen into desolation, its tall fortresses empty save for one: the destination of my Lady Mese, the Cloister of the Prophet's Footfall.

I have long commended the good women of the Cloister in word and deed. In their faith, they burnish and sweep clean the road-shrine of the secondmost step of the Prophet upon the red realms. For all their peasant blood, these cloistered stand far from the would-be brigand of the half-desert and the stench of low fortress decks. In this, I follow the affections of my Lady, for she had endowed an ample chantry upon the Cloister: prayer for the strength of our souls, and tapestry for the high vaults within my Lord's strong fortress.

The sourge-cough that so wracked Preacher Gare of Turyth had brought misery to the Cloister spire in the year that passed before. The eldermost maid passed to the care of the Prophet, blessings be upon her soul, and thus it fell to my Lady to bestow approval upon a new sequesten of the chantry.

For all that the greater part of the Cloister fortress stands empty and unkept, my Lady's close-guard were given to wait beyond the deleth groves and wall of piled crete from ancient, unhallowed years. My Lady set forth in modest ornament of coarse cloth, guided through canted forgen vault-works of old by the least of cloistered maids. At the very center of the fortress, the great portal of the Cloister-vault stood closed yet, its workings choked by sands then as now. Thin-wood stairs to the lowest arch window sufficed for the cloistered, and for my Lady also - past were the years in which such was an insult to my Lord's blood.

My Lady talked long with the elder maids within their least-vaults high and low. All the while, I dwelled upon the great tapestry then unfinished - years from a journey to my Lord's fortress in triumphant procession. Even then it was fit to stir the souls of the faithful. The cloistered maids turned their craft to declaim the fall of the Unhallowed of the red realms, whence the Demos city-realm was cast down from the Void - fell burning with Fire untamed by the Prophet. Into a thousand parts the Demos realm broke, each a hammer upon the red realms to throw up sands fit to cloud the skies for a century, poison the half-deserts and pound out the Great Desolation.

The faithful of the cloister emboidered the faces of the Unhallowed, crying out for the Prophet before His time. In this did they speak most truly of the faithful who would come after. It was not mine to speak of it, but the tapestry alone would merit the chantry of a Lord of the Prophet's realm - rare is the work that speaks as much of the Faith as the most earnest Preacher upon Great Olimpan.

[ Posted by Reason on June 16, 2006 ]