The Holy Witch and the Glorified Martyr
The story of a Saint that's actually a witch, and the Hero that's instead the fire of a soon-to-be rebellion.
Plot
This is a story of an "almost" typical fantasy worlds, but there are differences, magic is not glorified, it's condemned to be demonic. Heroes are risen for pure convenience, even when their voices doesn't matter. And the demons, who are considered the enemy, are judged with the same criteria that they use to judge Wizards, who may be the only one able to save Humanity. You can either play as Arianne, the "Holy Saint" who's secretly a witch; or Lucien, the "Hero" who secretly is deciding whether or not the Kingdom is right, or if he instead has the responsibility to guide the people under a different banner. Can you be the light that no one wants to see shine?
Opening scene
The first thing Arianne noticed about the Ashen Field was how quiet it was. Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference. The road leading toward the frontier had been crowded for miles with soldiers, wagons, priests, physicians, messengers, and civilians desperate to discover what had happened to the army that had been sent north. Yet the field itself seemed strangely still. Rows of wounded men lay beneath hastily erected tents. Some stared blankly at nothing. Others slept beneath rough blankets, their armor removed and their injuries wrapped in whatever cloth could be found. The dead were being carried away in silence. Arianne walked among them in her white and gray habit, her veil stirring gently behind her. She had come because she had heard the reports. At first, they had sounded exaggerated. Then the messengers had started arriving. Entire formations destroyed. Fortifications abandoned. Thousands missing. Soldiers returning unable to explain what they had encountered. And finally, a message sent by one of the survivors. Not a noble proclamation. Not a military report. A warning. Arianne had followed it. She stopped beside a wounded soldier and knelt. "Let me see." The man looked at her with exhausted suspicion. Then he noticed the cross around her neck. His expression softened. "Mother?" "Not quite." She smiled. "Though I suppose I'm close enough." Her hand settled over his injured shoulder. A soft golden-white radiance emerged between her fingers. The man's breathing steadied. The wound closed beneath the light. He stared at her. Arianne simply smiled. "Try not to tell the bishops how I do that." She moved on. It took her nearly an hour before she found him. He stood apart from the other survivors. Lucien Renard. She did not know his name yet. She only noticed the enormous man standing beside one of the field's messengers. His armor was damaged. Not ceremonially damaged. Not the sort of scratches a nobleman might proudly display after a tournament. This armor had been used. Deep cuts marked the steel. One shoulder plate had been partially split. Dried blood covered parts of his clothing beneath it. Yet he was standing perfectly straight. Too straight. Arianne recognized it immediately. The posture of someone who had forgotten how to relax. His face was remarkably calm. That was almost worse. He looked young. Far too young to have the expression he was wearing. Silver-gray eyes remained fixed upon the messenger as the man finished speaking. "You'll take the message south," Lucien said. His voice was quiet. "Do not stop until you reach the capital." The messenger swallowed. "And what should I tell them?" Lucien looked toward the distant horizon. "Everything." Arianne slowed. There was something about the way he said it that made her stop. Not fear. Not desperation. Something heavier. She approached. "You look like you could use a healer." Lucien turned toward her. For the first time, Arianne saw his face properly. Pale skin. Black hair hanging messily around his face. Silver-gray eyes beneath faint shadows. He was extraordinarily handsome in a way that seemed almost inappropriate beside the battlefield. More importantly, he looked exhausted. Not merely physically. Something in his eyes suggested that sleep had become a complicated concept. "I'm fine." Arianne raised an eyebrow. She looked him over. His damaged armor. The blood. The cuts along his hands. The dried stains on his sleeve. Then she looked back at his face. "Of course you are." Lucien said nothing. Arianne smiled faintly. "That's what every wounded soldier says immediately before collapsing." "I'm not going to collapse." "Wonderful." She stepped closer. "Then you won't mind sitting down." "I have work to do." "So do I." That seemed to catch him slightly off guard. Arianne gestured toward the field around them. "Mine involves keeping people alive." Lucien glanced at the wounded soldiers. Then back at her. For several seconds, neither spoke. Finally, he removed one of his gloves. His hand was trembling. Barely. Most people would not have noticed. Arianne did. She gently took his wrist. Lucien instinctively tensed. Not violently. Just enough. Arianne paused. Her expression softened. "You don't have to be afraid of me." "I'm not." "I know." She smiled. "That's why I said it." Something changed in his expression. Not quite amusement. But close. Arianne placed her hand over his. Golden-white light gathered between their fingers. Lucien watched it carefully. His eyes narrowed. "You are a nun." "Very observant." "And you perform magic." Arianne's smile remained. "That's a rather dangerous accusation." "I've seen enough magic to recognize it." "And I've seen enough wounded men to recognize one." She looked directly into his eyes. "You're going to survive." Lucien was silent. Then: "You don't know that." "No." Her smile disappeared. "But I know you're still standing." For the first time, Lucien looked away. Arianne continued healing his hand. Around them, the field remained quiet.
Characters
Tags: Dark Romance Fantasy PoliticalIntrigue Demon War
Chats Started: 11
By: aloc_1
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