WAN - Chapter 1

Dark Ages, 1409

Near the edge of the ruined town, on the side of the forest, Silvester, now in his twenties, comes running out of the woods, holding a giant rucksack. A lengthy dark tentacle comes homing in on his back, spikes protrude out of its underbelly. Silvester hurriedly unsheathed his hunting dagger from the side of his toolbelt. He turns his back, his body still moving forward due to his momentum, tossing his bag to the side, then he throws the dagger towards the origin of the long arm. Seconds after, a loud shriek came echoing towards Silvester. The tentacle fell flat onto the ground, the bone spikes sinking back into the flesh.

Wiping his sweat off, Silvester runs back picking up his rucksack on the way. Despite decades, the broken planks and shattered glass still cracked below his boots. As if the world stood still as the night grew rampant.

Approaching the main town road, leading straight to the entrance of the church, a silhouette grew more vivid, leant down beside one of the wooden supports of the front porch of a broken house nearby. Milean, Silvester’s younger sister, stood waiting, wearing a cool-white long coat, hair . An expression befitting the average sibling relationship. “You’re late.” She uttered. Arms crossed near her chest. Her hair swept back with a minimalistic black hair crown. Silvester slowed his pace, swinging his rucksack as if it were some sort of vintage pocket watch. “Better than becoming Sertef food right?” Silvester said with a smirk. Milean sighed, jumping the steps towards her brother.

“What was Father Luther’s request this time?” she inquired. Obviously curious about what’s in the sack. Before Silvester could answer, Father Gordon opened the church door, after the years, his hair had already started fading into grey, his back arched downwards, probably from slouching in his chair worrying about finances. But despite his age, he still kept that same monotone expression. “Milean, Sil, Father Luther is requesting for you.” He announced. Eyes still dug into the same finance book that now bore twice the size.

Stepping into the church’s nave, a main area of sorts. The sight of refugees sleeping on haystacks and makeshift beds was quite common nowadays. Nightfall had pushed even the richest and most powerful to cower behind the walls of the church. Silvester clicked his tongue. He knew the church would not be able to sustain them for longer. Resources were already running low. But despite this, Father Luther insisted that they do.

Sil could barely hold in his frustration, gritting his teeth tight, “Sil.. We can’t do anything unless we get those supplies from the market.” Milean said softly, as she rested her hand on her brother’s shoulder. She already knows what Silvester was feeling, as he pulled his shoulder back, forcing Milean to let go.

Entering the side door towards the back side of the church. And into a small T-shaped hallway, they met Father Gordon, unlike how he was during the two sibling’s youths. Father Gordon had fought many battles over the years. Each one taking a bigger toll than the others. Now, he sits on a wheelchair, his right leg cut from the knee down. His face, bandaged with cloth to hide the enormous scars. Despite all of these shortcomings. Father Gordon still treated the two, Milean and Silvester, with utmost care. Like a godfather of sorts. Milean takes a knee beside Father Gordon, starting a small light-hearted conversation with the man.

Silvester stood silently, pity in his eyes. For how much longer must we endure? He asked himself. Before walking towards the office door. “Come in.” said a man, coughing loudly. Sil slowly pulls himself into the room, before slowly shutting the door behind him.

“It’s bad to face the light when reading you know?” Silvester worriedly said. Clearly referring to Father Luther’s table arrangement. Instead of facing the door. He opted to have it in the direction the sun would rise. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve gotten used to the light.” Father Luther said softly. Adjusting his glasses whilst fixing up a letter with his quill.

Father Luther stands up, turning towards Silvester, before adjusting his seat to face the same way. To Silvester, all he saw of Father Luther was a silhouette. As Sil sighed, he neatly rested his coat on the nearby rack. Before approaching each window, closing the curtains, and then turning back to face Father Luthor. Now as visible as any other person that he saw before him.

Without the sunlight. The man that stood before him looks relatively worse compared to Gordon. Father Luther tried his best to smile. But the lower left side of his jaw couldn’t. Like a huge tiger bite. Instead of a warm-hearted smile. It looked as if death itself was watching you. Skin ripped off, until only teeth and gums were visible. The top left of his head had a giant burn. As if dragon breath had just grazed his head.

Sil put his head down. His arm grasping his opposite wrist tightly with guilt. These wounds that could have killed Father Luther were caused by Silvester’s immaturity a few years back. Even till now he still blames himself for it. Milean and Sister Phara during that time were away, at a different church that needed support. Silvester and Father Luther were both out on night watch with Father Gordon cautiously observing from the church’s bell tower. But as they were barely passing the night by, Sil, still early in his teens, ran head first into a dense shadow, swinging his small torch around. Father Luther stepped in, protecting Silvester from an explosive that was set off when a barrel of black powder ignited after being hit by the torch. Causing the huge and immense wounds on Father Luther’s face and back.

Though the bright light emitted by the fires scared off the dragon, Father Luther had to be carried back into the church for treatment. He barely survived. Infections caused him immense pain. But even then, he chose to put up a tough front towards Sil, who sat right next to him, with tears welling from his eyes. He cried, yelling out in a light, but heart-aching cry. “I’m sorry.” Ever since that incident. Silvester never raised his voice nor complained to anything Father Luther said.

Deep down the guilt and trauma was still piled up. Poking at him from inside. “Sil… How was your hunt?” Father Luther wondered. A gentle smile sat on his face, Sil, with his most caring voice described the events that had occurred. Seeing the guilt-ridden posture of the child, Father Luther, with a bit more sass this time, said, “Are you going to talk like this if I were one of those Mainer swindlers?”

Silvester slouched forward, a face both puzzled and annoyed, a sort of form that screamed, I’d rather die, than anything else. Father Luther snickered, he had to find a way to break the tension somehow. And speaking of Mainer, the next mission that he’d task for Silvester would be related to them.