Golitel was was briefly stunned by the immense light of the harvest moon before he rose to his feet in an unfamiliar field of golden wheat.
The last he remembered he was the last man standing among a virtual mountain of armor and battered, cut and burned flesh. The only remains of his army and their opposition. He wished that his comrades had not died but he couldn't say he knew them well. They stood with him against others who stood against his master. That was all there was to it.
After stepping over the bodies he had began his trek back to his home, Faeyr. The moon was low for the time of night. Almost as if it had been resting upon the earth. As Golitel kept walking the moon had gotten closer. Than he was in the field.
To his right their was a road. Where their were roads there were towns, and so he sheathed his greatswords before voyaging to the impressive building that shadowed even the highest trees in the area. A granite cathedral with a rose window that was larger than most homes he'd seen.
There was normally at least one carriage out this hour to watch the town. When he'd escorted his master to one of the southern villages he remembered having to defend against an entire convoy of night riders. The morbid reminiscence made him chuckle as he recalled how half of them ran once he'd cut their leader in twain length wise.
Once the armoured man reached the immense double doors of the hallowed site he felt dwarfed by the stone construct. It had an average sized door knocker at least.
With a sound of sliding metal the doors opened inward with a gust of air. Golitel gave a shrug before drawing his weapons and entering. The cathedral was simply one large room complete with pews and support columns before an upraised podium where the holy man would preach. He'd never been one for belief; he'd been born knowing why he was made, who made him and the only rule he had to follow: obey.
His master wasn't a cruel man or tyrannical a bit critical maybe but no judgements he wouldn't apply to himself. There were those that frowned upon his practices but he never moved against them unless they moved against him first. He cared for his daughter, Faeyr, dearly.
"Fayre", Golitel let himself breath out. At his word the glass lanterns all set ablaze in iridescent flame.
A women in many robes appeared at the podium, resting on the ashen platform was a gilded chalice filled to the brim with an ebony liquid spewing forth black smoke.
"Your name?", the women snarled out in a low voice that reverberated across the walls. He'd best play it safe with this one.
"Golitel Saniri", he bellowed back across the valley of carven stone. She ushered him forward with her hand the hundreds of yards to this holywoman's stage.
"My name is Anastasia, and what is it you desire?"

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