Saint Acantha

[Koi in the River]

OOC: http://www.footstepsofghosts.com/advanced-ooc-discussion-f15/saint-acantha-ooc-sign-ups-t579.htm#10296

It was but a few hours before the late sunrise in the city. Even still, it was quite difficult to even tell the time of day simply by looking up at the sky. The only hint of brightness were the clouds that were only a slightly lighter shade of cool grey than the heavens. The arched windows of the castle in the Upper Circle grew alight with the amber glow of burning candles and lanterns as well as the torches in the main courtyard. Servants, clad in heavy robes and such, formally lined up outside of the entrance gate as they tended to the gardens and sitting areas. There was a whisper of wind that carried the scent of rainfall, rustling dead leaves through the cobble streets of Saint Acantha.

In the uppermost level of the castle, where a tower protruded, the faint silhouettes of numerous females scampered past a massive stain-glass window. They were servants and attendants to the matriarch and proprietor of the castle estate, all rushing to have the head lady taken care of. It was her typical morning routine-- she was primped and polished, her lengthy mahogany-colored hair in the process of being brushed and styled. The woman was a pale beauty, cheeks graced with a hint of pink and lips as crimson as blood. Her servants knew her as Lady Noel Chevalier. She remained seated at her vanity as the attendants shifted through her closet for a fitting dress for the morning, eventually choosing one made of the finest fabric and design. It was business as usual.

In the workers' quarters, however, which were all located in a large off-to-the-side hall in the form of separate rooms, the atmosphere was dim. Every person who wasn't noble or a servant were given medium-sized, yet poorly warmed margins with cracked wooden doors. Their windows were unable to close, being but large holes in the cold stone wall. The only thing keeping the frigid wind from blustering into the rooms were uniform curtains, thin and sheer. Servants came knocking at each door in the hall, shouting various wake-up calls and setting brighter torches. It was business as usual.

In one of the furthermost corners of the hall, the room of a certain Ofelia Beaufort emanated the sound of a loud 'thump'. The young woman inhabiting said room, if anyone bothered to check on her, could have been seen curled up face-down next to her bed. The girl clenched the back of her skull with both hands, seething in pain as she attempted to recover from hitting her head on the underside of her wooden-based bed. It was the result of her attempting to reach for a pair of boots she kept under her resting place while merely half-awake. Ofelia reached up towards a nightstand by her bed and switched on a lantern. Shivering slightly, the young woman sat on a stool near a cracked mirror mounted on one of the walls. It was business as usual, unfortunately.

[Aesalon]

'My city is dying' the blessed angel said to him.
Francis moved effortlessly from the inner wall, to the bell tower of the Cathederal, from rooftop to rooftop the priest flew, though there was no sensation of wind. 'My city is dying' she said again, her voice echoing from every cobbled street and mortared wall. He looked then and saw the decay, every home suffered from the blight, a darkness that was eating them all from the inside - he looked then to the castle, it seemed untouched by the darkenss, as though it were apart from St. Acantha, inside he saw feasting and joy - everyone there was making merry, while the peasants outside suffered. Francis moved closer, but as he came near he saw that the feasts laid out before them all were truly ashes and carrion, the blight was stronger there, it was the home of the darkenss, and then the skeletal faces noticed him and he met their eyes...

Vicar Diovan awoke, sweating horribly - his nightclothes were soaked, though he could see his breath in the cold of the stone chamber. The chills overtook him and he shivered uncontrollably while he hurried to scrape flint to stone. "Hurry, by the Blessed One, hurry" He coaxed the fire on, mixing prayer with primal urgency. The flame finally lit and immediately his hands were hovering over the fire, drinking in the warmth.

When the room had absorbed enough of the fire's heat to make moving about a bearable thought, Francis began his meticulous morning routine - heating a kettle for wash, then praying through Acantha's Canticle three complete times. When he had finished with both his prayers and washing the diffused morning sun could be seen, barely visible through the eternal haze that had plaged this city as long as the priest could remember.

Diovan finally emerged from his chamber and walked the long hall of the cleric's rectory - all of the rooms were empty now, the residents had vanished one-by-one. Francis was not sure if they had left or if some evil had befallen them, as the city has become something of a viper's nest of crime in recent years. The priest shook his head violently, almost as if to remove the thoughts that were accumulating there. "I have duties to perform." He said aloud to the empty hall, just as he turned the corner and came to the great window that faced the castle - he stopped there and stared for a moment, recounting the realistic dream of the night before.
Vicar Francis Diovan shivered again, though the hall was not cold.

[Regicidal]

Saint Acantha.

The place bore little foothold in the travelers mind as he stared at the haze-covered city from the edge of the forest. Which, by the way, had been one of the biggest troubles in his seemingly endless travels. After the last city it seemed as if the civilized world had simply stopped, and been replaced with the towering forests that formed a practically straight wall of vegetation across the countryside. Save, of course, the few imperfections in the land itself, but the sense that filled Girard's gut before entering the forest was that there was something wholly unnatural about the state of the forest. For instance, no matter how low or high the trees were once he had stepped inside, there was the same shade of pale gray light that filtered through the canopy. There were no shades of green cast from the trees overhead, just gray and shadowed hues to the dull forest greens of his surroundings. He traveled in what he thought was a straight line for what must have been two days, mind you he was fortunate to be traveling with a weeks supply of food, and water in the forest was plentiful; especially with such a dreadful haze that caused the larger leaves to collect all manner of dew.

When Girard had first broken through the edge of the forest on the opposite side -he thought it was the opposite anyways- he hadn't been sure that he had actually left the forest, for there was the same god awful gray haze covering the horizon, only now it almost seemed darker, with a lighter, pale-blue tinge along the eastern horizon. That meant sunrise, which was wonderful. What brought a broader smile across the mans face was when his gaze fell on the sizable city of Saint Acantha. Girard only knew the name of the city from tales of people that had never been there, but had heard from so on and so forth that lead to a dead end with no solid ground to stand on. However, this.. this had to be it. And oddly enough it bore a striking resemblance to the tales he had heard over the years. The best part came when he knew that there were no tales of his past fluttering through the minds of the townsfolk, news simply didn't travel this far off of the beaten path.

The trek across the short field that separated the city from the forest wall took less than an hours silent walking. Even as he approached the gates -which were open, strange - he heard no shouts of 'Halt!' or 'State your business!' There was nothing. It was as if the entire city was simply dead. In fact, Girard felt like the only warm body up and moving at this time of the morning. So rather than standing there like a fool, he made his way into the city, walking amongst the shoddy houses of the peasants. Most of which were homemade shelter of the likeness he knew all too well. There was quiet movement behind the doorways, parents pulling themselves back into the world of the living conscious and raising their children from the cots they slept in. Every so often he would pass a small business owner preparing to set up shop, and receive a glare that spoke volumes about what they thought of visitors in Saint Acantha. The church, Girard, always start at the church, they offer salvation for travelers. Do they not? His thoughts rang through his mind softly as he angled towards the inner walls of the outer city-limits, where the churches were usually kept in cities such as this. Though, he had a feeling there was little that was typical about Saint Acantha.

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