The Appearance of the Angel
This morning the sun shone brightly, giving light and warmth to all of Steemgard. Most of the city had gathered in the square; the rulers, the church rector, as well as the guard garrison, Knight, merchants, and all the important figures of the city were preparing for the meeting. The main gates opened and the Reverend Disciple of the Master himself entered on horseback, followed by a convoy of the Empire's finest paladins, as well as several large wagons with unknown contents.
The Reverend greeted the people gathered in the square, shook the hand of the stern governor, kissed the hand of the counselor, and patted the abbot, his old friend, on the shoulder.
He approached the clock tower and looked at the enormous clock with a smile.
- I remember the day when I personally first wound my creation in glorious Steemgard; yes, this is exactly where these great clocks belong. - The Disciple declared.
Meanwhile, the wagons were pulled into the square.
- I want to show you what all this commotion was for.
Tearing a thin, dense cloth off one of the wagons, he presented his incredible find to the crowd. The square gasped in unison with amazement; before their eyes was a beautiful angel.
- This is a gift to us from the great Master! For our unwavering faith!
The crowd enthusiastically praised the Master and the King.
- Right now they are sleeping, - the Disciple shouted. - But I managed to wake one, look!
He pointed to the top of the tower, where she stood with her wings spread—the Angel. People stared at her frantically, unable to believe. The living embodiment of their god's power looked at them with a sweet smile.
- I sent her to protect you; I see she has done a wonderful job!
Suddenly thunder crashed, and the sky darkened.
Someone's hand abruptly grabbed the Angel by the waist; a crack and a scream of either pain or despair were heard... the point of a dagger protruded from her chest, and oily blood flowed from the wound. The Angel flew down from the tower and hit the stone pavement with a crash, her gaze fading...
- No! No! No! - the Master's Disciple screamed frantically.
When the shock subsided slightly, everyone looked up. Throwing back her hood, an elven Assassin looked down at them. Fog enveloped the square; the guards hastily lit torches and lanterns, but the assassins' trail had already gone cold.
The Reverend Disciple was in a rage and grief.
The Archer gripped a silver diadem in her hand, all that remained of her foster mother. The rain conveniently hid her tears from the other members of the squad; she had to be strong and not show her weakness. With a wave of her hand, the Sorceress froze the lock on the southern gates, the dancer kicked the door open with a skilled strike, and the squad left Steemgard.
The Order lost the battle, but the war was far from lost.
The wounded half-breed, leaning against the walls of the houses, walked toward the gates; the wonderful sword was lost forever, the revenge had failed, and surviving... also seemed unlikely. The cold nose of a lizard pressed against her hand; the half-breed stroked her faithful friend's head and, forcing herself, climbed into the saddle.
The revenge is not yet over.
The Thief sat on the roof of one of the houses and looked down at the square. Now the city is safe; she could return to her usual way of life. Looking at the group of elves leaving Steemgard, the thief only marveled at their persistence, and they almost succeeded... a thin, long mace lay pleasantly in the thief's hand. Silver, it seemed.
The Knight was invited to a celebratory ball that same day, where the governor called him for a glass of wine in a private box.
- I was informed that the viscount took buckshot to the head, do you know anything about this? - the Governor inquired.
The Knight remained silent.
- You helped the city greatly in the struggle against this... this Order, the Reverend Disciple is very pleased with you. You can count on a high title.
The Knight took a sip of wine. It was time to relax.
The counselor did not come to the ball, for there was so much to be done. A squad of rangers in full readiness stood in her mansion.
- Your task is to find out what we are dealing with. What this Order is.
The rangers bowed and left the house.
The old abbot looked at her intently, trying to understand what she was. Wiping the black oil from her beautiful lips, he examined her teeth, tongue, and throat. The Abbot was simply delighted and bewildered by what he saw. Looking at the dying candle, he wondered if the planned action could be achieved? For if the mechanisms are repairable...
The Golem flipped a huge switch, and several lamps immediately lit up in the laboratory. Passing a table with a hundred test tubes and flasks, he approached the liquor cabinet; they often sat at this small table with a friend and got drunk. Memories rushed back so swiftly that the golem could barely stay on his feet. Grabbing several bottles, he emptied them in one gulp.
Leaving the ball, the Governor headed to the platform of the clock tower. The guards didn't even think to stop him. Climbing to the top, he looked into the distance, where the endless forest began. Raising a revolver, he fired into the sky.
The battle is won.
Steemgard triumphs