Itreyan fishermen, since upon catching one and cutting it open, you’re likely to find all kinds of strange …
Well, yes.
You get the idea.
* Four foot, three inches.
* As you might recall, gentlefriends, even the murderous bastards of the Red Church operate under a code of sorts, known as the Red Promise. Its five tenets are thus:
Inevitability—no offering undertaken in the history of the Church has ever gone unfulfilled.
Sanctity—a current employer of the Church may not be chosen as a target of the Church.
Secrecy—the Church does not discuss the identity of its employers.
Fidelity—a Blade will only serve one employer at a time.
Hierarchy—all offerings must be approved by the Lord/Lady of Blades or Revered Father/Mother.
It should be noted that, since its inception, the Red Promise has never been broken by a Church Blade. The cultists of Our Lady of Blessed Murder consider it Very Serious Business, and will go to extraordinary lengths to see it remain inviolate. One famous tale of dedication speaks of a Blade known only as Forde, employed to murder Agvald III, king of Vaan.
Agvald was far fonder of excess than running his kingdom, and after a lengthy session of passing the hat, his nobles managed to scrape together the coin necessary to have him professionally done in. And so, on the nevernight of the king’s thirtieth birthturn, Forde infiltrated the king’s bedchambers and waited there in the dark for her quarry.
Agvald had decided to celebrate his thirtieth year in style. After an extended session of drinking with his court, the king retired to his boudoir with six concubines and an entire suckling pig. During the debauchery that followed, Agvald attempted to eat a rack of ribs whilst being serviced by three of his favorites simultaneously. Sadly, the feat required rather more coordination than anticipated, and unlike his concubines, the good king inhaled when he should have swallowed.
Agvald toppled to the floor, clutching his throat and slowly turning blue. But as the royal concubines watched in amazement, Forde appeared from the shadows and proceeded to pound upon the king’s back until the offending rib bone was coughed clean across the bedchamber. Forde offered the grateful king a cup of water, soothed his ruffled nerves. And once the sovereign was adequately calmed, the Blade proceeded to stab Agvald six times in the heart and cut his throat from ear to ear.
“Why?” cried one of the horrified concubines. “Why save his life only to kill him?”
The Blade glanced to the pig’s rib and shrugged.
“The promise was mine.”
* You will recall that the servants of Our Lady of Blessed Murder are divided into two main categories—Blades, who serve as her assassins in the Republic, and Hands, who do almost everything else. Though many join the order of the Dark Mother with aspirations to do bloody murder in her name, very few have the unique blend of skill, callousness, and lunacy necessary to become professional killers.
Most folk who join the Church actually end up assisting in logistics and administration, which isn’t very romantic, and hardly the stuff of sweeping epics of high fantasy. But the average life expectancy of a Blade is around twenty-five years, where most Hands live until well past retirement.
Would you rather have books written about you, or live long enough to read books about others, gentlefriends?
We seldom get to do both.
* In Itreyan folklore, the dead were once sent to the keeping of Niah and held forever in her loving embrace. But after the Mother’s fall from grace, it was deemed that Niah’s daughter Keph would take care of the righteous dead instead. Tsana, Goddess of Fire, created a mighty hearth in Keph’s domain to keep the dead warm. And there they dwell in light and happiness, until the ending to the world.
Wicked souls, however, are said to be denied a place by the fire. Known as the Hearthless, they are common figures in Itreyan folklore, blamed for almost everything that goes wrong in ordinary life. Sheep goes missing? Must’ve been the Hearthless. Can’t find your keys? Bloody Hearthless. Last sugarcake got eaten? It wasn’t me, love, it was the Hearthless!
Why people insist on blaming the supernatural instead of owning up to their own bullshit is one of life’s great mysteries.
Still, they make for good spook stories.
* Gravebone is a curious material, found in only one place in all the Republic—the Ribs and Spine at the heart of Godsgrave. It is light as wood, yet harder than steel, and the secrets of working it are lost—or at least tightly