Dark Moon Night

Father John walked the empty halls of Kings Court. As Prelate of the Kings Order, it was his job to make sure that preparations for Black Moon were in place. The main doors had been thrown open and braziers had been lit in anticipation of the revelers that would be visiting that night. Their flickering lights and oily smoke cast the building in a bloody light. Father John remembered as a young chaplain preaching against the evils of Black Moon, but public opinion had won out over the years and people began again to celebrate the longest night of the year.

Few people remembered the origins of Black Moon. The coming of Death, the night that did not end. People now spoke of the turning of Winter and new life soon to spring from the frozen ground. Father John walked systematically through the halls, checking that no one had added garlands of ivy to the mirrors, or images of wolves heads above the doors, another pagan Black Moon tradition Father John would continue to stamp out.

Before the introduction of the One Faith it had been believed that Black Moon was a night of last chances, a night when death would whisper in your ear that if you did not change he would return a year later to collect his dues. Tales were told, even recently, of people who had received a warning of one kind or another and died the following year near Black Moon. Warnings had allegedly come in the form of dreams, or gifts left behind for an unwary soul. Birds flew into a house ahead of someone, or a lone wolf cry was heard by no one but the recipient of the warning. These tales always seemed to rise in the weeks following a Black Moon death, though in all his years Father John had not heard of someone receiving such a warning and avoiding the call of death the following year.

He thought back to last years celebrations as muffled footsteps echoed down the long empty corridors. It would be an hour or more yet before the sun settled dark over the horizon and celebrants came to share a drink and exchange gifts. Even the giving of gifts came from a tradition of trying to confuse Death by spending as little of Black Moon at home as possible.

It was not much later then it was now, preparations were still underway for the expected visitors. Father John had just walked past a dark corridor when he had jumped at the sound of metal striking rock. The echoes still rang as he turned to see a quarrel clattering on the floor. He had not heard the slap of a crossbow being released and dashed back to look down the corridor. He was sure that some young trouble maker had decided to play a, potentially harmful, Black Moon prank on the Prelate. He had grabbed the bolt and stalked off in earnest down the corridor looking for the prankster. As quickly as he moved though, he caught no sign of any others walking the barren, blood-lit halls.

Father John thought of that quarrel, still lying above the mantle in his room. It acted as a daily reminder of the vigilance he needed to maintain in his fight against the remnants of Pagan beliefs.

Outside Father John heard the church bells ringing out the hour. A wind stirred and flames fluttered. For some reason the ringing bells sounded to the Father like the final toll before a family lowered a body into the grave.

“Father, I must confess.” The wind in the corridors seemed to be whispering. Father John looked around for reassurance, but no one was there. Behind him the flames trembled in the breeze. “I am owed a debt, and it is time to collect.”