Prelude part 1

The sky was a gray slate slowly moving across Braisnal province. Single flakes of snow spit out and escaped its prison, the wind blowing them to and fro as it willed. Daxon stood in place as the funeral procession made its way passed him. It past him unseen, his blindness keeping him in a perpetual haze. So much so that he resorted to bandaging his eyes to prevent the light from tormenting him with half forms and blurred shapes. Even though he could not see the caskets as though were slowly driven by on single horse carriages he could visualize the gilded coffins heading for the catacombs. It had taken three weeks to prepare for the ceremony. The royal embalmers had done their duty in preparing the bodies for their journey, ensuring that they would be preserved and cleaned for display before the official funeral. It had taken this long for all the nobles in the province to gather in the city to participate in the burial of their liege. The death of a baron was a special occasion in and of itself, but what was happening today was almost unprecedented in the history of the province. The entire baronial family had been killed by an Infernalist, the same man who had blinded Daxon and wounded him so that he would never again be able to hold a sword. Daxon’s left hand unconsciously moved to feel the puffy scar on his right forearm.

He began to seethe with anger at the memory. In this, the barony’s most difficult hour he was as near useless as he could imagine. No longer a captain of the guard, he had quickly named a replacement and promoted the man to lead the city’s guard. He was able to keep tabs on things though through regular reports and conferences with Bolin. The man was a capable lieutenant and seemed to be doing an adequate job of replacing himself. Though Bolin did still need him to hold his hand once in a while, he was willing to give his thoughts on any matter Bolin brought to him.

A hand on his shoulder jolted him from his reverie and he startled for a moment. His muscles tightened, preparing to fight when Bolin’s voice whispered quietly in his ear.

“It’s time to go sir.” He said, and began to guide Daxon towards the catacombs.

Daxon had become so accustomed to standing there in the cold air the moving was difficult. It had taken the procession most of the day to work its way back to the keep. Tradition dictated the body of the baron, and his family, were driven though the city’s main streets, from the keep to the catacombs where they were now. Of course they detoured around the Slums, or what was left of them after the Great Fire. It had not taken long for the Slums to become a no-man’s land. It took over half the guard to watch it, and even then murders and rapes were climbing ever higher in the districts surrounding it. The gangs and thugs who had taken it over were, thankfully, Daxon thought, still battling amongst themselves for supremacy. Though the matter would not wait long, Daxon’s time had been taken up with overseeing Bolin’s induction as the new captain and the preparations for the funeral today. Waiting for all the nobles to arrive and greeting them had been taxing on Daxon’s nerves, he was a soldier and not accustomed to all the pomp and ceremony they required.

One thing still disturbed him though; Delegate Ashandel had still not arrived even though word was sent to him first about the baron’s death and the messenger he had sent indicated that the delegate would be leaving the next day. Daxon had dispatched men to go and see if they could find the delegate along the rod from Radelm. They have yet to return either, though Daxon expected them in the morning escorting the aged delegate to the keep where he would oversee the process of choosing the next baron.