Of Black Ink & Feathers

1. A Scholarly Introduction

In the deserted country side, a wooden cart rolled through the grey air of mid-afternoon. Thuds made by oxen hooves cut the silence that fell between the driver and his customer, Dorothy. The driver was a personable man who had little interest in silence; thus, between glances at the road, he studied the priest for topics of conversation.

Dorothy was a thin woman in her mid-twenties, considerably tall for her gender, with long, raven hair tied haphazardly into a bun on the nape of her neck. Her features were pale and feminine, paired with green eyes that sparked with curiosity. She wore a yellow smock - as was customary of scholars or xanthous in the Order - yet, unlike her fellow xanthous priests, black ink letters stained the lap of her garment.

"What's that, priest?" the driver nodded at the stain. "Did someone scribble on you?"

"Oh, no. I simply outran my page," Dorothy confessed with a bashful laugh. She rubbed hopelessly at several disjointed letters printed on her lap.

"That so?" the driver chuckled as his gaze flickered back to the road ahead. "You know, my misses used to fancy a few romantic scribbles - liked the feeling of the ink," he noted, almost proudly. "But you're a real writer then? When I heard another priest needed a ride to Grand Diirma, I had a few ideas why. Writing though? Not my first guess."

Dorothy answered with a shy shrug, unwilling to disclose the purpose for her trip. Another lull filled the air, laced by a soft breeze that passed through the golden wheat fields surrounding the road.

The driver cleared his throat, once again interrupting the silence. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but what do you write about?"

"You're truly interested?" Dorothy cooed; she loved talking about her work. "I used to write anatomy books about craw - everything from their patterns of physiological development to how different deformities in their syrinx - oh, the organ that creates sound - how these deformities impact their ability to communicate with their fellow creatures."

"Communicate?" the driver scoffed. "craw aren't anything but mindless beasts, made to kill everything good in the world."

Dorothy recognized his statement as common dogma used by the Order, which she had uselessly argued against for several years. Unwilling to have the same fruitless discussion once more, Dorothy changed topic. "Since the Great Fall, my writing focus has changed: now I work to rewrite or reclaim lost books of the Onyx Order."

"Noble enough work. Those books could really help the mercenaries now," the driver noted.

There was another pause in conversation which, Dorothy knew, was expected when strangers chatted about such things; the Great Fall of the Onyx Order had only been five years ago and, since then, none but mercenaries remained to hunt the craw. Her mind trickled through the topics she could bring up to lighten the mood, but there was one sinister muse that would not be ignored - it had plagued her mind since the journey began.

"Might I ask," Dorothy carefully began while she pivoted in her seat to eye the driver. "What have you heard about Grand Diirma?"

The driver's scruffy features darkened as he kept his glare straight ahead. "Not much from the Order. I've driven a few survivors over the last few months, but they don't talk much either. Most were mourning by the time I arrived. But-" his voice trailed off to become more sombre, "-they say there's craw by the hundreds. There's no way the Order can cleanse the city without burning it to the ground."

"Hundreds?" Dorothy perked up.

"That's what they say," he sighed.

Dorothy tongued the back of her teeth, as if prodding her mouth to form a reply. Nothing came. Another brisk breeze passed over the fields, crumbling the stalks of golden wheat. The driver broke the silence as he cleared his throat.

"You know, priest, I could turn around and tell them I refused to drive you," he offered.

Dorothy remained silent.

"After the Onyx Order fell there's, well," he grunted to clear his throat. "If the Onyx Order couldn't save a grand city, what hope is there for a writer?" His soft eyes flickered away from the road to see the young woman's flat face. When she remained non-responsive, he continued, "you know, we could do with a good writer in my city. Lots of folks need a good story to take away their fears."

"Thank you, but I can't," Dorothy blurted.

The driver's attention darted back to eye the horizon, but Dorothy could still see him wince from disappointment.

"As long as you have your mind set," he grumbled.

The remaining time was more quiet than before - or simply less back and forth. Dorothy used the opportunity to explain the importance of her work rescuing tomes, tossing around the wonders of the once heroic Onyx Order. Her company listened, although more as a sympathetic ear than an interested party. His recent coldness was an obvious sign that he accepted she would not survive her current mission.

Her words drew slower as they neared their destination. She could see the great, stone walls stand unyielding over an overgrown field. The upper limit of the walls were guarded by black cauldrons seated up-right; a sign that the city had not been burned to rubble by a bright cleansing - the last resort for when a city became infested with craw. The church - the single exit of the city - held Order flags draped over the iron entrance doors. They bore the Order emblem: a white circle with a line through the horizontal middle and a dot above. Below, a throng of gravestones darkened its doorstep.

Pulling up to the church, the cart jerked to a stop.

"Here we are," said the driver as he rested the reigns on his lap.

"Thank you for the journey and company," Dorothy responded with a modest smile, to which the rider nodded and waved her off; his interest in conversation had long since passed.

Dorothy hopped off the cart and collected her things in the carriage, including her staff; her fingers fell into the ink-smudged groves of the leather handle with perfect familiarity. Content, the priest dismissed the driver before the cart churned lazily around, leaving Dorothy behind to face Grand Diirma.