Post by Scrub_of_Menoth on Mar 8, 2017 18:36:47 GMT
Fellow Menites!
As you might be aware, we have a novel from Skull Island Expeditions coming soon. Titled Godless, it is authored by Orrin Grey and is Volume 1 of the "Fire & Faith" Series.
They just released an excerpt here:
Excerpt:
So good to know Tristan is still Mr. Mercy, even with his promotion!
As you might be aware, we have a novel from Skull Island Expeditions coming soon. Titled Godless, it is authored by Orrin Grey and is Volume 1 of the "Fire & Faith" Series.
They just released an excerpt here:
Excerpt:
“I am a man like you,” Tristan told the crowd. “I came from a village in Wessina, and my family fled our homelands before the Khadoran invaders. As a part of the Great Crusade, I have seen more than my share of suffering, and I have gone to my knees to ask Menoth why it must be so. Like you, I wonder. Like you, I doubt. I think to myself, there must be an easier way. But that is why I am just a man, and Menoth is so much greater than I. For he knows the way that things must be, and can make decisions that I, as a simple man, could never shoulder.
“What I know,” he continued, “is that Menoth is greater than any man, and more just. That his mercy is as all-encompassing as his wrath. What I know is that if we face this suffering together, as brothers, united in his name, then we will weather it more easily than we ever could alone. There is no burden unendurable in Menoth’s name, and there is no burden that will not be lightened if we all carry it together.”
Tristan wanted to believe that his words were getting through to them, that, given enough time, he could reach them. He had said as much to Decimus before. But looking around at their faces, downcast and resentful, he saw little to make him hope. Before he could continue, there was a commotion near the back of the crowd, and a runner dressed in the raiment of a temple clerk came pushing forward to stop, panting, at Tristan’s feet.
Without his even realizing that the other man had moved, Decimus was at his side, his relic blade drawn and at the ready.
“Attack,” the runner gasped out, between panting breaths. “A Khadoran force, larger than our own, not a mile distant.”
At that, the crowd began to panic. Some instinctively scattered away, heading back to the hovels and makeshift lean-tos that had become their homes after their village burned in a recent border skirmish with Khadoran troops. Others drew closer to the perceived safety of the Menite soldiers, less afraid of these stern theocrats than of the Khadorans whose tender mercies many of them had already endured.
For a moment, Tristan stood paralyzed, looking past the gathered refugees and down the road in the direction that the runner had indicated, as though he would be able to see some sign of the approaching foe—the rumble of heavy armor, a plume of black smoke against the azure blue of the sky. Then he felt Decimus’ hand on his shoulder.
“We should withdraw to the temple,” the seneschal said, his voice a harsh whisper, meant only for Tristan’s ears. “We should have ample time before they reach us. Our position will be stronger, and we don’t yet know the extent of the threat.”
Tristan shook his head, not intending to brush off the advice of the knight, his mind simply racing with possibilities, paths ahead that he might choose. “We cannot abandon these people to their fate,” he said, his mind on the suffering that his own family had endured. He wanted to give these people hope, to show them what could be made possible with faith in Menoth, but stability was a hard thing to come by in these days of war and hardship.
“These people are unbelievers,” Decimus’ voice rose slightly as anger began to eat into the deference that he had been trained always to show to the priest caste. “They brought their fate upon themselves. It is clear to anyone with eyes that they scorn the protection we have already offered them.”
“What I know,” he continued, “is that Menoth is greater than any man, and more just. That his mercy is as all-encompassing as his wrath. What I know is that if we face this suffering together, as brothers, united in his name, then we will weather it more easily than we ever could alone. There is no burden unendurable in Menoth’s name, and there is no burden that will not be lightened if we all carry it together.”
Tristan wanted to believe that his words were getting through to them, that, given enough time, he could reach them. He had said as much to Decimus before. But looking around at their faces, downcast and resentful, he saw little to make him hope. Before he could continue, there was a commotion near the back of the crowd, and a runner dressed in the raiment of a temple clerk came pushing forward to stop, panting, at Tristan’s feet.
Without his even realizing that the other man had moved, Decimus was at his side, his relic blade drawn and at the ready.
“Attack,” the runner gasped out, between panting breaths. “A Khadoran force, larger than our own, not a mile distant.”
At that, the crowd began to panic. Some instinctively scattered away, heading back to the hovels and makeshift lean-tos that had become their homes after their village burned in a recent border skirmish with Khadoran troops. Others drew closer to the perceived safety of the Menite soldiers, less afraid of these stern theocrats than of the Khadorans whose tender mercies many of them had already endured.
For a moment, Tristan stood paralyzed, looking past the gathered refugees and down the road in the direction that the runner had indicated, as though he would be able to see some sign of the approaching foe—the rumble of heavy armor, a plume of black smoke against the azure blue of the sky. Then he felt Decimus’ hand on his shoulder.
“We should withdraw to the temple,” the seneschal said, his voice a harsh whisper, meant only for Tristan’s ears. “We should have ample time before they reach us. Our position will be stronger, and we don’t yet know the extent of the threat.”
Tristan shook his head, not intending to brush off the advice of the knight, his mind simply racing with possibilities, paths ahead that he might choose. “We cannot abandon these people to their fate,” he said, his mind on the suffering that his own family had endured. He wanted to give these people hope, to show them what could be made possible with faith in Menoth, but stability was a hard thing to come by in these days of war and hardship.
“These people are unbelievers,” Decimus’ voice rose slightly as anger began to eat into the deference that he had been trained always to show to the priest caste. “They brought their fate upon themselves. It is clear to anyone with eyes that they scorn the protection we have already offered them.”
So good to know Tristan is still Mr. Mercy, even with his promotion!