Story - The cult

The interior walls of the lone homestead, seemingly hewn from a single piece of white stone or meticulously arranged blocks, bore the marks of Arnorian craftsmanship. Sparse yet meaningful decorations adorned the interior, depicting Arnorian motifs and banners over windows in shades of blue and white.

In the center of the room, a young boy of five years stood proudly, his small hands clutching two runic messer swords in their scabbards. Despite his tender age, there was a sense of determination in his eyes, a reflection of the spirit that permeated the household. Nearby, his pregnant mother moved with grace, assisting her husband as he donned his clothes. 

In the dim light of the homestead, the wife's blonde hair was partially braided into intricate patterns, while the rest cascaded down her back. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she wore her militaristic attire with pride and purpose. Her high-low grey skirt swayed with each movement, complemented by sturdy boots. Leather vambracers adorned her arms and pauldrons her shoulders. A crisp white blouse and an open dark grey jacket completed her ensemble, each piece crafted with precision and functionality. At her side, a runic arming sword rested in its scabbard.

Beside her, her husband stood tall, his short raven hair framing a face marked by scars. Like his wife, he wore a blouse, jacket with sturdy sleeves. As he slipped into his sleeveless padded coat which was enclosed over his chest and stretched under his knees, his gaze met hers, a silent exchange of solidarity and determination. Together, they were a formidable pair, bound by love and duty.

As she finished assisting her husband with his clothing, she paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "I have something for you Angbor," she said, her voice soft but filled with anticipation. Before he could respond, she disappeared into another room, leaving her husband to wonder what surprise awaited him. "Bainwen," Angbor called out after her, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet homestead.

"Just a minute," Bainwen called back from the other room. With that, Angbor turned his attention to his young son, Estelion. With practiced hands, he fastened the runic messer swords to his own belt using sturdy leather strips and belts. As he secured the weapons and various leather armour, he offered a word of gratitude to his son. "Thank you, Estelion," he said, his tone firm yet affectionate.

Bainwen returned moments later, holding a metallic grey-silver pauldron adorned with intricate runic protection sentences. Etched into the metal was the crest of the Damcuyar family, depicting an apple tree with a hammer in place of its roots. She presented it to Angbor with a solemn expression, her eyes reflecting both pride and concern.

Angbor's gratitude was evident as he accepted the pauldron from Bainwen, but a furrow formed on his brow as he examined it closely. "Bainwen, we agreed that you wouldn't engage in smithing while you're pregnant," he reminded her gently, his concern evident in his tone.

Bainwen began to buckle the pauldron onto Angbor's right shoulder, her expression serious but resolute. "I haven't been smithing, Angbor," she explained patiently. "I merely carved the runes onto the pauldron. The metalwork itself was done by another runesmith." She paused, meeting his gaze with determination. "I wanted to ensure your protection, especially now with the tensions rising across the stars".

Their foreheads gently touched, a silent exchange of love and determination in the midst of the nation's turmoil.

"Promise me you'll return," Bainwen's voice commanded with urgency and fear. "Don't you dare join the goddess unless it's absolutely necessary."

Angbor's resolve remained unshaken as he met her gaze. "I promise, Bainwen," his words carried the weight of his determination. "No matter the dangers that lie ahead, I will find my way back to you."

Bainwen's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her heart heavy with worry yet filled with pride. Angbor pressed on, "But, promise me that when our child is due, you'll be prepared."

Bainwen nodded in understanding. "I promise," her voice was soft, a mix of love and care. "When the time is right, I will leave for the house of healing, ensure Estelion receives the best care from the mentors, and be fully prepared."

Turning to his son, Angbor held him close. "Look after your mother and our home until that time," he spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't forget to listen to the mentors carefully and learn as much as you can. You're growing up fast, my boy."

Estelion stood tall, a reflection of his father's strength. "I will, Father," his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I'll make you proud."

With a final glance at his cherished family, Angbor stepped into the orchard which spaned around the homestead. His heart heavy with the promises made, he waved back at them, a silent vow etched upon his lips as he embarked on his journey.

While Angbor traversed the well-kept path through the orchard, his thoughts were filled with a mix of determination and concern. The crisp air carried the scent of apple blossoms, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the newly crafted pauldron adorning his shoulder.

With each step, he contemplated the responsibilities awaiting him upon his return to serve the realm. His wife, Bainwen, has been runesmithing for longer then is common, but these were desperate times. Her skill and dedication were undeniable, but Angbor couldn't shake the worry that came with knowing she was exerting herself while carrying their child.

As he passed through the well-maintained sections of the orchard, the rows of apple trees stood tall and proud. But soon, Angbor encountered the neglected areas, where weeds threatened to choke the life from the soil and branches hang overgrown. With preparations for the expedition, there was no time for proper care.

As Angbor left the orchard and journeyed through the forest, the path beneath his feet shifted from soft earth to well-trodden dirt. The surrounding woods, though dense and wild, seemed to offer him solace as he made his way deeper into their embrace. Along the way, he passed by remnants of past settlements, their crumbling ruins weathered by long years.

Eventually, Angbor came upon a clearing where the land opened up into a sprawling meadow. In the distance, he spotted the modest dwellings of a newly established Morwen settlement, its fields teeming with activity as the inhabitants diligently tended to their tasks, orchestrating the intricate dance of springtime's renewal. A pang of ambivalence washed over Angbor as he observed the scene before him. While part of him harbored reservations about the presence of outsiders in Arnor's heartland, he also recognized the necessity of their presence.

With a heavy sigh, Angbor pushed aside his lingering doubts and continued along the path, his mind filled with thoughts of duty and his own task.

Emerging from a valley, Angbor beheld a panoramic view of the sprawling Westwall fortress and the modern Forge nestled against its ancient walls. The fortress, with its imposing grey stone battlements, stood as a bastion of Arnorian strength and heritage, its towering walls a silent sentinel against the backdrop of the rugged mountains.

At the heart of the Forge, amidst the gleaming white stone walls, lay the central hub of Arnorian industry and innovation. Central elevator shaft belched plumes of steam into the sky, while the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils and crackling of arcane powers echoed through the air. The Forge hummed with activity, a hive of creativity and productivity where witchers, wiches craftsmen and engineers toiled to push the boundaries of technology and craftsmanship.

Boarding the train at the local station, Angbor glanced towards the sky, where a sleek covertoplane shuttle soared overhead, its sleek silhouette cutting through the clouds with effortless grace. Angbor knew that within its cargo hold lay the future of Arnorian space fleet – the components and supplies destined for the construction of the frigate Nárrambar, the third ever Arnorian ship, which was nearing completion in orbit.

With a sense of awe and determination, Angbor settled into his seat, his gaze fixed on the horizon as the train rumbled onwards towards the Sanctuary. Angbor watched the landscape shift from rugged mountains and hills to sprawling plains and dense forests. To the east, the land stretched out before him in an expanse of untamed wilderness. Unlike the somewhat populated west, the east remained sparsely inhabited, its wild beauty untouched by the hand of civilization.

Finally, the train arrived at the Sanctuary, a formidable fortress-town carved into the very heart of the mountain. Towering walls and imposing battlements rose high above, their weathered stone bearing testament to centuries of vigilance and defense. Layer upon layer of fortifications surrounded the town, each one designed to withstand even the most determined assault.

Disembarking from the train, Angbor made his way to the upper courtyard, his steps echoing against the ancient stone as he ascended towards the inner sanctum of the fortress. Here, amidst the towering towers and mighty keeps he was greeted warmly by the priestess of Yáraitalë and the witcher who had been his mentors for the past several months.

The priestess wore a white blouse, a militaristic gown adorned with scarfs at the hip, shoulder, and arms, as well as various leather armor pieces. Contrary to common Arnorian attire, her clothing was predominantly red, symbolizing her devotion to Yáraitalë. She wielded a runic bastard sword, a sign of militarism even within the faith.

The witcher, dressed in attire similar to Angbor's but much more intricately adorned with runic symbols and black accents, stood beside her. His elegant runic thin longsword hung at his side.

"Angbor, it's good to see you," the priestess said warmly, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Your timing is impeccable, as always."

The witcher nodded in agreement. "Indeed. The paths seem to align in your favor today."

Angbor returned their greetings with a respectful nod. "Thank you, both. I trust all is well?"

The priestess exchanged a glance with the witcher before replying. "We've received a word of a vision from Ainaneth. Yárcarniel has spoken, and it seems urgent."

Angbor's brow furrowed with concern. "What did the vision reveal?"

"The details are still unfolding," the priestess explained, her voice tinged with urgency, "but it seems a cult somewhere in the galaxy is on the verge of unleashing a significant threat."

The witcher chimed in, his tone grave. "We must act swiftly. The Denebolians have agreed to expedite departure of DX-405, but it will still take a few hours."

Angbor nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I'm ready to go. My belongings are already aboard?"

"Yes, everything is prepared," the priestess confirmed. "May Yárcarniel watch over you and guide your journey."

With their blessings, Angbor stepped forward, feeling a sudden rush of light envelop him as he was transported onto the spaceship.

Angbor had to blink twice as he appeared on board the DX-405 Xenon. He was greeted by a tall, lean crewmember with a warm smile. The crewmember's name tag read "Lieutenant Rylan Marsden, Logistics Officer."

"Welcome aboard, Angbor," Lieutenant Marsden said, his tone friendly yet professional. "I'm Lieutenant Marsden, in charge of logistics for this mission. I apologize for the rush, but we're currently in the midst of final preparations for departure."

Angbor nodded in understanding, noting the efficiency in Lieutenant Marsden's demeanor. "No need to apologize, Lieutenant," he replied, his voice calm and measured. "I appreciate your efforts to ensure swift departure."

Lieutenant Marsden led Angbor through the corridors of the ship, pointing out key features and providing brief explanations along the way. "Here's your assigned room," he said, gesturing to the door. "Make yourself at home, and feel free to reach out if you need anything. We'll do our best to make your stay as comfortable as possible."

With a nod of thanks, Angbor stepped into his room, taking in the sleek, minimalist design and the soft ambient lighting. It was a far cry from the rustic charm of his homestead, but he found himself appreciating the sense of efficiency that permeated the space.

Standing at attention against the wall, the exoskeleton towered over him, its scratched and repaired armored plating gleaming faintly in the subdued lighting of the room. Angbor felt a surge of reassurance at the sight of the formidable suit, knowing it would provide him with much-needed protection in the trials to come.

Angbor knelt beside his trunk, which laid next to the armour, and began to unpack his essentials, each item carefully removed and placed in its designated spot within the room. 

In the trunk, a small picture of his family lay nestled among his other belongings, a cherished memento of the loved ones he had left behind. Angbor paused for a moment, his fingers brushing against the image as he silently offered a prayer for their safety and well-being.

Turning his attention to a worn book of rituals, Angbor retrieved it from its place among his belongings. Though he knew the contents by heart, the familiar weight of the tome brought him a sense of comfort and reassurance.

With his belongings unpacked and arranged to his satisfaction, Angbor turned his attention to the window, where the distant stars twinkled in the vast expanse of space. He took in the sight of the sprawling Denebolian space station, its metallic structure gleaming in the soft glow of distant stars. Despite the limited view afforded by his small window, Angbor could sense the magnitude of the station's expansion and reconstruction efforts, dwarfing Arnorian one with ease.

Lost in thought, Angbor was abruptly pulled back to reality by the insistent beeping of the door. With a sigh, he made his way to the entrance, normal sized doors adding an imposing presence to his already tall figure.

As Angbor opened the door, he was met by the sight of a Shield agent standing before him. The agent's attire immediately identified him as a member of the organization, clad in a dark blue tactical overall with high boots and a sleek black coat. His ensemble was adorned with peculiar rings and a necklace, the majority of which gleamed with a golden hue.

"Angbor, I presume?" the agent greeted, his voice firm and authoritative as he extended a hand in greeting. "I'm Agent Harken. We'll be departing from the dock shortly."

Angbor accepted the handshake, noting the agent's conspicuous appearance. "I must admit, I expected Shield agents to be less conspicuous," he remarked with a hint of curiosity.

Agent Harken offered a wry smile in response. "No need for secrecy aboard the ship," he explained. "And besides, not all agents operate undercover."

With a nod of understanding, Angbor followed Agent Harken as they made their way through the corridors toward the bridge. Along the way, the agent engaged him in conversation, discussing their respective roles and responsibilities on the mission.

"I regret that we couldn't enlist the help of a witch or witcher," Agent Harken commented with a hint of disappointment.

Angbor shook his head slightly. "Witchers and witches are in short supply as it is," he explained. "I was chosen for my versatility on the battlefield and potential for greater then average subdimensional power. As an Evocatus, I have a wide range of expertise at my disposal."

Their conversation continued until they reached the bridge, where Angbor's attention was immediately drawn to the array of monitors and control panels that filled the room. As he looked around, He found himself confused by the sight of many people seemingly looking into nothing and waving their hands through the air. However, the memory quickly returned to him. It was because Denebolians use hidden cybernetics, allowing them to view and interact with virtual displays projected directly onto their cybernetic implants.

Harken, being a Shield agent, immediately noticed Angbor's confusion despite Angborn's stoic expresion and offered an explanation. "It's the cybernetic technology that we use," he explained. "We have panels displayed directly through our cybernetics. Arnorians were offered this technology, but they refused."

Angbor nodded, understanding the situation. "Augmentations should be done out of necessity," he remarked, thinking of his own prosthetic lung. "Not for mere convenience."

Just then, the commander of the ship noticed their presence and welcomed Angbor. Standing up from her command chair, she approached Angbor with a confident stride. "Welcome aboard the DX-405 Xenon, Evocatus Damcuyar," she greeted, her tone authoritative yet welcoming. "I am Colonel Lyra Halden, and I will be leading this mission. You're just in time for departure."

Before Angbor could respond, a crewmate interrupted, directing Colonel Halden's attention to another task that required her immediate attention. With a nod of acknowledgment, Colonel Halden swiftly addressed the matter, leaving Angbor and Harken to take their places on the bridge