The Transfixion of Ralph Stekker
He lay bleeding, vision blurring as the poison took hold, his lips already beginning to swell. The sky was the colour of oceans and not a single cloud could be seen, it was just one endless azure cloak draped across the firmament. The dying man felt his heart begin to slow as the beating organ grew still, he managed to force the words from his mouth as he breathed his last.
“Lead us…n-not-t-t into t-t-temptation…b-b-b-ut…de-liiver usss fr from eviiilll….” He stammered as his lips trembled and turned blue
Gaining a measure of peace, the dying man slumped back and went to meet whatever maker awaited him.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
As far as lands go, few could be considered more inimical to human life than the Essalanean steppe. The soul of this land is a ravenous thing that bears kinship to the carrion eater and the wasting disease, hunger, predation and disease thinning the ranks of men year after withering year. The clans have long revered this place as “paradise of the strong” to live here is to be endlessly tested after all, to survive is to be amongst the mightiest of men.
But even the clans know that the steppe always takes its due in the end, to live to thirty is considered a good innings, hell make it fifty and you can consider yourself blessed. A strong man can dwell here a while, a resourceful one longer still, but the barrens of this endless steppe will eventually take all back into its dusty embrace.
Outsiders seldom understand, they assume its all just primitive superstition and the tall tales of savage people, they just need modernity and Kristur and then they’ll be fine like the rest of us. That arrogance leads them in droves onto these ancient plains, they come with their best hiking clothes and their cameras and their smiles and their clothes become tatters, their smiles fade into wide eyed despair, and their cameras soon come to document starvation and death.
There are wolves big as horses, dust storms that can strip flesh from the bone, there are places where the soil is so thin and lifeless that not even weeds can thrive. And when the sun is hoisted high above this vast expanse, the heat that streams across from the phoenix strait cooks everything not covered and when the sun goes to its rest beneath the horizon, a chill like elderly bones and wheezing lungs grips everything within its Icey grasp.
And still, the unhorsed keep coming, they wander across the border with loud notions and imperious gait and they die as they have done for millennia. If the earth cared to speak, it would be a chorus of the dead for the plains have devoured unhorsed in their millions. But still, they keep coming and the lesson is not learned.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Ralph Stekker was a man on a mission, for as long as he could remember he felt called to a higher purpose, it had been at his lowest ebb that he had come to the revelations of god and messiah. The churn of bad grades, disappointed parents and dead end jobs had all seized up and disappeared the moment that Ralph had felt the holy spirit filling him, the bible was his guide and all the nagging mouths that had berated and denigrated him were silent.
Never much for book learning, Ralph had opted to forego the seminary and instead seek his calling in the missionary school, there his conviction was finally recognized, praised, admired even. On those sun kissed days when they discussed scripture or bringing pagan lands into the light of the messiah, Ralph knew gods love and purpose and all the doubt and fear washed away like water across dusty soles.
The problems had started when his fervour had grown too great even for his instructors to ignore, he spoke of crossing the ocean and seeking out the most terrible pagans. He believed, no knew, that the Essalaneans could be saved from their backward superstitions, they just needed to hear gods word and Ralph Stekker was the man who would speak the testimony. The school had not been as convinced, something about diplomatic relations and potential embarrassment.
That was no problem though, Ralph knew god would provide and if the school wouldn’t join him on path laid out, well he would just have to walk it himself. His possessions sold and savings withdrawn, Stekker had booked passage to Craviter and after weeks of travel, had finally arrived on the steppe. He hadn’t lingered in the cities long, Kimbria and Neuanfang just being a steppingstone toward his goal.
Ralph Stekker had journeyed onto the vast steppe of northern Essalanea, three days later he was dead.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************
When the clans had ostensibly rallied behind High King Gaiseric, there had been a tacit agreement between king and people, the clans would continue to rule themselves but anything that transcended the local was to be royal business. To that end, the royal essalanean constabulary had been formed, a nascent creature still in its infancy and intended to enforce matters that the local chieftains either didn’t want to or couldn’t.
There were few of the so called ‘bronze shields” their numbers never more then a dozen per county and depending on the clan the lawmen were either praised or ostracized. Clan Maylander at least was a proud northern people, loyal to Gaiseric and his vision of a united future, their lawmen were few but held in high esteem.
Thus, when the news had spread throughout Maylander county of a stranger lying dead on the nearby plains, it was deemed a task worthy of the R.E.C. If the king wanted to play nice with the unhorsed, he would have to clean up the messes they left as well.
*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************
The air was hot in the early afternoon, it was a low dry heat that had blown in from across the phoenix strait, the sort of climate that caused all the worst pests to multiply. The sickly-sweet reek of putrefying flesh was now impossible to ignore, flies and carrion birds circling the source in anticipation of a feast. Holman Maylander frowned and nodded for the other men to begin their search.
“Can’t have been dead long, maggots are still fresh and his meat aint been picked clean yet” Ves offered pointing to the vile mass of larvae that riddled the body
Ves was a youngster by both the standards of the R.E.C and by the traditions of clan and kin, barely 19 summers and far too rebellious even for the outriders’ ranks. she’d developed a natural talent for tracking and rather than leave her aimless and prone to mischief, the clan had rather firmly suggested she put her skills and energy to good use serving the crown.
“Aye kin, found anything on him yet?” Holman asked as a low breeze wafted the scent of putrefaction in his direction and caused him to grimace
Ves Maylander reached into the pocket of the mans tattered jacket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. It was mostly useless stuff, a few plastic cards and a small card depicting Messiah. Ves rifled through the contents until she found what looked like an identification card. Words were printed in formal Gotic script on the cards face and an image of a smiling man adorned the corner.
“Can you read Holman?” Ves asked, passing the card toward the older Maylander with a frustrated expression
“Nah, never got lessons either, pretty sure Otho is the only one who can make head or hair of this crap, Otho! you there old man?!”
Otho Maylander was old by the standards of the clans, at 60 he was unmistakable, his white hair and wrinkled face marking him as unusually long lived. He mostly kept busy maintaining the ATV’s and sharing his wisdom with the young ones, but no one begrudged him his midday naps or made a fuss when he took a little longer to move, they knew that anyone able to reach 60 was more dangerous than they looked.
“Oh, this is one of those ID’s, unhorsed carry them around all the time, says his name is “Ralph Stekker” from Kronstadt” Otho said straining to make out the stylized Gotic script with his aging eyes
“Unhorsed so stupid they can’t just tell each other their names?” Ves asked with a smirk
“It’s a control thing, keeps tabs on people and ensures taxes and laws get followed” Otho explained in a grandfatherly tone
“Unhorsed always did like their words and lists” Ves said with a dismissive shake of her head
Ves continued to search the corpse and its surroundings, eventually prying a satchel from underneath the body, hauling it up and brushing off a few stray maggots, she opened the pack and scanned the contents. Several large books rested inside, they were leather bound and all of them had gold inlaid script and a large cross on the front cover.
“Guess we know what he was doing here” Ves said passing the satchel to Holman
“Missionary, they never learn!” Otho muttered spitting in disgust
“Whatever he was, he’s dead now, we need to tell the chieftain” Holman said grimly
He lay bleeding, vision blurring as the poison took hold, his lips already beginning to swell. The sky was the colour of oceans and not a single cloud could be seen, it was just one endless azure cloak draped across the firmament. The dying man felt his heart begin to slow as the beating organ grew still, he managed to force the words from his mouth as he breathed his last.
“Lead us…n-not-t-t into t-t-temptation…b-b-b-ut…de-liiver usss fr from eviiilll….” He stammered as his lips trembled and turned blue
Gaining a measure of peace, the dying man slumped back and went to meet whatever maker awaited him.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
As far as lands go, few could be considered more inimical to human life than the Essalanean steppe. The soul of this land is a ravenous thing that bears kinship to the carrion eater and the wasting disease, hunger, predation and disease thinning the ranks of men year after withering year. The clans have long revered this place as “paradise of the strong” to live here is to be endlessly tested after all, to survive is to be amongst the mightiest of men.
But even the clans know that the steppe always takes its due in the end, to live to thirty is considered a good innings, hell make it fifty and you can consider yourself blessed. A strong man can dwell here a while, a resourceful one longer still, but the barrens of this endless steppe will eventually take all back into its dusty embrace.
Outsiders seldom understand, they assume its all just primitive superstition and the tall tales of savage people, they just need modernity and Kristur and then they’ll be fine like the rest of us. That arrogance leads them in droves onto these ancient plains, they come with their best hiking clothes and their cameras and their smiles and their clothes become tatters, their smiles fade into wide eyed despair, and their cameras soon come to document starvation and death.
There are wolves big as horses, dust storms that can strip flesh from the bone, there are places where the soil is so thin and lifeless that not even weeds can thrive. And when the sun is hoisted high above this vast expanse, the heat that streams across from the phoenix strait cooks everything not covered and when the sun goes to its rest beneath the horizon, a chill like elderly bones and wheezing lungs grips everything within its Icey grasp.
And still, the unhorsed keep coming, they wander across the border with loud notions and imperious gait and they die as they have done for millennia. If the earth cared to speak, it would be a chorus of the dead for the plains have devoured unhorsed in their millions. But still, they keep coming and the lesson is not learned.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Ralph Stekker was a man on a mission, for as long as he could remember he felt called to a higher purpose, it had been at his lowest ebb that he had come to the revelations of god and messiah. The churn of bad grades, disappointed parents and dead end jobs had all seized up and disappeared the moment that Ralph had felt the holy spirit filling him, the bible was his guide and all the nagging mouths that had berated and denigrated him were silent.
Never much for book learning, Ralph had opted to forego the seminary and instead seek his calling in the missionary school, there his conviction was finally recognized, praised, admired even. On those sun kissed days when they discussed scripture or bringing pagan lands into the light of the messiah, Ralph knew gods love and purpose and all the doubt and fear washed away like water across dusty soles.
The problems had started when his fervour had grown too great even for his instructors to ignore, he spoke of crossing the ocean and seeking out the most terrible pagans. He believed, no knew, that the Essalaneans could be saved from their backward superstitions, they just needed to hear gods word and Ralph Stekker was the man who would speak the testimony. The school had not been as convinced, something about diplomatic relations and potential embarrassment.
That was no problem though, Ralph knew god would provide and if the school wouldn’t join him on path laid out, well he would just have to walk it himself. His possessions sold and savings withdrawn, Stekker had booked passage to Craviter and after weeks of travel, had finally arrived on the steppe. He hadn’t lingered in the cities long, Kimbria and Neuanfang just being a steppingstone toward his goal.
Ralph Stekker had journeyed onto the vast steppe of northern Essalanea, three days later he was dead.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************
When the clans had ostensibly rallied behind High King Gaiseric, there had been a tacit agreement between king and people, the clans would continue to rule themselves but anything that transcended the local was to be royal business. To that end, the royal essalanean constabulary had been formed, a nascent creature still in its infancy and intended to enforce matters that the local chieftains either didn’t want to or couldn’t.
There were few of the so called ‘bronze shields” their numbers never more then a dozen per county and depending on the clan the lawmen were either praised or ostracized. Clan Maylander at least was a proud northern people, loyal to Gaiseric and his vision of a united future, their lawmen were few but held in high esteem.
Thus, when the news had spread throughout Maylander county of a stranger lying dead on the nearby plains, it was deemed a task worthy of the R.E.C. If the king wanted to play nice with the unhorsed, he would have to clean up the messes they left as well.
*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************
The air was hot in the early afternoon, it was a low dry heat that had blown in from across the phoenix strait, the sort of climate that caused all the worst pests to multiply. The sickly-sweet reek of putrefying flesh was now impossible to ignore, flies and carrion birds circling the source in anticipation of a feast. Holman Maylander frowned and nodded for the other men to begin their search.
“Can’t have been dead long, maggots are still fresh and his meat aint been picked clean yet” Ves offered pointing to the vile mass of larvae that riddled the body
Ves was a youngster by both the standards of the R.E.C and by the traditions of clan and kin, barely 19 summers and far too rebellious even for the outriders’ ranks. she’d developed a natural talent for tracking and rather than leave her aimless and prone to mischief, the clan had rather firmly suggested she put her skills and energy to good use serving the crown.
“Aye kin, found anything on him yet?” Holman asked as a low breeze wafted the scent of putrefaction in his direction and caused him to grimace
Ves Maylander reached into the pocket of the mans tattered jacket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. It was mostly useless stuff, a few plastic cards and a small card depicting Messiah. Ves rifled through the contents until she found what looked like an identification card. Words were printed in formal Gotic script on the cards face and an image of a smiling man adorned the corner.
“Can you read Holman?” Ves asked, passing the card toward the older Maylander with a frustrated expression
“Nah, never got lessons either, pretty sure Otho is the only one who can make head or hair of this crap, Otho! you there old man?!”
Otho Maylander was old by the standards of the clans, at 60 he was unmistakable, his white hair and wrinkled face marking him as unusually long lived. He mostly kept busy maintaining the ATV’s and sharing his wisdom with the young ones, but no one begrudged him his midday naps or made a fuss when he took a little longer to move, they knew that anyone able to reach 60 was more dangerous than they looked.
“Oh, this is one of those ID’s, unhorsed carry them around all the time, says his name is “Ralph Stekker” from Kronstadt” Otho said straining to make out the stylized Gotic script with his aging eyes
“Unhorsed so stupid they can’t just tell each other their names?” Ves asked with a smirk
“It’s a control thing, keeps tabs on people and ensures taxes and laws get followed” Otho explained in a grandfatherly tone
“Unhorsed always did like their words and lists” Ves said with a dismissive shake of her head
Ves continued to search the corpse and its surroundings, eventually prying a satchel from underneath the body, hauling it up and brushing off a few stray maggots, she opened the pack and scanned the contents. Several large books rested inside, they were leather bound and all of them had gold inlaid script and a large cross on the front cover.
“Guess we know what he was doing here” Ves said passing the satchel to Holman
“Missionary, they never learn!” Otho muttered spitting in disgust
“Whatever he was, he’s dead now, we need to tell the chieftain” Holman said grimly
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