Dobromil broke through the last of the thickets. His body collapsed, the impact bringing it back to the realm of visibility for good. Behind him stood the dark forest of the decayed, in front of him a hidden path that lead up a steep rocky incline. The incline broke up into the sky, forming a craggy mountain, home of the monastery. 

Mud caked Dobromil’s boots, soaking all the way up to his knees. He was breathing raggedly and his stomach began to turn, the cold of the magic leaving his body. His knuckles turned white and his fingerless gloves soaked through as he clutched at wet tufts of wild grass, their blades a dark evil green. His body jerked and he heaved, pushing himself onto his knees as his body jerked again. He retched, gagged, and suddenly vomited. Three polished white stones of quartz flowed from his mouth riding a shallow tide of bile, the very same from the ritual. He coughed. 

Falling onto his rump he sat for a moment collecting himself, wiping the stones on the wild grasses and forbs. He pulled his leather bag up from its collapsed position and carefully placed the stones in a pouch on the inside of the ingredient bag, right next to some clear cubic stones. Sucking in a relieved breath he procured a beaten yellow stained book from the bag as well as a sharpened pine stick and a small vial of sepia. He thumbed through countless notes and ritual instructions, all written in his handwriting, to the last entry denoting a Hymn of “vague anatomy.” He quickly scribbled the experience he just lived done, proclaiming the ritual a success. Blowing softly on the pages he waited for the sepia to dry before slapping the book shut, wiping the stick’s tip on his tattered breeches and tossing it back into the bag.

Taking one last deep breath he forced himself to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulders, a strap running down each side of his torso and tucking under his arms. He fixed his worn vest, straightened his dirty shirt and pulled his sleeves back down over his biceps. He quickly fixed his breeches and boot length pants as well.

 Dobromil fiddled with his leather strap belt around his waist, adjusting the pouches, and small utility knife attached, as he took his first few steps along the path. Only a small trampling of rock grown grass gave the path away, and as the winds picked up, dust began to form in the air. Dobromil tucked his grey patched scarf up over his nose and continued. 

The walk was silent, as was his mind. The only thoughts buzzing were the instructions of his guide, long before the poor man met his end. Dobromil couldn’t even blame himself for the loss of the scout, the man having been snagged in the middle of the night by some monster of the purgatory. Dobromil hadn’t seen it happen, but he could speculate from the camp when he woke up. The man likely wandered off to urinate, but found more than a willing tree. 

Not feeling right about the situation, and not knowing if the man was alive, Dobromil simply left the camp untouched, the man’s belongings where he had left them. Many years ago Dobromil may have championed a grand adventurous search and rescue mission, but nowadays he knew the foolhardiness of the thought, especially considering how common such a situation was during the nights of purgatory. Besides, Dobromil was a broken spear and he knew it. 

Dobromil kicked a stone and shoved his hands into his breech pockets, having sewn them on the side with slightly mismatched coloured cloth. He looked like a beggar, and he knew it. All the money he could obtain was put towards purchasing ingredients that he couldn’t gather on his own. He didn’t find much use for money anymore anyways. He had no home, no property, nothing to upkeep but his health. It was probably for the best, he had turned into a slob. Where he once had careful manners and an extremely clean attitude, he had replaced with  greatly disorganized and uncaring facade. Only the interior of his coveted bag lived as proof of his hidden penchant for cleanliness and organization. It lived almost as a metaphor, his desire for order and purity only obtainable on the inside in such a chaotic world. So, yes, he was a mess, but a mess with a reason and desire. 

His boots scuffed to a stop and his eyes focused back in reality, drifting away from his internal monologue. He was there. In front of his stood three confused looking maidens, their clothes and skin contrasting Dobromil’s with extreme cleanliness. Behind them the door to the monastery was open, the trio assumingly having seen Dobromil coming while he was lost in his mind. 

They stared at each other for a second too long in silence before one of the maidens, a young woman with straight black hair spoke up, [color=#00FFFF]”Seeker?”[/color]

[color=#ff2400]”Yes, I have come to see the Vicar,”[/color] Dobromil answered simply, pulling his scarf down from his face, [color=#ff2400]”Can you take me to her?”[/color]

[color=#00FFFF]”Our Lady have instructed us to first see to your needs, to see that you are well rested and satisfied,”[/color] The Maiden answered.

Dobromil squinted, his usual look of anger and disappointment turning into a bubbling cynicism, [color=#ff2400]”I will be rested and satisfied once I have learned the location of the Herald.”[/color]

The maiden’s face betrayed frustration, [color=#00FFFF]”Very well, I will send one of us to her. Come this way in the meantime.”[/color]

Dobromil nodded, [color=#ff2400]“Much thank-”[/color] His stomach began to bubble and groan as he mounted the steps to follow the trio, one looking back at him with a knowing look. Dobromil could have sworn he heard a smart remark under the breath of the youngest of the trio.

The man sighed in defeat, [color=#ff2400]”Perhaps you can grant me one more favour.”[/color]

The black haired maiden looked back at him, the question on her face rather than words. Dobromil looked down and the maiden could have sworn she heard shame in his voice,  [color=#ff2400]”I need food and water.”[/color]