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12𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 ℜ𝔞𝔦𝔫’𝔰 ℌ𝔞𝔫𝔡, 4𝔈15
ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔶 𝔖𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔡, 𝔚𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔚𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔡, ℭ𝔶𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔦𝔩
[color=D4AF37]𝔊𝔲𝔦𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱'𝔰 𝔗𝔢𝔫𝔱 & 𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔣𝔱 𝔖𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔄𝔯𝔨𝔞𝔶[/color]

[indent][indent][i][center]“What do you see in war? What long future does it hold afterward? Will the world change but for a moment before returning to more of the same? Can men and women made of battle ever know peace? Or much like the Wheel of Life, does the mortal’s strife seem cyclical?”[/center][/i] 
Those weren’t words Father Peryval had ever said, but Guifort could hear them in his voice. The timbre of his tone crackling a bit like a fire on its dying embers. The meeting had not assuaged Guifort’s fears but only made him warier of the company he kept. The Inner Circle was filled with smart and capable people, but they all wanted to taste blood. Even Reinette had spoken with vitriol undampened, but Guifort knew she was from Skingrad—there was motive. Yet, she was the practiced physician of their group and according to many, their primary healer. Guifort tried not to take that personally, it wasn’t as if many saw him as anything but a priest. He wondered how many knew his name or if he was just “Father” to them. It was an amusing thought to have, but he was letting them get away from him. He returned to his journals. 

Throughout the evening, a few farmers and the like visited him. They’d wished for weapons blessed or prayers said over their brows. A few voiced concerns that their god of choice was not Arkay, but that Guifort was the closest thing they had to a temple. He’d nodded. The gods weren’t warring and separate entities—they were not Daedric Princes or the various countries of man. In those moments between, he wrote and sketched. Occasionally he’d glance up in hopes of seeing Akamon’s smiling face, Reyna’s dour countenance, Quintis’s barrel-chested frame, or Elara’s powerful gaze, but he was just greeted with the sight of the other tents and the trees that crowded them in. They were all tending to their duties, he figured. It wasn’t as if he’d be abundantly necessary for the fight to come. Unless Count Hruldan decided to escalate his villainy beyond just the regular fare and into the dark arts of necromancy, Guifort didn’t have a place to shine. Oh, he did wish for an evening where they’d be set upon by skeletons. Their hollowed eyes transfixed on the camp, and their chattering, teeth-filled maw screaming out that no one could stop them! Ah, but they were wrong, Guifort was there! Divine Priest of Arkay and smiter of the undead. He chuckled to himself, his smile hurting his cheeks. It was an amusing fantasy but a fantasy, nonetheless. For one, skeletons couldn’t even speak. No, he was fine with his current duties. It was just that he’d been reminded of Yarvis, and the man’s wild tales. Not that Guifort didn’t have any of his own. It was just that his talents usually lied with the observation and the recording of such tales. It was a humble life, but it was his.


He sat his journals aside, wrapping the leather straps around them tight to make sure that no dirt, mud, or water found their way between the pages. He then stood from the poorly upholstered log that he’d been using for far too long as a chair. Stretching out caused his back to crunch and pop like that of a horse’s hoof over bonemeal. Speaking of which, he needed to perform his due diligence and put together some potions for tomorrow. Maybe some fortifications to strengthen their resolve or empower their swinging arm? He surely had the ingredients for those. 

Guifort removed his hat, setting it on a low-hanging branch. He also removed his fur-lined jacket, even if the coolness of the evening was becoming more prevalent. The sleeves would get in his way. He rolled up the arms of his tunic and dug into his things, procuring his various preserved herbs, minerals, and additives. He grabbed a book from the midst of the bag that smelled of sage and was penned by an alchemist of higher standing than Guifort could ever be. A thin ribbon was used as a placeholder. He opened it to that page, only to pause. His fingers slid down the old parchment, feeling the roughness of the grain. The ribbon was red, thin, and it had been once tied in a young girl’s hair. Next to the recipe in the book was a half-finished portrait that had been ruined by water damage. He flipped a few pages, leaving the ribbon where it lay. Right, there the recipe was.

He couldn’t make everything in this book, and not everything in there was a potion. Some of them were simple poultices that any commoner could make. They didn’t even have to read, Guifort had drawn in a lot of the herbs. The few potions that imbued any sort of abilities were common enough one might find them stocked on the shelves of any apothecary. There was nothing there that would confound the mind or boggle the professional. And Guifort had no plans to create a suspect concoction. Instead, he opened a few of the handmade satchels in his pack and procured some mushroom caps. They weren’t anything rare, just a [i]fly amanita[/i], [i]mora tapinella[/i], and [i]scaly pholiota[/i]. Jokes had been made about how Guifort was akin to a pig when it came to mushrooms, keen on finding them and delighted when he did—though it did make him self-conscious of his round middle. But they were for moments like these. He then glanced around, as if anyone would be near him, and pulled from one of his satchels a dried bee. No one had to know about this ingredient. He tossed it into his mortar with the mushrooms. 

“Can’t have Akamon falling off the side of the wall tomorrow, then who would I talk to in this camp? Huh?” Guifort rechecked his surroundings, finding that he was completely alone. He sighed. “Guess I’m talking to myself…” he trailed off.
He glanced up at his hat, and it bobbed a little on the branch. Guifort pursed his lips and pitched his voice out of the side of his mouth. [i]”I may just be a hat, but I agree! If Akamon dies then the rumors will only get odder. I mean you already wear me for Arkay’s sake.”[/i]
“Only in a rebellion would a priest be viewed as useful as a kicking stump.”
[i]”Well, you haven’t gotten kicked yet, but I bet Reyna would be the first one to do it. You should see the way she looks at you… and me for that matter.”[/i]
“Speaking of which, you have a good view of things. How does Elara look at me?”
[i]”You know those words I said about the rumors being odd? This isn’t helping, Gui.”[/i]
“Elara may be a little strange. She sure does love talking herself up, but I don’t think she’s that bad. But maybe you’re right.” He crushed the ingredients with the pestle harder until they became broken up enough that he could get them into the glass bottle. Then he’d need his calipers, a good fire, and some water. After that, he’d have to strain and put in additives for flavor and consistency. No one needed to be able to tell he put a bee in this. “Alright, what about Ja—”
[i]”I was referring to having this lengthy conversation with your hat. That’s odd. Not your choice of what… bedfellows?”[/i]

Guifort chuckled to himself, running a hand through his hair as he did so. He was truly happy that no one else was around. What would they say if they found that their religious counsel had taken to talking and laughing to himself? The weight of his words might easily be lost. It would be strange of them to think he was continually a pious man. Guifort didn’t spend every waking moment in rigorous prayer. Even now, he was tending to alchemical instruments that might remind them of Reinette. Well, if Reinette was prone to brewing by the fireside with subpar implements. Right, he was the subpar implement here.

Yet, Arkay didn’t care that he wasn’t a trained physician with the best equipment septims had to offer. No, his god only cared that he was there—protecting them in Arkay’s name. Guifort stood, surveying the corner of camp that he was in. He remembered the very first thing he learned about Arkay, sitting on the pew under the stained-glass rendering of the Nine Divines. It was that Arkay had been a mortal man, like him, and that he had taken it on himself to learn all he could about life and death. And when the end of his life came, he prayed to Mara that he could continue. He was so close to learning the true meaning behind it all. She granted his wish, and he became a god. It might have seemed hypocritical, considering the way that Arkay advocates for the Wheel of Life. Guifort didn’t think so. Because Arkay shouldered the burden of that duty to help facilitate the rest of the mortals’ existence. So, maybe what he, the priest of Arkay, did seemed like nothing to the eyes of the warriors and mages within the camp. But Guifort liked to imagine that he’d shouldered all their burdens so that tomorrow they could fight with lighter hearts and quicker weapons. And when they fell, they’d fall peacefully. And when they were laid to rest, they’d rest peacefully. Guifort could speak of their conflict over their grave—unburdening them both of it. Until then, he’d tend to their worries like nursing a wound. 

His fingers slipped to the amulet around his neck. “I need a drink.” 
[i]”Just to let you know, drinking alone is also odd.”[/i][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]