Hag'rith stood up, once he’d said his piece. Aigne startled, the way the creature moved still alien and disturbing to her as she watched him cautiously. The real shock came when she heard voices in the night, and Hag'rith’s light spell utterly banished itself as if on reflex. She had not expected to be alone with the creepy skeleton thing, but to hear other people out here and approaching her position set her alarms to ringing all over again.

  The only reason she did not attack the incoming party outright was Hag'rith’s stare. He said nothing, just stared at her, a silent reminder of the incredible damage he’d inflicted and healed with less than the space of a breath. If these people were a threat to her, there was nothing to do about it, other than hope Hag'rith would annihilate them for her.

  Yet, when the group rounded on their location, when torch light and shouting gave way to quiet, stunned awe at the sight of the bone man and subsequent kowtowing, Aigne was forced to reevaluate her position in all of this. These men treated Hag'rith like he were no less than a god. Had he said anything about that? No… but he’d said this was his graveyard, that no one was fool enough to attack him here.

  If that weren’t enough, the raise and thump of a dozen strong men and women lifting their front halves up, then bringing them slamming down to the earthy loam of the graveyard would have done it. This “Lord Feohren” may be a god, but so was Hag'rith, or at least something like it. Would asking be rude? Would it cross a line that caused the bone creature to attack her again? She doubted it, but the cold realization that she was utterly out of her depth prickled along her lower back and down the back of her thighs.

  These were people, humans and… others, and their culture was not her culture. She wasn’t even entirely convinced that they were the same kind of human as she was, given the way some of the men and women before her bulged in their robes, or seemed stretched out like fresh taffy. Then there was the strange tattoo they all shared. It was incomplete on some, but the most deformed and distorted of these worshippers all had the same symbols. Three of them, in a supportive circle that they bore on their right shoulder. It bore the distinct flavor of ritual, something similar to her old scratchings and musings from back home.

  As she watched, shifting from foot to foot under the growing malaise of her discontent, one of the robed men approached her. He looked confused, gesturing to Hag'rith without looking directly at the little god.

  “Sister, you wear robes of our order, yet you disrespect Lord Hag'rith. Are you in some form of distress?”

  Aigne just stared for a moment, turning first around to see if anyone was behind her, then double-checking her robes. Sure enough, they looked almost exactly like the robes these people wore. “These people”, she spat in her mind at the casual disrespect in her own mental voice. She truly had been alone for too long.

  “I am not one of yours. My name is Aigne, once of the great swamp, now of Feohren. Who are you?”

  She expected an extreme reaction from the worshippers, expected perhaps outrage at being clad in colors that were not her own, by right or by covenant. What she got hadn’t even been on her mental radar, as the entire flock of grey robed worshippers all but fled from her. The one left behind, the one who had addressed her, looked like someone had just plucked his lifeline with a razored bow. He swallowed thickly, bringing himself down very carefully to one knee, then bowing his head.

  This was not the behavior of a man worshipping his god, small or otherwise… this was a man showing deference and veneration on a level comparable to that of the head of a grand sect or entire country. The shiver in his voice was hard to pick out, but only because he had gone from speaking boldly and firmly to a bare whisper, as if he were afraid of his voice carrying too well, or with too little respect.

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  “T-the grand Father of Death himself… the great lord has… chosen you?”

  Hag'rith’s sudden laughter made both of them jump, Aigne nearly entering a combat stance from the shock, while the worshipper flattened himself along the ground, as if to make himself invisible. The boney bastard kept laughing, his strange voice high and cracking at one moment, then low and grinding like ancient bedrock the next. His jaw even hung open, head tilted back to the sky like a normal person laughing their ass off, for all that he’d been statuesque in the extreme until but a moment ago.

  “Chosen, please, I- Oh, gods be good… Chosen, you should not speak the Dread Father’s name so casually in mixed company. His is a name spoken in the grip of great and terrible wroth, or torn from your lips in the depths of the most aching despair. To invoke my Lord is to invite his wrath upon an enemy.”

  Something clicked for Aigne as she listened to the skeleton- to Hag'rith’s explanation. These worshippers had been respectful, even deferential to Hag'rith, but he had only said the name… what, once? Even now, he referred to what must be his superior only in references and secondary titles. That level of respect was something even the religions of her homeland did not engender in their faithful. She nodded, then scowled as she rubbed at the spoked wheel brand on her chest.

  “Well, that’s awfully inconsiderate. Marks my breast like a farmer with his cattle, but to even mention him I must go roundabout? Fine. I’ll ask again.”

  She turned her head down to look at the one remaining mortal in the graveyard aside from herself, eyes burning with building frustration at the odd customs of these new folk.

  “Who are you, cultist? I would know everything you can tell me about this strange place, and I would have you do it with care. I am not familiar with your ways, as you can see, so every detail is more vital than perhaps you are used to.”

  The man lifted his head up by increments, like he was trying to move slowly enough that she got bored and left. It occured to Aigne, belatedly, that such behavior was how one guarded themselves from a hungry predator. He swallowed thickly, then nodded as he rose to his knees and sat on his haunches. His voice sounded strained, the tremor of fear and anxiety threading an otherwise authoritative tone as he visibly gathered himself.

  “V-very well, Chosen. Lord Hag'rith is correct, uttering the Dread Father’s name is one of the best ways to bring his attention upon you, and his temper, while not necessarily quick, is the stuff of legend. More to the point, I would ah… not make it widely known that you are a Chosen at all. The gods pick champions from time to time, some more than others, but a Chosen is more than a mere priest, borrowing from the significance and potency of their patron. A Chosen is someone marked by the gods, often imbued with special powers, or invested with some dark secret.”

  Here, the man licked his lips, eyes flicking over to Hag'rith. The skeleton said nothing, naturally, but the man seemed to take heart and solace in that lack of response.

  “Lord Hag'rith had a Chosen or two, very rarely. I am sure he could provide you greater answers than I. Ah, my name is… Vidar, Chosen Aigne. I lead the cult of the Grave in this city, and I would be happy to work with you, as you learn of our ways and world.”

  The night had begun to feel weary to Aigne, her head spinning as she tried to ingest all the many, many details being thrust at her. She was a Chosen, and that was something special, she couldn’t mention the name of her patron or the fact that she even had one without causing trouble for herself, and now she was being adopted by a self-professed cult in service to her mentor. She looked down at Vidar, feeling suddenly exhausted by it all, and just sighed as she ran a cool palm over her temple. This was already a very busy night.

  “Yes, thank you, Vidar. I will… do my best to heed you, in the coming days. For now, though, I mostly want rest. I'm tired, and all this talk of gods and Chosen and dread fathers is… really too much. Please, do you have somewhere I may stay?”

  Vidar’s complexion seemed to clear up slightly and he rose to his feet, nodding simply in Aigne’s direction. It seemed like he was trying to keep himself hunched, slightly, so that he did not appear to stand taller than her, but that would be stupidity. She was tired, and perhaps her exhaustion was making her see things.

  “Yes, yes, we have lodging. Please, come with me and I will show you the way to our quarters. It is not much, but you will always have a room to yourself in our order.”

  The trip into town did not take long, and as they walked, Aigne slowly began to really take in the new world she was in. The night sky’s stars were in completely new positions, constellations and vibrant colors painting the map of the night sky in ways she was unfamiliar with. The strange sky drew her eyes up often, making her stumble and reach out for a shoulder more than once. Vidar was amenable enough that he didn’t hold it against her, though he seemed to go through some form of spasm when he tried to figure out how to catch her.

  Her new status among these cultists was going to take some figuring out. They revered her, and the weight of that attention was more than she wanted to deal with, in any capacity. Still, as she looked back at the way she’d come and glanced the misting, vanishing shape of a skeleton in dark robes, she couldn’t help but wonder if this new world was… at least more welcoming than her own. She’d find a way to come to terms with all of this madness… eventually.