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He stood perched atop the highest steeple of an unknown church, the only structure visible above the distant horizon. He stood and he watched, his eyes scanning the world below with sharp derision. Below him, priests scuttled about their path like beetles in dull white and black. A sea of tall grasses engulfed the land, reflecting the deep, shimmering orange of sunset. There were grass-thatched houses for the peasants and farmers attending their poor harvests and the occasional traveler or mercenary ambling along the road in both directions. He saw so much from his vantage point at the top of the church’s highest steeple, and yet there was nothing that caught his eye, nothing which drew him in like a moth to a flame.

”My liege…”

No matter how he searched, no matter how closely his eyes scanned the scenery below, Sleipnir found no sign of his master.

It had surprised him to be granted the gift of consciousness once more. He remembered his final moments with his master, he remembered their plans and their dreams and it had not included their survival. Then Barnabas had Primed and Sleipnir had been drawn into him until they were but two minds and one heart and one Eikon split in twain yet forever bonded.

He remembered how Ifrit had taken hold of Odin’s spectral blade and broken it. He remembered how he had turned it upon them and how he had struck Sleipnir so thoroughly that he had burst into the aether and darkness from which he’d come.

That should have been the end of it. His master had meant to die at the hands of Mythos. That should have been the end of them both.

And yet, Sleipnir had found himself pulled from nonexistence once more, his consciousness placed graciously into a vessel carved from the aether and made manifest. This was not a new sensation, and yet he could not help but frown as he had recognized the full blue sky (where were the clouds of God’s Primogenesis?) and the dirt beneath his boots (untouched by Blight) and the swaying sea of grass that almost seemed to engulf him. What he had not found was Barnabas Tharmr.

This had never happened before.

This couldn’t happen.

And yet, as he’d turned again and again on his heel, his eyes growing more frantic by the second as aether pounded hot through his ears, the results remained the same.

Sleipnir was completely and utterly alone.

Possibilities had flit through his mind like dust on an evening breeze as he’d started towards the only sign of civilization he could see amongst the endless fields. Perhaps, he’d thought, his liege had lived and summoned him once more. Perhaps, another thought far more horrible than the last, Sleipnir’s service belonged not to a Dominant, but rather to Odin itself, and now he would be forced to serve the whims of his master’s murderer. At last, as he nearly reached the small farming village, another theory took its place. Perhaps Mythos had defeated their God and brought back the sun. Perhaps some descendent of Barnabas’ doubtlessly vast brood of illegitimate descendents had inherited the power of the Warden of Darkness and summoned him into being, memories intact.

But none of it, not a single thought, could explain how he had awoken here.

For Sleipnir was a creation, a being in his own right certainly, but one which could not exist without a connection to the very power which bound him. Yet he had not found himself facing Barnabas’ grim eyes nor Mythos’ witless tongue nor the fearful glances of some unnamed child. Sleipnir was a being unbound by the laws of magic – a creation without a creator.

Sleipnir felt his fist curl as he slammed it into the ornamental structure atop the church’s highest steeple and watched as the metal reverberated against his gloved hand, denting it with the force of his blow. There was nothing, nothing, NOTHING to be seen from horizon to horizon but useless humans, powerless humans, godless humans!

He wished to slam his fist into the statue again and again until the metal snapped in twain and his knuckles were alight with the dull, firefly blue of loosened aether. He wished to leap from the spire and let his bloodlust rage with the darkness wielded at his fingertips to punish each and every man for the shameful blasphemy that they were not Barnabas. He wished to sneer his curses to an uncaring God which had not delivered him into Odin’s service as was proper and natural and necessary lest he go mad from longing!

Fifty years of practice stilled his hand. Banabas had always discouraged him from revealing his inhuman nature. Barnabas! Even the thought of him brought about the ache of loss – for what he felt was far more than love! What would Barnabas think of him now, struggling against his own unhinged emotions like some form of feral beast?

Sleipnir no longer relied on his liege’s orders and had not for some time. He knew his master’s will thoroughly and had long taken it upon himself to become its interpreter. What would Barnabas ask of him now, here alone in this place without a name or allegiance? He need only answer then imagine it as an order passed between his master’s lips, and he would see it done.

”...Yes, my liege,” he muttered for its comforting familiarity before he bid his darkness engulf him and he stepped from the shadows into
the winding paths below, striding into the thin gatherings of priests and travelers as though he belonged, listening. At first, only listening.

Their voices struck him first. These humans spoke not in the common tongue of Waloed nor the drawling tones of Sanbreque and Rosaria nor the clipped accent of those deep within the heart of Dhalmekia. Their voices were as foreign as their words for he recognized only the most common of sentiments. Mentions of other places, cities, or nations eluded him.

He saw eyes catch on him cautiously, searching him up and down until they noticed that he carried naught but the dagger at his boot, and he was deemed harmless enough to turn their backs once more.

He heard mention of some manner of upcoming dance. A ceremony of offerings, it seemed, to their local god – Titan.

Titan? Worshiped here in the grasslands? How much time had passed? Or was it rather a matter of place? What new world had replaced the last, old and failing as it was?

Question upon question without answer, and yet there was only one which he cared to pursue. Who, exactly, had gifted him life?

After a short moment of consideration, he approached the gossiping priests. ”You speak of Titan as though he were a god,” he said by way of greeting, and the priests tensed as they turned to face him, expressions as grim as they were unwelcoming.

”In spirit, at least,” one answered. ”He sleeps below the earth.”

”And who, pray tell, is his chosen vessel?”

Silence. Uncertain, unhappy silence. Sleipnir continued, ”I seek one of similar design. The Black Rider, Warden of Darkness. Odin.”

Sleipnir was beginning to lose patience with their stilled tongues.

At last, there came an answer. ”Only the elders can answer questions of the gods. And they don’t speak to Outsiders.” There was particular emphasis on that last word. ’Outsiders.’ Sleipnir merely smiled in return.

”And where might I find these elders?”

”They meet inside the church, but-...Wait! You can’t go in there!”

Perhaps on another day with a less dreadful morning, Sleipnir would have listened politely and bid them farewell before turning and heading towards the forbidden church in question, but he found he hadn’t the patience for that. He was not slowed by their cries that the doors were locked and that this was a heresy.

Sleipnir cared for only one god, a dark god, yes, but one of infinite precision and strength. He would live for him. He would die for him. He would revere other gods at his request, and now there was no greater task than to find him and to worship at his feet once more.

He pushed experimentally on the church’s double wooden doors to find that they were indeed locked and bolted. He huffed in laughter and, heedless of the eyes turned to his indiscretions, planted his boot in one solid kick along the crack where the doors met. There was a crack of wood, the creak of broken metal, and the doors slammed open in a shower of splinters and dust.

There were shouts of surprise and calls for fools to grab their weapons. Sleipnir strode over the threshold, allowing his curiosity to guide his gaze. There were frescoes along the back wall depicting gods of legend among crystals which sparkled in the morning light. Simple wooden pews lined the hall leading up to a stage which held an altar which was attended to by several men dressed in white vestments. These men were flanked by others wielding swords and others wielding crossbows aimed directly at his heart.

”There is no need to stop on my behalf,” Sleipnir called to them with a look of feigned ignorance. ”I come seeking an audience if you would be so-”

There was a click. The rush of a crossbow bolt. Sleipnir hooked his foot under one of the pews and flipped it upright just in time for the bolt to bury itself in the wood before it fell with a crash into place once more. Sleipnir raised his hands as though to say he came in peace. He was met with the shocked, silent faces of the men on the stage.

”As charmed as I am by your hospitality,” he went on. ”I come seeking answers as to the divine.”

[attr=class,ooc-notes] I've had this partially done for months. Who will approach the crazy man?