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The dying light goes down in the west, shoving sunset lances through the trees. It seems to flail, drawing down into the enormous gullet of pitch that waits for it behind the mountains. The streams of red, its waving arms, desperate for someone to help. You watch the monstrous night close its jaws from the outskirts of the camp. Your cheek is twitching. No wind blows through you and for a moment you can’t move. You hear a voice speak. Your own. <span class="mu-i">“Though he slay me, I will hope in him; yet will I argue my ways to his face.”</span>
The words ignite inside your mouth, smothering your fears behind His enormity. It is time to prepare. A cross, a wooden cross. You remember well what Cornelius taught you, Pine, Olive, Cypress, or Palm. Any would do, all had been a part of the True Cross. There are places in the world where this is difficult. Here however, you pick one pine out of hundreds and set about it. Two branches flayed of bark. Cut to a two foot length and a one foot width. A long nail through the center.
You borrow tools from a tent by the outskirts. You do not have long, you can feel the pulse from further north, the smallest whisper of rot blowing towards you. You’ve become enough of an adept to finish these quickly, but there is one aspect that is always difficult. The lumbermen have all gone to drink and gamble by now. You take out a small tin from your satchel, filled with turgid red jelly. Weeks old Lamb’s Blood, but some water will loosen it up enough. At least you hope so. You smear the rehydrated blood on the cross and it’s done.
You’ve always hated that there was no way to tell. No hum of energy or blessed hymnal from above. You simply have to have faith. You’ve been doing your work by that first tent’s lantern. It has stayed unmanned so far, but the oil light casts tall and gangrel shadows through your face. It’s enough to summon a distant hail.
