Joining a cult

Artam was bone tired and weary when he lept quietly off the garden walls and into the garden. 

Today had been very much stressful after the bastard had warned him. He made sure to clear the chamber pots, change the rushes, stoke the hearth, change his bed linen, and a list of other things. 

Now to be fair, it was pretty much the usual stuff. But this time he did them with the utmost care and dexterity. He didn't want to make a mistake the third time. The bastard would be true to his word and Artam might not live after that beating.

"The things I do to keep my head." Artam sighed.

The overgrown vines and bushes seemed to welcome his arrival, and the sounds of the crickets chirping greeted him with utmost pleasure.

The yellow moon was almost at full strength tonight, and it's eerie yellow light shone through the gaps.

From a younger age Artam had always loved the wild and the night. It was free from the oppressiveness of humanity.

He had been born at Pondor on the western banks of the higher continent. Artam remembered the days he would seek the solace of the woods after a hard day of labor.

The woods there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall brightwood trees spread and birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. 

The Serpent Den kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, remains of a once plush garden now an old forest untouched for years as the gloomy castle rose around it.

It smelled of moist earth and decay. No brightwoods grew here.

This was a wood of stubborn sentinel shrubs that could never make it to treehood, armored ironwood bark.

Shrubs with thick black roots crowded close together and twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil.

This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and there were hardly any critters who lived here. They were too afraid to trespass 

caw, Vyde sure wasn't.

The crow seemed to love the dark ominous air in these woods. A place were his cousins dared not cross for reasons of their own.

Artam loved the woods all the same, wether brightwoods or darkwoods. They were all the same to him.

It was like how you loved one person for their charms and another for theirs.

Whenever he was stressed or tired mentally, he would seek the quiet of the woods.

But today he was he came for another reason, he would find her here tonight.

He had gone to retire for the night when he found a letter on his bed. It had two simple sentences on them.

[The garden, at the hour of the owl.]

He was more than surprised she could read and write, most slaves couldn't.

Artam only learnt how to read, he couldn't write properly he forgot too many things. 

At the center of the grove a large ancient hearthwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold.

He found her beneath the hearthwood tree(the only tree for that matter), seated on a moss-covered stone. 

Those waters black as night floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but his reflection on the surface on the black waters seemed to look at him in a sinister light.

She lifted her head to look at him.

"You are here," she called softly. 

"What do you want," he said. His voice was distant and formal.

He sat beside the pool, his back to the hearthwood.

 She sighed running her hands across the gnarled black roots of the hearthwood. "True. I am not known for the way of cunning." 

"You know what they do with skinwalkers?" She asked suddenly.

I won't give in, last time she was just bluffing, He spoke "I'm not–"

"I didn't ask if you were a skinwalker sonny." She cut him off. "I asked if you knew what they did with skin walkers."

He swallowed, hard too.

The stillness of the waters, her piercing gaze, and the haunting silence of the hearthwood tree behind him seemed to conspire together.

Yet, he stayed.

"They burn them," he finally said, his voice low, almost drowned by the whispering wind. "After they're flayed."

Her laugh was hollow, almost cruel. "Ah, you're well-versed in the tales, then. But not all. Sometimes they wear their skins, thinking it will grant them the same power. Fools."

He felt a shiver crawl down his spine as she spoke. The stories he had heard since childhood, warnings wrapped in fear, played in his mind like a laughing wolf would play with its meal.

"You weren't called here to talk about old stories," she said, standing now, her hand brushing the moss-covered stone as if it were a familiar companion. "I brought you here because you were guided to me. Before you turned to ruin and become an abomination."

"I haven't—"

"Not yet, perhaps," she interrupted, stepping closer to the black waters, her reflection mirroring her movements, but darker, twisted.

"But it's only a matter of time. You feel it, don't you? The way your thoughts itch for the sinister, how easy it is to be overcome by your emotions, how your dreams have been getting weirder and weirder, the desire to steal another man's skin, and it will only get worse... The erraticness."

He clenched his fists, "I'm not an abomination."

She turned, her eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "Maybe not. But you can avoid your fate." 

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asked, voice strained.

Her lips curved into a thin smile, but it was devoid of warmth. "Child, you will run to ruin and abomination with the gift you were given. Unless of course you join me and my organization."

He had heard the rumors, the stories of the host of skins– a notorious cult known for having skinwalkers. The horrible acts they committed in pursuit of power.

"What if I refuse?" he muttered, almost to himself.

Her eyes gleamed, and she stepped closer, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Then I would do the world a favor by ridding it of you."

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, all he could hear was the steady, ominous ripple of the black waters at their feet.

"You can't be serious," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from hers, those faintly glowing irises locking him in place like a predator cornering its prey.

She seemed different in the yellow moonlight, a bit aged but in a way breathlessly beautiful and enchanting.

Her smile widened, though it still carried no warmth. "I'm always serious, child. And trust me, there are far worse fates than joining us."

He took a step back, the soles of his boots sinking into the wet earth near the water's edge.

"You want me to join the host of skins?"

Even Artam had his limits.

"The host of skins? No you won't be joining that vile cult." She laughed softly, the sound unsettling. "Do not fret. We don't lie about an omniscient figure saving you or protecting you. We are the Apostles, we grow our own strength. Because no one can save you save for yourself."

His stomach twisted, her words made his blood feel heavy and churmed, as though it pulsed differently in his veins now.

"I don't believe you."

She tilted her head, watching him closely, her eyes gleaming with something darker than mere curiosity. "There's nothing not to believe."

Then she cut a tiny gash along her thumb and let the blood trickle over the ground.

"And there are many benefits to joining." She said.

Upon smelling the ethereal scent of her blood, Artam began to feel drowsy. The luster of Ilda's eyes shone oddly, to the extent of him seeing double.

Everything suddenly became a blur as though the world spun around him. His surroundings were moist and cold. Cold sweat. His back felt exactly the same.

"Am I... Dreaming?" He asked bewildered.

Artam could not help but take a step back. For a moment he was unsure if he was awake or still in his dreaming.

"No.... It's just an illusion, child." Ilda's voice brought him out of his revere.

This... She could cast illusions? Artam was petrified.

Then Artam felt figures and shape moving in the blurred world.

There was clearly no one here;yet, Artam felt as if he was on a crowded dinner hall.

"What...are these?" Artam trembled.

Ilda's expression remained unchanged as she walked beside him and replied calmly, "So... The Spirits of the dead cling to you. Causing your strange dreams."

 Spirits? Spirit... All the invisible things that were spying on him were spirits? And they caused the murmer dreams? And why where there were so many of them?

Bewildered, Klein looked around and realized that everything was dreamy and hazy.

"Alright I've seen enough." Ilda said.

Then he opened his eyes, which he had no memory of closing, Ilda hadn't moved from where she stood.

"Impressive. Isn't it?" She asked.

Then the temptation settled in. It wasn't the vile host of skins he'd be joining it was another cult.

One that most people didn't know about.

Didn't he tell Cara that none of the Watchers or Lars, or the sixteen texts would save her. An organization that believed in their own power. It was very tempting.

And the knowledge and sorcery he would learn would be worthwhile.

She sighed, almost disappointed, and her hand drifted to the small dagger under her chiton. "You've made your choice then."

"No! I'll join." He blurted.

"Really?" she murmured, taking a deliberate step closer. "I thought I would need to do a little more convincing."

She looked at him intensely for a while..

"Alright. Kneel" she commanded.

Artam didn't know what brought him to his knees but he did.

"Now say these words " 

Artam gulped, and repeated the oath word by word

"I am the servant of the One with no name who was wronged and robbed of His rightful place. The rustling of leaves, the crashing of waves, the myriad of stars—all bear witness to His suffering. I pledge myself to restoring Him to His former glory and to returning Him to His seat of honor.

By my hand, the thief and his legion of false scholars shall be vanquished, their wisdom turned to dust. I swear my loyalty to His cause, until the world knows His name once more and trembles at His return."

She smiled, "Now you may rise Apostle of the Nameless God."