"Gideon Graveloch: son of Theophorus Graveloch, a blacksmith entrusted with his family's oath – to gather and destroy the weapons of the Divinities as they await for Armageddon. Demons and Angels lost their armouries and seek to find them, for the victor of Armageddon will awaken God and He will judge in their favour. But on Earth they can only observe and whisper. But when a demon and angel stand together they can affect – so they charged Gideon Graveloch with the task of retrieving the weapons scattered across the world by his father. And where the weapons are hidden, so too will he find the Beasts. Gideon refused but his wife and daughter were condemned to the Abyss until all the weapons are collected and a new batch can be forged. This is his quest ..."
The forest was dank and dark – the encroaching canopy of leaves blotted any star that might have otherwise caressed the forest floor with it timeless echo of starlight. Within the shadows between the trees, a lone figure was pressed against the mossy earth. He was covered with the detritus of the early fall season and his face was caked sombrely with coal black dirt. Insects and vermin crawled across his hands and nose but he remained silent – his scent was buried beneath the blanket of forest he had worn for the past two days. He awaited the Torathar Sidhe.
2 days earlier
The village of Dowster was plagued with a horror that many had tried to defeat to gain the 10 schilling reward the mayor had promised. But the shadowed woods around the village filled with the horrid wailing song of the Women of the Sidhe. Would be heroes fought uselessly against the nameless beast that scoured the wood and left many a man no more than a heap of putrid, bloodied flesh and shattered bone.
When the nights grew frigid and the sounds of the village and the woods fell away to unearthly silence, the nameless horror wandered the paths throughout the town until it found its prey – the chosen young woman recently come of age was snatched and her parents were always found in the same bloodied state as the fallen hunters who sought it out. But the silence that heralded the beast came after the Women of the Sidhe – the banshees – wailed for the fate of the townsfolk.
But another kind of silence settled over this night; the moon was watchful of the lone cloaked figure saddled upon a strangely grey stallion. The figure was broad of shoulder and thick of chest and his head was adorned with a black tricorn hat. His gloved hands held a relaxed grip upon his mount's reigns as he steered the mighty horse along the weaving road of the town – a well throned over the town's main square and a ragged watermill dominated the northern edge of the town, fed by the Dowster's Tear river. The cry of the killdeers resounded and stray dogs huddled near the warm exhausts of low storied houses while the occasional cat paused from their nightly trek along the rooftops to peer at the arriving stranger.
He patted the horse's powerful neck and whispered soothingly in its ear as it whinnied plaintively at being surrounded so tightly by hard things. The stranger dismounted the steed when it halted by the sign of the Rounder's Inn.
The old oak door creaked loudly as the stranger pushed it open although it resisted him like a stubborn mule. But once inside, it closed quietly while he descended a few stairs and entered the mess hall of the inn. An assortment of long and round tables littered the hall while the far wall was bordered by a wide bar and behind the bar was a small kitchen. A ruddy featured man was wiping the bar with a partially soiled rag while a young woman cleared some tables. Some patrons were huddled in a corner and whispered as the cloaked stranger saddled up to the bar.
The barkeep looked up at the tall, broad shouldered stranger as he removed his tricorn hat and deposited it on the bar – the keep snorted at the stranger's unwanted presence but suddenly swallowed hard when he met the stranger's cold blue eyes, framed by a mane of long, dark brown hair. His face was broad and his cheek bones high and his chin was strong. His nose was regal, but a bit crooked , and his lips were thin but still sensual. He placed a silver schilling on the bar.
"A room," the stranger said, his voice low and gravelly.
"Of course sir," the inn keep shined as he picked the coin and bit in to it. His sweat dripped onto the bar. "This'll cover for nearly a fortnight."
"Don't plan on staying that long."
"So you're in town for the reward, eh?" the inn keep chuckled conspiratorially.
"Do I look like I am wanting for coin?"
It was then that the inn keep noticed the the cool basket hilt broadsword hanging restlessly from the stranger's left thigh and the hilt of a dagger from his right.
"Another would-be hero, men!" A voice bellowed from the entrance to the hall -- shadows danced as hanging oil-lamps swayed under the disturbance.
The stranger listened as their footfalls shuffled towards the bar – the inn keep backed away as his eyes shifted from the men to the stranger and back.
"Please, Hebbler, he's paying good money," the inn keep pleaded.
"Then he owes us the welcoming committee tax," the one called Hebbler snickered.
The stranger turned slowly to face the committee – they were four. Hebbler was at the head of the group as they formed a semi-circle around him. The two largest men stood on each side of the stranger.
"I'm no hero – and I never expect to feel welcomed anywhere," the stranger warned. "Collect your fee somewhere else." Hebbler involuntarily took a step back when he locked eyes with the stranger.
"One of you or all of you?" the stranger growled.
"What?"
"Will one of you or all of you be be carried out of here?" the stranger hissed darkly – and then he pivoted to the left as the largest man rushed him. The stranger grabbed the man's wrist and used it as a lever to redirect his momentum and exposed his left side – his knee crashed into the man's ribs while he finished the man off with a punch to the back of his neck, rendering him unconscious. As the man fell, his companion struck from the right – the stranger slapped the punch aside and delivered a powerful kick to side of his attacker's knee. The man crumbled against the bar and the stranger landed and elbow to the man's temple, slamming his head into the bar's hardwood side. Two were now unconscious on the floor.
The stranger was immobile while his eyes pierced Hebbler's trembling heart. The third man with him backed away and fled the inn.
"You're related to the power in the town – nephew or son of the mayor? This is the only place you have any worth, isn't it? By your garb you've been to either London or Glasgow but you were a minnow among the sharks. You're top dog here but you hate yourself for failing to stop the attacks – yet you fear being upstaged even more.
"I don't give a fuck about you or your little power plays – I will see whomever is in charge on the morrow."
Hebbler nodded feebly and he managed to rouse his battered companions under the unfeeling eyes of the stranger. Once they were gone, the stranger pulled another five shillings from his purse. "For my horse and your troubles," the stranger said.
The innkeeper smiled sheepishly and said: "Hebbler has been trouble ever since he returned from Glasgow. His goons were the Parrignton boys – never saw a man route those bastards the way you did. My name's Reginald Vance-Altham. But my friends call me Rounder. What's your name, friend?"
The stranger pondered for a moment. "Gideon Graveloch."
"I'll remember that, my lord. Your room is upstairs and the second from the left."
Gideon nodded his thanks and followed Rounder's instructions.
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Gideon hung his heavy cloak and his tricorn hat on the stubs behind the wooden door of his fashionable room at the Rounder's inn – before closing the door he paused and lit a small oil lamp and a set of candles on the table next to the cot that was to be his bed. He sniffed it and it was clean enough; he unhooked his scabbard and his dagger and placed the knife next to the candles and then pulled off the small sac that held his belongings and the tesseract chest.
Gideon paused a moment before opening it, casting a glance at the crucifix adorning the doorway to his room – he wondered it the man knew what was being done in his name. He then put a hand on each side of the palm sized chest and moved his hands apart. The chest expanded to 5 times its size and it opened. He reached inside and pulled out a journal, a sketchbook and some plumes. There was also a glow and a hum from deep within the chest but he ignored both.
He closed the chest and it shrank back to its original size and he sat on the bed – he flicked the sketchbook open and looked upon the detailed rendering of a beautiful young woman and a lovely young girl. His eyes lingered on their serene faces before he flipped to another page. A ravenous mouth full of teeth stared back at him and there was a date at the bottom of the page. On another page was the image of a man with no skin on his skull and a chest full of razor sharp blades. Six other pages, 6 other beasts, 6 other dates – and with each he had found a prize he had put in the chest and the Hosts of Heaven and Hell were closer to their final battle.
He put the sketchbook aside when he suddenly glanced at his room door – the floorboards creaked ever so gently as a light step strode towards his room. The footfalls stopped in front of the door and a faint rapping made the wood shiver. Gideon opened the door and was met by the shy brown eyes of a flowering young woman. The top of her bonnet-covered head reached just beneath his chin as he stepped aside and allowed her into the room. She carried a tray holding a bowl of hot stew and a bottle of port wine.
"Compliments of my father," she said in a heavenly voice.
