It was not uncommon to see the carriages of the Spire traveling the dusty road that led from the mountain citadel to the riverside village. Drawn by massive horses of pure white, they were elegant vehicles of polished metal and wood with wide curved windows, opaque to the outside. The vehicles were always accompanied by the imposing metal soldiers which strode stiffly ahead and behind. Those who had seen them up close claimed there was no person inside, they were empty suits of armor animated by arcane magic. In low voices they called them the Guardians.
On this day, it was an unusual procession as a phalanx of Spire Sisters walked serenely alongside an especially ornate carriage. They held staffs with a few colorful pennants floating in the breeze as a group of guardians brought up the rear. As they turned onto Merchant Road, the activity in the shops and on the sidewalk ceased as the shopkeepers and their customers gazed at the spectacle. The Sisters of the Spire were all uncommonly beautiful, but usually they visited town in unassuming cloaks of coarse grey fabric. Today they were decked out in sparse yet colorful bodysuits of tight, thin silk with matching stockings. They were adorned by fine golden chains which glinted in the sun like threads of lighting across their torsos. The procession came to a halt in front of the only shop on the strip that was closed for the day, that of Gar the Woodcarver.
The previous day, it had been the woodcarver who had taken down the mad flame-boar which charged toward the fountain plaza on the village green where families, young and old, relaxed and played in the afternoon sun. The creature had left a trail of devastation in its wake, carts overturned, splintered planks of demolished structures. The hapless town guardsmen and the brave souls attempting to divert it had been knocked aside, left bleeding, wounded, immobilized or unconscious. Gar had stood firm in its path, wiry and musclebound like a mountain lion. With his huge tree-falling axe he swung and cleaved the skull of the mad beast which still managed to bowl him over him before it sagged, twitching, into a pool of blood.
Who knows how many lives he had saved. He managed to escape with only a few minor cuts and bruises. News of his heroism had spread throughout the village and toasts to his bravery were shouted in every tavern that night. Rather than celebrate, he had taken his sore and aching body to the rooms above his shop, politely declining the offers of concerned maidens to attend to his wounds. There he sat with a jug of whiskey and a fresh roll of bandages, seeking to numb his pain. Part of him felt guilt, for he had not felt very heroic. He had merely been ambivalent to the prospect of being gored to death.
His current attitude toward life was bleak. A month ago, his wife of four years had left him to become a mistress of a minor noble. She had been young and beautiful and affectionate to Gar. In fact, she had been quite amorous and often praised Gar's skill at lovemaking. However, she was never content in the riverside village where she was born. While visiting the shop of the renowned woodcarver in search of curios and decorations for some palace or another, a duke from Whitearch had been struck by her beauty and tantalized her with whispers of untold luxury and exciting visions of city life among the nobility. Later that evening, they met secretly behind the inn he was staying at and left town together, never to return.
To say that Gar had taken it poorly was an understatement. For weeks he shut out the world, feeling sorry for himself. Without her presence in the front of the shop, it was no longer a bright and cheery space with a steady stream of visitors. His inventory quietly collected dust and new works were few and far between as he lacked motivation at his workbench. Perhaps it was the whiskey that evening, a rare indulgence for him, but as music drifted up from the establishments below and the moon rose above the forested hills, he felt better that night than he had in a while despite the physical soreness. "You should have seen it, Laura," he chuckled to himself.
Gar had no idea what time it was when he awoke to the jangle of the doorbell. Dusty shafts of sunlight shone at the edges of the drapes as he stumbled down to meet the visitor. He blinked in the bright daylight as he opened the door, not entirely sure he wasn't dreaming. Two young women in the doorway stood in high-heeled clogs, one was a petite brunette with long wavy hair and elfish features and the other was a nubile blonde with a ponytail and big dreamy blue eyes. They wore skimpy shorts and tight half-shirts of gauzy silk which were cut to expose bare flat bellies and long toned legs. A few fine chains of woven gold encircled their slender necks and connected to loops around their waists. They greeted him with brilliant white smiles. "Gar Woodwright," The brunette spoke in a melodious voice, "Your acts have become known to the Priestess of the Spire. She invites you to a ceremony in your honor."
Gar was stunned, unable to grasp the situation. He looked at the girls and then to the procession that awaited out in the street beyond the small courtyard. The Spire? He had never known anyone from the village who had visited the Spire. It was a short journey from the village along the ancient road, but despite its nearness it was shrouded in mystery. The legend was of an ancient forbidden palace nestled in the mountains, home to the beautiful Sisterhood under the watch of the powerful magical Priestess, guarded by fierce metal Guardians and gigantic panthers which roamed the woods in the valley beyond. Only a fool would cross the bridge into the Vale of the Spire without permission, as ancient wisdom warned of fates worse than death, though no one could remember anyone actually trying to enter.
Even so, the Spire was well known and had existed for generations. There were many stories in lore describing its benevolence to the surrounding communities. Although the Sisters were secretive about their home, they visited the village often for supplies and to trade herbs, salves, oils and exquisitely wrought jewelry and textiles. (Spire lingerie was sought by noblewomen and royal concubines across the continent). They even had a berth at the docks where their mercantile vessels would take their wares down river to the wider world.
When visiting town, the Sisters wore plain grey cloaks but it did little to temper their exotic beauty and the occasional slip of the cloak revealed brief and alluring outfits beneath, fueling the fantasies of the men (and women) of the village. Without exception, the Sisters were kind and friendly, but spoke at a minimum. Some townspeople feared they were malevolent witches with hidden motives, but most thought of them as cryptic healers with powerful magic, providing exotic and miraculous potions to the village doctors. It was said their weather spells were to thank for the excellent crops and fertile seasons that blessed the valley. It was even said that in ages past that their leader, the Priestess of the Spire, had gone to battle alongside the local warlords to protect the riverlands against raiders, weaving fearsome spells of destruction against the invaders and protecting the river valley while much of the outer lands descended into years of chaos.
He realized he was staring dumbfounded into the eyes of the brunette, who seemed to be searching his thoughts with her gaze, kind and bemused. Her beauty was mesmerizing. Gar was entranced by her large green eyes with long lashes, her full luscious lips, moving, speaking to him...
"Well?" She inquired.
"Uhh, what?" Gar broke partly from his trance. There was a question?
"Will you come?"
He broke from her gaze and looked at the pretty blonde next to her, and then to the scene around them. A crowd had gathered around the procession, giving ample space to the metal guardians and the huge horses. The errand boy who sometimes assisted him in the shop stood by the side of courtyard, his mouth agape. Gar looked again into the alluring gaze of the brunette.
"To... the Spire? Is it not forbidden?"
Sensing the cause for his hesitation, she reached for his hand and held it in hers. "No, my dear. We do not deceive. The Priestess would be honored for you to visit as her guest."
"But why me?"
With sweet patience she explained. "In essence, the circumstances by which you vanquished the flame-boar have given the Priestess reason to believe that she must meet you. She believes you stand at the nexus of events of great importance." She looked at him somewhat imploringly, "All will become clear. Journey with us to the Spire. We will take good care of you, I promise."
