studiobondurri 25 – A Cult
25 – A Cult
For Burn, slipping into another kingdom unnoticed was less of a challenge and more of a leisure activity.
Armed with his wits and magic, a network of spies masquerading as everything from bakers to bankers, and subordinates who were disturbingly competent at bending rules, crossing borders was a piece of cake—a very sneaky, covert-operations type of cake.
Sneaking into the famous Wintersin Empire? Just another day at the office.
This wasn't just slinking through some backwoods fence but infiltrating a fortress swaddled in ice and guarded by the kind of military that could make a tyrant whimper.
But Burn, with the audacity of a cat burglar with keys to the city, made his plans.
His entry strategy? A classic—hiding in plain sight. Under the guise of a humble merchant, Burn swapped his imposing armor for the nondescript garb of a trader dealing in exotic spices.
Spices, after all, were the one thing the frostbitten folks of Wintersin couldn't mine out of their frozen soil.
He had his caravan, loaded not just with the finest paprika and peppercorns, but also with cloaks, daggers, and some magic trinkets for good measure.
His caravan wove through the snowy passes, greeted by the icy winds that howled like the Wintersin military at a victory parade.
His spies, a veritable league of extraordinarily inconspicuous gentlemen and women, had laid the groundwork well.
They had spread rumors of a spice merchant whose seasonings could make even boiled leather taste gourmet—a story so appealing that even the frost-hardened border guards couldn't resist a peek.
As Burn, the spice merchant, made his grand entrance, the guards were too distracted by their culinary dreams to see the wolf amidst the sheep.
Thanks to his well-placed bribes—a sprinkle of saffron here, a dash of cinnamon there—the gates opened wider than the jaws of a yawning troll.
But,
Okay, done. This is a cult.
DRAP! DRAP!
Chatter! Yell, yell!
Just as Burn was digesting the sight before him, the relative peace was shattered by a cacophony from outside—a classic pitchfork-and-torch parade.
It seems that the local villagers had finally had enough and were coming to express their feelings in the traditional 'mob justice' fashion.
"Tonight, we take back our town from these cultists! No more whispers, no more fear!" one yelled, thrusting his pitchfork skyward.
The crowd responded with a resounding roar, their voices melding into a single, thunderous cry, "Drive them out! Burn the darkness away!"
Leading this impromptu rally was a particularly vocal individual, who, armed with righteous fury and a megaphone voice, proclaimed their mission to drive out the "cultists."
His voice cut through the night, his words igniting the air with a mix of fear and anger as palpable as the torches they waved.
They marched like a storm, ready to rain down their homespun justice on the church's doorstep.
Burn, caught between the bloodletting he'd just witnessed and the angry village drama unfolding outside, found himself pondering the lesser of two evils.
As the crowd neared, their shadows dancing wildly in the torchlight against the church's stark walls, it became clear that this wasn't just a confrontation—it was a scene straight out of a gothic novel, minus the subtlety.
Burn sighed.
“Why would Morgan Le Fay acquainted herself with these kinds of people?”