Upon returning to Ruen that evening, Jenkins confird that the fifth gem of the Doomsday Docunt had appeared. He then opened the book he had taken from Mr. Birchwood's ho. Using the thod Mr. White Cat had given him, he solved the puzzle and, as expected, obtained the unique ability that pointed to a Savior's Emblem.
Sotis, he could feel it himself—as if an invisible hand were manipulating his destiny. It seed that everything he did in this world had, in so grand design, already been arranged for him.
But as his divination teacher, Miss Audrey, had once said, it is the combination of inevitable fates that creates coincidence. If Jenkins had not ddled in the nurous disasters of the past month and a half, he would never have been able to acquire the ability from the book, even if he possessed it.
While he marveled at the workings of fate, he also thought with a heavy heart that this was already the seventh Savior's Emblem. With only two more to go, all the qualifications for being a Savior would be revealed, yet he was still not ready to face the final day.
He had initially planned to perform the ritual to learn this ability in Ruen, but after so thought, he decided to do it in Nolan instead. He had learned all his other abilities in Nolan and did not wish to break the tradition.
So, after dinner, Jenkins bid farewell to the ladies of the manor and returned ho with the cat he had "neglected" for an entire afternoon. Without lingering in the city, he rode a unicorn directly to the Augustus family cetery in the suburbs.
The place was exceptionally remote. Since Mr. Augustus's death, no one besides Jenkins had ever visited. Jenkins had once used his connections with the Sage Church to hire professionals from the Church of Death and End to maintain the grounds periodically, so the cetery had not fallen into disrepair.
He stood before Mr. Augustus's tomb for a mont before making his way to the small, abandoned cetery under the light of the twin moons.
The place was just as he rembered. The gravekeeper's hut had collapsed during a blizzard last winter. Now, with sumr approaching, weeds had already sprouted from the ruins, and moss covered the broken beams.
He gathered so dry firewood from the nearby woods and built a bonfire in the cetery.
Jenkins sat down, supporting himself on the ground, and gazed at the flas, his mind wandering through many thoughts. Finally, he resolved not to delay any longer.
"Chocolate, go on over there. Don't wander off. I'll take you back soon."
He scooped up the cat and placed it on the grass nearby. The cat owed at him once, then obediently padded into the darkness. In the night, its two eyes glowed like a pair of green gas lamps. Jenkins was pleased with how sensible his cat was.
Turning back to face the fire, Jenkins added a few more logs, then pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket that he had brought from Ruen. On it, he had sketched a simple human figure in pencil. Following the lines, he carefully tore out the shape and tossed it into the flas.
The crackling of the burning wood echoed far into the tranquil night. Jenkins waited in silence for a long while before he began to sing an ancient lay in the Elven tongue:
"In fields where purple azaleas bloom, The brave bid lasses farewell, and ride toward their doom.
Their stories thrill, a breathtaking sight, A legend sung through ages, burning ever bright.
Saviors, O Saviors, Saviors of every age.
You fight with valor, You stand on history's stage.
Sacrifice and blood;
Legend and lore.
The river of ti bears your mark forevermore, And epics resound with your voice in a mighty roar.
..."
His voice was deep and lodious. Though Jenkins was no great singer, the beautiful ancient song, rendered in the equally elegant Elven tongue, stirred a sense of nostalgia even in the cat for stories of old.
The song echoed through the mountains. The shadow of Jenkins, sitting alone before the bonfire, swayed gently with the dancing flas. Chocolate gazed at the man's back as he sang, wishing he would continue a little longer.
But the song was soon cut short by the arrival of a guest. As the flas leaped, a man materialized to Jenkins's left, sitting cross-legged on the ground just as he was.
He was clad in heavy, silver-white armor, though it was caked with mud and bloodstains. His helt rested beside him, revealing a rugged face marked by a long scar. His hair, the color of withered grass, was so matted it looked as though it had not been washed in days.
His eyes were of different sizes, as if one had been injured. The scar beneath his left eye nearly split the lower lid in two. Yet his gaze was incredibly sharp; the fire danced in his eyes, which seed capable of piercing through any mist. It was a look of unwavering resolve.
He rested his sword across his armored lap, wiping it thodically with a tattered cloth. It was a beautiful blade, the gleam of the tal a stark contrast to the filth on his armor. This was undoubtedly a sword of imnse power.
A short phrase, inscribed in an ancient script, ran along the length of the blade. Jenkins tried to translate it, then realized he had learned this language from Papa Oliver:
Aeldawen-Falandis.
"A griffin in the rain?"
He asked.
"Yes, a griffin in the rain. It is the motto of House Gonder."
The stranger replied, his voice low and raspy, reminding Jenkins of a viper's hiss.
"Forgive . My throat was severely injured once, in the sewers of Wengeburg. I was ambushed by two muck-fishn with harpoons, and my voice has been this way ever since."
He said, lifting the sword from his lap with his right hand. The brilliant blade reflected the bonfire's light. Jenkins had a great fondness for such cold steel; though he owned a sword, it was not made entirely of tal and could never possess such a luster.
"It is a pleasure to et you. I thought this ability would be lost forever after my death. I never imagined a new generation of Saviors would arise. I trust this legacy will not be broken. We are linked by a bond, and it is not one of simple justice. It is our mission."
He slowly slid the sword into its sheath. The crisp *shing* of the blade was exceptionally pleasing to the ear.
"That is a truly fine sword,"
Jenkins remarked, unable to contain his admiration.
"Indeed. After I helped the dwarven artisans of Ironforge City fight off a besieging orc horde, they forged it for using ancient techniques and a single ingot of mithril. It's nearly useless for killing mortals, but it is the bane of any supernatural creature. I once used it to sever the head of an ancient red dragon, and I wielded it in battle against an elder Balrog in the pits of a lava hell. It was later shattered during the Battle of the Creek Valley by the quenched blacksteel greatsword of a goat-headed demon overseer, but the witches helped nd it, granting it even greater power."
As he spoke, a faint smile touched his lips, as if he were reminiscing about distant tis.
His simple words told the story of a man's breathtaking life. Jenkins listened in silence. Though he yearned for a peaceful existence, he had always loved legendary tales such as these.
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