The Red Monk rarely left the gardens, let alone the town of Shevayla. Despite the late hour of night, travellers appeared on the road behind him and followed him on his journey, curious of what this could mean. Several fell in line with his footsteps in the dusty road, attempting to follow him step-for-step. Others kept a great deal of distance away and kept their heads bowed. There was silence along the way out of Shevayla, and the reverence for the occasion cut through the misty night in a hazy blend of mirth and fear.
Nearly twenty leagues outside of town, the citizens had fallen away and all who remained were those from the Monastery of Aster. In the Red Monk’s company followed six footsoldiers, hand-trained and equal with the best from any realm outside Vanaheim. They walked along in good spirit, keeping conversation among themselves as brothers and sisters of the monastery should. While comfortable was not often a term used to describe any relation with regards to a Chaotic, the footsoldiers were at least pardoned from the formalities associated with the Red Monk. They were considered the more lax of the band, and as such their conversation on the journey was pardoned.
In front of them, however, were four lantern carriers. They sported the same plaited outfit as the footsoldiers, but their haggard appearance made their position among the group obvious. Dead silent, the lantern carriers kept the lights held perfectly balanced as they walked. Their all-too-thin frames were hunched over as they walked, but their bodies remained steadfast and poised as they shuffled along. The madness from their eyes was steeled by decades of training, and they did their job with the upmost gratitude. Whereas the footsoldiers had gained a home from the Red Monk, the lantern carrier had gained their minds back. There was a reverence for the Chaotic that they held close, and any service was to be done without complaint.
However, it was the three young women in front of them who the journey had been made for. The Red Monk did not converse with them, but they were ready to speak at a moment’s notice. The three women, dressed in fine silks and cambric, walked in sync. Their steps, their breathing, even their reactions lined up as they followed the same path, all down to clockwork simplicity in the way they moved. The ten that resided behind the line found themselves watching the women when the night grew long, and none among them could help but feel a tinge of awe at the completeness of the siblings all acting together. Even those among the highest positions of the monastery seldom saw the Daughters of Flowers, and fewer still saw them doing anything except sitting in their father’s chambers.
After several hours of walking, the Red Monk stopped in the middle of the road and gazed up at the sky. A moment passed, and then several runic rings appeared on the ground in front of him. In the vast desert of Vanaheim, sands began to pool together across the rings, and from them arose a great golem, looming over all those in company. Its eyes were hollow, being of no entity known to man, and every long shadow cast by nearby structures turned to point towards it.
“Red Chaotic,” it gasped, scraping at its face with sandy claws. “You come to me?”
The monk Aster stood at the head of the party, body taut as he strode forward. His eyes looked aside the golem as he spoke.
“The caravans making their way across the eastern paths have been attacked. Your minions are suspected for twelve accounts of impeding trade, and seventy one deaths caused on the trail.”
As the monk spoke, the footmen and lantern carriers behind him fell to their knees in a coordinated action. The force of their movement was audible, sending out a shockwave of sand. The golem, mighty as he was, sunk his swirling form further back into the sand from which he was formed.
“I am no longer in control of my children,” it hissed back. Its hollow eyes split and multiplied, reshaping as its anger and panic grew. “I have no responsibility over what they do.”
“What a poor excuse,”Aster clucked, pressing his boot into the desert sand. “But I could see that argument coming from a mile away. Your judgement has been passed.”
The lantern carriers bowed further, but the footsoldiers rose from behind the monk. In a swift action, they pulled their swords from their sheathes in unison, flourished, and held the blades low.
“For failing to supervise the violent actions of your children for the past two seasons, I have decided to disregard all violent actions of my children for the next two minutes.”
The golem creaked backwards slowly, unsure of what to make of the situation. The horde of followers behind the monk stepped backwards, respectfully keeping distance, as the three daughters of flowers stepped forward. They spoke one at a time, but always in sequence:
“Two minutes?” “Well that’s hardly sporting.” “Give us three weeks and we’ll make him sing.”
The daughters stepped forward, footsteps echoed despite their bare feet slipping through sand. The cool of the desert night fled, and in its place rose a dry heat, swirling around everyone. The monk Aster gave a huff and kept his gaze trained on the golem.
“Two minutes, brats.”
The daughters strode forward in unison, the one in the center drawing forth two staffs from her back.
“Very well.” “An eye for an eye.” “Seventy one cuts for seventy one deaths.”