Obsidian Blades in the Moonlight
A GreedFall Fan-Fiction Story
To end “GreedFall Month” on Senchas Claideb, I thought it would be fun to dig into one of the fan-fiction stories I had written when I was originally working on the paper that sparked my interest in adding to the academic discourse on the game. Most of the stories I wrote were jottings of how I interpreted my character’s actions and thoughts throughout the game. This story is an expanded version of a scene I wrote for the prelude to the final mission of the questline “The Children of Teer Fradee”, wherein the main plot is uncovering a secret camp run by an extremist group of inquisitors within the faction of Thélème who are abducting island Natives to forcibly convert them to the religion of the Enlightened. Fans of GreedFall might notice some discrepancies between certain elements of the game and my story, and to that I say this is how I remembered and imagined it so I only ask to be given some liberties for this piece of fiction.
With that in mind, there will be some spoilers in this story, so if you haven’t played GreedFall (or read my other posts this month) you might ruin the plot for yourself or be a bit lost with the characters featured within.
Light and smoke from the Ordo Luminis camp flickered and rose above the palisades. Corentin de Sardet and Vasco surveyed the perimeter and defenses from a copse of trees on a ridge; it ran around the camp, providing natural cover from travelers on the road.
“Looks to be half a dozen men patrolling the ramparts,” Vasco said, peering through his spyglass. “All magic-users, I reckon; I can’t see guns on them.”
“Suppose we provide cover fire for the Natives?” Corentin suggested.
Vasco snickered, closing his spyglass. “The Coin Guard could’ve provided cover, Corey. Will it just be you and I on this ridge firing out of the shadows?”
Corentin frowned. “I take your point.”
“Stealth will be hard, but we probably have enough men to surprize them.” Vasco pointed towards the rear of the camp. “Especially if there’s a backdoor.”
“Good news: there is.” Siora approached behind Corentin and Vasco, moving silently. Eseld walked some ways behind, her painted face grim and demoniac in the shafts of moonlight. Siora held a bundle with a kind of wooden mask atop it. She presented it to Corentin.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A gift,” Siora said simply. “From the tribe.”
“It was their choice,” Eseld added, her eyes wandering towards where her people hid within the shadows of the trees.
Corentin took the bundle—it was a collection of hide clothing folded neatly—and he lifted the mask. The wood appeared to have shaped naturally rather than carved. A pair of tusks curled from the base, and would obscure the mouth when worn. It also had a leathern thong to secure to a wearer’s face.
“If you fight with us, it seemed right for you to dress as one of us,” said Siora. “In case word spread to the other Mind-Shakers.”
Corentin sighed. “At this point, I’d rather make myself clear on where I stand than hide my actions; your people cannot be left to suffer. Yet, I will don this armor.”
Siora smiled. “Good, put it on quick.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have another set laying around?” asked Vasco.
Eseld scoffed; Siora shook her head.
Vasco shrugged. “I can stay out of sight well enough, then.”
“The way you shout and use your smoke-stick will make them hear you well,” said Eseld.
Vasco grinned. “Can’t help it if swashbuckling in squalls drilled it into me. Our big man Corey there’ll draw those priests’ attention well enough.”
Siora laughed, taking Corentin by the sleeve. “Come, I’ll show you how to put them on.”
“Thanks,” Corentin muttered as she led him deeper into the trees and behind a large section of low, overlapping branches. Corentin set the bundle and mask upon the ground and pulled off his jacket and gloves. He reached for the laces of his shirt before pausing; his eyes met Siora’s.
“Go on,” she said. “Before the sun rises.”
“Sorry,” said Corentin. “It’s just, I’m not used to—”
“Be quick.” Siora waved a hand at him. “I will not harm your body.”
Puffing out a breath, Corentin loosened the laces on his shirt and removed it. He felt his cheeks warm when his eyes wandered upon Siora’s, but her expression did not change. However, her eyes wandered down past his face and stopped at his chest.
“What is that?” she pointed towards him.
Corentin looked down and took up the stone amulet as it hung around his neck. “Oh,” he said, his voice going hollow. “My mother gave it to me before she…Before I left for Tír Fradí. She said it was a family heirloom.”
Siora stepped closer, lowering her hand. She squinted at the talisman; Corentin held it up to her eyes.
“The craft looks familiar,” she said.
Corentin furrowed his brow. “You’ve seen it before?”
“I think. Some of the markings are like the ones our stone-carvers use.”
Corentin held the amulet up to his own eyes and turned it. “Could this be of ‘islander-make’?”
“Perhaps…we shouldn’t worry about it now. Take off your breeches.”
The last four words made Corentin quickly release the amulet. Siora set one hand on her hip as she looked at him, her eyes flicking down towards his legs.
“Right.” Corentin undid his belt and slid his trousers off. He removed his boots as well. He bundled the articles up with his shirt and jacket. Then he took up the bundle of Native graith, setting the mask aside as he unfurled the rest.
Slowly and respectful of his body, Siora helped Corentin fasten the pantaloons, boots, and tunic. The obsidian plating and beads rattled and clacked as he and Siora adjusted the various wrappings and laces. They felt comfortable against his skin. Warm but not chokingly so. Continental garb usually favored aesthetics over comfort and practicality. To Corentin, he felt the Natives’ graith fulfilled all three areas, never leaning too much to any one function. What was more, something deeper within him said it felt right to wear it, to have Siora showing him how to wear it.
As he slid the gloves on, Siora stooped and picked up the mask. She handed it to Corentin who looked into its hollow eyes.
“It is the face of the boar spirit,” she explained. “I thought it would be fitting for you.”
“Do I really remind you of one?” Corentin asked, smirking.
“Not in the way you might be thinking. The boar is a noble animal, headstrong and fearless. It is the beast of fighters.”
Corentin smiled in full. “Thank you and your kindred for this gift. It’s an honor to wear it.”
“Of course, carants.”
Corentin set the mask on his head and reached behind to fasten the thong. However, Siora stepped around him and raised her hands.
“May I?” she asked.
Corentin nodded. “Please.”
Siora took both ends of the thong in her hands and tied them together as Corentin held the mask in place. He could breathe easy enough through it, however his vision narrowed as he looked through the deep sockets.
“Is it too tight?” Siora asked as she let go of the knot she made.
Corentin moved his head around. The mask stayed in place and did not pinch against his skin.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Let’s go then.” Siora stepped out from behind him. “Get your weapons, the fighters will strike once we arrive.”
Corentin took up his axe, rapier, and pistol, securing them to his new belt and sash. He followed Siora through the trees and shafts of moonlight. Shadowed Native scouts slunk parallel to and ahead of them. They followed the ridge towards the rear of the camp. The drop-off turned into a slope that lead into a bare bowl of grass before the back entrance.
Siora came next to Corentin and they both dropped into a sneaking crouch. The pair and other scouts joined the many other Red Spears as they concealed themselves behind trees and bushes. Eseld leaned on a trunk near the tree-line. Vasco stood near her, running a cloth along his saber.
Eseld gazed upon the Ordo Luminis camp before looking back to her tribe. Softly, she spoke in Yecht Fradí. Corentin looked to Siora and she translated: “She’s asking if everyone is gathered.”
A few murmurs rippled through the host, most repeating Eseld’s question. Silence followed for a moment. Then a low hoot-hoot like an owl sounded behind the host.
Siora exhaled sharply. “That is the signal.”
Eseld drew her obsidian needle. She thrust it down towards the back entrance of the camp, the blade shining a pale blue in a shaft of moonlight. At that subtle gesture, the host rushed through the trees, their footsteps at first as soft as wind rustling leaves, then growing to a low thunder on the earth. Several inquisitors within the compound sprung into action as they beheld the sudden horde from the nighted woods. Dim blue energy wreathed their arms as they prepared their shadowy spells. A report from the treeline rang out and one of the magic-users fell dead; Corentin glanced over his shoulder to see Vasco stepping from around a trunk, smoking pistol in hand.
Eseld, at the front of the Native troop, hurled a spear into another’s throat before he recovered from the shock of his comrade falling. The remaining inquisitor turned and fled towards the buildings deeper within the camp, crying, “Alarm! Alarm! The savages are coming in through the rear!”
Immediately, more inquisitors stepped into the open. Torch and candlelight glinted off their polished helms and shoulder plates. Some hefted large, two-handed maces over their shoulders while many still conjured their magics.
Corentin, his breath growing warm behind the mask, drew his obsidian-headed ax, enchanted fire flaring along the beard. His fervor forced him to remain at the forefront of the attack, all restrictions for self-preservation fading as his gaze narrowed on the nearest inquisitor stepping out of a building. Although he had no fierce passion for the faith of the Enlightened beforehand, this conspiracy surrounding the vile practices of the Ordo Luminis drove Corentin to an anger he had not felt before. He allowed it to guide his hand, clamped firmly around the haft of his weapon, as he drove the emblazoned head into an inquisitor’s helm. The steel crumpled and bone crunched underneath. Blood spilled down the zealot’s forehead as his eyes rolled back into his skull.
Before Corentin wrenched his ax from his collapsing quarry, a hand gripped around his arm. “Corentin!” Siora shouted in his ear. He let her pull him away as a bolt of shadow flew down from the ramparts. It struck the slain inquisitor, slamming his body back through the threshold he had emerged from.
A gunshot followed and the caster on the rampart screamed as she fell. Vasco jogged over to Corentin and Siora, brushing through the Natives as they engaged with the inquisitors.
“Where are we going now, Corey?” Vasco asked as he replaced his pistol for his cutlass. He rubbed a noxious-smelling rag across the blade.
“We should find the prisoners,” Siora suggested. Corentin looked down at her and his gaze wandered down to her hand, still gripped around his arm. She met his gaze and released her hold.
“If Eseld and the others have the field,” Corentin said, “then we can look for the prisoners before the inquisitors harm them.”
Siora smirked, glancing out towards the mêlée. “She certainly does.”
Eseld stood off against two mace-wielders flanking her on either side. She drove her obsidian needle through one’s throat before he struck. The other wound up his strike and dove for her. Releasing her blade, she spun out of the way and stuck her foot in his path. He sprawled to the ground. Before he rose, Eseld plucked the mace from her felled opponent and caved in the prone one’s skull.
“Then let’s not waste anymore time,” Corentin bade. He, Siora, and Vasco rushed along the sidelines, providing aid with gunfire, spells, and the odd skirmish as they made their way to the central building of the compound. Before they reached the structure, the double doors upon it flew open and three silhouetted figures, backed by torchlight, stepped onto the churned earth of the camp. The centermost one was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and clutching a two-handed mace. The crony on his left, a woman, had her arms raised and primed with magic. The man on his right unsheathed a rapier and pointed it towards the trio as they gave pause.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” the large inquisitor demanded in a raspy voice. He glanced between the interlopers before him, settling his gaze on Vasco. “Do the Nauts side with the savages now? I should have expected you heathen salt-dwellers to collude with them.”
Vasco scoffed. “I’m just here under orders.”
“From your admiral?”
“From me.” Corentin stepped forward.
The inquisitor looked him up and down. “You sound rather eloquent for a Native.”
“I am Corentin de Sardet, Legate of the Congregation of Merchants. I am here to deliver swift justice to the Ordo Luminis for their crimes against the Native people of this island.”
The inquisitor and his henchman laughed. “So the Congregation does take sides? Have the savages completely poisoned your souls?”
“You haven’t the right to take them if they refuse your words.” Corentin raised his ax. “This compound and your cruel order will be annihilated.”
The inquisitor sighed. “The wicked shall be taken by shadow.” He rushed Corentin with a bellow, swinging his mace towards the legate’s head. Corentin ducked and hacked at his foe’s exposed neck. The man with the rapier closed distance and thrust at Corentin’s ribs. The blade punched through the thick wool of his Native graith and into flesh. His attack against the lead inquisitor faltered.
“Corey!” Vasco cried and rushed the duelist with a swift slash towards his head. The inquisitor retreated and stared down the Naut as they circled each other. Corentin’s blood dripped from the slender blade. The pair began exchanging blows; their blades’ silvery notes rang out clearly, even through the din erupting across the compound.
A bolt of yellow-green energy slammed the lead inquisitor in the chest, giving Corentin room to back away and recover. Siora came to his side and set a hand over his wound, muttering an incantation in her tongue. His flesh knit back together and the pain faded in a wave like cool water washing over it. At once, Corentin felt the thrum of the earth beneath his feet, resonating up to his bones. The left side of his jaw—where his strange mark manifested—tingled.
“Their faith is not yours,” Corentin blurted in a breath.
The lead inquisitor bared his teeth. “Our mission here might have failed, but our light will shine elsewhere yet.” He advanced and swung downward. Corentin and Siora leapt apart as the mace head crashed to the ground between them.
The female inquisitor hurled several shadowy bolts at the pair, but they dodged each one. Siora retaliated by casting her own magic and advanced with her flaming, obsidian needle drawn. The lead inquisitor swung his mace towards her from the ground. Corentin slammed his ax into the hulk’s vambraces and halted the stroke.
“Face me!” he growled in a tone so gruff and counter to his normal voice, yet no less commanding. The inquisitor accepted the challenge and rammed the butt of his mace at Corentin’s chest. The legate stepped backwards, then advanced once more, laying more blows at the weak points in the inquisitor’s armor. The metal bent and turned all colors of the rainbow as the fiery beard crushed and burned. Corentin slid around his foe, moving with greater ease and fluidity in his gifted Native armor than any other protection he had worn. It’s as though the wind courses through my limbs, he thought, allowing a smile to rise behind his mask.
The lead inquisitor huffed and sweated as he turned over and over to keep Corentin in his sights. Blood soaked his robes under his mail and slid over his hands. His sheer reach and might of his weapon kept Corentin at bay, however, even as he tired. He lifted the mace once more and made another overhead strike. Corentin moved to dodge, but in the middle of its arc, mace’s trajectory shifted. Rather than backing away, Corentin rushed against the inquisitor and slammed his ax against his head, cutting through the large hat and cracking the man’s skull in twain.
“No!” cried the female inquisitor as she watched her leader fall. Siora closed the distance with a thrust and skewered the woman’s gut.
Corentin wrenched his ax from the inquisitor’s head in time to see the denouement of Vasco’s duel. Neither combatant had landed a strike on the other by the time the other two inquisitors were slain. Their blades ground and clashed against one another; they stepped in and out like dancers moving to the music of war.
“End it now, Vasco!” Corentin ordered.
“Aye, sir!” the sailor answered. He struck his foe’s hand, sending the rapier off-line, and jabbed his sword into the man’s chest, leaving a shallow gash. The pair retreated from each other, the inquisitor suddenly swaying on his feet. He brought his free hand to the wound, then up to his nose, and scowled.
“Poison!” he spat, glowering at Vasco. “You…cheat…”
“I’ll make it quick.” Vasco pulled a spare pistol from behind his back and fired a bullet through the inquisitor’s eye.
“Inside! Find the captives!” Siora said before the last body collapsed.
The trio stormed the building and past a few doors found the holding cell with the unwilling converts. They were dirty, half-starved, and weary but all alive. Vasco picked the locks on the cell and the captives’ manacles. Soon, several of Eseld’s fighters reached the building and aided their brethren to their feet, shouting thanks in their language and weeping tears of joy. Once all were liberated, Corentin, Siora, and Vasco returned to the compound where corpses were the only things that remained of the cruel inquisitors.
“Your plan worked, on ol menawí,” Eseld addressed Corentin as he stepped out of the building.
Corentin removed the boar mask and bowed his head. “It could not have without your aid. Your tribespeople are weary but alive.”
Eseld waved a hand. “And that is all I could ask for. They will all receive healing. We hope to see you again in the village.”
As Eseld turned away and went with her comrades to the compound’s exit, Siora brushed against Corentin. He faced to her to meet her smiling face.
“Thank you,” she said. “This kindness you show for our people is not something we will soon forget.”
Corentin nodded. “Of course, Siora.”
He went with her, Vasco, and the rest of the Natives back into the shadows beneath the moon-dappled trees.
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