Chronicles of the Penitent [fiction, part 1]

A dense green-gray fog covered the forest trail, slithering like a great snake around the trees and wrapping all within it in a cold chill that soaked through clothing and cut straight to the bone. Within the mist, the faint strains of a violin playing a soft and mournful song, haunting in it's melody even as the music grows louder.

A silhouette of a caravan wagon comes into view, pulled by two large workhorses. Their dark brown coats shimmering in the dim late afternoon sun, their large eyes peering under their jet-black manes. On the wagon's seat was a man dressed in a weather-worn shirt. It was once a florid shirt that would have been the height of fashion had it not been subjected to the kind of travel that the man had seen. The man played the violin, seemingly heedless of where his horses were leading him, one booted foot on the edge of his seat, his mass of black curly hair obscuring his eyes as he focused on playing.

The caravan wound it's way down the trail until the mist broke, revealing the small, grass covered hill that they were on, and the gloomy looking town that was nestled at the bottom. The clouds above rumbled slightly as a soft rain fell down to meet them. The man put aside his violin, taking a bandana and wrapping it over his head to keep his hair out of his eyes and stopped the caravan. He stepped off, his boots sloshing in the muddy ground as he knocked on the side of the caravan with his fist.

"We are here." The man spoke, his voice thickly accented and foreign.

The door to the rear of the caravan creaked open in reply. A single figure, broad shouldered and with the bearing of a military officer, stepped down. He wore a black tricorn hat down over his eyes, and the collar of his longcoat was pulled up to keep the rain away. In his hand he carried a long black-iron staff, with a cross decorating the top, and he wore a heavy iron key in a chain hanging about his neck.

The gypsy nodded quietly as the man approached, "Confessor," the gypsy acknowledged, turning to look down from their place on the hill, "The town of Allensburg."

The Confessor looked at the town below with his piercing gray eyes, "Excellent, Gregorio," The Confessor's voice was deep and authoritative, as he turned to his companion, "awaken the others. If the letter from Hans is correct, then this is where we will find the Lycanthrope."

The gypsy man gave a smile as he walked to the rear of the caravan to rouse the rest of the Penitent. This would be a very interesting stay.

----

For a moment, Hans the constable questioned his sanity for writing the letter to solicit the aid of the mercenary company known as the Penitent. His eyes flitted from one figure in his study to the next. The rogue gypsy Gregorio, Thorne, the man who slaughtered a tavern in a fit of insane rage, Kwairen the Betrayer, Joanna du Winter, the witch of Crawford and finally the mysterious cleric known as the Confessor, the man who gave them a second chance.

"I-I was w-w-worried that you would not arrive, Father Confessor," Hans said, his double chins bobbing up and down as he stuttered, "It is nearly a t-tenday after I sent the letter." The fat constable paced back and forth in his study, rather unnerved at the presence of his... guests

"Oh ye of little faith..." The Confessor gave a wry smile, before rapping the bottom of his staff to the floor as if to call things to order. "Now, what information do you have on this lycanthrope?"

----

that's it for today's installment of the Chronicles of the Penitent. :p I wish I could write more, but sleep is calling me. :) In case you're wondering, this is really an incubation story for a Ravenloft game I'm itching to run. :D

By the way, please feel free to place any comments, suggestions and points of improvement on it. I've got a lot of writing practice to catch up on. :)

Good night everyone!