It didn't take a keen observer to know that these people were not accustomed to kindness, much less to foreigners.
The village chief, now identified as Duroch, acted as my translator, his presence serving to calm the spirits of his people.
I requested that the wounded be gathered in one place. This was arranged with great suspicion.
Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to ask my questions and was watched the same way the inhabitants of the Lands Between watched me when I arrived, as if I'd been living under a rock my entire life.
Kazdel was a nation with diverse biomes, mostly deserts, and lay between the nations of Syracuse, Ursus, and Yan, which had taken much of its territory through wars over the years.
I was only hearing one side of the story, so I left room for doubt, but according to Duroch, the Sarkaz have suffered absurd prejudice from all other races on Terra since time immemorial, with the word "Devil" serving as a racial slur against them.
There were legends that the Sarkaz were the true masters of the world and that the other races were nothing more than invaders from the heavens, starting a war that destroyed their people's great empire.
Afterward, the nation never recovered, a people divided among various warlords, each with a different idea of what Kazdel should be. Supposedly, there was a council of nobles and a king who should unify and rule these lands, but this was nothing more than a joke to the common people.
It was a political hell full of conspiracies and backstabbing, and every time someone came close to unifying Kazdel and rebuilding the capital—which, by the way, had been destroyed more than two thousand times—something happened to ruin all the progress made.
With lucrative regions taken over by enemy kingdoms, prejudice, constant civil war, and incompetent government, Kazdel became a poor land where the people suffered. Some even tore off their own horns and left in search of a better life in other nations.
That was the general information, a mix of common knowledge and legends. If I wanted more details, I would need to seek them out in a city.
Beyond that, I learned that it was the year 500. That people used gold, silver, and other precious metals and stones as currency. (Surprisingly, looting the treasure room in Drangleic Castle proved useful.)
Duroch watched me curiously as I stood in the center of wounded villagers and raised my chime. Everyone saw me with a mixture of fear, anger, distrust, and apprehension.
I believe my guide was about to question me, but he fell silent, along with everyone else, when he saw me cast Soothing Sunlight and Bountiful Sunlight.
Two circles, one orange and the other gold, expanded across the ground, filled with sigils and ancient language, enveloping the wounded in their healing power.
The result was immediate: bleeding stopped, wounds healed, bones returned to their original shape and mended. When it was all over, it was as if the attack had never happened.
Unfortunately, I couldn't do anything about the dead, so I left the dumbfounded crowd behind and set about repairing the damage to the homes.
I cast Repair repeatedly, and fragments of rock and wood reassembled, returning to their original positions, walls and roofs connected again, tiles clicked into place, and soon the village was as good as new.
"Now, do you mind telling me the reason behind the attack on your village?"
Duroch didn't answer, just opened and closed his mouth, making awkward noises. The locals were no better, staring at me as if I were some kind of idol.
"I don't understand, have you never seen magic and miracles? I faced three Sarkaz pyromancers, so why are you so surprised?"
I got no answer, so I sat down on a rock, waiting for everyone to calm down. Moments later, I finally had my question answered, though now everyone treated me with more reverence, much to my discomfort.
The mercenaries served a local warlord of no renown, just one of many. The village refused his authority, and as punishment, they attacked, planning to enslave the population.
I had saved them from this fate, but that didn't apply to their other victims. I gritted my teeth, feeling my fury burn. Castle Morne loomed in my mind, and this time I wouldn't be so merciful.
After further questioning, I learned that the warlord's stronghold was a three-day journey north.
My intentions must have been obvious, for the village chief tried futilely to dissuade me. He then offered me water and food for the journey, which I refused, as they needed it more than I did.
Ignoring their protests, I left the village and called Torrent. The surprised shouts of the villagers faded into the distance as I rode toward the stronghold.
END OF CHAPTER