His congregation was small, and they gathered in the town square. When he’d first come, nearly half the village had shown up, out of curiosity more than anything. As the days passed, his numbers had dwindled, now just a faithful twenty or so. Wishing he could be fighting wolf-men instead, Jerico preached best he could, often relying on songs to break the monotony. As he neared the end, he saw Darius watching him from the back of the crowd.

“Ashhur be with you all,” Jerico said, ending his final prayer. As the crowd dispersed, Darius remained behind, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a brown tunic with a black belt, the drab colors making his long blond hair stand out all the more. A smirk spread across his young face.

“Sometimes I wonder if Ashhur hopes to convert the lazy of Dezrel,” he said. “Men who would be happy for an hour’s sleep every third day, guilt free.”

The comment stung. Twice Jerico had caught someone drifting off beneath the shade of a tree during his sermons.

“I guess I could scream and holler as if the world were on fire,” Jerico said. “That just isn’t my style.”

Darius seemed unoffended. Jerico had witnessed the man’s services, always held the day after his. The dark paladin was a far more animated spectacle, speaking with a passion he could never hope to match. He’d cry for strength, denounce cowardly sacrifice, and demand obedience in the face of a chaotic world. “Order,” Darius would shout at the top of his lungs. “Bring this world Order!” Handsome, energetic, and passionate, his sermons gathered fifty to sixty men every time, a fact Darius never let Jerico forget.

“Your style should be what works,” Darius said, tossing Jerico a waterskin, for he knew how draining such a performance was. “Not what you feel like. Perhaps you should attend a few more of my sermons. You might learn something.”