The Wrong Sacrifice

Tarmen found the night air a tad too chilly for his taste, having grown in a hothouse the dry winter air had never agreed with him. He would have found it interesting that a god from Kru’ll would have dominion over winter, when these days it held little sway in much of its lands.
Mine
Again the infernal voice rang through his thoughts, the main source of contempt he held towards the Preacher now. He said Felfar would drown out the voice, but now it had no effect and it was driving him insane. The boar-headed freak would be lucky if the talk didn’t end with his neck snapped.
With the voice plaguing his mind, he nearly missed a growing scent. Stopping just short of the grove, his gut told him something was out of place. Once he focused on the stench, it took no time to identify.
Blood. A lot of it. Once the thought materialized he swore he could almost taste it. Either the ritual had been completed and he missed it or something was very wrong.
Keeping his machete sheathed, Tarmen made his way towards where the cult should be. It was oddly quiet for a ritual of such implied importance and it wasn’t long until he found out why. A cultist was found not far from where he had been, having dragged herself a ways with a cut throat apparently.
This pattern continued, bodies slowly gaining in number until he reached the main altar. Shocked as he was to see the cult massacred, he was more surprised to see familiar faces standing over their corpses. He didn’t want to remain long if they were here; who knows how he could talk his way out of it, but he took the extra moments to find one corpse from the mess. The bloodied mask of the Preacher was all he needed to see. The cult was done.

Making his retreat, the walk back weighed him down. No cult meant no Felfar, which meant the voice would only get worse. Thinking of each implication made him anxious and he didn’t even notice his hand reaching for the imp head. Stroking the dried skin, it brought a slight ease. Had he been of a more sound mind he would have questioned why such a seemingly ill willed trophy would be a comfort, but again the voice lashed out.
Mine
Grimacing in rage, Tarmen would have bellowed in frustration. Not wanting to be so easily found by the others though, he resigned to sending a flurry of blows into a nearby tree. He knew it was futile and all it would do was bloody himself, but he was so tired of not being able to strike the voice.
With some of his anger vented, he stood panting in the moonlight and tried to organise his thoughts. Looking to the tree, he sneered at yet another ‘coincidence’ from the gods. While the magic had faded long ago, the mark he had witnessed when he first met the Creed was still on the now bloody trunk.

“You think He mocks you?”

Tarmen didn’t bother looking. The old woman who had led him here before was just the shit on the salted blade at this point.

“What does it matter? Your people are slaughtered or at best scattered. The ritual, I can only assume, has failed and now you have no leverage to help me reach the Duke.”

There was a note of curiosity in her response, though she did not move closer.

“And you presume you can still kill him?”

“I can. Though if more of your people truly did survive, perhaps you can join me in Fang to recuperate?”

The following silence invited Tarmen to turn, a little disturbed that the woman was gone.Figuring he would see the hag later, he began his trip back to the settlement.
Mine

Too tired to be angry with the voice, he resigned himself to a long night. Who knew, he might come up with a half decent plan, Orestes willing.