Michael and Pyotr continued up the path, moving much more warily since encountering the first trap. As they moved they found two more pitfalls, a falling log trap, and a tripline that linked up to the firing of some arrow-like projectiles.

“This is getting ridiculous,” said Michael. “I feel like we’re looking for Wile-E-Coyote.”

Pyotr chuckled. “I was going to make a joke about us breaking into the house with the child from home alone, but that is good too.”

The path itself was immaculate aside from the traps. The maintenance on it must have been done frequently, and it was almost certainly made more difficult by everyone having to watch out for any of the traps they encountered.

They walked a bit further when the brush ahead of them seemed to start to clear. Michael heard something, and whipped himself around with his shield in his hand. Pyotr quickly did the same, drawing his longsword as he spun and placing himself to watch Michael's back with some quick footwork.

A half-dozen men and women emerged from the treeline wearing armor made of interlocking plates that had been painted green and decorated with foliage to allow them to better hide. They were wielding what looked to be crossbows that were all trained expertly at their vitals.

“Place down your arms and kneel on the ground,” said one of them, a short woman with sandy-brown hair and green eyes.

Michael looked at Pyotr and nodded.

They both dropped their weapons, and Michael dropped both swords, his dagger, and his shield onto the ground. Pyotr dropped his dagger, longsword and shield. Then they both knelt on the ground.

“I mean no harm,” said Michael.

The group approached them quickly and removed the weapons from their vicinity, checked them for any additional that they may have hidden, and tied their hands behind their backs. These actions were all done simultaneously and with the kind of smoothness that can only come from practice.

“I was drawn here by the gods,” said Michael.

That caused them to hesitate and several of them looked to the woman who’d spoken earlier.

She frowned.

“I am a diviner. A healer. I am trying to find the gods, to learn more about them and what they are. What happened to them.”

She looked at the others. “Blind them. We’ll allow the priest to decide what to do. Diligence in life.”

“And diligence in death,” replied the rest of them, as if what they said was a completely natural response to her statement.

Michael and Pyotr both had blindfolds placed on them before being dragged to their feet and made to walk further toward the clearing they’d just spotted before they were ambushed.

“This could be fun, in the right circumstances,” said Pyotr.

“You always manage to see the bright side of things,” replied Michael narrowly keeping himself from falling to the ground.

Michael could feel the pull from his Godseeker title growing stronger and stronger as he was dragged forward. It became so strong that a part of him was surprised it didn’t simply yank him through the air and take him directly to whatever it was that was creating the pull. He could also hear movement all around him, as if he was on a busy street, but no one spoke so it was difficult to gauge exactly what was going on.

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“Watch these steps,” said the man who was moving Michael and he was carefully guided up four steps before being moved forward a bit more. There was a pause and Michael thought he heard some kind of bowing, followed by forward movement and whispered conversation a couple of yards ahead of him.

“What are your names?” asked a voice. It was masculine, and calm, with a kind of booming quality to it that reverberated a bit in his ears.

“Michael.”

“Pyotr.”

“You are takers?”

“Yes,” replied Michael.

“I am told that you seek the gods? Why is that?”

“I am a diviner, and a healer. The gods have blessed me heavily, and allowed me to stay alive and protect the friends I’ve made since I arrived here. I can hear them calling to me.”

~brother~brother~sureness~repetition~boredom~precision~practice~

Nykas seemed particularly put off by something near Michael, but he didn’t read it as danger so much as annoyance.

“I seek their names. I seek to dedicate great deeds to their honor as thanks for what they’ve done. I seek… to know them.”

Michael could feel as if he was being looked into. Not just as if he was being divined, but he was being…scanned, or picked a part thoroughly piece by piece. He didn’t fight it, he had nothing to hide.

“Release them,” said the baritone in front of him.

A few moments later the blindfold was removed. He and Pyotr were kneeling down in a simple wooden building. In front of them was a wooden bench on which sat a small old man with dark gray hair that was swept back wearing a breezy outfit made of a linen-like material and puffing on a long thin pipe. He had a hammer that looked as large as he was sitting to his right. His eyes were silver, and they looked at them and through them.

“I believe you, Pilgrim,” he said as he pushed himself off the bench and approached them, gesturing for their binds to be undone. “I can see the touch of the divine on your soul. Your existence is thick with their golden threads.”

He held out a hand to help Michael up in spite of the fact that he was nearly his height even on his knees. Still, when he took the offered hand he was surprised at the man’s strength as he pulled Michael back onto his feet, armor and all.

“Welcome to the hidden village,” he said as he walked down the steps Michael had just walked up a few moments before.

Michael looked to where he had felt his attention being drawn since he’d arrived. They were indeed in a village. All of the homes were single story and spread out as if they were meant to be walls as well as homes. They were built of thick reinforced wood, and any areas that had gaps between buildings were heavily fenced off by wood. In the center of it was a statue. It sat on a five foot plinth and stood nearly ten feet beyond that. It was of superb craftsmanship, and it depicted a man with a perfectly square jaw and thick eyebrow ridge that was furrowed in concentration. In one hand he held a scroll that was unfurled, and in the other was a hammer. It wasn’t a warhammer, rather it was the hammer of a craftsmen. The hands that held each of these items were the most beautifully wrought part of it, each wrinkle, and fingernail wrought in exquisite detail.

Michael walked toward it, his mind seeming to be cleared of all thought aside from the growing roar of the divine in his ears. He reached the foot of the statue and placed and already golden hand on it as he read the inscription on it.

Bruntus, the lord of diligence, he who carves mountains one stone at a time

Just like when he’d learned the names of the other gods, Michael felt a kind of click in his mind, as if by merely learning the name of a god, something was unlocked within him, and he could hear a voice speaking to him.

~welcome~pilgrim~

“Good to meet you, Bruntus. A hard worker? Lord of Diligence? A god after my own heart,” he muttered. He was a little surprised at how coherent the first words from Bruntus were. Usually what he heard was something simple, like a string of words that was meant to convey the general meaning of what they wanted to say rather than specifically telling him what they wanted to. He guessed it was because they couldn’t rather than that they didn’t want to. He looked at the people all around him, all of them wearing the same loose fitting, linen outfits that he saw their Priest wearing. That was the difference, Bruntus still had active worshippers, and a priest. Just as the gods words became clearer and louder the more he devoted to them and learned of them, so to did worship keep them strong and whole even as they were blended together with the divine.

Pyotr stood next to him and placed his own hand on the stone plinth in front of them.

“I wonder why this is the one that chooses to speak to me as well,” said Pyotr. “Should I be insulted that Nykas didn’t find me funny enough?”

Michael laughed and clapped Pyotr on the back. He wasn’t that surprised at Pyotr being another that Bruntus would choose to speak a bit to. “I guess you’re more diligent than you are funny.”

“Eh, there are worse things to be. I’m guessing hearing a god’s laughter in your head whenever you trip and fall would be very disconcerting.”