On a snowy rise, in a hol­low log, under a holey quilt, there squat­ted a pair of mice. Mice in grey woolens and white pick­el­hauben, wrapped in scarves and thick socks for their pink, sharp toes.

One held a monoc­u­lar, out­sized in his small paws, on a bipod before him. He squint­ed, lens to ruby eye, through a ragged knot­hole in their log, scanned the broad and snowy vale before them. He dialed the focus, exhaled wisps of white breath through flick­er­ing pink nos­trils.

The oth­er clung to a vol­ley gun­spring: a long, mechan­i­cal weapon fur­nished in mat­te wood and loaded with a great, curv­ing mag­a­zine and drum­like, whis­per­ing artillery coil. A machine far larg­er than he, mount­ed on a pin­tle tri­pod and set of skis, that the tiny sol­diers might han­dle it. He pressed one cold lens of his spec­ta­cles, hooked round pink ears, to its scope, like­wise held watch over the vale.

Down there, in the undu­lat­ing drifts of snow inter­spersed with wind-bent spruce, there was a glint of sil­ver, a bob­bing hint of motion.

“Con­tact, Sir. One fifty, two hun­dred out,” whis­pered the first, whiskers twitch­ing. “One man. Belvirine col­ors.”

“Con­firmed. Good eye, Ensign.”

Two glass eyes, scope and monoc­u­lar, fixed on the oncom­ing sol­dier. Through holes in their quilt, they watched him, glint­ing; watched him stum­ble on through knee-high drifts, shade his eyes for the sheer sun which glared off the white expanse of snow.

“He’s car­ry­ing some­thing.”

“Yes,” the gun­nery offi­cer adjust­ed the pow­er of his scope. “Muni­tions box, looks like. They’re con­struct­ing advanced posi­tions over the rise, I’d wager. Bug­ger prob­a­bly got lost.”

“Will you take the shot?” said the Ensign, look­ing briefly to his offi­cer.

“Soon enough.” He focused; ears perked in inter­est. Down in the vale, some­thing glint­ed on the Belviriner’s den­im-uni­formed chest. The scope length­ened, twist­ed, brought a spear­head charm on a sil­ver chain into focus. The gun­nery offi­cer chuck­led, high­ly. “An Avethan.” He twitched his ears. “Ever shoot an Avethan before, Ensign?”

“No, Sir.”

“Watch.” He pulled his small form close to the gun, nes­tled a small shoul­der into the fur­ni­ture, hooked a pink claw over the weapon’s trig­ger. The safe­ty clunked soft­ly. A high, slith­ery whine sound­ed as launch­springs charged. The gun­ner squint­ed, adjust­ed his bead just a mite. His fur­ry lips pulled from long incisors in grit­ted focus.

There was a crack, as if of one anvil dropped flat against anoth­er. In the dis­tance, the sol­dier star­tled, looked up. A half-blink lat­er, he dropped flat back­wards. The box tum­bled from his arms. He lay as a sprawled, blue and grey lump on white snow.

“It’s just like killing a nor­mal man, see,” said the gun­nery offi­cer, keep­ing his scope on the lump. “Except,” he trailed, watch­ing. “Watch. There he goes.”

The ensign’s nose twitched, flared as he watched the fall­en man shift, rise to one elbow. From his bowed neck dan­gled that sil­ver, flash­ing charm, gripped in one qua­ver­ing hand. He got one knee under him, then the next. He began to stand.

The gun­spring cracked, bucked again. The man crum­pled. The sil­ver glint van­ished into snow.

“Except some­times you have to kill them twice.”

Faith

Humans are a remark­able species.

They are the orig­i­nal peo­ple of the Coast, a folk who once upon a time dom­i­nat­ed the world’s entire reach by the might of their inge­nious gifts of evo­lu­tion: by their curios­i­ty, their craft, and their dire ambi­tion. Who burned, by the sor­cery engen­dered by these remark­able gifts, that self­same land into a tat­tered scrap of a realm; a sin­gle, con­ti­nen­tal Coast­line impinged and infil­trat­ed by count­less alien adja­cen­cies and black-eyed Oth­er­word­ly gate­crash­ers.

And, queer­ly, only by this self-imposed cat­a­clysm did ancient human­i­ty come upon their species’ most remark­able gift: Faith.

The Last Gift

In the ages fol­low­ing that cat­a­clysm, so say myth and vague his­to­ry, human­i­ty lived large­ly in bondage. * As a slave-race kept in ser­vice to an antique alliance of deif­ic ser­pents, giants, and sor­cer­ous god-kings known as the Predacean Colos­sus. Chat­tel to tyrants over uncount­ed mil­lions, to dark lords uplift­ed and appoint­ed as rulers of a world ruined by the same raw sor­cery they wield­ed with per­ilous aban­don.

These were the Dark Ages. Cen­turies-long domin­ions by sor­cer­er-kings, ser­pents, and mon­strous worse alike, in which the bulk of human­i­ty lived as slaves or cit­i­zens of the worst, rude nation-states imag­in­able. As mud­dy peas­ants oppressed by land­scapes crawl­ing with mon­sters and sor­cery-fueled over­lords, or as the col­lect­ed war-fod­der and dis­pos­able slave base of the most awful empires known to time.

All that end­ed thir­teen hun­dred years ago, with the birth of a slave girl who would be lat­er known as Aveth.

Aveth, who by the age of twen­ty had freed human­i­ty. Who had top­pled empires and per­son­al­ly slain uncount­ed ser­pents and sor­cer­er-kings alike with her own star-head­ed spear; the weapon which would lat­er sym­bol­ize a reli­gion found­ed on her name. **

All this she accom­plished by a sin­gu­lar gift: Faith. An omni­scient pres­ence gen­er­at­ed, some say, by sor­cery stolen by Aveth from her mas­ters. Or, oth­ers sup­pose, by the very ran­dom­ness of life which brings change to all things. A pow­er which allowed Aveth, a leader and wise­woman non­pareil, to inspire, com­fort, and unite all of mankind to col­lect­ed free­dom. A pow­er which changed the world, and by doing so returned it to the species which first owned it: Human­i­ty.

Despite its wide­spread influ­ence, lit­tle can be known of faith. None know, empir­i­cal­ly, how it affects those it inhab­its, nor the woman who first cre­at­ed it; only that it man­i­fests only in humans, and only in those will­ing to believe. Most who believe say the pow­er presents itself in dreams, as a guid­ing pres­ence that dis­pels night­mares and gives coun­sel in the night. Indeed, research has shown Avethans report few­er night­mares than non­hu­mans and gen­tile folk.

Oth­ers say it is the armor of wis­dom. Of clar­i­ty and Lord­ly sug­ges­tion that give wise words both in dreams, and, as it first did all human­i­ty, give aide in, and rec­om­pense for, suf­fer­ing.

The fol­low­ing is a mech­a­nism from theIncunab­u­li Playtest:

Humans have the capac­i­ty to hold Faith. Said faith takes the form of the Avethan trait and its Ordained vari­ant:

Avethan Cost: 10XP, Pre­req­ui­site: Human, Starter OR Be taught the Lord’s truth by a priest this ses­sion

The Lord Aveth gives you resolve and guards your mind against evil.

You hold 1 Faith point. Once per ses­sion, you may spend it to add a bonus of 1 to any roll. Addi­tion­al­ly, you roll for night­mares at -1.

To main­tain these ben­e­fits, you must take care to pray night­ly and observe Aveth’s dic­tates.

Ordained of Aveth Cost: 10XP, Pre­req­ui­sites: Human, Avethan, Starter OR be ordained as a priest by the Church

The Lord of Human­i­ty has giv­en you the resolve to guide her kin.

You hold a sec­ond Faith point. You may expend it to add +1 to any roll made by anoth­er char­ac­ter, but not your­self. Alter­na­tive­ly, you may spend both your Faith points to aid anoth­er.

Addi­tion­al­ly, you roll for night­mares at -2. To main­tain these ben­e­fits, you must take care to pray night­ly and observe Aveth’s dic­tates. Your faith may be test­ed. Adhere to the dic­tates of Aveth to hold true.

Austerities

Char­ac­ters who under­take aus­ter­i­ties may main­tain traits that fur­ther enhance their Faith:

Mendicant Cost: 50XP, Prerequisites: Avethan

You gain anoth­er Faith point.

To main­tain this Faith, you may pos­sess nei­ther coinage nor liq­uid assets. All spare wealth you come into pos­ses­sion of must be giv­en to humans who are in need.

“To give char­i­ty is to serve the Lord. Thus, Her truest Church is the Church of the poor.”

Ascetic Cost: 30XP, Prerequisites: Avethan

Every time you for­go a meal dur­ing the day, you gain 1 Faith point the next, for a max­i­mum of +2. Addi­tion­al­ly, if any of the meals you con­sume dur­ing that day are more com­plex than Sim­ple, you gain no addi­tion­al Faith points.

“To live by the flesh is to die. To deprive the flesh is to live by the spir­it. To live by the spir­it is to tran­scend the flesh.”

Flagellant Cost: 40XP, Prerequisites: Avethan

When­ev­er you strike your­self with a wound that bestows a lev­el of Bleed, you restore a Faith point.

“I will know the lash as did the Lord, and by it know her strength.”

Worship

A char­ac­ter who devotes 1 hour to wor­ship at an Avethan mass or alter gains +1 Faith Point. It dis­ap­pears at day’s end if not spent.