The ride out of the city was a slow process. Gathering provisions for a years' long trip is no easy matter, but Father Halo took immediately to his quartermaster duties. He haggled for several strong lowland mares, a sturdy packmule, multiple redundancies of tents, canteens, lamps, dry provisions, fortified wine, medical supplies and all the other necessary equipment for the journey. Espectro ' s funds seemed limitless - no doubt there is a story on how the warrior earned the coin. Father Halo's list was exhaustive and the experience of planning campaigns came back to him easily. He was in his element when he was the human hand to the divine mission.
And this clearly was his divine mission. He thought long on his psalms and counted the literature he needed to scribe down. All day he dedicated to securing supplies and in the evening he wrote pages upon pages of revelation.
One such night, after a very powerful epitome, Father Halo put down the quill and rubbed his aching hands. He looked at the vellum scroll and sighed. Looking up he stared off to his compatriot Espectro. The warrior looked good for his age. His bald pate was smooth and only his eyes held a few wrinkles. He took to wearing the long dark robes, fashionable among the Cheq people, but the effect gave him a commanding presence.
"So how are you, friend?"
