This one draws some inspiration from two sources, the first of which was Rob suggesting a taxidermist going around describing the fauna of Norbayne, which I found very interesting. The second was something else I can't think of at the moment, but it was, again, someone writing a bestiary of a fantasy world by going out and observing the creatures.
Unfortunately, Boclæden of Baél-Ád went to the Black Fens, and we'll see how that goes for him.
The esteemed natural scholar, Boclæden of Baél-Ád set out to document the fauna and flora of the Black Fen in the year 616 of the Common Era. He was never seen again.
Another expedition from Peostólorca attempted to find traces of the lost scholar, but all they succeeded in finding was a collection of weather-beaten journals which almost certainly belonged to Boclæden.
These journals have been translated from the Dunscarth language to one more befitting a civilised reader.
Within days of entering the Black Fens, we have found ourselves being harassed on a constant basis by the teeming insects. Many varieties exist in these wetlands, many of which seem to be drawn to warm-blooded creatures.
Upon capturing a specimen in a glass jar, I was able to observe it more closely and was horrified and intrigued by what I discovered. The thorax of the specimen was exceptionally bloated and was causing it to have difficulty moving. Close inspection revealed that the three inch long thorax was bloated with blood and that the head of the creature was shaped much like a needle.
I contend that the creature lands upon its prey and takes its sustenance by withdrawing vital fluids from its victim. A horrifying thought. One could only imagine that the 'needle' of the creature would be coated with dried fluids from other creatures, introducing contaminants into the bloodstream of its prey.
Judging by the stinging pains the expedition have been experiencing on any bare skin and the sheer magnitude of the liquid within the specimen, I would have to assume that any number and perhaps all of the expedition have perhaps been infected with any number of transmittable diseases. At least two men have already taken ill. We are carrying them along on hastily built stretchers, but with only limited supplies of water, the humid atmosphere and a lack of proper Dunscarth medical treatment there is little hope for their survival.
We have lost three members of our party in the last two days. The first loss was sustained the night before last, one member of the party unfortunately pitching his tent too close to a body of water. The first we knew of the attack was a wet snap and dragging sounds. Our sentries jumped up but were too late to prevent the beast, whatever it was, from dragging the poor man and his tent into the water where it presumably devoured him.
We decided to stay and see if we could trap the creature for study, although I do believe part of the reason it was so easy to convince everyone to stay in place was due to the rapidly deteriorating condition of our two sick companions. No one had the heart to move them in the state they were in.
Come the morning nets were set in the brackish water and the party generally relaxed around camp until around midday, at which time one of the sick men expired. We buried him in the swamp as we did not have the capability to build a pyre for him.
The expedition has taken to covering any bare skin in mud to prevent the insects from detecting our warm blood. It has been surprisingly effective and the number of bites have sharply decreased.
We have been hunting our own food and have turned to the small terrestrial reptiles which stick to the drier parts of the swamps. They are armoured with heavy scales, particularly on the back and head, however the underbelly is unarmoured. In size they are no bigger than Midland capaills and their flesh tastes similar, though it is more tender. We used two corpses as bait for the beast in the water, but as yet have had no luck in luring it out. We can only assume that our companion either afforded the beast enough sustenance that it will be satisfied for some time, or perhaps it has moved on.
This morning we awoke to find that the other sick member of our expedition had also expired. We buried him next to our other companion and continued into the Fens.
We set up camp in the evening last night, having travelled at least twenty miles over the course of the week. It does not sound a great deal, but I assure you that in these conditions and in this fascinating, deadly place, twenty miles is a grand achievement.
Some of the expedition have reported hearing strange sounds in the fens. We do not know what the cause is, but most have heard it, a low, warbling call. It is a haunting melody, An idle fancy, the call cannot be music. None have ever found intelligent life in these marshlands.
This morning Dræfend, the party's head scout, discovered tracks of an unusual and gargantuan nature. Quite by accident, we stumbled upon a trail which had been forged by something very large moving at some speed through the dense undergrowth. The prints were massive affairs, approximately five feet in diameter, crowned with three claw-marks. Whatever left these was a massive, bipedal predator.
I begin to properly fear for my life in these swamps.
Several days have passed since last I wrote, and this is no coincidence. Of the twenty-five who set out with me, only six now remain. The remaining number have fallen prey to the denizens of these lands, which are far more advanced than any have ever realised.
The first we knew of the attack was a sudden hail of black darts falling into our midst, many of which must have been envenomed with some virulent substance, for upon being hit with a dart, men would fall to the ground, writhing in agony. This attack was made all the more effective by the fact that the expedition did not expect an attack and so few were armoured. What is more, in this heat, not a few had divested of upper garments completely, relying upon only the local mud for protection. Enough against the dagger-flies which plagued us earlier, but not against these vicious darts. After just a few short moments, some of us managed to take cover in the tents and waited with horrified fascination as our attackers approached our fallen comrades.
We could see them through the canvas sides of the tent, vague shapes, similar in a basic fashion to a man, yet different. Their movements were quick and rapid, followed by long moments of absolute stillness. Uncannily like the movement of a lizard, if a lizard were to be seen moving as a biped and clutching a weapon.
Their language, if you could call it thus, is a collection of hisses, snarls, growls and clicks. Yet despite that, they managed to coordinate their efforts perfectly, storming our camp and then taking the wounded, dragging them through the swamp.
We have begun our trek out of the swamps now, but fear it may already be too late.
We did not cease moving all night, and it went against us. Frædrec stumbled in the night and it would seem has broken his leg.
We could not leave him, but he is slowing us down, and now as the dawn starts to lighten even this dismal place, we have drawn to a halt. Dræfend has taken charge of the expedition, Oxfjord having perished several days ago now. He is loathe to push Frædrec harder than needs must, and while I am of like mind, we must now consider that we may never leave these fens with him.
We can hear them approaching, hissing, shrieking, groaning in that bestial language.
By the Great Fires of my homeland, how I wish I had never come here!
No more can be made out of the journal, the rest of it damaged by blood and water. Boclæden made just two more entries before the creatures caught his party, but neither are in any way legible.
The lack of any remains near the journals' resting place ensure that Boclæden's final resting place, or even whether or not he is deceased, remain unknown.
It is, however, unlikely that he could have survived.
The birth of the city of Ghotaiche is one shrouded in both mystery and mysticism. According to legend, centuries ago, an evil warlock was buried alive beneath what would one day become Ghotaiche's central square. The bards claim that the warlock, who had descended into a state of torpor, seeped his evil essence into the soil, poisoning the ground with his dark, corrupting touch.
That's what they say anyway.
It is easy to believe it however, as Dorcha Ridaire thought to herself, staring out across the city from her vantage point on one of the spires. Even now, centuries after the supposed warlock's burial, Ghotaiche was still a dark, corrupted hell of a city. Some days it's criminal underground seemed more populous than the body of law-abiding citizens. The law enforcement was next to none-existent, the city ruled by a council of merchant lords who could buy silence from anyone they needed it from. Most of them were prominent figures in the criminal world anyway.
And the criminal underground was something Dorcha was well-acquainted with. These days, she lived to ruin the plans of the crime lords of Ghotaiche. But she had not always been so driven to do so.
Sitting atop the tallest building in Ghotaiche city, light rain drifting down onto her cloak-clad shoulders, Dorcha thought back to her youth and why she had become what she was. She had been brought up with a fairly liberal idea of how wealth should be distributed, her father and elder brother teaching her all she needed to know about the fine arts of pick-pocketing, lockpicking and flat out burglary. All these things required skill and subtlety, and she had an abundance of both, as did her father and brother.
Together, the three of them amassed enough wealth to have a large house built on the outskirts of Ghotaiche, a mansion of sorts. And they lived there happily for a time, long enough for Dorcha to grow into maturity, having been taught a great many skills by her father in particular.
And then one day, tragedy struck. She had been out early that morning, before several hours before dawn, lifting valuables from a variety of victims and was returning home when she noticed a red glow on the outskirts of the city. She hurried to her home to find the morbidly obese merchant lord Tradator surrounded by at least fifteen men in his pay. Several men were holding flaming brands in their hands. And her house, her place of shelter and sanctuary for the last sixteen years, was burning along with those she loved.
If it were not for the fact that several of the men carried weapons with them in addition to the torches, Dorcha would have set upon them then and there, armed with naught but a pilfered silver candlestick holder. But she did not, and instead she hid in the bushes, sobbing as quietly as she could manage as her world burned down around her. And so, when the flames had died down, she was present for what happened next.
Her father was brought forward, bloodied and bent, hands tied before him. Where his tail should have been was just a bloodied stump. He appeared defeated and cried out in grief as they showed him what remained of his house. The merchant lord approached the broken Leathe, squatting before him like a corpulent toad.
"And to think this unpleasant business could have all been avoided if you had simply declared your earnings to us. Just thinking of your poor family, boarded up in that magnificent mansion, trapped and screaming for help as it burnt down. How awful, I believe I am tearing up just thinking about it," he laughed, brushing away false tears in a theatrical fashion. "You brought this upon yourself Déantoir. You really did. All you needed to do was," he shrugged and then spread his arms wide, encompassing all around him, "spread the wealth. But now, now you will die, alone and unmourned by any." With that, the merchant lord of Ghotaiche thrust his curved dagger into Dorcha's father's heart and her tears fell in earnest.
"We are done here, let us leave this depressing place," Tradantor snapped, standing straight and straightening out the collar of his garments. "Kenold, take the corpse to the river and dispose of it. If you are seen, throw yourself in too."
Looking back at that dark night, Dorcha could not remember what she did after following the man named Kenold to the river's edge. The last thing she could ever recall was watching her father's corpse tumble into the murky water, Kenold wiping his brow of sweat and drinking from a wineskin.
The following weeks turned into a blur for the dispossessed young Leathe who takes up residence in an abandoned warehouse. She would break into the houses of the city's most wealthy at night, taking only what she needed to purchase food, living off the only things she knew how to do. Days ran into each other and eventually the months passed in a haze of nothing but continued survival, no joy nor pain in her life as all that was dear to her had been taken and she could not find it in herself to stand for anything more than herself. After all, her family had died because her father had taken too much and had made himself a target. She would do neither.
The lords of the city had made a ghost of her.
Dorcha smiled grimly at the thought, not that she derived any amusement from reliving those dark times. But they had given her a base, a starting point as it were, for what she had become. The catalyst for that change however, was something she had discovered in the house of some inconsequential burgher just over eight years ago.
She was just about to leave the house, a small sack slung over her shoulder containing an assortment of valuables, when she noticed a faded book lying upon the floor. Despite her misgivings, she picked it up and read the cover by the light of her candle. The Pursuit of Justice.
A creak from the room above her and she threw the book in her sack and silently left the house, vowing to read it later.
And she did.
The book, a philosophical piece which espoused the view that sometimes justice was not a right but something to be won, resonated deeply within Dorcha's consciousness. For weeks after finishing the book, the words tumbled about in her mind, and in a way, plagued her. Until, one evening she awoke from a dream in which Ghotaiche was different city to what it really was. A dream in which a child could grow up with a family around her and live a full and happy life in the light. And she resolved then and there to dedicate her life to making that dream become reality, to allow the people of Ghotaiche to have what was taken from her.
She travelled south first, taking up an apprenticeship with famed hunter Enrik Khartes, learning how to use a bow and blades. He told her of the skill of the hunters of the Ilaena, the Children of Carrion. Having completed her apprenticeship, she then travelled further south again, over the ocean to the plains of Sothbayne, where she pitted herself out in the wilderness against packs of Ilaena hunters, disabling the finest hunters sent to find her one at a time. A year and a half living off the land on the plains of Sothbayne left her used to a hard life and she had grown as tough and lean as whipcord. She returned to the north and spent time in the Syndicate of Turador, honing the arts of stealth and intimidation in equal measure. Her scrawny frame and lack of height did not do her any favours in this regard, but in her travels in the south, she had discovered a rare flower, which if ingested caused horrifying hallucinations.
Dorcha remembered the first time she had encountered the plant, held captive by a band of Roanfaille scouts. There had been five of them and they had come across her wholly by accident. She had let her guard down and was sleeping in one of the tall thorn-trees which were scattered across the southern grasslands. Five men and one hunting hound, if one could call it such, she remembered. The beast had nothing of the clean lines of the cu of her homelands, built in form like a bear and moving with an odd, loping gait. It was the hound which had been the instrument of her downfall as it had alerted the men of her presence up in the tree, who had thrown spears and then rocks at her until she fell out. Men of the Ten-Eyed Spectre clan she assumed, judging by the tattoos they shared, inked across their chests, a collection of amorphous black lines filled with ten red eyes. Fanciful designs if seen with a clear mind, but they would take on a wholly different perception for Dorcha.
One of the men was a shaman, a crooked and bent man who staggered around, supported by a wooden staff of deadwood. He was dressed haphazardly, as were they all, and he carried with himself a burlap sack at all times. He was treated with the utmost respect by the other four, a respect which bordered on worship and was likely the result of fear.
For within that burlap sack, he carried the flowers of the plant sen-smierk, or something like that. The shaman did in fact tell her what they were called before subjecting her to it, but she never knew how it was spelt or what it meant. All she knew was that once the shaman had forced a petal into the mouth of the bound and restrained Leathe, her senses swam and the tattooed chest of the shaman came to life, grasping at her with ephemeral claws, eyes blazing with an infernal flame. The shaman's laughter and her own screams of terror rang in her ears over and over, distorted and terrifying in themselves. Even the burlap sack took on a visage of terror, appearing to grow a face and sprout nonsensical ramblings in a language she didn't know.
She was held prisoner by the Ten-Eyed Spectres for a total of three days. Three long, sweltering sleepless days of crippling hunger and thirst interspersed with three nights of fire-lit terror. After the third such session, the shaman having had enough of his fun as the Leathe slipped into semi-unconsciousness, Dorcha found that despite her situation, she still had not given up. And that no matter what she would be subjected to, she would not give up her quest. Ghotaiche had not yet been saved, but she was not prepared to undertake the task if she could not overcome three nomadic clansmen.
She waited, barely moving for hours until the party had fallen asleep and then began to work her way free. Eventually, after almost an hour of painstaking effort, she had managed to slip her hands free of her bonds without awakening any of the men, nor their foul hound. The ropes which bound her ankles were next and she quickly untied them.
Silently she retrieved her belongings from where the clan had bundled them, likely hoping to sell them at their next opportunity. She also lifted the shaman's sack of flowers, seeing that they could potentially be useful to her.
Lastly, she crept over to the sleeping hound and cut its throat, clamping one hand around its muzzle and the other arm around its neck with her hand holding its forelegs to prevent it from both yelping and lashing out. In her weakened state, she could not prevent either, but the clansmen were thoroughly inebriated and they did not stir.
Despite everything, she could not find it in herself to kill them. It would not be just of her to kill unarmed men as they slept because they were trying to sustain themselves. And then she came to the shaman. He was one who did not do what he did because he needed to hunt game or sell to the slavers to survive. Here was a man who took pleasure from instilling terror in others. Here was a man who deserved justice and was actually evil. This man was one her moral code told her she could kill.
Except she couldn't. Her knife hovered above his sleeping chest for a minute before Dorcha turned away. No, not even he deserved such a death, especially when these other men, who knew no other way than to do what they did, followed him and needed him to survive.
She set off alone into the darkness, haunted by her decision, a decision which would continue to haunt her for years, even after she returned to Ghotaiche.
In her time in the Syndicate of Turador, Dorcha was quite successful, rising swiftly from just an initiate to one of the Master of Turador's finest assets in the space of just a year. And yet, in all that time, working for what was perhaps the largest and most successful criminal organisation in the known world, she did not lose track of her principles.
For she had arrived there following a rumour that the Master wished to spread the tentacles of his criminal empire into Ghotaiche itself. If he did so, the city would be ripe pickings. The packs of scum which roamed it's streets at night were bad enough as just that, disorganised individual packs, but the Syndicate was a successful organisation which co-ordinated the targets of its cells. And so Dorcha came to be in Turador, under the name Roisin Nathair, or Viper Rose to those she dealt with on the Syndicate's behalf, fitting name considering her dual nature.
The year she spent in Turador was one spent in a kind of self-imposed exile, learning the methods and habits of effective criminals, surrounding herself with the kind of person she despised, the kind of person she was herself. To begin with, she was only trying to prevent the Syndicate from spreading into Ghotaiche, but eventually she set after the goal of proving the superior of each and every one of the Master's assets. And so she did, completing contracts at such a rate and with such precision that her cell leader brought her to the attention of the Syndicate's League of Councillors, the Master's advisors. Just as she had planned, for what better way to strike a blow at the Syndicate than by striking the head from the serpent.
The League brought her into their headquarters, in the mountains to the city's west and asked of her what it was she sought after in the Syndicate. She thought over her answer very carefully, and came to the conclusion that honesty was the best policy in this situation. That did not mean however that she needed to tell the whole truth.
"I seek the path which leads to vengeance for those I have lost and the means to turn fear against those who prey on the fearful," she replied, keeping her voice measured and her gaze focussed on the Councillor who had asked for her response.
A man was then brought out into the audience chamber, a Midlander, heavily chained and stripped to the waist. His body showed the signs of torturous beatings and severe malnourishment. One of the Councillors handed Dorcha a sword, two and a half feet from pommel to tip and told the Leathe to execute the prisoner.
"What are his crimes?" Dorcha asked, the blade heavy in her hands.
"This man stole from the wrong people. If he had paid his dues to the Syndicate, he would not be in this situation. He brought this upon himself," replied the Councillor, his face grim. Dorcha thought back to her father and the fate which had befallen him. He was not so different from this man, and likely less innocent in a way.
"If you kill him, you will be rewarded greatly. The Master has decreed that you will lead the assault on Ghotaiche city, that wretched nest where you grew up," sneered the Councillor. Dorcha started involuntarily.
"Oh yes, we know all about your past, Ridaire. Born 817 CE on the outskirts of Ghotaiche to Deantoir and Binn Ridaire. Only child. At the age of sixteen your house was burned down and your family killed by the merchant Tradator and his hired blades. You watched your father's torture and murder and followed one of the men to the riverbank where you made your first kill, hiding the corpse in the same way the man had just hidden your father's corpse. Dropped out of existence for several years until here you are, in Turador, supremely skilled but still reluctant to mingle with your kind. And that's what these people are!"
Dorcha fell to her knees, head bowed and the sword clattered to the stone floor.
"But you need to realise what you are girl. And that is a hired blade, nothing more. You're just one more knife in the Master's hand." With that, the Councillor made to strike Dorcha, but she caught his fist in her hand. Swiftly she drew the man's dagger from his belt and held it to his throat. Applying pressure to the joints of his hands, she squeezed until the man went to his knees. The other men in the chamber drew their weapons and made to apprehend her.
"Anyone moves and I slit his throat right here. But I have a message for you all, and your master. You think I am but a hired blade, but I am many things. A thief in the night, a beggar on the streets, a warrior on the field of battle, an orphaned child amongst the ashes. I am all of those things and more. But there is one thing I will always be, and that is Ghotaiche's protector. And I will stand there between the people of my city and those who would harm them. Tell your Master that Ghotaiche will never be his and that if he wants her, I will be waiting."
The headquarters of the Syndicate in the Turador mountains burned down that night and Dorcha left many of the Master's assets for dead in the ashes. It is whispered in amongst the cells of Turador that he has never forgotten the offence she gave him, and that the time will come when she would face reckoning for it.
From her vantage point atop one of Ghotaiche's spires, Dorcha had an excellent view of her city. The years had honed her abilities to an exceptional degree and her determination had not wavered once. Her sources in the Ghotaiche underground suggested that the Syndicate was finally prepared to make their move on the city and Dorcha was determined to be ready for it.
The city's eastern gate was admitting a steady stream of wandering pilgrims and refugees, most of whom were innocent travellers, trying to stay out of the war-torn lands to the south. Some of them however, would be members of Syndicate cells. Dorcha was hell-bent on eradicating and uprooting them before they could taint her city.
A few of the so-called pilgrims split off from the main stream and congregated in a dark alleyway between warehouses. One started to cast off his ragged disguise, revealing an expensive longsword at his hip. One other started to unwrap the canvas around his walking staff, revealing a bow-stave, wound with the string and a small flexible leather quiver with a handful of arrows. That was all Dorcha needed to know of their intentions.
She dropped from the spire and sprinted across the rooftops, practically dancing in the late evening air. Within seconds she had reached a warehouse above the alleyway the cell was meeting in. Five of them, armed and likely well-trained combatants.
She dropped a small metal canister, filled with a concentrated gas derived from the petals of the sen-smierk into their midst and watched silently as they started to hallucinate. The man with the sword, a tall, rangy Invarrian dropped to his knees, head on the ground, whimpering in pain and fear. Dorcha took note that the Invarrian's sense of smell, more developed than that of most other races must increase the effects of the flowers.
She dropped to the ground behind them, silent as a shadow, crept up behind them and slaughtered them all.
The next morning, the bodies were found, stripped of valuables and strung up by ropes to the top of one of the warehouses. A message was written in blood on the wall beside the corpses.
Tell your Master that this is still my city.
COMPLETED!
The Sad Tale of Lyriana Morcante
I've had the idea for this one floating around in my head for ages. Nigh on a year by now I think, but I've not managed to get very far with it.
Let's see how it goes.
The wooden ceiling above was covered in cobwebs. The tangled strands of spider-silk resonated with the thoughts of the girl as she awoke from her sleep. Her night had been restless. Most of her nights were, as sleep did not come easily.
Lyriana's life was one of contrasts. Her father, lord of Morcante, a small barony in the south-western lands of the Southern kingdom of Benden, was a lonely man, given to melancholy since the passing of his wife. He did not remarry. Lyriana was his only heir.
He loved her dearly, as a doting father, and as the only tangible reminder he had of her mother, the wife he had loved so dearly, and whom Lyriana looked so much like. As such, from an early age, anything the girl might have wished for, if it were within the Baron's means, and by the standards of Southron nobility they were modest, she would have it.
With that love however, came the fear of harm coming to her, and it was that fear which kept her father awake at night. Lyriana was always a wilful child, and rarely took much heed of warnings or instructions.
In a way, this leads back to why Lyriana Morcante awoke late in the morning with a pounding headache, in what had become a routine. She stood, groaned in pain and then steadied herself, walking to a pitcher and pouring herself some water.
The sky outside Lyriana’s window was a brilliant blue with bright clouds strewn across the azure expanse. Under the beautiful sky, Castelle Morcante held a commanding position, watching over the surrounding town and nearby forests. Directly beneath the windowsill, life in Castelle Morcante went on. The guardsmen patrolled the walls and servants bustled to and fro. Sprawled around the keep lay the small township of Murre, known in the Southlands for the quality of its wine and the tenacity of its wine-sellers. In the streets, common children played with dogs, chasing chickens and playing ball games. Merchants hawked their wares incessantly, their cries to passers-by almost reaching Lyriana’s ears.
Unfortunately for her, Lyriana herself was not amongst them. Instead she was locked in her room, at the top of the highest tower of her father’s castle. For, she thought bitterly to herself, her father was Lord Morcante, and the streets of the surrounding town, or Triad forbid, the forests surrounding it, were not acceptable haunts for his only daughter and heir.
Since her mother’s death seven years ago, Lyriana had been cooped up as much as her father could manage. Where once she would ride through the streets of Murre with only her horse for company, now she was lucky to be able to walk the halls of her father’s keep alone. Her once daily visits to the forest were now a thing of the distant past.
Of course, Lyriana was not the kind of young woman who would let lack of permission prevent her from doing what she wished. She just needed to be smarter about it. In a way, her father’s restrictions had simply made her excursions more dangerous. Now when she left the restrictive safety of Castelle Morcante, it was in the dead of night, with no one alerted to her activities.
Despite the restrictions, Lyriana’s life was not a lonely one. She had many companions, though only she could see them.
Sighing, she moved away from the window. Sneaking out at night, while exciting, was not the same as walking through the bustling streets of Murre under the warmth of the southern sun.
She crossed her well-furnished room and set herself down on her bed. Lying on her back, she stared at the ceiling once more, imagining the glyph patterns which would call her companions to her. Playfully, they shifted through the glyphs and into the material world, dancing on the edges of reality.
And so Lyriana lay back and watched them play, softly gleaming witch-lights flitting across her ceiling. One sprite, her favourite, a diminutive ball of bluish sparks she called Lark, flickered to life beside her. A wave of companionship and peace washed over her.
As long as Lark was nearby, everything would be fine.
The trees around her were shrouded in darkness as Lyriana rode through the forest. It was after midnight, the barest sliver of moon providing barely enough light to see by under the forbidding canopy. As she rode, all her troubles fell away, driven off by the steady rhythm of her horse's hooves on the soft forest floor.
For some time she just rode, gently guiding her steed down the rough woodland track, and she lost track of time and space.
This was not the first time Lyriana had done this. The nighttime rides were a common pastime for her, a routine which helped her deal with the banality of her diurnal existence. Lark flitted along beside her, as he always did on these adventures, a comforting presence.
Her thoughts drifted back to a time, a decade previous, just after her mother's passing.
She had been playing in the streets of Murre with some common children, kicking a round leather ball in an alleyway. Lyriana was fiercely competitive and she could remember being pushed to the ground and losing possession of the ball in the process. That had made her very angry, but she couldn't remember what she had done next.
Whatever it was must have been something awful though, because the other children never played with her again, and it wasn't long after that time that her father forbade her from going into Murre un-escorted. She could vaguely remember screaming and many angry faces.
If it were not for Lark, she thought to herself, she would have soon gone mad.
She was snapped back to the present by the slowed pace of her horse. Ahead lay a fork in the path. Lyriana frowned. She was not familiar with this place, as she had never come this far previously. Stiff from sitting in the saddle for so long, the girl dismounted slowly and looked around in the darkness for something familiar, a landmark, something.
Nothing.
Lark had disappeared. Sometime after Lyriana had turned back at the crossroads, the little glimmering witch-light had faded. With him had gone her light, so the girl had to make do with the weak moonlight which filtered down through the trees above.
Lyriana tried to stay calm as she rode down the winding forest track. She was pretty sure she was heading the right way home, but she had still yet to recognise any landmarks. Her earlier inattentiveness might yet cost her dearly. After all, these woods were hardly safe after dark. Wolves and worse prowled the forests.
As if in answer to her thoughts, a howl broke the silence of the night and Lyriana felt a thrill of terror down her spine before she registered how distant it was. Nonetheless, she spurred her horse to greater speed, her desire to get safely home overriding her caution on the dark path.
After a few minutes of riding at a breakneck pace, Lyriana recognised a particular ironwood tree, one she used to climb as a child. She smiled and allowed her steed to settle into a walk. She was almost home.
And so it was that she missed the carefully laid trap.
Something jumped out of the ironwood tree above the path and Lyriana let out a shriek of surprise as it tackled her off her horse. The back of her head hit the ground, her vision swam and then all was black.
Definitely going to have four parts.
WIP
Falling.
Falling forever.
The knight awoke to blackness all around. The last thing he remembered was marching to war, one man in a vast sea of soldiers.
He thought back to the events that led to his presence on that field. The war between his king and the dread mage-lord of the south. Who was his king again?
Funny, it seemed so important before, but now, with all of eternity stretching before him... Why did it matter?
His eyes sought for purchase on his surroundings, but it seemed he was travelling too fast to focus on anything he passed. Or there was nothing there to focus on.
In fact, that may have been closer to the truth.
And still he fell.
He closed his eyes, welcoming the end, but it never came.
Falling.
Falling forever.
Just another quick story I cobbled together at work. Sorry if it isn't very good, I've not been able to focus on it exclusively.
There will be a second part.
Cheers,
We had a home once.
In all the vastness of the known multiverse, we had a home, one singular pocket of existence in which every factor was conducive to the formation of my people. A place where we grew, loved, created and thrived. My people were considered great builders, the finest in all creation. We built structures, on scales barely imaginable, from dwellings which towered above and beyond any natural feature on any number of the worlds we discovered, to the most minute adaptations in the smallest of organsims which populated those worlds. Our mastery was absolute, and so we travelled, always seeking further frontiers to explore and to improve, to make more like our home.
As we travelled, our home grew more distant, and my people began to grow weary of creation. Our home, that place of light, love and laughter became a place where we fought and destroyed, tearing down the creations of others to further the goals of oneself. It is the way of conflict that it escalates, and each advancement requires further expenditure of power in order to overcome the enemy. For my people, that advancement, or more specifically, the power expended to obtain it, spelt doom.
We were not as alone in the stars as we thought. Truly, we had known for millennia of the many and varied forms of life which populated innumerable worlds across the breadth of creation, but ever were they of lesser stature than ourselves, such that many of our people at first viewed them as something to be improved upon and taught, moulded into something greater. In more evil times, some viewed these beings as potential tools and weapons, mere collateral damage in the what became the war among the stars.
We did not know, nor even conceive that there were beings active in the cosmos with power that matched our own, let alone exceed it. Not until it was too late.
Drawn by our reckless use of power like moths to a flame, they fell upon our home out of the void, scattering my people across the stars. The lights of our world dimmed, what little laughter there was left, died. The hammers stopped ringing in the forges, the wars ceased and creation halted. Our home was lost to us. We were exiled.
I found myself on a new world, and harboured the survivors of my family, all the while dwelling in uneasy peace with some few others of my kind, who themselves took residence in other regions on the same world. With only small touches of power, we aided the extant creatures of this world, granting them knowledge and culture. My family took residence in the great forested mountains, and the diminutive peoples which dwell there called us the Ri-Foraoirse, the Forest Lords. They served us, as they would, though we asked of them nothing. When the Sidhe arrived, themselves seeking to escape a something which threatened their home, we agreed to shelter them and asked of them no price.
Deep in the woodlands, we began to build something like home, but as it was in the beginning, that wholesome light-filled place of music and life. Hidden away, to safeguard our creation from any and all outside threats, we shared our new home with the Leathe and the Sidhe and all was well. Even the revelation of the sickness which dwelt in the core of every Sidhe was something which could be solved, with the creation of the Gealai Aisling, a safe place for the Sidhe to go when they grew weary of existence.
Then word reached us that our enemy had found us and that my estranged kin were being hunted and killed for their power, which while only used in small touches as required, over millennia had accumulated. Deep in the forest, we will be safe for a time, but all know that our time is short and this time there will be no escape.
I am a dreamer, an artist, a king and a father. I am known as Mor'Righ-Glas to the Leathe. I lost my home and soon I fear, I will lose my life.
I am an exile.
My eyes open, though all remains black. The torn and bloodstained strip of linen which serves as my blindfold ensures that is the case. My arms are outstretched. They hurt. There is a slight clink of steel on stone as I shift my weight, causing the thick steel manacles and chains which bind me to scrape on the cold stone floor. There is a commotion from outside, raised voices, a sense of panic and fear. The door to the cell creaks open, the hinges protesting the strain against the rust which has formed through years of disuse.
The pulling on my arms lessens a touch as someone provides some slack to the chains. My physical form crumples to the stone floor. I barely feel it.
All I can feel is the excitement which courses through my frail body like wildfire. It is nearly time once more. I am needed again.
They are coming.
So say the panicked guards anyway, their confusing and garbled chatter a mere irritating buzz to my senses. Ilaena, presumably, from the plains to the south, an ever-encroaching horde of savage beasts. Some great matriarch has likely united the clans, brought them under her sway with promises of violence and plunder. I have witnessed this before. It is not uncommon here in the Granica, what the northern heathens call The March of Sothbayne. This place, where the civilisation along the Sjeverni Coast gives way to the wide-open grasslands of the nomadic horselords. This place, where the blood of the ancient Deliverer still flows strongly through the veins of the Roanfaille.
This place, where the Ilaena come to die.
As I am removed from my bare, stone cell and emerge into sunlight for the first time in many years, I try to just enjoy the feeling. The warm kiss of sunlight upon my skin, the touch of a cool breeze, the smells of dust and grass, anything other than the dark, featureless stone which has been my home.
All I can smell is the unmistakable scent of smoke and the iron-tang of blood on the wind. All I can hear is the terrified screaming of thousands of people. The scent of blood is so thick I can taste it. The dull red of my vision, hidden as it is behind my blindfold, takes on a new meaning, not the red of obscured light now, but a rain of vitae pouring from the skies. I can feel it on my very skin, a slick, sticky coating of gore.
I am pulled along by my chain, blind, helpless, relying entirely on the man in front of me, presumably a guard. As we walk together, stumbling through the sounds of chaos, I can hear a quiet weeping, beneath the cacophony of panicked screams from all around us. I think it might be the guard. I can hear them too now, the Ilaena. I can hear the snarls, the whooping calls, the shrill peals of mocking, bestial laughter which hang in the smoke-filled air.
We come to a stairway, crafted of stone. We must have reached the outer wall. I hear a voice telling me to keep going, though I pay it no mind. My thoughts are of the Ilaena, of their cruelty, their savagery, their strange, haunting laughter. I remember their eyes, which glint with a terrible, animal intelligence, their crude weapons and their powerful sorcery.
I remember burning them.
I remember their hideous forms being consumed by the violet flames, their cackling laughter transmute into howls of pain and terror as their bodies withered away to nought but char and ash. Those glinting eyes, which promised such hateful savagery, could not withstand the fury I unleashed.
It is time to do so once more.
One at a time, I take the stairs. One step after another, I slowly gain the top of the wall. It is a little quieter here, only a little. The sound of conflict so very far away. Hands still bound by thick steel chains, I flare my inner fire for a brief moment.
The chains fall away, molten and dripping, leaving terrible disfiguring scars upon my wrists and forearms. The steel drips upon the stone below me, sizzling and slowly cooling.
I remove the blindfold. I know I should not, but I want to see. Not just see, but see.
I stand atop the pale stone parapet, looking out over the golden grass sea. Above, the sky pulses like a dark, reddish bruise, and thick, dark globules of rain fall in scattered showers, staining the pale stone of the city and the golden grass of the plains both in streaks of dark gore.
Upon the plain are gathered the horde of the Carrion, the Ilaena clans which have come together to pillage this place, to destroy it. Vlasko, I believe it is called.
I do not rightly care. My eyes close. I have seen enough for now. Now they are to become the reaping scythe, and I, the reaper incarnate.
Unbound, unfettered, uncontrolled, I begin to cast. Arms outstretched, my wasted body stretched and pulled to the point of failure by the aethyric forces I begin to bring to bear, I intone the ancient incantations.
There is a crack as my body shifts and warps. Bones break, reform and then break again as my physical shell cannot contain the power I begin to cultivate. Flesh tears and re-knits in a single moment. The pain is both unbearable and welcome. Terrible, and intoxicating. Murderous, and addictive.
I know I should not. I know I am taking too much. Drinking too deeply.
Risking all.
Why should one such as I care? Why should I fear to draw upon this power, this fire? It is mine after all, mine to do with as I please.
My eyes open and blazing light flares forth from my outstretched hands. The incantation rips forth from my lungs, an exhalation of exultation, which acts as the catalyst for the blazing devastation which is the power I wield. The act feels superfluous. What need have I for a catalyst?
I am power. Not merely powerful, but the embodiment of power. My eyes are a curse, my thoughts are lightning, my words the thunder of an inclement stormfront. My will is destruction, and the firmament itself affirms my desires.
I feel alive. Even now, wreathed in destruction, I can feel nothing but life. The incessant beating of my heart, faster now, and faster again, the pace rapidly increasing with every moment. The globules of blood raining from the heavens drip into my eyes, stinging them, blinding me in a sheet of crimson gore. I care not. I feel nothing but the glory of obliteration.
I laugh with the sheer heady intoxicating fury and wonder of it all, and the crackling flames laugh with me.
Reality burns, and I burn with it.
My eyes open.
The night sky wheels by overhead, the softly glittering stars like a scattering of diamonds strewn haphazardly across a stretched bolt of midnight black cloth. I lie, face up on the cold ground. I can feel the chill which has begun to set deep within my mortal shell. I struggle to shift.
I cannot.
My eyes close.
I remember.
Before our arrival, there was little of note on this world. Ferocious storms wracked the land, leaving nothing but jutting outcrops of bare rock, torn forth from the treacherous dark oceans. Great winged beasts ruled the sky, warring amongst themselves and preying upon the weak, lesser creatures which could only manage to eke out a pitiful existence in this inhospitable landscape. Beneath them dwelled the many, varied denizens of the roiling seas, which, dangerous though they were, bore a far greater variety of life, including some, though not many, who could challenge the primacy of the Sky-Lords.
It was not naturally a world upon which to properly nurture life, the true calling of my kind.
We came here in scattered groups, driven across the breadth of creation, seeking a haven after our home was destroyed by the Terrors in the Void. Finding this rocky, storm-lashed world, my people settled upon it, using the faintest touches of our power to calm the fierce gales, to shape this new world to our liking. Needs must we were careful and selective in the way we unleashed the words of creation. Finally, we hid in the secluded reaches of this newly becalmed world and granted enlightenment to but a few of the endemic species.
For countless rotations of the stars, our creation existed in peace, as we slowly but surely guided it into prosperity.
Our downfall was swift, sudden and entirely predictable.
As the millennia rolled on and on, the gathered magics we had worked swelled ever greater.
The Terrors came once more, and this time there would be no escape.
My eyes open again.
The night sky still wheels by overhead, the softly glittering stars like miniscule needlepoints piercing a stretched bolt of midnight black cloth. I lie, face up on the cold ground. I can feel the chill which has set deep within my ragged mortal shell. Lifeblood, brilliantly shimmering in the pale starlight seeps into the alabaster snow beneath my form. I struggle to shift.
I cannot.
My eyes close once more.
I cannot remember.
I hear a sound, a deep reverberating growl which causes the very ground beneath me to shake and quiver. Something approaches.
One of them, swollen with the sheer power it has absorbed from my brethren, the ones it has already hunted, brought down and consumed. The ground trembles. The air shivers. Reality bends around it as all the works of my people react to the presence of this thing which is anathema to us.
I won’t let this thing take my power for itself, for I have seen the things these creatures do with their prey, the torturous agonies they inflict.
My eyes open, one final time.
The night sky wheels by overhead, the softly glittering stars like a host of fell eyes glinting in the darkness. I lie, face up on the cold ground. I can feel the chill which has finally set deep within what shreds remain of my mortal shell. The fire of my life seems all but stolen away.
I intone, the words of creation spilling forth from the spirit within my ruined form. The predator growls once more, and attempts to move closer, but it cannot, buffeted now by waves of force which surround my failing shell.
My eyes fix upon a distant star, high above in the night sky. Home, perhaps? It pleases me to think so. A place of love, light and laughter, an unreckonable span of time ago.
I will give this world our light.
The words pour out in an ever greater torrent of creation as all I am, all my being, is projected up into the cold northern sky. There is a blinding flash, and years of the world roll by in an instant. The world-shaping energy crackles and tears at the very air around and above me as the words rip into the sky. The predator shies back, waiting for me to expend the last of my strength. It wants to feast.
I will not let it.
With one final invocation, silence falls, like the pale grey ash which drifts down and settles on the snow.
My mortal shell is gone, only a shimmering pool of lifeblood left behind to mark its presence.
I am free.
From above, the tattered remnants of my spirit beholds the predator below, sees the ephemeral fangs it bears, dripping with gore and power. Its eyes blaze with a dark hunger, but it cannot understand me now. I can see in its eyes how it perceives me now, a glimmering ribbon of pale light, wavering and flickering in the night sky. Eventually, it turns away in defeat, its great shaggy head dropping as the excitement of the hunt leaves it. It pads away, long, sinuous, bladed tail flicking despondently as it goes.
I am free.
I am light.
My people may be gone, destroyed by the Terrors from the Void, but I remain. I alone of my kind, endure. My consciousness exists now in the so-called northern lights. I have seen many an age of this world come and go, but I will always be there, in the night, watching.
Giving you the aurora.
Giving you our light.