Calm Before the Storm

Polished 12.1 and 12.2. Andrus is sneaking about, somewhere. He’s trying to skin-walk. — 34m51s — 2020/08/15

Polished 12.3, 12.4, and 12.5. Added 12.6. 12.4 is where Creigal realizes how his father spoke to the wyrm of the Highlands. — 1h00m16s — 2020/08/18

The light of the day was upon them. Crea woke slowly with a deep exhaustion throughout her body. She was tired, dead tired. The fatigue wrapped through her muscles and sinew. It stretched down to her very bones. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry, as the events of the day before peeked, and then flooded upon her. She prayed for oblivion.

In contrast to her wishes, the sound of the wind and the creak of the trees purred in the background. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the older post runner as he worked about camp, sounding industrious and determined.

Slowly, Crea lifted herself into a sitting position. The effort was ginger and slow. She glanced down and caught the rude oranges and purples of large bruises about her chest and legs. She recoiled—and yet was morbidly fascinated by the swirl of soured blood under her skin. “Doidge!” Crea cried. “We hiked so late, and I am exhausted! Can’t we rest a bit longer?” she lamented.

The old, large post runner shrugged her off. “Do what you like,” he called, seemingly disinterested.

Curious of his tone, Crea poked her head from under her blankets. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear just about packed. “You making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical frown.

Doidge quickened his pace. "It's for your own good,” he began. “I have an oath, and I mean to honor it." The post runner stood, buckled his sword in place, and put on his helmet; then began to situate his numerous bags. "The boy also has an oath,” he glared at Malcolm.

The young page sat in a dejected manner as he stole glances of the young, bruised woman before him.

“He'd be wise to tend my instruction," Doidge finished.

“You’re both sworn to carry the post,” Crea replied.

“Don’t pretend to tell me my office!” Doidge snapped. “I have many oaths, and I know their order!” He pointed at Malcolm. "The boy carries the post and he takes it to Land’s End. I go south, to report to my betters, to tell them of the mess in this county! I go for Danya,” the old post runner explained.

"And what if I would go to Danya?” Crea asked. “Or maybe just Gaetilly?"

"Don't be daft!” Doidge stared at the girl. “You’re talking almost two weeks to Gaetilly—and you won’t get a horse before that! Or you can go to Land’s End and stay among your people—five, six days!”

"I am subject only to myself," Crea asserted. “I shall go where I want.”

Doidge snorted. "Spoken like a true Solven. With such empty loyalties, no wonder the city was torched.”

Crea’s mouth dropped open, shocked by this callousness. She stared at the old post runner as a fire caught in her belly. She glared at the man.

With a shrug, Doidge returned to his task. “The Holy Schrivnah don’t need me serving as escort to some willful brat,” he shrugged. “I have oaths—”

"Brat?!” Crea fumed and shook her head. “Now listen here! There’s no need for insults—” she began as she stood to her full height, with the dirt of yesterday still upon her.

Doidge interrupted with a haggard finger in her face. "No you listen!" he snapped. "I am a man of the post and I mean to honor my office: nothing less and nothing more! I am not your guard, and I have no interest in your life; so if you wish to give me commands, you better be reeeaalll good with that pig-sticker,” he hissed.

Crea eyed the fancy falchion as it lay next to her blankets. As much as she wished to take it up, she knew it’d do her no good to fight the man. She could tell the sharp edge of a blade, and wasn’t afraid to murder a chicken—but that was a long way from fighting a man twice her size, with a heavier weapon, and years of practice. She backed away from Doidge and gave herself some space. She lowered her head as she returned to her blanket.

Doidge leaned in close. “That, or you better have a way to pay me.” He looked her up and down, and despite the bruising—or perhaps because of it—gave her a suggestive glance.

Crea backed away and declined with a slightly offended air. “I have no coin,” she answered, then pleaded with him. “We saw the fires last night. At least some of those murderers are out there, among the farmlands, causing calamity. They will have us if they can get us!”

"And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "You don’t know where they are! They could just as well be to the south! Who is to say they will not be in my way! Have you considered that?!” He snapped. “There is no safe road! Put your mind on that!" he turned and gathered the last of his bags.

Crea knew he was lying. She caught it in his eyes. He thought the southern road was safe—or safer—and he knew he could move faster and with more stealth if he went alone. She wondered how he could be so callous. He’d seemed so affable, as they’d escaped the city, but maybe he simply thought it was easier to bring her along at that point, and have her quiet. He probably thought she meant to cling to him like a drowning cat—a thought that only irritated her all the more.

Still, Crea didn’t understand why he was being so rude. Tears welled in her eyes. "Fine!” She snapped. “Run south, to your precious Master General, you coward!"

Doidge turned and struck her a slap across the face. “Watch your tongue, or you’ll end up with more of those spots,” he glared. "I saved your life! A little gratitude is on order!" He turned from Crea, then began on his way. "If you follow me, I'll kill you myself!" he called over his shoulder.

Crea watched as he walked away. As he neared the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!" She threw her hands up in rude gestures as he glanced back.

Malcolm set a placating hand on Crea’s shoulder. “There is no need—” he began.

“Don’t touch me!” Crea flinched and brushed the page away. She turned on him and glared.

"We must be quiet," Malcom said in a placating manner. “They’re out there—somewhere.”

Crea turned from the boy and retreated back into her blankets. Silently, she huffed and sobbed, until she didn’t care about any of it.

After a time, she wiped her eyes, then slithered out of her blankets, red-faced and haggard. The page did nothing while she cried—nothing but watch. Still, he was young. What did she expect of him? With a frown, Crea began to roll her blankets. “Gather your stuff,” she told him. “We’re leaving.”

Malcolm turned to his own bed. “You’ll feel better when we get to Land’s End,” he assured.

“We’re not going to Land’s End,” Crea replied.

“But I must!” Malcolm protested. “Will you not come with me?”

“I go south,” Crea answered.

“He’ll kill you,” Malcolm’s eyes bugged out of his head. “He’s as mean as he seems—and I’d be breaking my oath! He’ll do worse to me!”

“I have no oath—and we’re not going after him anyway,” Crea stated. “I go to my father’s farm. If you wish to come, perhaps you can find some real men that will see you to Land’s End.” She was so excited by the prospect of seeing her family, she almost smiled.

How far is it?” Malcolm asked.

“A day,” Crea shrugged, “A day and a half?”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The sun was settling below the west mountains when they stopped near a large placid lake with several massive peaks visible to the east.

Scurra found the setting strangely familiar and frowned to see it. "I do not like it," she said as they spread about to set up camp. "Let's press on."

“This is a great spot,” Saleos noted. "We can fish for dinner. Beyond this, the near shore is swamp for leagues, with biting flies. We won’t find a better place for leagues."

"It is only a few hours to the base of the mountains," Scurra suggested. "We know the area. It will be easy enough to set up camp in the dark."

The others argued against her, especially when she would not say why she did not want to stop. She did not want to tell them it was because of a bad dream, because of so many crows. She wanted to say that sometimes the dreams were prophetic. "Why stop at all?" she continued to argue. "We are not far from Jindleyak lands. If we press on, we can reach the border about midnight."

"We have prisoners and dead among us," Saleos argued. "What if we are stopped in the dark and have to explain both bodies and bondage to another militia, to a Pulbouge militia? Are we not more suspect, in the wee hours? And we will be groggy, and more likely to misstep, as the night stretches on. What if a horse should stumble?” he shook his head. “We do not need more injured."

“I can’t stay here,” Scurra stared at the man.

But Saleos wouldn’t budge. "If you wish to ride for the border, you are welcome to it," he answered. "Some of us want to rest and sup—and we’re also owed a lesson."

With a huff, Scurra conceded. The tents were up and most everyone else was down at the lake to do a bit of fishing or practice under the tutelage of Carringten. She told herself it was only a dream, and that fear is the ultimate enemy. After all, it was only birds—and a storm of such brutal cold that it could not be real.

"We’re near the border?" Wenifas asked.

Scurra pointed to the mountains. "That ridge of mountains is border. Beyond that are the valleys of the Jindleyak."

"How far until Hearthstone?"

"Three days, and you shall see the great mountain," Scurra gave her a wan smile.

Aim, Duboha, and Baet saw to the prisoners as they were placed in a tent and given blankets. "Do not come out in the night," Aim told them. "If you should come out, we may think you are up to no good, and we will kill you."

"And what if I need to piss?" Meriona asked.

Aim whistled at Scurra. She turned and he waved her over. "Will you escort the Jay to a discrete bit of bush so she might relieve herself?"

Scurra shrugged. She pulled the bow from her back and waved Meriona out of the tent, "Come on then."

As the Jay passed, Aim continued, “If you need to tinkle in the night, I suggest you all settle on a convenient corner of the tent," he said. “If you come out, we’ll assume you’re up to no good.”

~!@#$%^*()_+ 12.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Wenifas walked at the shore’s edge. She was feeling better these last few days, though she still got queasy, especially in the mornings. As she walked, she noted Krumpus up ahead of her, touring the edge of the lake himself. She smiled at the shaman, and he waited for her to catch up.

“You’re looking much better,” she tried to smile as she stared over the bald half of his head. The burn scar ran down his face and neck only to disappear under his shirt. “You hands look better.”

With a smile, Krumpus nodded. He flexed his hands and fingers. They were still a bit stiff and sore, but he’d regained all his motor function, and much of his strength. Indeed, he was feeling quite a bit better.

Wenifas took his elbow and allowed him to lead her along the shore. "How did you know?” she asked, as she stared out over the large lake. “How did you know Kezodel would be struck down?” She stared at him for his answer. Much like Meu, he’d learned to communicate with his eyes alone. It was a bit eerie—but also reassuring to have such strange and powerful friends.

I didn’t know exactly what would happen, Krumpus began. But I’m shocked nobody else could tell. It was making my hair stand on end. He shook his head. I didn’t know it was a meteor—but I knew something significant was coming our way.

“And you knew it had to do with the judge?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

“It does,” Wenifas smiled. “I was in your head—but I was such a mess of emotions! There was so much occurring; and I’m still trying to figure out what parts were me, what parts were you, and what parts were the wyrm,” she smiled. “You tried to save him,” Wenifas shook her head. “Kezodel was such a corrupt and wicked man. Why would you try to save him?”

Because there was a chance, Krumpus shrugged. He might mock all powerful god, but he certainly knew there are powers greater than his own. This is not the first time we met.

To think of such a man saved, Krumpus continued. He could have been a great prince; a true royal of cunning and power, like the Ewile Queen Smixsmaxsmia. The shaman shrugged. Instead, he is a stain, and just another reason for commoners to fear chimera.

“Then, there is a true and all powerful god?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded emphatically.

“And what would this god have from us?”

Our smiles and songs of praise, Krumpus answered. And when the suffering strikes—as it always does—it would have us struggle and survive; that we might smile and sing our praise once more.

“Why must we suffer?”

We must suffer if we wish to grow, Krumpus shrugged. But the suffering never lasts.

Wenifas thought of Derris, and her heart sank. “I don’t think I can believe that,'“ she noted.

Krumpus shrugged. The world is rough on all of us. Even the Kezodel’s of the world must struggle. Beware of holding too tight to your suffering. You’ll summon more of it if you aren’t careful.

With this sentiment, a shiver ran up the spine of the priestess.

Krumpus felt it. Don’t fear, he told her. The struggle brings blessings.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

On the other side of the camp, Creigal sat on a boulder and fished a calm creek that poured from the lake. He dangled a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at the base of the stone. As he waited for a bite, he felt someone approaching. He turned to see Meu slipping silently through the undergrowth.

"Hello," the duke smiled from his perch. "And how are you this fine evening?" he asked, and was astounded to feel his heart all a patter.

Meu smiled as she climbed the rock and sat next to the duke. She set a gentle hand on his arm and stared into his eyes.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered and pointed down at the pool of water. “Their quite close to the surface. It ripples with their passing."

Meu watched the fish visible just under the surface. She took Creigal's free hand and held it in her own. As Creigal stared at the rippling stream, Meu licked venom on her lips. She leaned in on the duke. Out of instinct, Creigal turned toward the skin-walker. Meu kissed him.

Creigal pulled away. His passions swelled as they had not in a long, long time. he thought to lean in on her and kiss her back, but a tug on the line told him a fish had bit, and he turned back to the task at hand instead.

With a whoop, Creigal pulled the fish from the waters as foreign thoughts crept into his consciousness. He held the fish up for Meu's appraisal. Well done, she said in his mind—a thing that surprised and fascinated the duke. She grinned, and he could feel her amusement. He wondered if this is how his father always knew what the wyrm were thinking.

With a blush, Creigal set more bait on the line and dropped it into the river. To an unsuspecting observer, it might appear as if the two sat quietly on the rock, hand in hand, as he fished for their dinner—but there was a rush of conversation between them, occasionally interrupted by a trout on the end of the line. Although the sun was set, and the world was beginning to grow dark when they returned to camp with a half dozen fish, Creigal felt like they were gone no time at all.

Creigal tells Meu what he knows of wyrm culture.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Golifett scanned the calm night skies and smiled. "Oblarra is exalted, and there is much tension among the stars. I think the morning shall bring a significant storm.”

"There isn't a cloud in the sky—nor have we seen one in a week,” Maligno frowned. “I do not share your optimism.”

Golifett snorted and quickly tried to hide his derision. He needed those that followed his cousin if he wished to capture the boy and murder the old redhead. “Does the weather only change when you are not watching?" he finally asked.

“To call me dubious is fair,” Maligno replied. “Spell weavers tend to overstate their abilities.”

“I am not a braggard,” Golifett noted. “Besides, you are the one wanting to attack sooner rather than later. I am saying this is our opportunity!”

Maligno looked at Golifett sideways. “I’m thinking this is a ploy. What if a storm doesn’t appear? Will you still be so insistent? Or will you turn chicken?” Maligno wondered. “Not only are they away from the towns and villages, they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I should think even the full sun of say cannot save them!”

“Then it is set,” Golifett smiled. “And there shall be a storm like few you have seen—for these lands were ours, all the way to the mountains, for a thousand years before the Yak invaded! Our ancestors will not forsake us as we strike against our enemies!"

“I am beginning to think I should make your share in this adventure contingent on this weather you so heartily promise,” Maligno noted. "But the fairness in me says we should first see how you fight.”

“I beat three of them, and managed to steal the boy once already,” Golifett stated. “I am plenty dangerous.”

“You ambushed three of them,“ Maligno nodded. “Then one crept into your house, rescued the boy, and I can only assume did that to your face.”

Golifett frowned as he remembered his injury. He was still not seeing straight out of his left eye. Still, his zeal for blood had a hold of him. “This is a sacred duty,” he bragged. “One at a time, we steal their future. With each child we take, we break their spirits. With such straws, we will break our enemies’ backs!"

Maligno snorted. "Since when are children hard to come by?” he asked. “All creatures love to make ‘em.”

"Life is a game of inches. A child here and a child there is a family in twenty years, and a clan in a hundred!” Golifett countered. “Besides, there are few meats as fine. Don’t you agree?”

"Only an equalist would disagree with such an obvious fact,” Maligno retorted. “Now, if we’re down with this little ritual of yours, I shall thank you for the chicken, and retire until this storm appears, or the sun begins to lighten the sky. Whichever occurs first,” he finished as he made for the edge of the water.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten speaks to the Jindleyak about his fighting philosophy. As they finish, Carringten notes that Scurra has made her bed in a tree. Carringten tries to talk her down, but Komotz leads him away and tells him of Scurra’s nightmares. Komotz also states that Baet is not to know such intimate detail about the family.