Pursuit

Polished 7.1, 7.2, 7.3, and 7.4 — 40m46s — 2020/08/04

Polished 7.5, 7.6, and 7.7 — 1h37m36s — 2020/08/06

Polished 7.8 — 42m09s — 2020/08/07

The first night after his death, Brankellus found a hollow, and since he was neither warm nor cold, he laid near the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes. A deep and profound tiredness washed over his body, and he hoped to cure some small part of it in the way he always had. He settled among the debris of the forest, rested his head, and tried to relax. He listened to his breath as the night sounds drifted in the background.

But the cool night air chilled him to the edge of chattering, and the pressure of small needles never let up. The faint scent of his death, both rancid and sour, gathered and grew. With the taste of such rancor in his mouth, and in a fit of disgust, Brankellus gave up on sleep. Grudgingly, he rolled to his knees, got up on his feet and hands, grunted as he stood straight-ish, and trudged back out onto the roadway. He concluded there was only one rest for the dead; the eternal rest—and though he knew how to enter that blissful realm—he was unwilling to take that step. Not yet, anyway. Not until he caught his quarry.

The stars continued their call as Brankellus sloughed along the road. There was something about them that lit the faintest whisper of hope deep in the dead man’s chest. They poked at his heart, as they stared down from above, and begged him to take his eternal rest. Their’s was the way home, and all Brankellus had to do was look up to remember it.

The night slipped away and the sun crept over the horizon once more. The drudgery of the day was no less and no more than the torture of the night. He felt he should be strong and capable of a steady march; but his pains and ailments shifted and overlapped, always causing his gait to be slow and jumbled. If it was not the heat of the day, then some strange nausea overcame him, or an extreme exhaustion that sunk bone deep. If not one of these calamities, then he was limp with a sore ankle or foot, or perhaps his breath would catch, and he’d struggle for air, gasping and hacking as it finally came. His discomforts and aggravations were as numerous as they were arbitrary.

Sometimes his weakness completely overcame him. He’d stumble or pitch into the dirt. There, he’d lie for several minutes, doing absolutely nothing, totally overcome, and given the respite of knowing he’d done all he could do. Then, the slow creep of the earth came upon him once more. He remembered the deep chill of the night, as he itched, and burned with vengeance. Teeth clattering, he grumbled to his feet, and shuffled after the scent of his enemy once more.

Brankellus drifted south and east along the road, blessed with this sixth sense. He did not understand the sensation, only that he was called south, as if by the voice of a sad and suffering people. He imagined they were the many victims of Petaerus and his ilk, and their dirges helped fuel his rage.

Eventually, Brankellus arrived at the north wall of Rynth Falls. In his living years, Brankellus had once visited the small Trohl settlement. The little town was not as he remembered it, mostly because Rynth Falls was no longer little. At first, there were a number of tents, most of which he witnessed before he even reached the wall, which was taller and thicker than he remembered.

Brankellus itched, as he tugged and struggled to work past the gate with no effect at all. He howled and cursed as his impatience grew. He was forced to stand and wait at the wall for nearly an hour. Finally, the gate opened to allow for a changing of the guard. As the door swung open, Brankellus lurched into the old city.

Beyond the familiar wall, the town was much bigger and more established than he remembered. Were there not a few small farms the last time he was here? But now the houses were pressed quite close together. A few maintained small gardens—but they were nothing like the fields he remembered.

Near the overlook, one building stretched to the impressive height of eleven stories—but then, Brankellus was far more impressed by the overlook itself. There was nothing but clean clear granite for some 300 feet—and then a lateral drop of some thousand feet into the valley below. The valley broadened and stretched out to the great plains of the Noeth.

To his right were the falls, as the mighty river soared into open air, plummeting with a mighty swoosh. The roaring plume of the river turned to thin ropes. These ropes of water frayed, and small sheets of liquid fabric, tattered and blown, drifted to the earth, most of it falling in a great pool. Around this pool, the second part of the old town stretched out much as Brankellus remembered it; only grown up, like it’s other half on top of the cliff. There was the sprawl of new buildings, another wall, and a flood of tents stretched out into the patchy forest beyond.

Brankellus remembered people picnicking in this open area, at the edge of the cliff. Some of the revelers stepped so close to the edge that he could not believe it. They dangled their feet, legs, hands, and even their heads over the edge. In life, Brankellus was never interested in such thrill-seeking, and could hardly stand to see others so cavalier around such a mighty drop—especially the children! It gave him a bad case of nerves. But now things were different. In the dead of night, there was no one around, just Brankellus as he stepped along the rock until there was nothing but air before him. He was strangely unconcerned with the consequences, should he fall. It was not as if it could kill him—or so he thought.

Petaerus was below him. He could sense the man, somewhere among the tents. The road down the cliff was winding and long, a drudgery of switchbacks several miles long. Brankellus did not have the patience for it. He thought it was much quicker to simply plummet. Who knew? Perhaps it’d prove to be pleasant to simply let gravity pull him, instead of having to slog step after painful step. He dropped with the care of a feather in the wind—and impacted with the seriousness of meat hitting rock. His spirit mashed into the granite as if it were still flesh and bone. He bounced once, flopped, and rolled to a stop. The pain of it was excruciating—but only for a split second—and then he thought he’d died for a second time as everything went black once more.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Wiping sleep from their eyes, the brothers Komotz and Homoth stepped into the dark room and peeked out the window. The younger, Komotz, leaned toward Duboha and whispered. "How long have they been out there?"

“Long enough,” Duboha shrugged. "I suspect they arrived when our friends returned."

"Will they attack, or...?"

Homoth lumped his younger brother. "They're not sneaking around for the fresh air, you moron! It's the middle of the night!" He said in a harsh whisper. "Go put on your colors!"

Komotz opened his bag and searched for his tabard.

Homoth turned to Duboha. "How many are out there?"

Duboha shook his head, "We've spotted at least a dozen out front and maybe that many more out back. Given the ones we can’t see… maybe fifty?” He shrugged. “Maybe sixty?"

Komotz blanched. “That’s a lot,”

“I wouldn’t bring any less,” Duboha noted.

The younger brother hissed and looked to Homoth with wide eyes. "Can we fight that many?!"

"Gonna have to," Homoth shrugged.

"Is everybody awake?" Duboha asked.

"The word's going 'round; ten minutes and git downstairs," Homoth answered.

Duboha gave a nod. "I go to gather my stuff," he said and stepped from the brothers. He gave a nod to Traust as the commander came down the stairs.

Traust wore a chain mail shirt and the tabard of the Oak and Beast. He set his pack on the floor and an ornate shield next to it. The shield bore a great tree done up in jade detail with a large, hairy, wolf-like onyx beast asleep in its shade. On his hip, Traust wore the sword he always wore, with a sculpted black hilt in the shape of a beast's head, with emerald eyes, and ivory teeth. "What do we see?" Traust asked as he stepped between the brothers and gazed out the dark window.

"Degorouth. Ministrians," Homoth shrugged. "Duboha believes there may be as many as a hundred."

"That many?"

"I wouldn't bring any less," Homoth shrugged. "What do you think? Do we wait for their attack? Do we try to break a line and make a run for it? If so, do we rush the front or the back?"

Traust shook his head. "This house is tinder. We can't stay. Once the others are ready, we'll fight our way free, and make a run for the wall."

Komotz gulped. "How long do you think we have?"

"A few minutes, maybe a couple hours…" Traust shrugged. "Let's just hope we're ready to leave before they're ready to come in—otherwise we'll have to start the fighting before we start the running."

"Simple enough," Homoth said.

“I should think it is too simple,” Komotz gulped.

Homoth turned to his worried younger brother. "Don’t fret. Complicated plans tend to go right out the window once the swords start swinging. We’ll stay simple, and let their plans be complicated, so once we disrupt them, they can fall all over themselves,” he grinned as he checked his weapon in anticipation. “How long has it been since you’ve seen blood?” he asked the weapon.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Andrus rushed into the room as Saleos and Toar rested in their chairs. Elpis lay in the bed, heavily bandaged and completely out of it.

"He'll live?" Andrus asked as Saleos began to stir.

Saleos gave a nod. "Give him a week or so and he should be alright—though I'm concerned about the eye. Of course, all this says nothing of his emotional state,” he finished with a shrug. “We won’t know about that until the drugs wear off.”

"And what if we have to move him?" Andrus asked.

"Like, to another room?" Toar replied.

"More like out of the city," Andrus answered.

Toar sat up in his chair, suddenly concerned. “Now?!”

Andrus nodded.

Saleos shook his head. "He's drugged to the gills. We'd have to carry him. Why? What's going on?"

"We’re discovered. We think they were followed,” Andrus gave a nod to Elpis. “Traust wants to make for the wall."

"The wall?" Toar stood. "What good'll that do? The gates won't open 'til dawn!"

"That's maybe an hour away," Andrus noted. "If they put up half a fight, it'll take us that long to get there."

Toar didn't like the idea. "You expect to run and fight for an hour?!" he began. He was about to complain further when Aim stepped into the room, a massive intimidating beast of a man. At the sight of him, Toar swallowed his complaints.

"I hear we have to go," Aim said as he looked at Elpis.

"That's the word," Andrus said to the massive man.

Aim pointed at Elpis. "I assume he's not going to carry himself?"

"Not a chance," Saleos answered.

"Well then, I suppose I better bring our friend." Aim said as he gently scooped Elpis from among the covers and placed the man over his shoulder. Saleos assisted and helped him settle the injured man on the giant’s shoulder, then arranged a thick blanket to cover the comatose warrior.

"It'll do," Saleos shrugged.

"Let's hope so. Komotz says there might be two hundred of ‘em out there,” Aim grinned. “Get what you need and get downstairs," he said as he left the room. "We leave immediately."

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

"Not you too!" Scurra fussed as Duboha stepped into her room. "Why won't you people just let me sleep!" she bawled as she leaned from her bed, picked a shoe of the floor, and flung it at the man.

Duboha brushed the shoe aside. "Andrus says you threw a cup at him."

"I'da thrown a knife if I had one close!" Scurra complained as she buried her head in her pillows.

"Wish I didn't have to bother you, cousin, but we have company," Duboha noted. "Degorouth. Ministrians? Either way it doesn't look good."

Suddenly aware of the implications, Scurra stared wide-eyed at the man. "We were followed?"

"That's what I was thinking," Duboha shrugged.

“Argh!” Scurra rolled over on her back and huffed. "Dear Jeiju! I was finally comfortable!"

"It isn't meant to be," Duboha shrugged. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket. "Your brother gave me this. He told me its for anyone that might want it," he held up the small leather pouch. "If it’s what I think it is, I wouldn't mind having a pinch myself," he noted as he offered the pouch to Scurra.

Scurra opened the pouch and removed a slight spoon, then sniffed its contents. Her eyes went wide as she identified what was offered, “fio.” She said, as she sat up straight. It’s gonna be one of those nights… Alright then, let's do this," she said as she stuck the spoon into the pouch, removed a bit of fine green powder, and ate it. She wiped the spoon clean with her fingers, then passed the spoon and pouch back to Duboha.

Duboha took a dose himself. "Invigorating," he grinned.

"Never been a fan of the stuff," Scurra shrugged. "Makes me feel jittery—but if there ever was a time to take it," she threw off her covers and peeled off her nightgown.

Wide eyed, Duboha turned from Scurra as she wore nothing but her small clothes. He fought the urge to take another look at the athletic woman in all her unadorned glory.

"Where do you want my bow?" Scurra asked as she pulled on her travel leathers.

"Apulton and Andrus are up on the roof, if you care to join them," Duboha answered. “Most of us gather in the main hall.”

"The roof it is," she nodded. "So what's the plan? Do we stand and hope to outlast a siege, or do we make a run for it?"

"We run,” Duboha said. “We make for the wall. If you get separated, make for The Copper Kettle and Rooms, six hours on the main road east."

"Six hours, eh? That's not so bad," Scurra noted.

"It's six hours on horse," Duboha shrugged. "At least a day on foot—more like four or five the way you been traveling."

"Haha," Scurra scowled.

"There's maybe fifty men out there, and they don't mean to see us go peaceful," Duboha frowned. "When things go sideways, we'll be lucky if half of us make it out."

Scurra studied Duboha with a critical eye. "Have a little faith, my friend. You never know what might happen."

Duboha shrugged and stepped from the room, "Pray for the best, prepare for the worst."

~!@#$%^&()_+ 7.5 +_)(&^%$#@!~

In the main hall, as the party crowded around in the dark, Celesi stepped close to Toar with Evereste in her arms.

"Why do you bring the baby?" Toar asked. "Why don't you give her to her mother?"

"That one is a bit of mess right now," Celesi whispered as Toar caught sight of the priestess. Wenifas leaned heavily on Krumpus as the two slowly navigated the stairs. "I'm just happy to see she's on her feet again," Celesi continued.

"That bad, eh?" Toar stared at Wenifas as a wicked looking dagger dangled from the priestess’s hand. Toar turned back to Celesi. "Do you need a weapon?" He asked the former Jay.

Celesi lifted the hem of her dress that he might see a set of blades attached to her thigh.

"Throwing knives," Toar smiled.

"I’m not very good with ‘em," Celesi admitted. "And I don't intend to throw a single one—but I know which edge splits skin,” she pulled a blade and waved it about menacingly, then placed the knife back in its sheath with a shrug. "Besides, if I need to fight, we've already lost. Instead, I'll care for the baby and let the mother handle a weapon. She looks like she'd enjoy cutting someone."

"Let's hope it's not one of us," Toar muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "I'm not much better myself," he said as he eyed the sword at his waist. “But as you say, I know which edge splits skin.”

Celesi looked about the others. "There are a few fighters here. We'll be alright," she said, and hoped that saying it might make it true.

Though the fighting men all wore the colors of the Oak and Beast, they wore varied armor and brandished a wide array of weapons. Saleos carried a bow in hand, a quiver at his waist, and two short swords on his hips. Duboha was heavily armored with a shield and a long sword. Homoth was also armored, but had no shield. Instead, he had a long mallet in his hands that was nearly as tall as he was, and a pair of short swords on his belt. Komotz wore chain mail as he carried a shield and his long sword. Aim carried a long pole axe, and Elpis on his shoulder. The giant man also had several edged weapons about his waste, and even had Elpis’s axe on his back. Creigal carried a long sword in one hand and a small shield in his other. He wore thick leathers and a metal plated helmet. Carringten had a long spear, a large shield over his back, and Bence's short sword at his hip. Baet had Derris's sword and a long knife in his other hand. Krumpus was draped in his dirty travel cloak and carried his staff with the metal point on the end. His other arm was looped around Wenifas, as the priestess leaned against him. A wicked looking dagger dangled from her fingers.

For himself, Toar carried a short sword in one hand, a shield on his other and a large hunting knife at his side. Celesi had an arm wrapped around his elbow as she held Evereste with her other, all too happy to have Toar to lean on. Indeed, she felt she drew strength from his touch.

Of all of them, Celesi thought Traust looked the most formidable. His armor shined as he brandished his extravagant sword. His other arm held a large shield decorated with silver, jade, and onyx. Celesi smiled at the regal look of the man and thought nothing could happen to the party with such leader at their front.

Toar looked about the room. "We're missing a few,” he frowned. “Where are Apulton, Andrus, and Scurra?”

"They're on top of the house. As soon as we start running, they'll cover us until we get free," Saleos whispered. "Once we're free of the house, they'll cut loose and follow."

"That's not a very deep, plan," Celesi frowned.

"If it’s simple, we actually manage it,” Saleos shrugged. “If you get separated, make for the Copper Kettle and Rooms. Its a good distance down the east road, maybe thirty miles on your way to Hearthstone."

“Thirty miles?” Celesi stared.

“It’s probably best if you don’t get separated…” Saleos spoke, Strange shadows began to grow and dance. Saleos turned away from them and pointed. "Fire," he noted in a calm manner.

Celesi turned and saw flames as they crawled through the cracks of the window, the frame of the door, and began creep up the closed drapes.

"We go now," Traust ordered. He stepped to the back garden door, while the others pressed close behind, and pulled the door open.

A barrage of arrows screamed out of the night. They shattered against the armored form of Traust and fell away harmless—all but one. One slipped just above the edge of his shield and buried itself in the slit of his visor. With a jerk, Traust backed a step, foundered, fell to the floor, and jerked about. Celesi watched in horror as blood poured from under his helmet, as he continued to convulse and twitch. Celesi took half a step toward the man, but Toar pulled her back and shook his head. It was already over.

With a curse, Duboha charged through the door. Several arrows slammed against his armored form—though there were significantly fewer missiles. This time, none of the arrows caused any damage as Duboha surged into the garden.

The others emptied out of the house behind his heavily armored form. Creigal set his small shield aside and took Traust's massive round instead.

Celesi left the house and entered the maelstrom. There was screaming and fighting in front of her. Thankfully, the only arrows that continued to fall were dropping off the roof sideways. One of them clipped her arm, and she wasn’t surprised to see a small dot of blood appear under the sleeve of her dress. She looked up to see arrows flying too and from the top of the house. With her stomach in her throat, Celesi cradled Evereste as she ran toward the sounds of conflict. Panic rose in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her as Toar pulled her forward, toward the growing mayhem.

A figure toppled over the edge of the carriage house with an arrow in his neck. He landed with a sickening crunch a few feet away. Another slipped from view over the edge of the roof—an arrow caught in his leg. Pain and panic filled his voice as Celesi passed under him. A third man leaned over the edge of the carriage house and aimed among the fleeing men, but someone in front of her threw a hatchet and caught the man in the chest, causing him to miss by a wide margin, then topple off the roof into a hedge of roses. Celesi couldn’t help but stare at the man’s form, twisted and uncaring, as the roses bent under his considerable weight.

Ahead of her, metal banged against metal. Curses, yells, and screams quickly followed. If not for Toar, Celesi would have hid in the first convenient patch of shadow. Instead, she kept her eyes on the brave, young Trohl and gripped his arm as tight as she could. This was the way forward. This was the way to a new life, she told herself.

Toar led Celesi through the back garden gate as they chased after the others. She passed Saleos as he aimed his bow back the way they came. She glanced back and saw his arrow impale a shadow as it rushed to catch up to them. The attacker lost his feet and his weapon crashed to the ground. The sword slid and clattered to a halt near Celesi’s feet as it's former owner gargled and died a short distance away. Onward she ran.

Toar pulled Celesi along. They passed a number of dead and injured men. One man sat against a fence with his stomach cut open. Shock and horror danced across his face as he ignored everything else and tried to gather his intestines—despite a frantic effort, he simply could not put the slippery knots back inside his belly. Celesi felt sick. She pressed her mouth into the screaming form of Evereste and suppressed an urge to vomit. Thank the gods she did not recognize the man.

Toar pulled Celesi down a thin alley at break neck pace. She turned her focus to Evereste and did her best not to jar the child as she ran. They turned a corner. Suddenly, Toar stopped, and Celesi ran into the back of him. He pushed off of her and they reeled away from each other. She was falling!

Something heavy split the air between them.

An axe looped end over end through the space Celesi just occupied. She backpedaled furiously, but couldn't keep her feet. She lost balance and rolled on her back, careful to cradle Evereste, as she crashed to the ground. Her breath caught as she tried to ignore the pain that rang through her rump,back, shoulders, neck, and head. There'd be bruises for sure.

A large form appeared from the side, and Celesi presumed it was the axe-thrower. She screamed as a Ministrian stared at her with malice.

Toar appeared behind the man and tried to slash him, but the Ministrian turned the strike aside and managed to counter. Toar deflected the blow, but was forced to step back.

Celesi hobbled to her feet and tried to get away, but the Ministrian grabbed and nearly pulled her off her off balance the other direction. Celesi screamed again, did everything she could not to drop Evereste, and fumbled for one of her throwing blades.

Toar stepped up again and slashed at the attacker. The Ministrian turned the blow—though he was forced to let go of Celesi. She backed from the conflict, looked about for the others, and wondered where they were. Toar managed several more attempts at a strike—but was turned aside each time. He took a step back. He was outmatched and he knew it. The Ministrian knew it too.

With a knowing grin, the Ministrian advanced, but before he could attack again, a long thin form with wide angular wings dropped out of the sky and wrapped about the Ministrian, serpentine and hissing up a wind. The attacker screamed and tried to throw the beast off as it bit him again and again.

Toar took the opening to attack. For a split second, he wondered if he should go after the man, or the serpent, and decided at the last second that it was best to stab the Ministrian, even though he was quite positive the snake was more dangerous. The tip of his sword pierced the man's chest between his heart and shoulder.

The Ministrian gaped at Toar, shocked by the sudden turn of his fortune. He backed away and stumbled to the ground as he continued to wrestle with the winged beast.

The serpent separated from the man—though the man continued to fight—but it was not the beast he was fighting.Instead, he clawed mercilessly at his own throat as he screamed in panic and terror. Blood streamed from his neck and hands as he buried his nails into his own soft skin. He jerked and convulsed, and his screams turned to a gurgle as he fought only himself. A few seconds more, and the attacker slumped to his back, his life fled with his blood.

Celesi screamed again as the giant serpent turned toward her, wings extended, and fangs exposed. With a hiss, the beast spread its wings and launched itself into the air.

Wide eyed, Toar and Celesi stared after the creature—but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

Scurra and Andrus appeared from out of the dark as they ran down the alley with bows ready. They glanced nervously after the unexpected beast. "What the bloody hell was that?!" Andrus asked as he took Celesi by the arm and pulled her along.

Celesi shrugged and wondered how half the city wasn't awake with so much bloody screaming and fighting. She looked about the nearby buildings to see that many windows were indeed lit. Now that she thought to look, she noticed much of the neighborhood was awake! People streamed out of their houses—most with weapons in hand. Panic gripped Celesi as she realized they’d never fight through all of them!

"Let's go," Toar urged and pulled Celesi down the street. There were several more bodies. She only looked long enough to see that she didn't recognize them—then turned quick from the pooling blood.

A shout went up to her left, "Ministrians! Ministrians!"

Celesi turned toward the voice and saw several shadows as they bolted across the street.

"Ministrians!" The call was repeated and started to sound all around them. "Ministrians!"

The sounds of fighting erupted everywhere, instead of just ahead of them—but as the fighting intensified, it also drifted away. Slowly, the tension eased from the air, and Celesi felt she could breathe once more. For the first time since she stepped from the house, she thought she might live through the night.

The rest of her company no longer fought. Nor did they run. They were stopped in the middle of an intersection. They gathered about and simply stared down both streets of the intersection. Celesi glanced about her friends. Although there was a good deal of blood among them, most kept their feet. She began to count heads, then noticed the armed shadows gathered about them., and closing in. She stared as a crowd of men slowly closed in on them from every direction. A knot of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.

The warriors formed a ring, and Celesi found herself pushed to the center of her companions. She came eye to eye with Wenifas. The priestess looked just as harried as Celesi felt.

"My baby!" Wenifas exhaled and claimed the crying child. “Thank you,” the priestess sighed her relief as Celesi handed her over. Although Evereste whined, she seemed no worse for the wear.

"So much for making the gate," Celesi said as she leaned close to Toar.

"Who goes?!" Duboha called to the men that gathered around them.

"We ask the same!" Came a reply. "We are the Pan Iskaer, and you have broken our peace! Put down your weapons or perish!"

Saleos let out a sigh of relief as he set down his bow and sat in the street. He put his head between his legs as the others sheathed their weapons or set them on the ground.

"Do we know them?" Celesi asked.

"We know 'em,” Duboha nodded. “It's their neighborhood after all."

“Wait,” Celesi began, suddenly suspicious. “You expected them to intercede—and you made me think we had to run all the way to the wall?!"

"Expected?” Duboha shrugged. "We certainly hoped it might happen,” he admitted. “But, I'd prefer not to be at anyone's mercy.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten woke from his sleep and sat up in the luxurious bed. He considered the room as a light haze poured through the windows.

The sun was about to come up. Despite the early hour, Meu was missing. Claiten was unconcerned—though he didn’t like being alone as much as he used to, the serpent came and went as she pleased and kept strange hours—but she always came back. Besides, he didn't want to distract her from the task at hand. She was looking for his mother, and nothing could please the boy more than to find his family.

Over the past several days, Claiten saw Meu with the Ministrians several times, but the boy was forbidden to talk with the men. She stared into his eyes and warned him of the harm that might come to his mother and even his sister if they were to be found out. Cautious of what might happen if they realized who he was, Claiten kept his distance and remained silent.

Instead, Claiten went out during the heat of the day, when the nagas were least likely to be slinking about. He took several coins and often treated himself to pastries and sweets while he looked for his mother among the many streets and shops. Once, he noticed a man with such black skin and thought he must be the dark warrior—but he was not the first to find him. Several guards marched the dark man away. As he passed, Claiten got a good look at the man. They stared at each other for a long moment—but there was no recognition on this stranger’s face, which had a different shape and a sad hollowness about it—quite unlike the dark warrior. It was not the last time he thought he knew someone on the street, but each time he was mistaken.

Claiten planned to wander the streets once more as he pulled on his pants and went to the balcony door. He opened the door and stared off to the east as the sun began to peek over the horizon. There was a chill in the air and it made Claiten feel alive to face up to the brisk wind. For several seconds, he listened to the birds chirp as the world was painted red. He breathed in the new day, as a defiance surged through him. Then he crowed, long and loud, like a proud rooster should.

"ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

He turned this way and that to see if anyone cared for his crowing. If anyone minded, they kept it to themselves. He gathered his breath and gave another call, "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

He stared out over the city streets. He was about to crow a third time when he spotted Meu.

She flew straight toward him.

Claiten pushed the balcony doors wide and stepped out of the way. Meu shot into the suite and swirled about before she settled on the bed. A darkness swallowed her and Claiten turned away. As soon as the darkness faded, he knew she'd be naked as the day she was born.

Meu whipped on a sundress and ran to Claiten. She grabbed his hands and pulled him inside as she said the only thing she ever said out loud. "Druss meu!" She said excitedly. She’d done it! She stared into his eyes. She’d found his mother!

Claiten gathered his purse and the naga dagger he’d carried from Beletrain as Meu gathered her scant belongings. The boy left the ill-fitting outfit Meu found him that first night, since they'd purchased him a proper set of clothes the next day.

"Druss meu!" she exclaimed again as she dragged Claiten out of the room, and from the inn altogether.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A limp child hung from Golifett's arm. He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to secure the young boy and hoped it’d live at least a little longer. They were always better fresh. He leaned his ear to the boy's face, satisfied to hear the child breathe, long and deep.

This child was smaller than the last, and didn't come with a surprisingly large bag of coin—but it was a worthy prize, and should do as the centerpiece of his feast. To think he'd found the other child almost by chance in the very halls of Beletrain—only to have him stolen away!

Indeed, Golifett found himself dawdling as he continued to think of the child that had escaped him several days before. At least it was kind enough to leave most of its money behind. Still above ground as the light of day grew, Gollifet approached his exit. There was a spot in a nearby stream that was much deeper than it looked, a bolthole that would carry him down into the safety of Beletrain. The cold of the water would shock the boy awake—but then he'd be in Beletrain—and all the screaming and struggle in the world wouldn't save him.

Still, this was a was strange night for the naga, and he’d be quite happy to get home. The normal quiet of the morning was shattered just after he grabbed this child from his bed. At first, Golifett thought he was discovered and might have to fight his way back home—but then he saw a nearby fire, and knew there was other trouble afoot. He turned in the opposite direction, and was more than happy to hear the fighting and craziness drifting away. He slipped among the shadows and wondered if the rumors were true. Were the men fighting among themselves once more? He could certainly hope so. Let the humans fight! He thought. With luck they’ll reduce Ebertin to ash—and then the naga will return to the surface!

As Golifett thought his cruel thoughts, another note caught in his ear. Although it was immediate and send a jolt through his spine, it was a most pleasant and appreciated sound; indeed, he liked it more than the sound of the fighting! Somewhere to the east, a cockrel crowed—no, it was a young boy that mimicked the sound of a rooster! He stopped and listened intently as the crowing sounded again. A grin split his lips. He was sure it was the boy he’d caught before—the one with all the gold!

The smile curled into a frown. There was no third crowing—so although the curse stuck, it did not stick very well. Still, as long as it lasted, the child would be fairly easy to follow. Eventually, the boy would slip the curse altogether and think no more of courage and chickens—but for a few days, even a week, he’d be easy to find.

Golifett licked his lips and wondered if he might get the child, the rest of the gold, and perhaps the woman's infant to boot. He touched the scarred tissue of his burned face, and thought it proper to take both of the witch's children for what she did to him! Indeed, he hoped to kill the witch too!

But day was upon him, and Golifett had yet to secure his current catch. For now, he'd go home, prepare a feast, and gather his goons. Then, as night fell, the hunt would commence once more.

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The spirit of Brankellus lay at the base of Rynth Falls as if he were dead—yet, the ghost had sworn a pact with the gods of vengeance and strife—and these gods meant to have him finish his work. Slowly, they stitched their acolyte, weaving scar tissue that could only add to his ache and misery. They pulled him back together, as easily as a mother darns a cloth doll. Then, the howl of the dead rushed across the valley, and ignited the secret purpose deep within the ghost’s chest once more—there was a man to end.

Brankellus coughed and spit dust as he rose from the earth. He picked himself back to his feet and noticed it was no longer night. Now, it was day—and most of the tents were gone. How long was he out before the itch of his hatred caught hold, and he finally came back to this scratchy and irritated existence?

There were still a few tents at the edge of the city—but they would not be there for long. The soldiers prepared to march. They were thick as hornets as some loaded provisions. Others waited to march, already ready, or simply scoffing off as they might. There were a good number of Trohls among them, with some few Saot and Hebronese mixed in—even a Gressian or two. It was a mixed force, though they all wore Trohl garb, including the bulk of Ministrians. Only a few of the Saots wore another uniform, one of red and black, adorned with a bird—a sigil and style that the spirit did not recognize—yet Brankellus could tell the purpose. Yet again, the Empire waged war under false pretense.

As Brankellus slogged along the road, some commander of the troops meandered down the street near him. This high officer inspected the troops—and just happened to match the unseen ghost, stride for stride. A weather worn scout stared up at the commander as a knot of other officers and soldiers pressed around them.

“How far out were they when you left them?” the commander asked without looking at the scout.

“Eight days,” the scout answered.

“And that was…?”

“Four days ago.”

“In what condition did you find them?” .

“They were in good health; body, mind, and spirit. If they are late at all, I should think it will only be a day or two,” the scout finished.

“No troubles? No sign of Waokie on the south road?”

“No, sir. Not by me, or any man I met.”

For several seconds the commander stared at the scout, then continued down the line of soldiers. Word carried on the wind before the approaching knot of high ranking men. The common men were all engaged in a flurry of sudden activity as they watched the officers pass, pleased to see the commander taking little notice of them.

“Is there something you’re forgetting?” the commander asked as he continued to stare at the scout.

For a second, the scout simply stared back, terrified and dumbfounded; then he remembered the letters in his bag, retrieved them, and handed them to the officer with a crisp salute.

“Thank you,” the officer said with a wave and a smile. He turned from the scout. “That’ll be all.”

The officer moseyed down the street as he opened the first letter and read it to himself. He spoke to no one in particular as he wore a pleased expression. “It seems we’ll have the second and third legions here almost as quickly as the first! They shall be here by the end of the month, with another seven expected by the end of summer!” The gathered men all hanged on his every word. A swell of cheers and glad handing broke out among them—but the commander’s grin quickly turned to a frown, as he continued his general commentary. “We shall need them all, since we must now fight on two fronts.”

“Do we pursue the waokie immediately?” asked one of his men.

The high officer shook his head. “No, the war is broken. We have not seen a beast less than a day’s ride north since they melted away. I should think the waokie are properly thinned and satiated for now. They will not attack again for some years. They will retreat to their tunnels, to the ruins of Salyst, and for the time, we shall let them be. Nonetheless, we shall keep half a legion here to watch the town, and a few hundred of the Trohls,” he answered. “When the first legion arrives, we shall begin splitting the men for our multiple tasks. We shall need to clear the north road, especially Valcovour’s Pass. We shall need to rebuild and reopen the dueling forts,” he stated with a frown. “I am assured they are gutted, and all but destroyed. We shall have to rebuild them larger, and stronger than before…

“But we will retake the mountains!” the commander stopped and turned on the last man that spoke, “and this time we take them for good! We’ll control the Bunderhilt from Wibbeley to Ebertin, from the plain of the Noeth, to Crestone Ridge!”

“Crestone as it at the very northern border of the Gopi…” a minor officer noted.

“It is!” the high commander agreed, and continued to lecture his men. At this point, Brankellus outpaced their voices, and was happy for it. What did he care for the rude plans of his enemies, especially since he was powerless to do anything about it?

Eventually, Brankellus approached the far edge of the army and left them all behind. Petaerus was no longer among them. He’d continued on, moving further south and east.

He walked. Brankellus wondered how long he was out after his fall from the ledge, that so many of the troops had already left. Was it just the remainder of that night, and the first part of the next day? Had he lost another rotation, or maybe two or three? Did he lose a week, ten days, or a month while he was blissfully unaware? How far afield had his quarry run? He remembered nothing of the episode except an impossible pain, followed by a long stretch of oblivion and a vague sense of bliss; only to slowly rise and return to the burning, itching, dreadful discomfort of his quest.

For hours, Brankellus walked. The sun rose and slowly approached it’s zenith. Eventually, the column of Ministrians and Trohls appeared, and marched from Rynth Falls on their way to Solveny. Brankellus didn’t know the city, though he’d heard rumor of its grandeur. These were lands of the Noeth and he did not know them at all.

Brankellus did not notice the train of troops as it appeared behind him and proceeded to catch him. He did not notice the shake of the earth—until the first of the horsemen was immediately behind him. The beast brushed him and immediately spooked to find a spirit in its way. It reared and nearly threw its rider. Brankellus suddenly feared the pain of a trampling.

The horse stared at the ghost and did everything in it's power to avoid any further collision, as the rider tried to settle the animal and coax it forward in a neat line. The mount passed to one side, as it pressed into it’s neighbor, and took several quick steps before it finally calmed under the veteran hand of its rider. Once it had passed the ghost, it gave its neighbor an appropriate amount of space—but then the next horse stamped and fussed as it veered and also gave the spirit a wide berth.

"What's up with ‘em?" this rider asked, as he too struggled to calm his mount.

"Dunno," another shook his head. They stepped around the unseen ghost, giving the spirit an ever increasing berth.

Intrigued, Brankellus stepped close to one of the horses and held out his hand. His fingers brushed the animal's coat and an electric jolt passed from him to the beast. The horse jumped at the touch and gave a panicked whinny. It collided with the next horse, and caused several more mounts and riders to jumble and harrass each other—though none fell. Well trained, the riders managed to stay on top of their horses and slowly returned them to a semblance of order.

Now, the flow of soldiers stepped off the road to either side of the ghost for a good twenty feet. Aware that something was up, several horsemen eyed the spot where Brankellus stood with out and out suspicion—though they invariably looked straight through him. From among the whispers and murmurs of the men, a general call went up. "Voressa! Voressa! See what cannot be seen!" they shouted back along the train of men.

All but stopped, the horsemen parted. A young page led a weary donkey into the clearing. Upon it sat a withered old woman in gray sack cloth. The page brought her into the circle and stopped at the old woman’s signal. Slowly, she dismounted, stepped from the beast, and approached the spirit before her. Brankellus could see that her eyes were cloudy and wondered if she could see anything at all—until she stopped maybe a foot in front of him. She stared up and locked her gaze on his eyes. "Why do you trouble us?" she asked, her voice shrill and weak, though her manner was familiar, and her question unafraid.

Brankellus noted the pin she wore with two fangs, one of silver and one of gold. He did not need much encouragement to treat this old woman poorly. The fact that she wore some mark of privilege sent him over the edge. A snarl curled over the dead man's lips as he glared and growled at the old woman.

Voressa frowned as she raised a weathered arm at Brankellus. "Do you challenge me?!" She pulled a charm of fine metals and delicate crafting from under her sack cloth cloak and pointed it at the spirit. Brankellus got a good look at the pendant, all flowers and stars knotted together. "You will learn that this is a world for the living, first and foremost!" she screeched as the ghost lunged at her.

Brankellus did not recognize the relic, but he could feel a strange power radiating from it's five point forms. Caught in a wash of hate and vengeance, he leaped at the old woman in hopes of somehow causing her damage—but he did not reach her.

"Begone, troublemaker!" Voressa yelled as she twisted the amulet.

His hands passed right through the old woman—though his fingers brushed the amulet, hot with an internal fire. Then, a wall of air crushed into Brankellus, and the spirit shot backward into the trees—flung like a rag doll. He came to rest in a thicket of undergrowth, a good forty or fifty feet from the road, disoriented and confused.

Voressa scowled from the center of the road. She waved the soldiers on as she stepped to the edge, and continued to glare at Brankellus. Assured there would be no more trouble, the column of soldiers proceeded once more as the old, blind woman stared through the trees at the vengeful Trohl spirit. Caught by the old woman's uncanny gaze, Brankellus didn't dare move. He simply watched the troop pass as he wondered at the old woman’s power.

With the page’s help, Voressa eventually struggled back on top of her donkey. Then, the page led the weary donkey after the troop. Two mounted men with armor and weapons stayed back with her, and flanked her protectively as they slowly followed the others.

With their supernatural protector at the van, the troop quickly disappeared among the trees. Brankellus began the wearisome process of standing up. He slogged after the soldiers, though they progressed quickly. Soon, he could not even hear the clomp of their hooves.

The day stretched. The trees took on the red hue of evening for several minutes, before the blue of the sky finished its transition and became black as pitch. Stars peeked out of the night. Once again, thin pricks of hope shot down from these distant lights and begged the ghost to surrender—but he ignored them, and stoked his anger, as he focused on the earth under his feet.

Near midnight, Brankellus hobbled passed the same troop of soldiers as they rested at the side of the road. Not wanting to run into the old woman, he kept his distance, which was easy since he simply had to keep the road. Indeed, Voressa was awake and near the center of camp. He glanced at her from time to time, as he made his way past. She turned and glared at him with her strange eyes. "Trouble us again, and I will send you through the veil!" she yelled as Brankellus moved near the trees on the far side of the road. He wondered if she could do such a thing, and thought it best not to test her.

For two days, Brankellus played leapfrog with this column of Ministrian shock troops. Each day they passed him earlier, and each night he passed them later. Although he never stopped, they traveled at a faster clip—even as they made camp each night—and Brankellus realized he would only catch his quarry if Petaerus stayed in one place for a while. The spirit needed something to bog the man down, some obstacle, some army…They must all be going somewhere, the ghost concluded. Eventually, the soldiers would get where they were going, and then Brankellus must surely catch his quarry! But he feared the destruction, the carnage, the senselessness of what else he might find first.