Calm Before the Storm

Polished 12.1 and 12.2. Need to give 12.2 another pass — 38m16s — 2021/02/12

Polished 12.2, 12.3, 12.4, 12.5, 12.6, and 12.7. Need to flesh out 12.7 still — 1h16m51s — 2021/02/13

Crea woke slowly with a deep exhaustion throughout her body. The light of the day was upon them. She was tired, dead tired. The fatigue wrapped through her muscles and sinew. It stretched down to her very bones and reminded her of the injuries given by the rough hands of the foreigner. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry. Instead, she pressed her face into her blankets and prayed for oblivion.

The sound of the wind, the creak of the trees purred in the background; in contrast to her wishes. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the old post runner as he worked about camp, sounding industrious and determined. Crea lifted herself into a sitting position. The effort was ginger and slow. She caught sight of the rude oranges and purples about her body; large bruises splotched over her chest and legs. She recoiled—and yet was morbidly fascinated by the swirl of soured blood under her skin. “Doidge!” Crea lamented. “We hiked so late, and I am exhausted! Can’t we rest a bit longer?”

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

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’re making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Doidge ignored her questions and quickened his pace. "It's for your own good,” he began. “I have an oath, and I mean to honor it." The post runner buckled his sword in place, 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.

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

“It’s the same oath,” Crea noted. “You’re both sworn to carry the post.”

“Don’t tell me of 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 south to 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 tops!”

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

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

Crea’s mouth dropped open, shocked by his 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 go where I must—”

"Brat?!” Crea fumed, unwilling to take any more of the old man’s guff. “Now listen here! There’s no need for insults—” she began and 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 she’d taken from the Guar officer 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 in his hand, and years of continual 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.”

“I have no coin,” she answered.

He looked her up and down, and despite the bruising, gave her a suggestive glance.

With an offended air, Crea backed away. “You 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 a rude gesture 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.

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

“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?”

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

Far away, and much later that day, the sun was settling below the west mountains. Having started early that morning, the duke’s company stopped near a large placid lake with several massive peaks visible to the east. Scurra found the setting strangely familiar. She frowned to see it. "I do not like this," she said as they spread about to set up camp. "Let's press on."

“This is a great spot,” Saleos noted. "We can see everything around us and we can fish for dinner. Beyond this, the near shore is swamp for leagues, with biting flies and no approach to the water. We won’t find a better place until the base of the mountains."

"It is only a few hours to 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 they realized she did not want to stop because of her dream. "Why stop at all?" she continued to argue. "We are not far from Jindleyak lands. If we press on, we can be in Excergie a little after midnight."

Saleos shook his head. “Once we hit the mountains its a hard climb to Excergie. Besides, we have prisoners and dead among us. We will be groggy, and more likely to misstep, as the night stretches on. There are steep banks. What if the prisoners try to take advantage?”

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

Backed by the others, Saleos wouldn’t budge. To break the stand-off, the militia men turned to Krumpus. The shaman simply shrugged. He wanted to continue just to bring peace to his sister—yet he had to admit that trekking for Excergie through a long hard night would certainly bring difficulties. Carringten argued to continue. “Out of what he called an abundance of caution,” he said.

In the end, it was Creigal that broke the stalemate. “We should be cautious,” he began by seeming to agree with his captain. “That is why we should camp here—so we might move into the mountains during the bright light of day. We know the trek is dangerous—just as we know that dreams are not always as they seem.”

Carringten shook his head.

“Should we be more afraid of the dangers we know and understand, or the amorphous dangers of dreams in the night?” Creigal asked his adopted son. “Most nighttime terrors turn out to be little more than mist,” he noted.

Scurra continued to argue until the tents were up and most everyone else was down at the lake, to do a bit of fishing or simply to escape her pleading. After the pothers left her, she told herself it was only a dream, and that fear is the ultimate enemy. After all, it was just a bunch of birds. She tried not to think of the storm, of the brutal cold and lightning.

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

Aim, Duboha, and Baet saw to the prisoners. Meriona and her throat-cutters 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.

“It is a big tent,” Aim shrugged. “Use a corner for any late business. As for now—” he gave a shrill whistle and waved Scurra over.

“What is it?” Scurra asked, peevish.

“Will you escort the fine Jay into the bush, that she might do a discrete bit of business?”

Scurra snorted and waved Meriona out of the tent, "Come on then.”

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

As many of the others fished, Krumpus and Wenifas walked along the edge of the lake. “How did you know?” the priestess began. “How did you know Kezodel would be struck down?”

The shaman shrugged. I didn’t know exactly what would happen, he began. But I knew something was coming—something big. It was making my hair stand on end. Indeed, I’m somewhat shocked nobody else could tell. He shook his head. I didn’t know it was a meteor. I just knew it was something significant.

“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. I’m still trying to figure out what parts were me, what parts were you, and what parts were the wyrm,” she huffed. “But you—you tried to save him,” the priestess shook her head. “Such a corrupt and awful man—and believe me, I know the type—yet you tried to save him?”

Because there was a chance, Krumpus shrugged. He might mock, but he was well aware there are powers much greater than his own. And to think of such a man saved! he continued. Kezodel could have been a great prince; a true royal of cunning and power, like the Ewile Queen, Smixsmaxsmia.

“Who?” Wenifas asked.

Another chimera, Krumpus told her. She’s from far to the south. She died some time ago—but I think the duke must have met her, in his youth.

“Things more powerful than chimera,” Wenifas began. “You speak of an all-powerful god. But what would such a 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.

“If this god is all-powerful, then why must we suffer?”

Have you ever played a game that was too easy? the shaman replied.

“Of course.”

How was it?

“Boring,” the priestess answered.

This game is not easy at all. Simple, yes—but not easy, the shaman answered. We suffer so we might growhe shrugged. The suffering never lasts.

Wenifas remembered Derris, her sweet innocent lover. Her heart sank. “I don’t think I can believe that,'“ she noted.

The world is rough on all of us—even the Kezodels of the world must struggle, Krumpus shrugged. Beware of clinging too tightly 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.

The shaman felt it. Don’t fear, Krumpus told her. The struggle brings blessings. If a thing is lost and it leaves a hole, something else will come to fill that gap.

“The game is simple,” the priestess frowned. “It’s just not easy.”

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

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 the duke waited for a bite, he felt someone approaching. He turned to see Meu slipping through the undergrowth. "Hello," the duke smiled from his perch. "And how are you this fine evening?" he asked in a low voice, 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 the pool.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered. “They’re so close the surface ripples with their passing."

Meu stared into the pool as she wrapped an arm around the duke’s back. Creigal was intent on the stream and did not see her lick venom onto her lips. She leaned into the duke. Creigal turned to her, and though he felt he should turn and keep himself away, he allowed the skin-walker to kiss him.

With the touch of her lips against his, the duke felt his passions swell as they had not done in a long, long time. He thought to lean in on Meu and kiss her back, but a tug on the line told him a fish had bit. 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.

“How…?” he began.

Her answer was immediate.

As she told him of the venom, Creigal wondered if this is how his father always knew what the wyrm were thinking. Did they kiss him with the venom? Did they bite him?

With his mind on other issues, the duke 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.

The sun set and the land grew dark. Hand in hand—and with a grip of fish on a line—Creigal and Meu returned to find a warm fire on the edge of the lake where the others all gathered.

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

Only a short distance from the camp the naga, 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!”

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

Golifett snorted. “Do you hold such a favored position that the weather dare not change without you watching?” He let the subject drop. Even with the coming storm, he still needed his cousin and those that followed if he wished to capture the boy and murder the old redhead.

“To call me dubious is fair,” Maligno bristled. “Soothsayers and pellweavers tend to overstate their abilities.”

“I am not a braggard,” Golifett noted. “Besides, you’ve been pushing for the attack, and I am saying our opportunity is nearly upon us!”

Now it was Maligno’s turn to snort. He glanced at Golifett sideways. “I’m thinking this is a ploy,” he began. “What if a storm doesn’t appear? Will you still be so insistent that we attack, or will you simply try to delay us once more?” he wondered aloud. “Not only are they away from the towns and villages, they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I say let us forget your charade of a storm and let us attack now!”

Golifett shook his head. “There shall be a storm—like few you have never seen—a true monster!” He grabbed Maligno’s arm. “And if there is no storm, we will become the storm, and drown the humans in our treacherous waters!"

Maligno huffed. “I am beginning to think I should make your share of our plunder contingent on this weather you so heartily promise—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 touched the burn scar on his face and frowned at the reminder of his injury.

“Why are you so set on stealing children anyway? The meat isn’t all that good,” Maligno stated.

“This is a sacred duty—it is why anyone steals a child,” Golifett explained. “One at a time, we steal their future. With each child we take, we break their spirits; and with such straws, we will break our enemies’ backs!"

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

"Life is a game of inches,” Golifett countered. “A child here and a child there is a family in twenty years, and a clan in a hundred!”

“So dramatic,” Maligno sighed. “Well then, if we’re done with this little ritual of yours, I shall retire until this storm appears—or the little boy crows once more—whichever comes first.”