Calm Before the Storm

Polished — 55m35s — 2022/11/23

Polished. Let’s differentiate between Golifett and Maligno a little more — 57m18s — 2023/02/19

Crea woke slow, with a deep ache running throughout her body. She was tired, dead tired, even as the heat of the day gathered. Fatigue wrapped her muscles and begged her to hold still. The soarness stretched down to her very bones and reminded her of the violent foreigner, the inept officer, and the exhausting march she made to escape her burning home. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry. Instead, she pressed her face into her blankets and prayed for immediate oblivion.

The wind churned and fussed. Leaves rustled as the branches creaked and groaned. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the old post runner as he worked about camp, industrious and determined.

Crea lifted her blankets from off her head, then raised herself into a sitting position. The effort was ginger and slow. She caught sight of the rude orange and purple hues about her body, large splotchy bruises formed a patchwork over her neck, chest, and limbs. At first she recoiled, then sat and stared, morbidly fascinated by the swirl of soured blood just under the surface.

After a time, she turned her attention back to the bang and clatter of the old post runner going about his business. “Doidge!” she cried. “We hiked so late and I am exhausted! Can’t we rest a bit longer?”

“Do what you like,” the old post runner shrugged, disinterested in the girl.

Crea frowned and turned to the old man. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear just about packed. “Are you making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical pout. “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 the numerous bags about his body. "The boy also has an oath,” he glared and pointed at Malcolm.

The young page sat in a dejected manner as he shot pleading glances at the young bruised woman.

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

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

“Don’t tell me of my office!” Doige snapped. “I have many oaths, and I know their order! I go south, to report to my betters, to tell them of war in this country! I go for Danya! And I take all the post that I can!” he turned and pointed at Malcolm. "The boy carries post for Land’s End, and shall report what he’s seen to the Post Marshall of the Noeth.”

“And what if I would go to Danya?” Crea asked. “Or maybe just south to Gaetilly? I have no oaths. I can go where I please.”

“Don't be daft!” Doidge stared at the girl. “You’re talking more than a week’s walk to Gaetilly—and you won’t get a horse before that! Stay among your people!”

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

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

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

Doidge returned to his task. “I have duties, and I doubt the Holy Schrivnah would ask me to forsake them so I could serve as an escort to some willful brat—”

"Brat?!” Crea fumed, unwilling to take any more of the old man’s guff. “Now listen here!” she stood to her full height—with the dirt of yesterday still upon her. “There’s no need for insults—”

“No, you listen!” Doidge interrupted with a haggard finger in her face. "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 fancy pig-sticker,” he hissed.

Crea eyed the gemmed falchion she’d taken from the Guar officer as it lay next to her blankets, then stared at the angry old post runner. He was several inches shorter than the girl, but thick and strong. As much as she wished to take up the small sword, she knew it’d do her no good to fight the old 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 weight, with a heavier weapon, and years of practice. She backed away from Doidge and gave herself some space.

“Of course, you could always pay a man,” Doidge suggested as he advanced another step.

Crea turned to her belongings with a shrug. “All my coin was stolen,” she noted.

Doidge looked her up and down, and despite the bruising, gave her a suggestive glance. “Who said anything about coin?”

With an offended air, Crea backed away—but despite his icky proposition she still wanted him to stay. At least he had the decency to ask. And so she changed the subject. “You saw the fires last night. Those murderers are still out there, among the farmlands, still causing calamity! They will have us if they can get us!”

“And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "We don’t know where they are! They could just as well be to the south! Who is to say I won’t find them in my way!” 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 thought it was easier to bring her along at that point and have her quiet. Now that they were safe, or at least in a place where they could yell at each other, he was simply brushing her off.

Crea figured that the old bastard probably thought she meant to cling to him like a drowning cat—a thought that only irritated her all the more—in large part because that’s exactly what she wanted to do. Not that she would give herself away. She would not trade her body. It was a thin consolation, but at least she had agreed to the rough abuse of the foreigner.

And why he was being so rude?! Tears welled in Crea’s eyes and her temper got the better of her. "Fine!” She snapped. “Run south, to your precious Schrivnah, you coward!"

Doidge turned and slapped her 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!" With that, he turned from Crea and 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 near the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!" He glanced back and she threw his hands up in a rude gesture.

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

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Crea roared. She brushed off the page, and stomped away.

"We must be quiet," Malcom placated. “They’re out there—somewhere…”

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

For a time she relaxed. For a time, she slept.

Under so many blankets, the heat of the day became unbearable. Red-faced and haggard, Crea slithered out from under her covers. The page did nothing while she cried. Did he even more while she cried? He only seemed to 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 her, suddenly chipper as he realized she didn’t mean to abandon him.

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

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

“I go south,” Crea answered.

Malcolm’s eyes bugged. “He’ll kill you,” he assured her. “He’s as mean as he seems—and 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 we will find some real men that will see you to Land’s End,” she said—so excited by the prospect of seeing her family that she almost smiled.

“How far is it?” Malcolm asked.

“A day and a half?” Crea shrugged, “Two days at the most.”

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

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 don’t like this,” she said as the others spread about to set up camp. “Let's press on.”

“This is a great spot,” Saleos told her. “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 noted. “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 the pass. 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?”

Scurra shook her head. “I can’t stay here,” she stared across the lake. Carringten agreed.

Backed by the others, Saleos wouldn’t budge. In the end, it was Creigal that broke the stalemate. “We should be cautious,” he began. “That is why I think 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. “It is a mistake,” he said.

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

“What are the value of dreams if we do not heed them?” Carringten asked. He could tell that Creigal had misgivings—but the duke could see that the other Jindleyak were unconcerned, and Meu also gave him a curious smile that seemed to set him at ease.

“Let us pause for the day,” Creigal said and stepped away. Carringten glanced at Scurra. With a shrug, he walked away. He would do as he was told.

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. Frustrated and irritated, she stomped about the camp and wondered why she was cursed with such a dream if she could not use it to convince her friends of danger. With an abundance of energy, she climbed high in a tree and took roost where she might look out over the lake.

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

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 will think you are up to no good, and we will kill you.”

“And what if I need to pee?” Meriona asked.

“It is not yet dark, and we are not without a sense of propriety,” Aim noted. “We will let you out one last time to do such business. After that, you will have to hold it—or use a corner of the tent. It is quite a big tent.”

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

As the others saw to the prisoners, set up camp, and fished for their dinner; Krumpus and Wenifas walked along the edge of the lake. Having lived a few days of comparable peace and normalcy did wonders for the priestess. She was in good spirits as she stared at her strange friend, and finally managed to ask some questions she’d meant to ask for a while. “How did you know that the judge would fall?” she asked.

I could feel it, the shaman said with his eyes. I didn’t know what was happening. Indeed, I wondered for several long seconds if it wasn’t caused by you or Meu, since we were all connected through her venom.

“But you knew something was happening,” Wenifas clarified.

It was making my hair stand on end, Krumpus nodded. I’m rather surprised nobody else could feel it.

“I could feel it, but I knew it was coming from you,” the priestess noted. “You tried to save him. He was such a corrupt and awful man, and yet you tried to save him.”

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

“Smixsmaxsmia?” Wenifas asked. “Who is this?”

Another chimera, Krumpus told her. A queen of the south. She lived even further away than the duke—and yet rumor of her deeds reached us all the way in the north.

“Another chimera,” Wenifas noted. “Where do these creatures come from?”

There are many theories about this, Krumpus shrugged. Some say it is the devil incarnating through the wickedness of our blood. Some say it is simple chance that has allowed the few to be greater than the rest. I personally think it is the next step in our evolution, as we continue to blend the light and dark within us. I think these strange appearances and powers will continue within us until we are all affected.

“You think this is divinely inspired?”

What isn’t? Krumpus replied.

“So you don’t think it was accident that Kezodel was struck?” Wenifas continued.

There are no accidents, Krumpus nodded.

“Do you speak of an all-powerful god?” Wenifas asked. “Do you talk of the blended powers of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna?”

They are not powers I know, Krumpus smiled. But I do know of the one true god.

“So the twin gods are not supreme after all?” Wenifas frowned. “Of late I’ve questioned my gods,” she admitted and hanged her head. “If they are supreme how have they allowed so many bad people to hold such positions of authority in their church?” she asked. “Sometimes I wonder if the gods aren’t just made up in the first place.”

Most gods are served only out of convenience, Krumpus noted. Still, there are many levels of creation above us: angels, devils, dragons, a number of minor gods; and above them all is the supreme, which requires a pure heart to hear. For those that have allowed themselves to become polluted there are a number of false churches and heretical prophets—but they are easily spotted if one has a pure heart.

“How is that?” the priestess asked.

You yourself have complained of the hypocrisy of your old church, Krumpus smiled. And you saw it simply by keeping your eyes open.

“Some of it,” Wenifas frowned. “I didn’t admit to some of it as soon as I might of liked.”

It is difficult when one is brought up in a rotten system, Krumpus replied. Even if one never believes it, how many still go along because it is too difficult to untangle themselves?

“When you say it that way, it makes my banishment look like a blessing.”

Krumpus nodded.

Wenifas turned serious. “What does god want from us?”

He—she—it wants 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 sing its praise when the bad times pass.

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

We suffer so we might grow, Krumpus told her. The game is simple—though it is not easy. Besides, the suffering never lasts.

Wenifas glanced at the scar on her hand and 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 are made to suffer and struggle, Krumpus replied. Why do you think bad things happen to good people? He asked. It is so good things can happen to bad people.

“Well, that sounds like a terrible way to operate!” Wenifas complained. “Why should we want good things to happen to bad people?”

You must remember that we are in the business of saving souls, Krumpus told her. Good things must happen to bad people so they might remember the holy manners of god, and strive for righteousness—and so we suffer, he smiled. Still, you must beware of clinging too tightly to your suffering. You’ll summon more of it if you aren’t careful.

“But I shall suffer anyway,” Wenifas said.

Yes, but if you dwell on it, you will make it worse, Krumpus told her.

“Well, the game may or may not be simple,” the priestess shrugged. “But I can certainly agree that it is not easy.”

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

On the other side of the camp was the stream that drained the lake and slowly drifted toward Ebertin. Creigal sat on a boulder and dangled a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at the base. Still, fishing was difficult as Creigal was distracted. Meu sat next to him and gazed off into the woods, which caused the duke’s heart to to feel all a flutter.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered as he pointed to the pool beneath them. “They’re so close that 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 leaned back and thought to push her away—instead, 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 happened in a long time. He thought to lean in and kiss her back—but a tug on the line told him a fish had bit. 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 —and she explained it. Creigal realized this is how his father always knew what the wyrm were thinking. They must have kissed him with the venom.

They would have bit him, Meu noted. I can do both only because I can skin-walk. Of course, whichever I do depends on how much I like my target, and how insistent I am that they suffer the venom’s effects. You see, kissing only works if you lick your lips, and one only licks their lips if they appreciate the kiss.

The duke set more bait on the line and dropped it back into the pool. 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 line.

The sun set and the land began to grow dark. Hand in hand—and with a grip of fish to boot—Creigal and Meu returned to find a warm fire set back a good hundred yards from 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. By morning there will be such a storm to sweep them under!”

Maligno frowned, “There isn't a cloud in the sky—nor have we seen one all week,” he complained.

Golifett snorted. “You are formidable, dear cousin, but are you so fierce that the weather dare not change without you watching?”

“I merely suggest that some soothsayers and spellweavers tend to overstate their abilities,” Maligno stated, wondering if his cousin wasn’t a fake after all.

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

Maligno’s glanced sideways at Golifett. “I’m thinking this is a ploy,” he began. “What if a storm does not 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. Let us attack in the dark!”

Golifett shook his head. “There shall be a storm like few you have ever seen—a true monster!” He grabbed Maligno’s arm.

Maligno huffed. “I am beginning to think I should make your share of our plunder contingent on this weather that you so heartily promise—but the fairness in me says we should see how you fight first.”

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

“You ambushed three,“ 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 resisted the urge to touch the burn scar.

“Why are you so set on stealing children anyway? The meat is good, but is it truly worth the danger?” Maligno asked.

“Stealing their children is a sacred duty,” 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 eventually 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.

“If you care so little about children, why do you wish attack?”

“I’m in it for the coin,” Maligno smiled. “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. Then we attack!”

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