Calm Before the Storm

I wanted to take a look at the conversation between Krumpus and Wenifas, so I polished 12.4. I’m feeling much better about it — 19m13s — 2023/12/22

Polished —34m 08s — 2023/12/25

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 raised herself into a sitting position, though she kept the blanket over her. The effort was ginger and slow. The sun shone through, and she caught sight of the rude orange and purple hues all about her body; large splotchy bruises that formed a messy patchwork over her neck, chest, and limbs. At first she recoiled, then settled down and studied the swirl of soured blood, as she was caught by a morbid fascination.

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, turned to the old man, and lifted the large blanket off her head. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear was 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." He 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 at Malcolm. “He would be wise to mind it.”

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

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

“Don’t tell me my office!” Doidge snapped. “I have many oaths, and I am aware of 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 glared at the girl. “You’re talking more than a week’s walk to Gaetilly—and do you think you can 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 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 to take you with him,” 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! Some men she’d recently met hadn’t even afforded her that!

Not that she’d make such a trade. Still, she would beg. “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 and have her quiet. Would she not follow along anyway? And if he should deny her, a scene would have doom them all. Now that they were safe, or at least in a place where they could yell at each other, she couldn’t believe that he meant to simply brush 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 him the satisfaction. She would not trade her body. It was thin consolation, but at least she had not agreed to the rough abuse of the foreigner.

Tears welled in Crea’s eyes and her temper got the better of her as she decided to reply in kind. "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 neared the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled at the top of her voice. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!"

He made a rude gesture without ever glancing back.

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. He did nothing while she slept. He had not moved, as if he’d simply sat and watched her sleep. He was a creep.

Still, he was young. And what did she expect of him? He was just as alone. He was a small, timid boy; and she was smaller yet! 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—suddenly excited by the prospect of seeing her family—so excited 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 rising from the far side of the water. 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,” Duboha 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.”

Duboha shook his head. “Once we reach the mountains, its a hard climb to the pass. We have injured and prisoners 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 said as she stared across the lake.

Backed by the others, Duboha 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 set him at ease.

The duke want nothing more than to sit, talk, and hold the wyrm’s hand. Compared to her, what was he to make of his dreams? Were they not convoluted? Were they not confusing, confounding, and all too often contemptable? Did they not drive him to do too much? To take too many chances? To forgive the unforgivable? “Let us pause for the day,” Creigal said and stepped away.

Carringten glanced at Scurra and shrugged.

Scurra continued to argue until the tents were up and most everyone else went down to the lake, to do a bit of fishing, or simply to escape her arguments. 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. To get away, and yet hoping to keep her eye on the others, 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 perhaps designate a corner of the tent for such use. 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 that 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 at the time.

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

Krumpus nodded. It was making my hair stand on end! 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 to manifest until we are all affected. In the end, we will all become angels—or devils.

“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.

Krumpus nodded, there are no accidents.

“So when you speak of divinity, do you talk of the blended might of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna?” Wenifas asked.

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

Wenifas frowned. “I suspected the twin gods were not supreme. I’ve questioned quite a bit of late, including 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.

“But you speak of a true god, of true divinity,” Wenifas replied.

There are many levels of creation above us: angels, devils, dragons, a number of minor gods—but above them all is the supreme and loving god that speaks to each and every one of us, Krumpus told her. He 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 purges her 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, because your heart is true.

“I saw some of it,” Wenifas frowned. “And I make no bones about my own perfection. I suspect I am just as corrupt as the next.”

Quite likely, Krumpus agreed. But you are aimed at making yourself better, and that makes you sensitive.

“I fear I have too far to go,” the priestess admitted.

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? How many simply do what is easy, even though such actions are against their own interests?

“How does anyone know what they need?!” Wenifas complained. “I feel completely turned around and upside down…”

But at least you are no longer under the thumb of the Baradha! Krumpus said.

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

Krumpus nodded. If you could, would you return home?

Wenifas shook her head. “No. No. I don’t even know where I would call home. Was it the village on the beach, where I was born and raised? Was It Tikatis, where I had Evereste in the cool waters of the lake? It certainly wasn’t Camp Calderhal—except for the loving arms of Derris—and just like the rest of us, he is no longer there…. No. I have no home,” she said with no real feeling.

For a long minute, they simply moseyed along the lake. They poked about the tall grass, watched the shimmer of the water, and listened to the song of the frogs.

“What does god want from us?” Wenifas asked. “What would she have me do?”

He—she—it wants our smiles and songs of praise, Krumpus answered. And when the suffering strikes—as it always does—she would have us struggle and survive; that we might sing her praise when the bad times pass.

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

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 considered the memory of 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.

Wenifas huffed. “To suffer as the rich and powerful would be a luxury to most,” she retorted.

Beware of clinging too tightly to your suffering, the shaman admonished. 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 priestess shrugged. “The game may or may not be simple—of that I am still unsure—but I wholeheartedly agree that it is not easy.”

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

On the other side of the camp was the stream that ran from the north and west to drain in the lake. Creigal and Meu followed it back a way, until they found a boulder where they might sit and dangle a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at its base.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered to Meu as he pointed to the pool. “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—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 as 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 in this same strange fashion.

No. Meu countered. They would have bit him. I can do both only because I can skin-walk, she claimed.

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 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 countered, and wondered 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 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. “They are away from the towns and villages and they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I say let us forget your storm. Let us attack in the dark!”

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

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

“Stealing their children is a sacred duty,” Golifett explained. “One at a time, we steal their future! With each child we take, we break our enemies’ spirits; and with such straws, we will eventually break their backs!"

Ever so slightly, Maligno shook his head.

Golifett glared. “This is why you’re on the outs with the Vericote!” he snapped.

“Zealots,” Maligno muttered under his breath—then decided it was best to change the subject. "Since when are children hard to come by? All creatures love to make ‘em.”

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

“I’m in it for the coin,” Maligno replied, then turned and made for the water. “Well then, if we’re done with this little ritual of yours, I shall retire, until this storm appears,” he said over his shoulder.

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