Mists of Daven, Part I - Page 2 - OG Myth-Weavers

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Mists of Daven, Part I

   
The warlock led them on well-trodden paths through the Ruin Woods, past a would-be shanty town which, if previous experience had taught him anything, Aidan knew would house the lowest orders of the coven. Most of the occupants were thin, wild-eyed wretches, hungry for power and destined never to gain it. Only a very few might one day claw their way into the attention of a true warlock and be permitted to supplicate a greater entity for a pact.

It was typical of the covens in this part of the world. Desperate men and women clustering together, debasing themselves for the amusement of others in the hope that they would eventually learn the mysteries of power. Not so in the occupied lands, where if you were determined to have even the least scrap of potential, you were taken for initiation whether you willed it or no.

Aidan had seen friends suffer this fate. Dissent was dealt with summarily and horrifically. In exchange for complete freedom in recruiting members, covens of warlocks and true casters alike were required to serve without question. Here too was dissent met with disproportionate punishment. The secret police, after all, had eyes and ears everywhere.

The contrast between the chaotic brutality of the invaders and the discipline and regimentation that they imposed on their territories was a stark one. Aidan did his best not to think about it. Knowing that he was not strong enough to make any real difference there was painful enough, without also having to consider the consequences of success.

He had mentioned this in passing some months earlier, when they had been swapping histories and some comment or another had caught him off-guard. Had it been Brokk? Yes - the dwarf had been arguing on a matter of morality with Embla, who seemed unwilling to accept that a nation might be as or more damaged by bloody revolution as by leaving a tyrant in power.

The argument was ended when Aidan pointed out the crux of it depended on victory being possible in the first place. The relative good mood of the evening had also ended at that point.

*****

Aidan`s journey into memory was halted when the warlock suddenly announced: 'We are arrived. Mine custodianship of thee has come to an end. Go now unto he who requested thy presence.'

With that, the warlock turned on his heel and strode purposefully back the way they had come, nearly trampling Isolde in his haste to abandon them. At the last moment, she darted to one side. Childishly, she stuck out her tongue and was rewarded with a remarkably sympathetic look from his familiar. Brokk muttered something inaudible in a tone that suggested it was extremely rude, or at least disparaging.

This charming presence now absent, Aidan turned his attention to whoever had asked for them. For a few seconds, he was confused by the apparent lack of anyone, until Brokk pointed up into the trees. The paladin tensed as the feline shape made itself clear, hand already moving to his hammer when it slid from the branch and landed in front of them. He forced himself to relax, understanding the nature of the contact.

'Think you lot set a record on working me out,' the leopard commented in a curious lilting accent. 'Not wrong being cautious, of course. Hate having to smack sense into people not introduced to me.'

Aidan took that as a cue and bowed politely. 'Well met, wild master. My name is Aidan of Zel, sworn to the service of Heshtail the Merciful. My companions are the esteemed Brokk Ashknarzglimmsun, who bears his name openly; lady Isolde Amero Ballussia, blessed of Calbran; and Embla Villiendr, Aslaug of the Risarvinnae.'

Hoping he had pronounced everything properly - there not being much call for anything more than their given names - Aidan straightened from his bow and immediately failed to keep his jaw from dropping. The leopard, in defiance of all etiquette, was busy cleaning beneath its tail.

'I would have told you, Aidan,' Isolde struggled to get the words out. 'But I was convinced Brokk was practicing his illusions on me again.'

'And here I was hoping I had miscast the spell and affected myself,' Brokk added, equally bewildered.

Embla, like Aidan, had nothing to say.

*****

'Should I assume you isolated the geodesic vectors prior to evoking the cross-ley consciousnesses?' Brokk inquired of the druid. 'Else the divinations would be prone to error.'

It had taken several minutes for the group to recover themselves enough to proceed with the unorthodox meeting. The druid had variably introduced themselves as Grimoth, Caylay the Kale, Bessie, Andavor, the Darkmane, and Pirip Larkstongue. They had periodically claimed to be male, female, ungendered, human, gnome, orc, and trout. They originated from Farland, Zeland, Orland, and no land. The only thing that had not changed was the reason for the meeting.

'Never go for that sort of thing,' the druid, still in leopard shape, answered a put-out Brokk. 'Just followed the other scavengers. Found the cave easy enough. The strangles wasn`t the first to come up from below. Won`t be the last if we don't do something.'

Aidan considered the situation. Their chances of survival were less than promising, but the goal was a noble one indeed. Some evil force had hidden itself beneath the Ruin Woods and started vomiting up diseases and plagues. Most of them had simply been too virulent to be contagious, simply dying along with their first victims. But now it seemed as though they were being refined.

The druid had managed to locate the entrance to the lair of whatever was behind this, but had come to the conclusion that allies would be needed to destroy the evil. Apparently, the events at Mavarra had given Aidan and his companions something of a reputation in certain circles. Gratifying, in some respects, but troubling in others. Fame and infamy went hand in hand, after all.

'What about guards? Traps? Things like that? Anything information you want to share?'

Isolde always had the right questions to ask, thought Aidan, even when he was being distracted by irrelevancies. Between her and Brokk, anything that required cunning or trickery to overcome would fall. Between him and Embla, anything that required brute force would similarly be conquered. And whatever the druid was able to bring could surely only make things easier.

'You know all I know now,' the druid replied. 'Except for everything you don`t. But you know what I don`t know too.'

Isolde looked helplessly at Brokk, who shrugged, then at Embla, who glared and flexed her muscles. The druid may as well have been a cat for all the interest they showed to the implied threat. Instead, they stood up, stretched and yawned.

'No more questions, we should go. Not far, but night soon. You will want to sleep and start in the morning. Always night below ground, so shouldn`t matter. Soonest started, soonest ended, though.'

Grudgingly, the truth of the aphorism was accepted and the four companions fell into position behind this bizarre creature.

'Also, Cawlis,' the druid said unexpectedly. 'Cawlis is my favorite. I think Cawlis was my birth-name. Or just similar.'

As was usual, Embla took the first watch, still untouched by the weariness of a day`s hard marching. She would wake Aidan perhaps three, perhaps four hours later, when the darkness was deepest and his elf eyes were of most use. After him, it would be early bird Isolde`s turn, which she had always seemed inexplicably pleased by. Brokk had used to volunteer to stand watch, but the risk of him slipping into a contemplative trance had been deemed too great.

The familiarity of this routine was its own kind of reassuring, a subtle trust built up between them over many months. Their sleep was more restful, their dreams less troubled, when they knew one of them was on guard. Even when staying at an inn or doss-house, they increasingly maintained the same system despite the ostensibly greater safety than when sleeping rough.

Periodically returning to the fire, Embla made a slow patrol around their camp, listening intently to the forest night. It was a medley of strange sounds, so very different to those of her homeland. There you would be lucky to hear more than the pines singing to the steppe winds, or the rumble of a tusking herd moving across the lower slopes.

One nearby sound, however, was familiar. The sawing rasp of a leopard`s call, quite out of place here. Embla turned her head to watch the peculiar druid lope into view, bloodied muzzle attesting to a more eventful patrol than Embla`s own. She was not entirely sure what to make of him. Skinchangers among her people were invariably the result of a curse, though certain stories told of great heroes who had tamed the beast within them.

Far more concerning was his apparent inability to decide on who he was. To the Risarvinnae, names were a history that changed and grew with their owner. To be stripped of one`s name was a more terrible punishment than death, so much so that Embla knew of no instance when it had actually been carried out.

*****

After a while, she could not keep her silence: 'What hit you, unnameable?'

The druid looked at her knowingly. 'Surprised a bear that thought I was a normal cat. Now what do you really want to ask?'

'You do not have a name that is you,' Embla explained, pleased that he had understood. 'You only have names that are what others think you are. All others have names that are them. My name is all of me, now and before. Without a name, I am not even nothing, for nothing is its own name.'

She made a face. That was not the best she had ever explained something. If only she could speak in her native language, where a single well-inflected syllable could alter the whole meaning of a sentence. The common tongue of these realms was a comparatively crude one, perhaps because the nuances had been lost with the development of writing. Embla knew that a purely oral language was necessarily richer.

But it seemed as though the druid had understood well enough. There was a throaty rumble as he thought it over, then his shape began to melt and flow like heated quicksilver, refashioning itself. When it solidified again, his shape was similar to that of a Risarvinnae man, then swiftly collapsed into a smaller body more like Aidan`s. Even then, tiny changes were taking place without pause, as his skin lightened and darkened in waves, or his eyes tried to decide how many wrinkles to embed themselves in.

After a minute or so of this, the druid finally gave up and returned to leopard form. 'It took me three months to relearn the speech of men and as long again to recall that once I belonged to them. Beyond that, I know what you know. If one day you know what I don`t, tell me. Until then, my name is what you will.'

Embla nodded, considering the responsibility. This was an important task and needed serious thought. This was not something that should be rushed. Ideally, a name should be given by one of the more senior Aslaug, one who had received training for just such a duty, but Embla was familiar with enough of the details not to be daunted. She wondered if this was perhaps a test. If so, it was one she intended to pass.

*****

Brokk was not asleep. It would be difficult to call him awake either, although he was technically closer to that state. Most of his mind was fixated on the tablet he carried, trying to puzzle out its meaning. A part of his awareness was still linked to the rest of the world, however, as Embla and the druid had their little talk.

It hadn`t been difficult to discern the nature of their new acquaintance. After the initial shock had worn off - which, he felt sure, had not been the same shock experienced by his companions - Brokk searched his memory for explanations, comparing them with the self-presentation of the druid, from his assumed form to the pattern of his speech. When Embla began to ask her questions, the answers only confirmed his earlier deductions.

"Cawlis" was certainly the oldest name by which the druid thought of himself, making it the most reasonable choice for a birth-name. Even the degenerate variations among the nomads of the easternmost Wild Lands beyond Kale had all but died out, so this suggested either a scholarly ancestor or extreme age. The latter theory had the most support, in particular the mention of having to relearn language - this meant he had spent so long as an animal, he had forgotten he wasn`t one.

Given what Brokk knew about the normal limitations of druidic shapeshifting, this meant he had been the target of a very old type of transformative magic. Further, given that no known mortal magic could force this type of prolonged change on an actual shapeshifter, "Cawlis" had been willing to accept it.

All of this suggested many dark things to Brokk. When it came to magic, he was not one to believe in coincidences. Bitter experience had taught him that conspiracy was the most usual truth, whether of mortal or divine origin. Nor was this even one of those rare occasions when coincidence was the most likely cause, for there were simply too many of them all at once.

Brokk was patient. It had formed the core of his education, upon which all else had their foundations laid. The mystery of this druid was one that was solving itself as his past returned to him. Perhaps he would begin forgetting again after the reason for this was over. Brokk`s only concern should that be the case was whether all of the memories returned before the forgetting started. Otherwise there would remain some unanswered questions.

There were enough of those in Brokk`s life.

The last two installments are very interesting as usual-- the druid has me intrigued.

Aidan squatted before the cave entrance, peering into the gloom. It was small, easy to overlook, but obvious if you knew to look for the signs. There was that faint smell of decay, deeper than that of a wolf`s or bear`s den. There was the absence of animal tracks and the lack of birdsong in the area. Most tellingly, there was not even any fungal or lichen growth on the walls of the cave, only brown tufts left to rot where they had withered.

There was a sickness here. Many of them, in fact, welling up from some foul source deep below the earth. Over the night, a few more of the druid`s memories had returned. He and Brokk had spent the early morning deep in conversation, most of which was couched in terminology utterly incomprehensible to Aidan, but had seemed to allay some of the dwarf`s initial tensions.

The paladin fought down his rising fear, but for his companions, not himself. His unwavering service to the gods had been rewarded with divine protection against illness. Embla likely had a constitution strong enough to shrug off all but the most virulent of poxes. Isolde and Brokk, however, lacked such protections and Cawlis had made no effort to claim anything that afflicted any of them would be curable.

He had claimed that he had been to this cave before and knew of a hidden pathway he could use to flank a thing of which the nature he purported to be ignorant of, but recalled existed as a threat. Brokk had vouched for the tenuous accuracy of this memory, citing the results of a divination performed earlier. Seeing as how the art magic was beyond Aidan`s ken, trusted his ally`s word for it.

Briefly, Aidan looked back at his companions. Embla and Isolde were preparing torches, whilst Brokk was back in talks with Cawlis, apparently discussing some kind of cooperative magical stratagem. The two seemed to have bonded over their shared, if different, understanding of the immense forces underlying the world. Brokk had even taken the druid`s side without hesitation when the matter of the Circle of Twelve Moons had come up.

I wouldn`t worry about them, the druid had said. They chose to stay trespassed in these woods. It will come back to bite them.

His laughter had sent a chill down Aidan`s spine. There was a malevolent glee in it so far removed from the usual matter-of-fact tone that suggested a cruel fate had been plotted for the warlocks, perhaps even already enacted in some subtle way.

Whatever it was, it was a problem for another day. For now, Aidan had the unenviable duty to lead his friends - and one very disturbing ally - into the under-realms of the world.

*****

Silent, invisible, shaking in terror, Imp crouched among the branches. Not since leaving its native hells had the tiny fiend been witness to such monstrosities. Even now, the sounds of desperate battle reached its ears. The coven masters were no doubt making their final, futile stand.

Imp peered through its claws, heart fluttering excitedly at the carnage, then pounding harder as it recalled the cause. It knew well enough that, if it was so foolish as to reveal itself, it would be next. Not that being cast out of this world was so terrible, but the punishments its master would inflict for failing to suborn the coven most certainly were. Only Imp`s own mortal had been lured to change patronage from fey lord to archdevil, making the last four years of 'service' an effective waste of time.

A brief silence fell, then was replaced by the slow, deliberate rending of flesh and cracking of bone. Imp continued to hide, knowing what would come. There was a pained moan from one unlucky aspirant trying to regain consciousness. Unable to look away, Imp stared at the ghastly head that snaked back into view, examining the dying warlock with cold hunger. Then, with deceptive gentleness, it picked up its meal and withdrew.

Imp still did not move. Night fell and dawn came before at last the little fiend moved from its hiding place. Making a slow, wide circle around the slaughter, it finally reached the collapsed tent it sought. Brought low by a wayward strike from the tail of one of the beasts, the tent had obscured its occupant and no doubt protected him from death. That the man had not bled out or been discovered since was its own stroke of luck - it meant Imp still had a chance to acquire a warlock coven for its master, albeit delayed by needing to have an entirely new one established first.

As Imp alerted him to their relative safety, Naxartes stirred from his own hiding place at last, body afire with pain and mind seething with uttermost loathing. He understood what had happened. The weakness of the coven masters had led them to view him as a threat. They had called upon the druid to fabricate an excuse to get rid of him, no doubt by calling upon the paladin and the others, who had already become known for their deeds in Mavarra.

It was clear, however, that their tools for his downfall had been too cunning. Undoubtedly, they had seen that they were being used and had grown resentful. That the druid had drawn those abominations to the coven was an obvious truth, to let them plead innocence if ever questioned. Naxartes could not help but admire the duplicity of these foes, able to deceive even one of so agile a mind as he as to their simple nature.

But their scheme had failed: he, the great Naxartes, yet lived! His so-called peers were dead, slain by their own tools. A fitting reward for their treachery. Vengeance was needed, of course, against those five who had so grievously wounded him. There was time for that, however. Time enough for anyone.

Naxartes swore it.

Another good installment!

Thanks. The next one I think will be the penultimate for Part I, and it will need to have a subsection with the statblock for what exactly Cawlis brought to the coven...

Speaking of statblocks, Carya is going to be delayed by a bit. I started to make the post earlier, then realised I'd completely messed up half of the figures due to a late-stage change.

In terms of publication, do you you want to publish it in Parts, like publish Part I then work on part II etc?

Probably best, yes. I know roughly what I want for Part II, but waiting for that and then the culminatory Part III to be finished would make for a long delay in any publication.

Sounds good. When you finish I'll get our editor involved.

Another week, ten days for Part I - mainly due to wanting to get the statblock right the first time around. The rest, no clue.




 

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