Obsidianserpent
Senior Member
MORCANT
Swamp water continued to leak into Morcant’s tattered leather boots. The soles of his feet had become so blistered and waterlogged that each step through the mire felt as though he were strolling barefoot across a bed of thorns. Coin sized welts covered the exposed areas of his arms and legs: parting gifts from the dozens of mosquitoes that’d eagerly feasted upon his vitals. The cold, sour air formed drops of dew upon his pale skin and curly, chestnut colored hair. Several paces ahead of him, Corbus hacked through handfuls of branches barring his path as though they were nearly devoid of substance entirely. Standing at nearly eight feet tall with shoulders as broad as his short sword, the mercenary appeared more like a blonde giant than a man. Several other recruits, Aden, lean, blonde and handsome, and Tobas, bald, bearded and stout, followed behind Morcant with suspicious eyes. Morcant hadn’t uttered a word to either of them. They’d maintained a comfortable distance from him since he first joined their small company. “Witch”, the men had whispered late at night beneath drunken breath. Their disdain was palpable. He knew that it was their patron’s coin purse alone that secured his safety.
Lady Dyanna was furthest ahead, as usual, surveying the terrain for signs of savage beasts or passers by. She tiptoed over roots and half submerged tree trunks like a gracile fawn. Her pinned up, ebony hair blended almost seamlessly with the murky terrain, framing her sharp chin and angular cheekbones. Her tanned skin and calloused fingers, clenched around the bear skin hilt of a freshly sharpened blade, bore witness to her years of absence from the Yronwood courts. She was no longer a lady of high society, but carried herself through the fen with no less poise.
The western sun kissed the horizon, and illuminated a mural of wine colored hues across the sky. Hissing came from the wicker basket fastened to Morcant’s satchel. While the encroaching nightfall always stirred the blood of his carnivorous, serpentine companion, it had been nine days since they’d set out from the cold moors of Yronwood, and the creature would need to feed before long. Dyana paused, apprehension written across her delicate features. She reached into the shallow water and tugged upon a metallic object, an anomaly that only her keen eyes could have discerned amid the monochromatic palette of rotting terrain. A putrefied corpse, clad in an iron breastplate rose to the surface. Even among the swamp’s plethora of unpleasant scents, the stench of rotten flesh was unmistakable. Its eyes had been gouged out by ravens or crows, hollow sockets now glaring upward into the sun. She gripped the corpse by the shoulder of its armor and heaved it from the shallows. The fungal spores that entangled its arms and legs did not surrender them willingly, for with each tug of the breastplate sections of sodden tissue lurched from the corpse’s bones. What little flesh remained had become the fodder of maggots, leaving its features bloated and unrecognizable. Dyanna appeared unperturbed by the hideous spectacle before her. Performing the dirty work of wealthy lords seemed to have afforded her an uncanny resilience to the unpleasantries of death and decay.
She plied the iron breastplate from its chest, layers of skin and burgundy cloth peeling away from the belly. Ruffling through its lower vestments turned up nothing more than a handful of coins, a half drunk bottle of Cairneish wine and a rusty lock pick. She worked her way up the body, gripped the skull at its base. The twisting of her hands was accompanied by an audible snap. A silver pendant, tangled within its exposed vertebrae lay bare: the exquisite craftsmanship of the small trinket now clearly visible. Dyanna wrested it from the shards of bone and examined the image that had been etched upon its surface. Whoever had forged it had gone to great lengths to ensure it was one of a kind.
“Two crossed daggers betwixt a broken crown...this man belonged to the Crimson Brotherhood,” Dyana said. She regained her posture and wiped bits of rotten flesh from her fingertips. “It would appear that we’re not the only ones hunting rogues in the Bloodmire. Something’s awry. The Brotherhood are meticulous in tidying up their messes; they’re far too clever to leave breadcrumbs lying about. I’d like to know what led to the death of this man before we charge headfirst into enemy territory.”
“Come now, don’t be foolish m’lady...whoever disposed of this crimson thug we should thank them. The Knights of Apithur have dealt with the Brotherhood before. I can assure you, they’re far less clever than you insist. In any event they are no match for my blade,” Tobas said, staring down the edge of his extended broad sword. “Before long we shall have the cover of darkness- let us carry out our assault now and be done with this nonsense.”
“When another is hunting your prey, it is crucial to identify who they are and what they’re capable of. I would have expected a renowned warrior such as yourself to understand this. What's more, I don’t require your approval. I remain the leader of this expedition. You would do well to mind that, Tobas.” Tobas snarled and recoiled from her presence. “We shall rest here for now. Corbus, scout ahead and make sure that we are alone.” Corbus hardly acknowledged the Lady’s request. He merely turned toward the thicket, his expression blank and jaded, and disappeared into the trees.
“As for you Morcant, examine the body. Learn what you can of it and how this rogue came to perish here. There are forces at work in this marshland that have yet to reveal themselves. I refuse to stumble blindly into possible crossfire. ”
“Um..Very well... m’lady.” Morcant felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. It was true that he could learn a great deal from the Brotherhood corpse: enough of its heart tissue likely remained intact. But doing so would require invoking Albiach Cineadhia, an old spell performed by the Bone Children of a lost age. Tobas and Aden sneered in his direction, seemingly all too aware of what was about to transpire.
“Pay them no mind Skin Walker. Perform your ritual; they understand why I've asked you to come along with us and they know what’s at stake. We’re after the largest bounty I’ve seen in years. If they desire their share of the spoils, they’ll keep their hand and mouths to themselves, ” Dyanna said, and Morcant nodded politely. “Aden, Tobas, refill the water skins and find us something to eat. We passed a spring less than a mile to the east.”
Aden sprung to his feet, his face contorted with the rage of an indigent adolescent . “I am the eldest son of Aden Mallister the III, lord and steward of Yronwood; not your bloody handmaiden!” Aden said, his lips dripping with hubris.
“You were permitted to travel alongside this company at your father’s request, and despite my reservations, I am obliged to honor that request. But I do not take commands from you young lord. Your father hired me to retrieve his precious gem because more than any other tracker in north he trusts that I can. Your father has poured his faith and a substantial quantity of gold into this expedition, and I’m most certain he would not wish the return on his investment delayed due to the wounded pride and petulant whining of his eldest son and heir. So long as you remain a part of this company you shall heed my commands. Is that understood? Now refill the water skins and make haste about it; we’re wasting time here...”
His blue eyes ablaze with scorn, Aden clenched his fists as he marched from the rest site. Morcant was grateful that Aden and Tobas had ventured elsewhere to collect water from the spring. Albiach Cineadhia would be taxing, body and mind, but at least he’d be able to complete the ceremony in relative peace and quiet.
Morcant knelt beside the corpse and gathered a minute piece of talc from his rucksack. Ancient spells ushered from his lips as he carefully drew a circle around the body. It was strange to him that this rotting slab at his knees was once a member of the most feared thieves guild in Vogos. Decades of scheming, murdering, and hiding from the civilized world, and this is what the rogue had to show for it. He recalled Judoc's words. Death, time; these were the only true lords of heaven and earth, and it was through their power that the vanity of man's petty pursuits was laid bare for all to see.
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or “soul spark” as it was known in the common tongue; the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world was growing thinner with each word the skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals which required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Resisting the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air.
“Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty, sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the wooden post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. The coarse, raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tri-tonal, guttural retching which Morcant wouldn't soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred like a placated cat. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth sweltered, as though the rear of his tongue were cradling a smoldering coal. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
Her cries were followed by the clamor of clashing blades. Panic washed over him; there was danger afoot. He shifted his attention inward, past the pain and suffocating claustrophobia which enveloped him. As the scene before him dissipated into plumes of ash and smoke, the colors, scents, and textures of the swamp sprung into being before him in a visceral whirl. His eyes regained their emerald hue. Nausea spanked the back of his tongue and forced him onto all fours. He heaved from the depths of his abdomen and vomited what little he’d eaten that day upon the ground. He’d expected as much; the spells of the Bone Children always took their toll upon those who were brave or foolhardy enough to invoke them. He beheld Dyanna in a nearby clearing, hurling her blade toward a tall man displaying mustard colored robes and an ornate headdress from which an extended, barbed protrusion jutted out like the tail of some cruel and foreboding creature. He appeared more or less than human, like a spectre or goul, with bone white ceremonial paint that covered the long, toned muscles of his body. He raised his bastard sword in front of him, repelling Dyanna’s blade and striking her left cheek with the blunt end of his weapon in a quick counterattack. Screams came from the east. Tobas writhed in the moist soil of a nearby gully, an arrow lodged firmly in the center of his neck. He did not suffer long. His screams quickly faded into a garbled gurgling as blood gushed from his torn jugular. Aden, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.
Morcant felt an arrow speed past him, slicing off a lock of his hair along its path. An archer from the south, presumably the same who’d sniped down Tobas, nocked his bow and aimed again in Morcant’s direction. Adrenaline flooded through Morcant’s veins. He lunged forward, but failed to fully dodge the arrow that carved through the side of his left shin. Far too panicked to reflect on the pain of his injury, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward an old willow no more than thirty feet away, in search of anything that might provide cover from the archer’s assault.
What followed was a loud, wet crackle. Morcant peered gingerly behind the willow’s trunk. The archer lay face-down in the murky water, blood hemorrhaging from a mighty gash on the backside of his cranium. A blood soaked, fist sized stone lay idly in a puddle beside him, covered in fragments of skull and brain that had been carved off by the stone’s jagged edge. Corbus emerged from the distant flora like an angered grizzly, another stone in his left hand. “Make for the trees skinwalker!” Corbus shouted as he sprinted to Dyanna’s aid.
Morcant had no intention of fleeing like a timid cellar rat, fleeing from the light of day. He curled up against the muted bark of the willow. It had an earthy, redolent smell, much like the incense Judoc used to burn atop the Herrefin peaks when he was a boy. He often took notice of such extraneous details when the situation was most dire. He draped himself in a drab, linen cloak, affording him some camouflage. He was no warrior of brawn or finesse. He had a thin frame and close to no experience with a blade. But Morcant was anything but helpless upon the battlefield.
He reached into the wicker basket to his side. Rathe, his venomous nathair, coiled around his fingertips and up the length of his arm. The serpent’s body was cool and scaly, its skin swarthy as pitch. He lowered the creature into the murky shallows, reaching into its mind and sensing the snake’s simple consciousness pressing up against his own. Morcant was more than capable of forcing the creature from its skin, but harboured neither the desire nor need. Despite Rathe’s cold, reptilian nature, he’d become quite comfortable with the Skin Walker’s presence over the years. Possessing the snake’s mind was effortless and comfortable, like slipping into a worn glove.
Pulling his spirit from his mortal vessel, his eyeballs turned pale green as milk ferns, his joints rigid and stiff. Synesthesia enveloped him: the colors, sounds, and scents of the swamp blending together as he donned his pet’s skin like a cloak. Images and sensations began to solidify and take shape. He immediately took notice of the cool, slippery mud pressed against his underbelly. The subtle vibrations which emanated from the nearby battle felt like shock waves as they ran through his elongated, sensitive body.
He slithered between reeds and stones and tasted with each flick of his forked tongue the musk of the birds and rodents which scattered at his approach. Dyanna appeared to have met her match in this stranger. Sweat dripped from her brow as she struggled to keep pace with her opponent. The ghoulish stranger moved with unnatural strength and agility given the size of his blade, as though some otherworldly power animated his limbs. From an impressive distance, Corbus wound his arm behind his head and launched the remaining stone toward the stranger with the force of a small ballista. But wearing little armor, the stranger was nimble and dodged the projectile with a quick backwards tumble. Corbus readied an axe in his grip and quickly followed in pursuit.
“This world is but another battlefield, a crop of succulent souls, ripe for the mother's harvest. Why do you choose to languish in fire, to tread where the songs of winter grow silent? Can you not sense the darkness that lurks beneath stone and flesh?”The stranger waved his thumb and forefinger in intricate patterns.“You too shall bleed for the mother and witness her glory with your own eyes. But first you shall sleep…”
“Hold your tongue zealot, or I’ll cut it out!” Corbas shouted.
“What is it that you want from us?” Dyana said between winded gasps, her blade extended in the man's direction.
“All shall be revealed in time my children. But for now you must sleep...dream, take suckle, and be nourished at the Blood Mother’s breast.”
A dozen soldiers, similarly clad and colored in patterns of red and white emerged from the foliage. Corbus scowled. Subtle grunts erupted into a furious war cry as he charged forward, his axe at the ready. Slivers of shimmering light came from all directions: the glint of a dozen needles which raced from the blowpipes of the surrounding soldiers and pierced Dyanna and Corbus from head to toe. Within seconds their movements became uncoordinated and their eyes weary with fatigue. Dyanna was the first to collapse into the shallow water, but even Corbus succumbed to needle’s toxin eventually.
Morcant slithered behind the cultist with care, then stared up at the ominous figure. He’d have one chance to land his strike. The pain of a nathair’s bite was legendary, immediate, and debilitating; succeed in his assault, and the cultist would be so drowned in agony that he’d be helpless to retaliate. Fail however, and his pet would be stomped to a bloody pulp. Gazing upon the man’s ankle, he could nearly taste the supple flesh which lurked behind nothing but a thin layer of cloth. He tightened his neck and abdomen, building tension along his backside before lunging forward like a sprung coil, unfurling his needle like fangs and sinking them deep into the cultist’s lower calf. Venom flooded the bloodstream. There was no time to linger. Morcant recoiled into the shallows and grew still as an idle stone.
The cultist tumbled backwards into the mud. His face turned red as an autumn poppy, his breathing weak and panicked as a thin stream of blood dripped from the left corner of his mouth. The surrounding soldiers rushed to his aid and scrambled to fasten a makeshift tourniquet to his leg. Their efforts proved to be in vain, however, for the venom had already corroded the tissues of his heart and brain and thinned his blood to a watery swill. Growing limp as a wilted reed, the cultist collapsed into the swamp water, blood and bile spilling profusely from his mouth and coloring the surrounding pools with tendrils of scarlet.
Morcant’s attention was violently splintered. He felt a succession of blows across his human face followed by a lingering sting. He pulled himself from Rathe’s skin, his eyes regaining their color as full sensation returned to his face and limbs. Overhead, a grimacing man stared directly into his eyes. His warm, vomitous breath filled Morcant’s nostrils and forced him to wince with revulsion. A blade pressed gently against his neck, so sharp that he scarcely felt its edge. “You shall suffer for this sacrilege, godling.” Lines of blood that now streamed down the assailant’s dagger mixed with the clear toxin that had already coated it. From the shallow wound surges of warmth radiated throughout Morcant’s neck and chest. He felt euphoric and light as air, as though he’d downed several pints of the the north’s finest spirits. An incessant ringing drowned out the religious chanting of the nearby soldiers, followed by an irresistible fatigue. As his vision faded to darkness, he thought of his tutor Judoc, and wondered if he’d be joining him in the Ghost Land sooner than he had anticipated.
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