The Dreamweave was alight with silver and dancing darkness. An expanse of shifting dreams, crumbling and rearranging its self in complete silence. Cibest, mistress of dreams and secrets, wore a small, satisfied smile. Her hair was a loose tumble that would make the rolling waves of the mortal seas envious and her body was wrapped in a gossamer gown of moonlight that would have brought the other Gods to their knees...if any of them had remained but her lover. Her Slumber Wraiths approached entering her palace through the broken gate, bearing on their backs her scrying portal; a massive basin filled with water bled from her own body. They danced, despite the terrible weight of their burden; easily gliding amidst the lingering fog of unformed thoughts and desires.
Where they stepped, that mist parted and drifted away. What remained behind was the scattered visions of a tumultuous and bleeding realm. Her palace, once pristine and cast in silver, had suffered greatly when the mortals had roused their ire against the Gods. Pillars that had once supported a high, domed ceiling were scattered across pale marble; parts of that same ceiling littered her throneroom. Through the holes above, she could spy pieces of the Dreamweave drifting above the rest. Isolated spheres that rotated to their own rhythm and clashed at random, producing sparks against a backdrop of pure umbrage. They were the irretrievable pieces of her domain that had drifted beyond her weakened control.
With a sigh, she turned her eyes away from it all and through the broken gate of her abode; out into the wilds of the Dreamweave.
All throughout her realm, there were dispersed souls; roiling in the ectasy of their unconscious desires. Some of them, she knew, still held some measure of connection to their despised Gods; and all of them were closest to herself and Nycyd.
"Vysold," she whispered into a massive silver basin, lowering herself to her knees to peer more easily into it, "you won't suffer much longer, I promise."
Within the basin water moved and twitched, the sound of her voice setting it on edge. Ebbs and flows coincided and broke, forming an acceptably clear image of the mortal tapestry. The Dead Cairn, as it was called by mortals, was thrumming with energies; surrounded by shadows dancing in wild abandon. The crystalline formation was cracked throughout and oozing with an acidic green; crackling and sparking with each labored breath of the Entity of Magic.
Behind them gathered the Vyiren, their yellow eyes slicing through the darkness. The mortals seemed unaware, she noted, of their presence; so silent were the wolves of shadow. She had commanded them, there, into the Godwastes, to assist these afflicted mortals in their liberation; though it truly only served her own ends.
The water shifted again.
Far in the east, with the rising of the sun, men and women scurried about in their city of death. Varos-morche, was bright with magelight and torches. Luminous moths fluttered overhead and there were already ships being set onto the water...sails lifted and seas begrudgingly battled. These dark skinned folk were her favored amongst mortals as they were those who seemed to love her most. She smiled down on them fondly, turning her gaze away.
Again, the water shifted.
This time, it was a city in mourning. A distant, sad song drifted through the sloshing water. The sorrow of it was purely delicious to Cibest. The mortals had always saved their best songs for Immortals or those who had entered Nycyd's domain. They had not given her such a beautiful dirge, nor any of the others. In a way, she was envious of the slain mortals; not particularly these slain mortals, but those that recieved such music.
Merrifort was splayed beneath her, a pulsing city cast in an oily light...and she watched with interest as more pieces fell into place.
Not long ago, he had been pulled from a tavern. A tug at his sleeve and a few simple words had brought one journey to an end...and promised the start of another. A harder trek into harder lands. The Godwastes. Thinking of it sent a chill down Morben Risaac's spine, but also drove a lance of pure hatred through his heart. It was that hatred that had driven him here, half drunk and already possessed by a foul mood, where he sat amongst those who dared to dream of success. From his perch, atop a worn crate left behind by the merchants of the day, Morben watched.
Far off in the distance, there was a malignancy in the sky. A bright green laceration across the umbrage of the night. The light danced and licked at the air, sending forth serpentine tendrils that squirmed upward before breaking into wisps of toxic energies. Morben could see it, even from within the massive walls of Merrifort; an omen of rot that promised a slow and painful death to those who would follow its beguiling light.
Morben spat at the cobbled stones to his left, where none had deigned to sit.
The summer air was thick and oppressive, a lingering kiss of the day that sought to steal Morben's breath away. Above the twisting pillar of vile magic the moon lingered; a jagged smile cast down from a veil of carrion stars, framed in the light of The Dead Cairn. It made him uncomfortable to gaze upon, so strong was the feeling that it stared back at and into him.
Without thought his left hand dipped down to clutch the hilt of his dagger. The other brought an ornate flask to his lips. All around the city was alive with bitter mourning, lanterns lit and incense burning with such power that he could smell it from the abandoned merchant's square. There were others gathered here, sellswords and Mage Slayers, priests and pipers; all summoned by a clarion of gold and blood.
"Your attention!"
A man he didn't recognize stood in the center of the square, raising his voice above the low roar of the mercenaries, wrapped in the vaunted garb of his station. The last time he had been in Merrifort, their commander had been Radulf SIein. Radulf had died, or so Morben had heard, by a fall from the high walls. It pained him, briefly, to think that he had never paid respects to the man who had lifted him in station...who had used his authority to lift a green boy from the streets and make a legitimate soldier out of him. Yet, begrudgingly, Morben turned his attention to the wiry lad; as was expected of him.
"I am Orin Norath, commander of the Euphian Guard Corps of Merrifort, and I have been appointed to lead you," though few protested outright, Morben could have sworn that there were a few groans from the crowd. Orin seemed to have caught that, as well, and narrowed his eyes at the crowd. He looked not disimilar to a wolf, Morben realized, with the longness of his face, the wild rise of his hair and the way he gnashed his teeth before speaking. "It is an order from Vigil, those of you who have an issue with my command can drag your sorry asses back to whatever hole you crawled from," his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed in the lantern-light, "We have no need of cowards on this journey."
That seemed to quiet them, well enough; though some still whispered in their small groups. It was then that Morben heard the slow sound of a mourning song, drifting from a temple two streets down. Though it was quiet, it was enough of a distraction to warrant Orin to raise his voice again.
"As you know," he belted out, booming through the near-silence, "we are to track the beasts that attacked Merrifort. The same beasts that slew our beloved council members! Vigil has placed it upon all of you to bring justice to these monstrosities," he folded an arm across his chest and cast his gaze over the crowd. "and myself as well."
The burned man shook his head, slightly. It was always the same with the Euphian Guard Corps; ceremony, ceremony, ceremony. The speech had already become a buzzing noise in his ears, a fly picking at his brain.
"Atayr Quinn and Solen Bree are dead," Morben whispered to nobody, working the leathery ruin of his mouth in near silence as he lowered his eyes to the assemblage, "they don't need justice." Bitterness was best met with bitterness, he knew, so, again, he tipped back the flask and took a long, vigorous drink of the Hattavori Mirth. It was pungent and acidic, somewhere between a wine and hard liquor and left a lingering sourness on his tongue. Thoughts of the immediate future did much of the same.
"Yet, I have been given orders from the council," Orin Norath continued in his mad, regal manner, "I am not to lead this expedition," there were some stifled laughs from the crowd, "but I have been appointed to deliver these writs of temporary leadership to two senior members of the Mage Slayers, they will be leading you." Morben felt his stomach buck, though he could not immediately discern if it was the Mirth or Orin's words. He felt it coming his way, being one of the oldest members present, but wished the responsibility were passed to another. He forced himself to swallow the thin, bilious film that had started to coat his mouth.
The commander of the Euphian Guard Corps of Merrifort made his way through the crowd, his long cloak flowing behind him as people parted for his passage. Morben looked up from the unending maw of his flask in time to lock eyes with the man and accept an outstretched piece of parchment. It was a quick motion that he snatched the paper with, unfolding it briefly.
To Morben Risaac, Mage Slayer Veteran and Member of Squad Thirty,
Due to your previous experiences with vile mages and their aberrant ilk, it has fallen upon the council to deign you as a leader of the second team of this expedition. Your mission parameters have already been detailed, but it falls upon myself to instruct you as to the specifics of your duties.
You are to ensure that losses are minimal and to support the first team by providing combat support and coordinating reconnaissance. With your knowledge of the Godwastes and exemplary performance in battle, we have high expectations in this regard.
Yildeane bless you,
Esswar Ranpust.
A list of names was scrawled at the bottom, those who would be under his command.
He gave a rueful snort and folded the paper closed, stuffing it into his pocket. Orin lingered over him, tracing the lines of his burned face with fervent eyes and a look that bordered perilously close to pity. Morben briefly considered lashing out at the man, taking his feet from under him with a kick just to satiate his unjust rage. Yet, he did not and the look continued to bore into him.
After a moment, Orin spoke.
"I expect you won't be drinking on the road, Morben Risaac," Orin turned away before the burned man had a chance to spit even a syllable at him and made his way to another.
"Of course I'll be fucking drinking," he mumbled beneath his acrid breath, watching Norath's progress toward the other 'senior member'. Atheri was as beautiful as always, he noted absently, though she held a stern expression. Morben didn't bother watching the exchange, he knew how it would go; favoring, instead, turning his eyes to the sky and draining the last of his flask. He felt a few eyes on him, from the crowd, unknowns weighing his worth against the word of Vigil and the promise of glory if their mission should succeed. He expected most of those ambitious folk would be dead before long, so he let the itching and prying sensation that their stares produced dig into him.
An uncertain haze seemed to have settled over him, as Morben opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like an eternity. In truth only an hour or more had passed, he had refilled his flask somewhere and had taken up in the guts of a creaking ship. There were others there, pressed tightly together, awaiting their departure before the dawn. Orin Norath had not seen fit to join them on their expedition, he recalled, insisting, instead, on offering them his 'best wishes' and giving them one of his 'finest' ships. Morben folded his arms, finally accustomed to the slight rocking of the ship. The steps that had brought him here seemed like a distant dream, though he knew he had yet to slip into sleep.
Pale yellow light filled the cabin, casting an eerie glow on the gathered and huddled forms. Morben looked throughout the room, taking note of those who would follow him.
"We set out within the hour," came a rough shout from above, accompanied by a few heavy stomps on the deck above, "I hope the lot of you are ready for the Godwastes!"
Morben Risaac contained his disgust with a grunt and took another long drink of Hattavori Mirth.
Where they stepped, that mist parted and drifted away. What remained behind was the scattered visions of a tumultuous and bleeding realm. Her palace, once pristine and cast in silver, had suffered greatly when the mortals had roused their ire against the Gods. Pillars that had once supported a high, domed ceiling were scattered across pale marble; parts of that same ceiling littered her throneroom. Through the holes above, she could spy pieces of the Dreamweave drifting above the rest. Isolated spheres that rotated to their own rhythm and clashed at random, producing sparks against a backdrop of pure umbrage. They were the irretrievable pieces of her domain that had drifted beyond her weakened control.
With a sigh, she turned her eyes away from it all and through the broken gate of her abode; out into the wilds of the Dreamweave.
All throughout her realm, there were dispersed souls; roiling in the ectasy of their unconscious desires. Some of them, she knew, still held some measure of connection to their despised Gods; and all of them were closest to herself and Nycyd.
"Vysold," she whispered into a massive silver basin, lowering herself to her knees to peer more easily into it, "you won't suffer much longer, I promise."
Within the basin water moved and twitched, the sound of her voice setting it on edge. Ebbs and flows coincided and broke, forming an acceptably clear image of the mortal tapestry. The Dead Cairn, as it was called by mortals, was thrumming with energies; surrounded by shadows dancing in wild abandon. The crystalline formation was cracked throughout and oozing with an acidic green; crackling and sparking with each labored breath of the Entity of Magic.
Behind them gathered the Vyiren, their yellow eyes slicing through the darkness. The mortals seemed unaware, she noted, of their presence; so silent were the wolves of shadow. She had commanded them, there, into the Godwastes, to assist these afflicted mortals in their liberation; though it truly only served her own ends.
The water shifted again.
Far in the east, with the rising of the sun, men and women scurried about in their city of death. Varos-morche, was bright with magelight and torches. Luminous moths fluttered overhead and there were already ships being set onto the water...sails lifted and seas begrudgingly battled. These dark skinned folk were her favored amongst mortals as they were those who seemed to love her most. She smiled down on them fondly, turning her gaze away.
Again, the water shifted.
This time, it was a city in mourning. A distant, sad song drifted through the sloshing water. The sorrow of it was purely delicious to Cibest. The mortals had always saved their best songs for Immortals or those who had entered Nycyd's domain. They had not given her such a beautiful dirge, nor any of the others. In a way, she was envious of the slain mortals; not particularly these slain mortals, but those that recieved such music.
Merrifort was splayed beneath her, a pulsing city cast in an oily light...and she watched with interest as more pieces fell into place.
Not long ago, he had been pulled from a tavern. A tug at his sleeve and a few simple words had brought one journey to an end...and promised the start of another. A harder trek into harder lands. The Godwastes. Thinking of it sent a chill down Morben Risaac's spine, but also drove a lance of pure hatred through his heart. It was that hatred that had driven him here, half drunk and already possessed by a foul mood, where he sat amongst those who dared to dream of success. From his perch, atop a worn crate left behind by the merchants of the day, Morben watched.
Far off in the distance, there was a malignancy in the sky. A bright green laceration across the umbrage of the night. The light danced and licked at the air, sending forth serpentine tendrils that squirmed upward before breaking into wisps of toxic energies. Morben could see it, even from within the massive walls of Merrifort; an omen of rot that promised a slow and painful death to those who would follow its beguiling light.
Morben spat at the cobbled stones to his left, where none had deigned to sit.
The summer air was thick and oppressive, a lingering kiss of the day that sought to steal Morben's breath away. Above the twisting pillar of vile magic the moon lingered; a jagged smile cast down from a veil of carrion stars, framed in the light of The Dead Cairn. It made him uncomfortable to gaze upon, so strong was the feeling that it stared back at and into him.
Without thought his left hand dipped down to clutch the hilt of his dagger. The other brought an ornate flask to his lips. All around the city was alive with bitter mourning, lanterns lit and incense burning with such power that he could smell it from the abandoned merchant's square. There were others gathered here, sellswords and Mage Slayers, priests and pipers; all summoned by a clarion of gold and blood.
"Your attention!"
A man he didn't recognize stood in the center of the square, raising his voice above the low roar of the mercenaries, wrapped in the vaunted garb of his station. The last time he had been in Merrifort, their commander had been Radulf SIein. Radulf had died, or so Morben had heard, by a fall from the high walls. It pained him, briefly, to think that he had never paid respects to the man who had lifted him in station...who had used his authority to lift a green boy from the streets and make a legitimate soldier out of him. Yet, begrudgingly, Morben turned his attention to the wiry lad; as was expected of him.
"I am Orin Norath, commander of the Euphian Guard Corps of Merrifort, and I have been appointed to lead you," though few protested outright, Morben could have sworn that there were a few groans from the crowd. Orin seemed to have caught that, as well, and narrowed his eyes at the crowd. He looked not disimilar to a wolf, Morben realized, with the longness of his face, the wild rise of his hair and the way he gnashed his teeth before speaking. "It is an order from Vigil, those of you who have an issue with my command can drag your sorry asses back to whatever hole you crawled from," his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed in the lantern-light, "We have no need of cowards on this journey."
That seemed to quiet them, well enough; though some still whispered in their small groups. It was then that Morben heard the slow sound of a mourning song, drifting from a temple two streets down. Though it was quiet, it was enough of a distraction to warrant Orin to raise his voice again.
"As you know," he belted out, booming through the near-silence, "we are to track the beasts that attacked Merrifort. The same beasts that slew our beloved council members! Vigil has placed it upon all of you to bring justice to these monstrosities," he folded an arm across his chest and cast his gaze over the crowd. "and myself as well."
The burned man shook his head, slightly. It was always the same with the Euphian Guard Corps; ceremony, ceremony, ceremony. The speech had already become a buzzing noise in his ears, a fly picking at his brain.
"Atayr Quinn and Solen Bree are dead," Morben whispered to nobody, working the leathery ruin of his mouth in near silence as he lowered his eyes to the assemblage, "they don't need justice." Bitterness was best met with bitterness, he knew, so, again, he tipped back the flask and took a long, vigorous drink of the Hattavori Mirth. It was pungent and acidic, somewhere between a wine and hard liquor and left a lingering sourness on his tongue. Thoughts of the immediate future did much of the same.
"Yet, I have been given orders from the council," Orin Norath continued in his mad, regal manner, "I am not to lead this expedition," there were some stifled laughs from the crowd, "but I have been appointed to deliver these writs of temporary leadership to two senior members of the Mage Slayers, they will be leading you." Morben felt his stomach buck, though he could not immediately discern if it was the Mirth or Orin's words. He felt it coming his way, being one of the oldest members present, but wished the responsibility were passed to another. He forced himself to swallow the thin, bilious film that had started to coat his mouth.
The commander of the Euphian Guard Corps of Merrifort made his way through the crowd, his long cloak flowing behind him as people parted for his passage. Morben looked up from the unending maw of his flask in time to lock eyes with the man and accept an outstretched piece of parchment. It was a quick motion that he snatched the paper with, unfolding it briefly.
To Morben Risaac, Mage Slayer Veteran and Member of Squad Thirty,
Due to your previous experiences with vile mages and their aberrant ilk, it has fallen upon the council to deign you as a leader of the second team of this expedition. Your mission parameters have already been detailed, but it falls upon myself to instruct you as to the specifics of your duties.
You are to ensure that losses are minimal and to support the first team by providing combat support and coordinating reconnaissance. With your knowledge of the Godwastes and exemplary performance in battle, we have high expectations in this regard.
Yildeane bless you,
Esswar Ranpust.
A list of names was scrawled at the bottom, those who would be under his command.
He gave a rueful snort and folded the paper closed, stuffing it into his pocket. Orin lingered over him, tracing the lines of his burned face with fervent eyes and a look that bordered perilously close to pity. Morben briefly considered lashing out at the man, taking his feet from under him with a kick just to satiate his unjust rage. Yet, he did not and the look continued to bore into him.
After a moment, Orin spoke.
"I expect you won't be drinking on the road, Morben Risaac," Orin turned away before the burned man had a chance to spit even a syllable at him and made his way to another.
"Of course I'll be fucking drinking," he mumbled beneath his acrid breath, watching Norath's progress toward the other 'senior member'. Atheri was as beautiful as always, he noted absently, though she held a stern expression. Morben didn't bother watching the exchange, he knew how it would go; favoring, instead, turning his eyes to the sky and draining the last of his flask. He felt a few eyes on him, from the crowd, unknowns weighing his worth against the word of Vigil and the promise of glory if their mission should succeed. He expected most of those ambitious folk would be dead before long, so he let the itching and prying sensation that their stares produced dig into him.
An uncertain haze seemed to have settled over him, as Morben opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like an eternity. In truth only an hour or more had passed, he had refilled his flask somewhere and had taken up in the guts of a creaking ship. There were others there, pressed tightly together, awaiting their departure before the dawn. Orin Norath had not seen fit to join them on their expedition, he recalled, insisting, instead, on offering them his 'best wishes' and giving them one of his 'finest' ships. Morben folded his arms, finally accustomed to the slight rocking of the ship. The steps that had brought him here seemed like a distant dream, though he knew he had yet to slip into sleep.
Pale yellow light filled the cabin, casting an eerie glow on the gathered and huddled forms. Morben looked throughout the room, taking note of those who would follow him.
"We set out within the hour," came a rough shout from above, accompanied by a few heavy stomps on the deck above, "I hope the lot of you are ready for the Godwastes!"
Morben Risaac contained his disgust with a grunt and took another long drink of Hattavori Mirth.