Where am I?
Memnoch was in an utterly alien forest; woods and fog, as far as the eye could see.
An endless tide of mist, ashen clouds in the form of heavy wisps, and decaying trees filled his youthful gaze. Taking a cautious step forward, he tilted his head from left to right in a sideways glance, and, feeling compelled to go forth into the unknown, he marched onward. The adolescent Memnoch’s hide sandals, never intended for such a hike, became coated in a brownish-grey concoction of festering ash, mud and dirt. The thick, heavy earth stuck to him like hot glue, tugging at his ankles as if it were suddenly animated. Within a few more steps, both his feet and his shins were covered entirely in the same disgusting shade.
As the terrain became harsher and the ground even more porous and jagged, the stench that filled the woods followed suit soon after. The scent became gut wrenching as it filled Memnoch's nostrils with each and every breath. Death. The putrid aroma of rotten corpses hung in the air, so much that it was nearly palpable. It lingered; even more so, it festered. Forced to inhale the sickly air, Memnoch felt himself being drawn closer to the very source of the nausea, despite all rationality. The further he went, the stronger it became.
The misty ground cover dissipated as the wind let loose a low, howling cacophony. The tree line thinned along with it.
Memnoch found what he was looking for, although, he was never truly aware that he was searching for something in the first place.
There, a lone child sat, a solemn island in a sea of ragged bodies. He wept beside a decapitated corpse that Memnoch made out to be the remains of a man, encased in chainmail and other battledress, but caked by detritus more than anything else. The little boy's tears stained the scarcely few places on the man’s tunic that scarlet blood had not. His sobs fell like such a fruitful harvest that his cries evolved into rain, and, after it, his high-pitched roars of anguish became the sounds of a thunderclap.
There, the child sat, looming over the remains of a single and very red warrior in a not-so silent vigil.
The boy's eyes glowed with an icy blue color, similar to that of a northern ocean, and his tousled hair was a mass of wavy dirty blonde locks, like a field of unwashed wheat. In a betrayed defiance of his young adolescence, the child's face was worn with both mental and physical scars and scuff-marks.
Memnoch was overcome with a dire need to reach him.
He moved closer, each step becoming more laborious than the last; as the mud became thicker and thicker, as did the smell of humanly carrion.
He stepped once. Then twice. Each time, he was dragged deeper into the soft and nearly suffocating earth, yet, he did not relent. He kept going, even when it began to absorb his being entirely. The very earth inhaled Memnoch and he could do nothing to stop it, nothing to resist its hungering maw. He struggled and he fought against it, forlorn, not for his own sake, but, peculiarly, for the child's. He reached for the boy in a heartbreaking show of utter desperation.
Suddenly, disappearing through the filthy soil, Memnoch was plunged into an endless free-fall into what seemed like nothingness. He tried to scream, but he had no mouth from which to utter the cry.
Memnoch shot up to attention, shouting, his wide-eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and stained his feathery cot. A dream?
No, a nightmare.
In the morning, at first light, Memnoch approached the old, decrepit steps of the witch's hut. She told the local islanders that her name was Dalyia.
Dalyia, praised for her magical prowess, was said to be a fate-seer. Fate-seers, according to popular rumor, could peer into the dreams and thoughts of others, and then proceed to decipher and interpret their meanings to a level of disquieting accuracy. Others said that a handful of skilled fate-seers could go as far as to look into the strands of time and predict future events.
Dalyia also happened to be one of the only inhabitants of the Southern Isle not born of an Anderian bloodline. The people of Anderias did not permit outlanders to come ashore, save for trading purposes, let alone settle on their sacred homeland. She told the village's ruling council of elders that she came from a nearby land on the continent, one that not only stifled her mystic talents, but also forbade them. Those born of her, "Gift,” were imprisoned, executed, or worse; publicly tortured for entertainment.
Memnoch set his right foot on the first step, making a hearty groan echo throughout the otherwise still air of the rainy woods. Choking down a nervous gulp down his tight throat, he trembled slightly as he reached out to touch the door. Memnoch’s home, like all South Anderian homes, hadn’t a single door. Doors shut out others; they belonged to those who had something to hide.
Memnoch, mustering up some courage, let his knuckles rap on the door with an increasingly nosier knock. His response was silence and nothing more. He lowered his fist and brought it up for one final attempt, yet, before he could even touch it, the door opened with an eerie creak. No one had opened it from the other side.
Despite his nerves, Memnoch entered the witch’s abode. The one-room dwelling, made of thin wood and thatch, had no light, save for the meager illumination that poured out from the open doorway.
The door slammed shut without warning.
“Good morning, young one.”
Memnoch nearly leapt out of his skin. “I am here to see the fate-seer, the one they call Lady Dalyia. Show yourself!”
Haggard laughter filled the room; laughter that sounded like it consisted of hundreds of imps sniggering together in some sort of hellish choir. The shadowy woman said, at last, “One cannot command those that do not swear fealty to him, child.”
The words almost slithered around Memnoch. They echoed in front of him, and then, from behind once more. The soft yet commanding murmur of words surrounded him and everything in the room.
The voice spoke once more, “Tell me, little Anderian.”
“What?” Memnoch muttered under a gasp of held breath.
The formerly still candelabras burst to fiery life in unison. The candles burst into warming flames, sending a sudden flash of bright light throughout the entirety of the once dark hut. Memnoch shielded his eyes from the blinding radiance with a slight wave of his hand.
The wrinkled and aged face of the seer appeared, lit up by the candlelight. She smiled coyly.
“Tell me about your dream, of course.”
“The dream,” he trailed off into a stunned silence.
“Dreams, child,” she said. “Those are what bring otherwise busy men to an old crone’s home, is it not?
He nodded with a bow of his head.
“Go on, then; relax, and speak. I have all the time in the world,” she flashed a smirk, one of peculiar familiarity.
Memnoch recounted every detail: the gnarled, lifeless trees, the haunting clouds of fog and mist, and the air flecked with ash and the stench of death. However, he focused on that sole island in the ocean of dead the most, the lonely child in the sea of bodies.
Dalyia had begun to prepare tea amidst the boy’s tale. Memnoch examined the liquid from afar, inspecting it. The amber-colored tea bubbled and smelled of citrus fruit.
“Then I fell into the earth,” he said, “Into… nothingness.”
“Memnoch, that was no mere dream,” she said, as she placed two tin mugs on the small end table that sat between them.
“Well, surely it wasn’t real!”
She shook her head, “Oh, it was real, my dear child.” She poured the steaming liquid into both of their cups, “By its own definition of reality, that is.”
Memnoch leaned in close, eagerly clinging to each and every word she let loose from her wizened lips.
“The dream you witnessed was something truly special; something extraordinary. A construct that borders the very fragile line between reality and the spiritual plane.” She looked up from their two hot beverages, and stated with a sudden burst of youthful energy, “A premonition.”
“A vision?”
“Indeed.”
“A vision? A vision of what?” He questioned Dalyia, his voice coated in an armor of skepticism.
“Not even someone of my talents can be so certain. Nonetheless, its importance cannot be denied, Memnoch.”
“Importance? Visions? It was just a fevered dream, nothing more; I know it,” he said.
She replied, “Then why did you come?”
He went silent.
Dalyia broke the silence and spoke quietly, yet with a tone of authority, putting an end to Memnoch’s idle thought, “The boy.”
“The boy?”
“I suspect that he is the importance. He is the key. You said you wanted to reach out to him, but, I ask: why?”
He paused, and without warning, said, “I wanted to protect him.”
“Of everything in that wretched dream of yours; the thick fog, the twisted woods, the ash-filled sky, and the corpses, what stood out the most to you?”
Memnoch remarked, his eyes wide, “…The boy.”
“You have found your one, Memnoch. You have found the one who needs you at his right hand the most; the one you must protect until the island of your birth beckons for you to return to her shores. You, Memnoch, have found your chosen."
Her voice reached a chilling crescendo, "And my intuition tells me that this chosen child is destined for greatness; whether that is great fortune or great calamity, I do not know. But you, child of Anderias, will be his shepherd, for as long as causality allows."
Breathing apparatuses, peculiar yet functional relics produced during the time of the Themieans' reign, concealed a pair of stoic and emotionless faces; these sinister characteristics assembled the very calling card of Bite’tour’s city watch. Two of their drably-clothed number stood with a foreboding demeanor on one of the town's many street corners like dark silhouettes set against the vivid horizon of dusk’s weary sun. The shorter of the two watchmen propped the totality of his weight against the defaced side of a cobblestone building with his hand, concealed in a pallid glove, resting uneasily on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Out of his mask's fog-filled eye coverings pierced a duo of glowing orbs, both of them an icy blue, like the seas that lay to the farthest reaches of the north. A stray fringe of his unkempt hair dangled precariously in front of his goggles, the chestnut-colored strand heaving to and fro with every breath he took. They somehow danced in both an idle yet menacing fashion, jumping from passerby to passerby, as the young man silently examined each and every one of them within a moment’s notice. And so was his daily routine.
He spoke, continuing to scan the crowds, nonetheless, “Her highness’ purse must be hurtin’.”
“What?”
“The Duchess, you fool.”
“What of her?” Asked his more veteran partner, ignoring his rather insulting quip.
He raised an eyebrow, “Haven’t you heard?”
“What the hell are you on about, ‘eh?”
“Gascoigne heard tell that the Duchess is hiring,” he spat out the word like an oath, “Crows.”
“Black-cloaks?” The latter questioned.
He nodded his head, “Old ‘Gas said that little lard in the treasurer’s wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“That’s just a royal rumor, boy. Best stay away from those; troubles always walk hand in hand with ‘em.”
“I’m telling you, it’s true! And if the Duchess wants some sell-swords at her heel she must be gearing up for something big.”
The older watchman let out a fatigued grunt, “So, you’re best friends with the Red Lady these days, Motte? Is that it? You know what she's planning? Well, tell her to send a damned raise my way, wouldn’t you?”
“Hey, piss off," he growled.
“Besides – if her highness was hiring, which she isn’t – what are some haggard mercenaries with a fancy for dark colors going to do that our steel can’t, ‘hm?”
"Mm," murmured a woman. She was yet another voice in an endless void, a mouth that whispered sweet nothings to a man who hardly cared to listen. She purred, letting lose another lustful hymn through her pursed ruby lips, "I'll admit, my lord, I was doubtful of your… prowess, at first."
Nary a response came from her partner.
Gently, she brought herself from out underneath the furs of the bedding with a soothing yawn. The hanging drapes that shielded the room from the voyeurs of the outside world - embroidered in a white-gold pattern, giving the lovers' den falsified delusions of grandeur - fluttered as the cool breeze pushed through the open window like a phantom of the morning. The bracing winds nipped at the woman's bare porcelain flesh and opened their disheveled berth to the rousing elements of the scenic village that surrounded them. On her shins, the Prince's lady of the evening slithered across the feathered mattress as if she were a serpent, accentuating her already statuesque features. She swayed her hips in a hypnotizing rhythm as she set her warm hands on the well-defined shoulders of her partner, beginning to caress them sensually.
The maiden smiled tenderly, "It was a pleasant surprise."
At last, the Prince offered a somber response, "I'm glad I did not disappoint you, milady."
He tilted his head in her direction; it was out of pure courtesy and nothing more, nor, nothing less. The Prince's countenance, as always, was hidden and his true emotions indecipherable under that wretched iron masquerade of his - piercing blue eyes peered out of it, yet, they were all that could be seen.
"What troubles you?" She questioned. She let her tired eyes drift to the ground as one of her petite fingers tugged idly at a curl of her fiery red hair.
When she raised her scrutiny the Prince had already dressed in his breeches, boots and donned a leather belt before he proceeded to swiftly button his undershirt. Even in the habits of every day life he had the efficiency of a military-man, yet, the grace of a noble, as well. He turned to face the rather large wooden bureau's mirror, its dusty glass marred by scratches and several small brands of womanly lips, stained red by the cherry wine the couple had drunkenly shared the night prior.
"Will I ever see you again, at least?"
The Prince was as prim and proper as he was when he entered the barmaid's bar and inn just a day ago. She thought he appeared to be of royal breeding but, for some reason, he smelled peculiarly of the wilderness. His black trench coat, made of finely imprinted and hardened leather, was fastened tight around the remainder of his garb at the waistline.
He said, "No." The Prince's head, crowned with dirty blonde hair, was covered by his tricorne cap as he muttered, "I am nothing to you, milady. Believe me when I say this: forget me. I am a mere ghost of humanity. A beast. And you are the maiden fair; find yourself a real prince.”
The young man's steel-toed boots thudded against the room's decrepit floorboards. Before taking his leave, he paused, "It was a pleasure. Thank you."
He stepped away from her somber presence and down the stairs out into the hustle and bustle of the inn's taproom. The pitter-patter of heavy raindrops crashed onto the thin roof and echoed throughout the entirety of the building’s great hall, gradually being drowned out over the din of the early morning's gossip. The walls, painted a sickly shade of eggshell white, were peeling in several places; it had chipped away, with copious amounts of shavings scattered across the old wooden floor planks. A once brightly colored tapestry, now turned into dull motley by the passage of time, hung from the withering surface carelessly. The entirety of The Drunken Huntsman possessed an overwhelming odor - a bittersweet concoction of mead, blood, sweat and the saltiness of the tears of the damned and the sweat of hardworking men and women - that filled the Black Prince's nostrils with each and every inhalation. The rather seedy establishment was filled with a variety of people; he saw a few graceful Anderians, a group of pale Ghantish highlanders and Nedieans, a shining Hemithean, and even a stout Dyrman, a breed of man rarely seen. The Dyrman sat at an oaken table much too small for his colossal build with a foaming mug in his grasp, talking to a hooded woman of a shady disposition that was petite compared to the titan that was a mere foot across from her on the other side of the table.
"Yes... mmm... I see it, I do! I see a gleaming future ahead of you, my friend... a future paved with gold!"
The burly foreigner grunted something in his unintelligible tongue and clapped his hands jubilantly, rocking the table all the while.
The Prince trudged past the scheming seer and further meandered his way through the masses of bar-goers. He caught the wandering eyes of many, man and woman alike, yet, he paid them no heed; he just kept moving forward.
Two men stood in front of his footpath, hardly eager to move for one reason or another, and so the Prince, uttering a small, “Excuse me,” pushed past them.
One of them, obviously claimed by the drink, grasped at his right wrist and pulled him back by the gauntlet. He growled, “’Ey, ironsides, watch where you’re fuckin’ walking!” His breath smelled like piss and his ritually sharpened teeth were almost just as yellow.
The Black Prince said deadpan, “I watched. But did you listen?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” but the drunkard was cut off mid-sentence. The Prince’s gauntlet, carved with a metal fetish in the shape of a closed eye, suddenly opened and peered at the bar-goer intently. As he jumped back, practically staggering and falling over, he shouted, “What in the name of the Three is that?”
The bar went quiet and its patrons looked over to the scene unfolding, as nosy and as suspicious as one could expect from such rough tavern folk.
The Prince let out a light laugh and pat the drunken buffoon’s much more sober friend – a very lanky Shiedan by the looks of him – on the shoulder, “I suggest keeping a tighter leash on your dear friend, my good fellow; seems to me that he cannot handle his ale.”
The lord-commander of the Black Company swung around, his onyx cloak wrapping around his back, and sauntered away towards the door, “And, please, tell him to quit making such a ruckus. He’s gone and ruined these poor ladies and gentleman’s good time!”
And out he went, back into the world of blood and coin from whence he came.
The Lord of Crows traversed the narrow walkways of Rousse; one of Bite’tour’s many outlying shantytowns, it embodied the infamy of its mother city, albeit, on a much smaller and simpler scale. The streets were filled with a light fog and were covered with piles of sewage and a seemingly endless amount of rain puddles. The Prince’s scuffed leather boots waded through the filthy mess with an incessant slush, yet, if such an ordeal bothered him, it did not show. As he wandered forth with his destination in mind – a small hostel where his comrades laid their weary heads for the past night – he saw Rousse amidst something he could only label as an identity crisis. Fiery red poppies grew from the cracks in the cobblestone of buildings and roads alike; prostitutes worked the street corners, yet, children played on those very same corners during the day. It was duality at its finest. Innocence, nature and beauty contrasting against what may very well be beauty in its own right, independence from traditional stigma and the enforced status quos of morality.
Regardless, that hardly changed the putrid stench that hung in the air; even an entire meadow of those brilliantly colored and aromatic poppies couldn’t make Rousse not smell like shit and cigar smoke.
Passing by a few merchants, the Prince listened to them bark prices at him for various bits, baubles and even some oddly phallic looking vegetables.
This city never disappoints, he thought to himself.
At last, the Black Prince approached the front courtyard of the hostel, eyeing his fellow soldier and favorite nihilist, Gollome Farelle. A disgruntled native of Bite’tour himself, Gollome sulked, stroking his – what he thought to be magnificent – beard idly whilst sitting on those uneven stone steps.
“Gollome! Good morn, my friend,” bellowed the Prince with a tip of his cap. “We have meeting with the Duchess’ representative within the hour; you and the others shall meet me in the rear courtyard – that dismal garden with the broken statues, mind you.”
“Now do me a favor and grab our whelps by the scruff of their necks. And tell them they’ll be covered in entrails by ‘morrow’s night…
We have a job to do.”
We have a job to do.”
