3. Therapy: A Session With Cormac

Therapy: A Session With Cormac


  • The long descent, deep down into the heart of the world it seemed would be endless. Ever sloping; ever downward, grating on his boots even with the heels dug in. Finally he reached the bottom; Cormac, bare-chested and with his bare hands held out before him. He passed by a great tower of stone that seemed to grow and twist up into the black ceiling of the caverns, he passed and descended deeper... deeper... deep into a purple haze, from within quiet barking - whimpering, whining... a whole litter of puppies maybe -- no, two litters -- three dozen puppies all rushing him from the reeky dank fog of the Underdark; yellow furred and grinning pup faces. All of them suddenly upon him. Cormac laughed and fell back, the warm fuzzy creatures swarming over him - nipping, licking, yapping merrily. His face contorted, full of joy and mirth and laughter like he hadn't laughed in so long. He played and wrestled with the little ones for so long that he didn't even notice the giant mother bumble up behind him. It's huge boofy head bowling him over; but he was so careful and agile so as to not harm the small ones. All of them barked at once, a mighty high-pitched yap - yap! Their big brown eyes and wagging tails amused the large man so, but this was a curious thing to him in this place. Yap - yap! The barking faltered and the dogs walked backwards into the mist -- or perhaps it rolled forward and consumed them.

    "Come back!" he tried to call out. "Come back!" he wanted them so. But the words wouldn't come, couldn't come; was he breathing? They didn't come back. And the mist receded, and he was standing again. The rolling mist poured back to reveal faces before him; a legion of faces all worked into horrific shapes. Their eyes seemed to follow him and that made him shiver - his blood ran cold, so cold that he might die he thought in the dark. He faltered; he stepped back and bumped into another - more faces? But this one was fair, beautiful, singing -- Sebrienne? No... Isolde -- no, it was Hana the blacksmith or... Asha? Thau'lira? No - it was all of them in a semi-circle at his back; he laughed to himself because they were all singing in one voice. But the words were gibberish, or non-words. The chorus "camroC pu ekaw" was too fast for him to catch, and lilted as high as the sound of starlight it seemed. Buzzing, insectile. All of the voices together buzzed like a choir of angels, "camroC pu ekaw" and at the same time ushered him forward. Forward, towards a black wolf that lay in the dark. Gigantic and with his paws crossed before him. The wolf spoke in the words of a man, it said to Cormac thus: "Truly no one is outstanding without me, nor fortunate; I embrace all those whose hearts ask for me. He who goes without me goes about in the company of death; and he who bears me will remain lucky for ever. But I stand lower than earth and higher than heaven." Cormac froze - felt himself freeze - felt eternity pass by around him, his gaze set fixed forever and a day upon the face of the wolf who'd posed this impossible riddle that he could never answer. A thousand winters came and went it seemed before he felt warmth again, this forgotten thing. Asha stood there wearing little, perhaps nothing - he could not tell for her hair had grown wild, or was it Lady Firehair - Sune herself that caressed him so and thawed the blood in his veins. She kissed Cormac's ear, and he delighted in it, and the word seemed to slither into his ear canal in the trail from her wet kiss and belch out of his mouth, in her voice; "Humility" returned Cormac and the beast was gone.

    The floating bodies of the choir swam around him in the dark, ever singing, their voices rising higher to a hum as they ascended. Cormac was left alone on the stony floor looking up at them, watching them drift and float away. He wished he could bring them back or ask them to wait. His heart was aching as darkness and cold surrounded him again; and again he faltered - again he was pushed back. Again a body pressed against him. A firm, flat chest; hairless but broad and strong, warm against his naked back. A man's voice tumbled out and it was not his own - he recognized it, Reemul, the horseman. The fighter's hands worked Cormac's shoulders, fingers sinking into his muscles as he spoke his comforting words - words that were thick and heavy with seduction. Cormac's jaw clenched and he was ashamed, aroused even, the man said "Leap"; and Cormac did as he was bade, and he plunged skyward into a pool of glowing green; and he kicked his legs and pumped, and almost drowned in the glowing pool as his singing companions all fell away from him. He felt alone in the pool. He swam upwards. Thau'liira's face in the dark water as singing and he passed her, she smiled and touched his body with her naked hand as he moved, gliding past her towards the surface; the sensation caused his heart to swell and suddenly he broke the surface; leapt from the surface, and stood upon the rippling reflective glassy pool. The singing of his companions was all around him again and their chorus was bring; "!camroC pu ekaw", "!camroC pu ekaw", and he bathed in the glory of it. His skin felt dry and warm, he stood naked before them all and laughed with their song.

    He watched his friends like the stars and celestial bodies above him, wheeling and whirling, singing and guiding him. He sat in his canoe and pulled himself onward upon the rippling body of the lake. For miles and miles he paddled, he grew not weary nor did he seek rest all along his journey. He knew in his heart and mind, in his very soul that he was going to join those singing beauties above him. He sailed on.

    The boat ran aground suddenly, and an endless typhoon raged. Rain whipped and lashed him from the side and up above, high on the mountain in the dark, he saw great trees growing. They swayed angrily in the ceaseless wind. But he needed shelter and his friends, all of them, grabbed him by the hands and sang into his face, their eyes wild and full of terror it seemed - and they dragged him farther and closer to those tall threatening trees. They creaked and cracked against the wind, and their small apple-sized fruits fell and crashed to the ground, crumbled half of his singing angles to dust as they pounded from the high boughs to the low earth. The broken hands that gripped him were brushed away by those that were still fresh, and he was wrestled through the rain and falling fruits out into a wide open space; black and barren save for the most tiniest pin-prick of light.

    He turned back, back to the shadow - back to face those tall deadly trees in the dark; but he stood face to face with red lipped Isolde. She stood in a gown of silver silk so thin that all her womanly figure was outlined against the bleak murky shadows of the Underdark. He felt her hands caress his forearms, every individual hair brought to attention by her graceful touch, and her eyes like gemstones burning against his own gaze. He felt soft in her hands, and she spoke to him in a lovers' voice, ".og s'eL !mih nmaD .su raeh neve t'nac eh timmaD !DRATSAB DIPUTS UOY .dratsab diputs, htlif sih ni ereht mih evael - taorht sih tuc tsuj ,mih lliK". He looked into her eyes dreamily as she sang the nonsense words to him. And when she pressed hers silk-clad breasts against him and kissed his cheek, he felt electrified by the sudden thrust of force behind it. He let out a dreamy moan, and he was surprised when a similarly dressed George Longcloak came to him from the other side and laid a similarly electrifying kiss on his other cheek; he felt his face flush and redden as the purple beard brushed against his manful jawline. Cormac's chest heaved in a great sigh. The three danced together, closely as though they'd just been bound in marriage. Cormac's head swam but he laughed giddily, and felt a warmth between his legs.

    It was while he was dancing and writhing with those two that Erilo descended from on high, twirling slowly and softly as a feather - his face drawing ever nearer to his from above like a spider on a string. He felt the Half-Orc's big wet lips press against his forehead, right between the eyes; his eyes fixed shut and he cried out in euphoria as the tusked teeth behind the green skinned lips nipped at the tip of his nose. His eyes met Erilo's, and through a kissing mouth the purple-hooded-mostly-nude Orcblood whispered "!ereh attuo m'I - ti htiw lleh ,flesmih dessip eh kniht I !kciS", and Cormac smiled, his eyes opened with heavy seducers' lids. But all were gone. And he again was lonely; though closer to the white light that shone through the opening in the dark.

    He looked at it closely, and revealed to him were the soft lilly-white legs of Sebrienne, which he had never in his life seen but could well imagine apparently, her naked navel and body with her hands behind her head and her fingers thrust deep into her golden hair. Between her thighs the whitest beam of light; blinding to behold -- but Cormac stared, and within the light, there staring back at him, Cormac staring within the light and staring back at him, and Cormac was staring back at him, and back at him stared Cormac... until it maddened him and his head reeled and he spun about -- and saw Elves. All dressed in white and enshrouded with the white light that seemed to beam from all of his companions; all of whom were there too, all holding hands and slowly walking in a circle around him humming their song. The tallest Elf stood before him, beard long and white as snow. It stared into Cormac's eyes as it parted its beard whiskers and gave birth to yet another small Elf, which bore the face of Rey', and clung to Cormac's leg and called him 'mother' in its strange tongue he thought. He squirmed with joy and relief and joined in the circle dance with his wonderful singing friends; and they danced for the rest of eternity it seemed. The endless refrain of "camroC pu ekaw" sung in crystalline voices by his friends, and by the Elves.

    The warrior became dizzy and fell forward, his guts fell out onto the floor and he vomited vigorously until a crimson lake of blood pooled out in front of him. Wild-eyed he looked around for something, some reason for this - but all had grown dark again; his stomach turned, and he threw up again. He felt lumps in his throat and he couldn't breathe, sweat rolled off him in beads as he gagged and heaved. A hand spilled forth out of his mouth, and then another; and he felt the fingernails tear and claw all the way from his spilled miles-long guts, crawling all the way up and out of his throat; and it burned and it stank. And in the black at the edge of his pool of blood, a lapping sound. Lapping all around, giggling and lapping. Porcelain faces on the edge of shadow staring back at him - all around him, lapping the blood and laughing at him. They skittered closer on too many legs - spiders - spiders with weird faces! He fell back, ass in the wet, and he tried to scurry away but he slipped. And they came upon him and laughed, still, and they stabbed him with their legs. And their laughter grew louder, and their faces all changed -- and those that were upon him were his friends; he wanted to scream! The terror burned him, fried his brains he thought.

    And there he sat the back room of some dossers' shack in the back edge of town. His fist wrapped round his sack of mushrooms, sitting in his filth unmoving - his unblinking gray eyes staring with tears streaming down his cheeks; was he laughing to hard? Is he hurt? It's hard to ask, it's hard to say. From one minute to the other he wears a grin; a savage look, defiant and raw. The other forlorn and melancholy. Sometimes lesser men come and beat the unmoving hulk. Some speak of murdering him and taking his treasure. A couple of blows to the side of his head as he dreams of soft kisses. A bloodied nose from another. He's not even there, it seems, not really. The man weeps and laughs absent sanity as his brain tries to make sense of the horrors of the Underdark. Try to make sense of the man he is, or was, or has become...


  • In the end, the man died with horror in his eyes. His head thrown back with his last words, a pleading cry for mercy.

    Cormac had decided early on, days in advance -- perhaps at the dawn of time when light first pierced darkness and shone upon the world, illuminating such things as pride and bold stupidity. He was determined by the time they reached the front lines, the breach into Col Geroldine's last stronghold, to leave a lasting impression. He would show those remaining men on the enemy's side that there were far more terrible things in the world than 'Bane'. He'd challenge a God, vie to wrest ownership of part of his portfolio -- his lordship over terror. Cormac Randolph would once again reave a broad and bloody wound straight through the very heart of the battlefield wearing only the agility of the wolf and Tempus' favor for armor. He was mad.

    Mad, and disappointed. He learned quickly that most of Col's forces were undead, that only a straggling few were living men. The last of his troops, maybe one in ten for every risen corpse. Most of the living enemies were archers, no less, whose arrows barely bit if they even came close to striking him in his battle-trance. At least some of them tried to turn and run. Tried.

    The report came in after they'd pushed deep into the territory that the Zhentarim had claimed. Forces split, one side will fall or the other - they were told they couldn't reinforce both. One side, the remaining Knights from Moonreach. On the other, Cormac's riders - the Tuigans who'd given to him their devoted and unwavering loyalty. Isolde spoke first, the first knife to pierce him all day would be her words, then the others came forward and shared her thought. Half a dozen blades in his back while they showed theirs to him, as they turned to aid the Moonreachers - who'd by now numbered so few that saving them was all but a waste of time, at least in his pragmatic eyes. Cormac refused. His words were no knife but a stone wall, he'd refused and he said he'd go his own way - save his own people. He wasn't surprised to be cut loose and left alone.

    The sounds of war filled the forest all about him before too long. He ran, he ran with his head ducking under boughs and snapping branches underfoot. His wolf-pelt cloak sweeping behind him and giving the visage of a shadowy monster among the trunks. Hoofbeats. The sounds of screaming horses were somehow more unsettling than the screams of their riders. Broken men and torn up horse corpses littered the forest floor, their entrails and parts scattered high into the trees. A red rain that made the forest floor stink as blood dripped down and painted the white-silver bark of the highland birch forest. Some great enemy would be present here, he was certain.

    The undead horrors undisturbed for the most part by the sharp arrows flung from the riders' shortbows as they charged and feinted on the backs of their ponies. Randolph burst forth from such a feint, a lone warrior on foot among a sea of light horse, his huge axe held above his head as he roared into the enemy line. A handful of riders followed him into the melee with their sabers drawn - made bold by the sight of their leader, sharing in his warlike frenzy. They met the chief necromancer, a captain among the enemy. Wrapped in magicked linen and wearing a headdress of brass, or gold, set with lapis and jewels. He saw spell-forged chains of ethereal light whip out from the mummy's magic crook and lash man and horse to pieces. He saw a target worth fighting, and engaged. His axe bore down and caught the khopesh in the mummy's other hand. It would fight, then. The mummy more than matched him in nimbleness and moved with eerie quickness. Dashing from left to right, slashing with its strange sword and thrusting its strange wand at him. He, kicking and wildly hacking, thrashing madly with his axe to try and claim a hit. The mummy was not prepared for Cormac's savagery, and the finality of it became reality - it was over quickly. He smashed the golden mask; clay, nothing more than painted clay - bone clad in thin brown, almost red skin. Dim lights in the sockets of what once may have been eyes stared blankly at him over a stitched thin line that could've been a mouth. The momentary off-guard stare that was too human, the moment he needed to strike once more and crush the skull of the evil thing with the ashwood shaft of his terrible axe. The linen bandages fell like weightless cotton, everything within spun away on the wind as if it had never been. The pale outline of a noble lady shimmered, he thought, perhaps he caught glimpse of her... and she was gone, too.

    Cormac caught his breath as the riders ran down the last of the undead from some long-ago war, a black-lipped grin beneath the wolf-pelt hood that covered most of his face. His body painted in blood from the gore-strewn trees, his boots filthy and scuffed from treading the bones and rusted armor of his foes. He was alone - surrounded by his men, elated at their victory. But alone, absent his companions. A lonesome win.

    The riders rode on. Cormac trailed behind until the sound of many hooves was no longer in his ears, though they weren't hard to track. It wasn't too long before he found the others again. There was a calm stillness in the air in the moments between places, like nothing existed there but wind. He wondered if he'd be missed if he veered left or right off the track and ran from here to nowhere, to a place where the legend of Cormac didn't exist...

    There was no final battle. The captain, the Lich, betrayed his general and stood his undead army down. Col had no more men, and the gates of his fortress were thrown open.

    When they caught him finally, he was not the man they'd met before with an army at his back. A wretched ruin of a man shoveling gold into sacks and rambling to himself. Cormac heard the man blame his folly on everything else, on circumstance and luck. Saw the fear in Bane's champion when he turned and saw the Geese. For Cormac, this signalled the end of his war. The end of everything. Col's life ended many weeks before Reyhenna gripped him by his mop of hair and pulled back his head to expose his fear-choked throat, months before she told him the dagger in her hand was enchanted with potent magic that granted True Death - soul and all - and cut his neck from ear to ear.

    The man died with horror in his eyes. Cormac's were filled with jealousy; True Death... peace.


  • Another week of constant violence. A Kingdom of Dogs he'd called them, and they were dogs after all. Died like them. Fought like them. Hellhounds, wolves, foxes all. Dogs. Even Isolde had bared her teeth more and more often of late. Aoth and Reyhenna -- Elizabeth that is -- had taken to barking and biting. Loyal George snarled and raised his haunches, even while his nipping pup Perom snapped and yapped at his side. Dogs. Hellhounds. Cormac, a wild dog in his own right, felt now more than ever like he did not fit in. His world was growing strange and changing right before his eyes, the people themselves were changed. Changed into dogs he supposed.

    He'd been staying in the city. The Tuigans had taken over his grasslands and his marshes, and his hall was now bright and warm with warriors and song and his hearth was always warm though he seldom visited outside of those brief moments where direction or honors were needed, or wanted. They'd been a successful lot and he had no doubt that he'd pay dear for his good fortune. Eventually.

    He was always welcome at the Regal, his usual room (upstairs, third door on the left) was where he'd retire at night. Surrounded by the lonely noise of lovers and their inevitable quarrels, the welling blusterous threats of violence from the common room below and the sharp response from bouncers and bartender. He found comfort in the chaos of it, the consistent unpredictable certainty of it. And so he lay with his hands behind his head as he always did. And he drifted after a time to sleep.

    You can't win. Juniper's voice, he looked down into her eyes. Her arms around his waist. You can't win. You're not strong enough. She was warning him with a smile on her face, with love in her voice. They're all going to die because of you. She whispered tenderly, almost singsong. The ashy white cobblestones they were standing on just outside the palace doors were skulls he realized. He wasn't surprised to see that there were thousands of them all bleached to bone white. The door is ajar. He unlocked it, and it is ajar. It rests now but the door is unlocked and ajar. He didn't understand what that meant. He followed the path of skulls with his eyes until they met hers again, Juniper's, no longer with her arms around him but far off beneath a black, starless sky with a sun - not a moon - that radiated dark instead of light. Juniper whose eyes were not pretty and purple but shone yellow, whose hair was not the colour of pink flowers but was black against the unnatural light. Who was herself a dog -- a black dog, a night wolf with outstretched wings. She spoke finally as the black snow fell to cover the grinning skulls that paved the world, words of heraldry or harkening. Another nightmare, another riddle.

    You are not strong enough Evenbeast. But the door is unlocked and ajar. Have you the strength to push it all the way open and to 'see', finally 'see' what lies beyond? It could all be yours; they will all die because of you - walk this path, walk the path of bones; red and unforgiving.

    The night passed swiftly. He woke before day broke, the dream fading from his memory as he sat at the edge of his big and lonely bed with thoughts only on how damned dry his throat was and how his shoulders ached from hurling boulders and men like pieces of straw. How he'd thrown the king's geas but would evermore be brought to heel like a dog, commanded to attack. To kill.


  • Cormac hesitated, the thought pierced his mind like one of the horselords' arrows. He imagined in a fleeting daydream that she'd be standing there watching over his shoulder, likely poised to shriek out and protest, screaming her prayer to the monolith that he'd become like some religious fanatic - begging him to show mercy. Oh well. Nothing else for it he supposed, and the ax fell.

    The wind blew through the canyon. A death moan though the cowardly Khahan himself had barely made a sound beyond his bargaining. Did a bird cry overhead? Or was it the whinny of horses scenting blood that broke the silence, perhaps? Washed in the blood of his fallen foe, there stood Cormac Randolph amid the cries of 'Khahan Cormac! Cormac Khahan!', and so they sealed their fates. He'd wonder meanwhile if they'd share his prophetic doom, the curse he spit into the dirt before their now slain chief. "...I am a curse. First I'll take your life, and then I'll end your tribe - scatter them to the wind like dust. I am your doom!". They ate his horse.

    Perom had been quick to remind Cormac that doing so would defeat the purpose of them being there in the first place. The pragmatic almost smiled at that. But doom would follow, his curse would be an affliction of thunderous hooves and raining arrows. Death would be driven before him and in his wake would be the trampled bodies of tyrants; and he supposed that this was good.

    The girl that hated him bathed his shoulder with some poultice that smelled like horse muck mixed with vinegar-wine, it was cold and sticky, and applied liberally to the dark bruise that had come up a day or so after the 'duel'. Stopping a noble warhorse at full charge with an axe-swing takes its toll. It ached, but she assured him the medicine would work quickly while she treated him at the longhouse. He sat in his great chair where he could see all the way down the hall. Warriors packed into the small building, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with weapons bristling out of the racks. Shields and bows and spears, swords, and glaives. Outside he heard hoofbeats as men trained or engaged in sport. The meadows along the Royal Road would become a sea of yurts and less permanent tents as more and more of the Tuigans poured in. Each with a new rumor or re-telling of Cormac's story. Did they sing of him? Hilariously he knew only one word in their tongue. Their word for 'meat'.

    Some of the younger men had asked about his injured horse. He admitted that his horse had borne many names, usually only when girls had asked. This earned him a scornful tut from the young woman that tended his injury. This in turn earned a din of disapproval and laughter in equal measure. Cormac pondered, and reflected, and then he softened. "...but he is both stubborn and old, and he has earned his retirement. Find him a suitable mare and put him to stud. With luck they'll foal soon and give me another giant to ride...", he said this while wondering if the nameless grey horse would ever recover sound enough to bear him again.

    War was coming. Cormac Khahan decided he would not wait for it to knock upon the door, with swift-riders with Tuigan horse bows he'd make the Zhentarim advance a slow and miserable march. These horse-lords would be a scourge, the Banite would learn to fear the wolf's feathers. His wicked wings would span entire battle lines, as prophesied, the lord valravn.


  • The Serpent's Trail

    A voice, far away at first, familiar, it echoes from a space outside of the museum - from far beyond the tour. Something touches him. The words come through clear.

    That henning tone she always has whenever such a thing happens, she said "You're bleeding", and she dabbed his nose with ... a rag? It smelled of her, even over the livery iron stink of hot blood, the aroma was sweet like Spring flowers and -- he was aware, somewhere inside. A conscious part was brought forward. Some frontal lobe or spiritual inexplicable part had in the time it took to say 'you are bleeding' had woken up. The agonized unwavering customer-service grin he wore might've twitched at the corner. A soft indent on his cheek forming a dimple.

    The custodian, Cormac, led the visitor on - and on it seemed. The greasy dim light of near-spent torches that gave off little heat along with their not-much-light smoldered evenly along the blank wall that wasn't quite there on one side, illuminating what would soon be realized as a huge tapestry that seemed to span from floor to unseen space above. Figures were woven in glittering threads of silk and gold, embroidered in touch-pleasing detail. A heroes fate written in a pattern of delicate string, tales of victory and loss, of tragedy and success, elation and despair. A story written without words that showed times of great hunger and of satisfaction. Days of famine, days of feast. Revelry and anguish. The torches perhaps grew dimmer, or the colorful luster of the tapestry lessened. Distance was counted in hours, hours were spilling into days. The tapestry went on, and on.

    All around it seemed the growing shadow had began enveloping the fabric. The tale, as it went from most present to ancient past appeared to allude to turmoil and chaos, monsters and primordial things that would become giants and dragons, the anarchist ghosts that would become creatures of light and dark, that would become men and the gods of men. A fable writ on painted cloth. Storms of blood and gore and blazing fire, the amalgam of conscious thought and the spirit of mortal dreams. The hero on the tapestry didn't much look like Cormac anymore, a great crown of bone adorned this ancient ruler's head; in another light they might be horns. The sight-senses of the visitor were being assaulted with the images of a violent story with a monstrous beginning, and how would it end? In fire and fury? With lasting peace or endless war? He'd have to look deeper, he'd have to come and see in the dark. The custodian held his grin and stared into the visitor's eyes, beckoning, "follow me" he seemed to say, "follow me and I'll show you", wordlessly and grinning, until the shadows were spilling like water off of, or out from the cloth and onto the floor upon which the pair were walking. The visitor realized, perhaps he'd seen it all along, and had stopped following Cormac into the trap that waited just beyond. Something blacker than shadow moved in the dark, some unseen thing that glistened like oiled leather and was otherwise invisible - right behind Cormac's shoulder. It seemed no small thing, either, for when it rolled in the dark it seemed to pull the atmosphere with it, is mass pulled the air as it passed in the shadows. More than that, it felt as if all of the 'cold' of the ice in which it surely dwelt was drawn to it, too. An oppressive, airless heat stood stagnant in the prelude to its wake. It sounded alive.

    The visitor would finally find what he'd been looking for but the danger had become immense, before he might've caught more than an imaginary glimpse something else came to bear. The creature that had always existed in the dark unexplored places of Cormac's psyche; an entity that was as real and intangible to him as any god. Whether it had come to protect Cormac, this strange art gallery's custodian - or the visitor, itself, or the creature in the dark would always be difficult to determine. From a dark void rather than a flash the half-wolf, half-raven monster came forth to put an end to the tour. The connection was severed.

    The visitor was gone, the tapestry and the statues too. Cormac was sitting at the table where mere moments had passed. Isolde, dabbing under his nose with a cloth. "You're bleeding", she finished saying.

    After no more than a heartbeat Cormac waved her off. "Stop fussing, woman".


  • Avatar - The Eagle Has Landed

    Flickering nothingness draped in and framed by curtains of red velvet, similarly coloured ropes held by sublimely polished brass posts create a barrier between each display as the brightly dressed custodian beckons this mad gallery's sole visitor in. The heels of his tall black boots click on the floor, or perhaps together, as Cormac comes to a complete stop by one of the displays. With a sweep of his arm he directs the visitor's attention to a skinny, long bladed knife, a dull iron-tipped spear, and a small crofters axe that has surely seen better days. The bright red sleeve of his custodians jacket never seems to move up his arm, and the buttons on his pristine white shirt are never anything other then completely straight.

    "This knife belonged to Phyllis who sliced fish into fillets, I took it from her cutting board quite sure she wouldn't miss it.
    And if you'll look right here I'll show you my first spear, taken from a Hirdsman who didn't dare come near.
    A small and rusted hatchet that wobbled at the throat, I took it on a journey when I boarded my first boat.    "

    With a sweep of his other hand another spread of weaponry, his broad customer service grin never leaving his face and Cormac's eyes remain locked with the visitor's. A poorly constructed shortbow with its palm-worn shaft, a pitted longsword with a bloodstained and chipped blade, and a rounded boulder lashed to a wooden shaft, presumably to be used as some manner of warhammer or maul.

    "This bow I carved from fruitwood in order for me to hunt food, but I never hit a damn thing - I was never all that good.
    An Earlsman's longsword came to me - I ended him in a fury, a bastard and a rapist - he died a gutless bully.
    A hammer that I carried it was made of rock and oak, my enemies all knew it as the bane of Ymir's folk.    "

    The visitor communicated to Cormac that these treasures weren't what he wanted to see, he wished to be lead in deeper, he wanted to see something more specific. He insisted, in fact, that he was here to see it. In Cormac's unconscious mind he, the custodian, offered the visitor a half bow and lead him farther down the hallway. An assortment of knives and daggers, shortswords, longswords, even greatswords were arrayed in immaculate displays. There were axes too and although they numbered far fewer, they were clearly highlights of this strange tour. Cormac lead the visitor to another spot and he turned to the visitor. The red velvet rope barrier was far below the assortment of paintings that were revealed to cover the wall. Each one was framed and had its own spot-lit illumination. Without taking his eyes off the visitor he lifted his white-gloved hand to point to a variety of paintings, a coastal scene below storming skies, a host of dragon ships that had been run up onto a stony beach, a sky blackened with stormclouds or maybe smoke.

    "...an unknown matter long forgotten, a secret held until this day. For this is where it started - upon the coast of Caer Moray.
    A dozen vengeful dragons brought the raiders to an end, when one wolf dies, you see, the pack avenges him.
    We forced the townsfolk into their shrine and we burned it and all of them.    "

    One hand lowers, the other gloved hand rising to show off another spray of paintings, bright and lustrous oily paints of every pigment put to canvas. Art worthy of a gallery but all of it locked away in the deep recesses of Cormac's mind. These paintings show a shadowy figure looming over the silhouette of a castle, or a tower maybe, he's likely a large man with broad shoulders. An old woman by a bubbling cauldron with herbs hanging from the rafters, a witch perhaps. The last canvas is coloured entirely black, unsettling to behold though Cormac's voice never falters. A close inspection - perhaps a perception of the mind rather than with the eyes might show a haunted man with his hands nailed to a bloody throne, though to the eyes alone - it's just black.

    "From where I've shown but not from whom, a mystery for us both. I heard his name was Magnus but to me he's just a ghost.
    Yet fond memories I have of her, and Elf I've long suspected. The witch and seeress raised me until I left as she'd expected.
    And this one here is all of me, my heart, my soul, my being. Always and forever this, black and grim and sleeping.    "

    The visitor piqued at the odd verbiage, 'sleeping'? He probed at this, and insisted they go deeper. Go on, he seemed to say/think. Go on. Cormac's grin never left his face and he beckoned the visitor onward, they passed paintings - impressions of significant things from long ago until more recently. The paintings were mostly coloured darkly with the most violent being splashed with crimson or bright streaks to indicate the steely flashes of battle. Unnamed portraits, dozens, perhaps hundreds of faces with their purple ringed, bruised looking eyes shut; dead, not sleeping it seemed. Cormac meant to pause but the thought said 'go on', and so they passed a hoard of trophies taken from the dead. Horns, and teeth, and claws, and pelts, and names carved into his memory in obsidian stone or hard, unremarkable dark granite. Broken swords and hewn shields, white marble fountains bubbled up and sprayed in charming spurts of blood that threatened to overflow yet never seemed to. To the left and to the right a constant searing heat that might represent his rage, or his lust - or both.

    Cormac finally took his pause in a corridor of statues, each one in their own unique pose. Cormac himself turned to face the visitor and calmly bade him look, and see for himself with a gentle wave of his gloved hand. Thought his customer service grin never faded and he never spoke the words, the visitor would've surely known he meant come and see...

    A pile of stones cleverly arranged in the shape of a dog radiated a sensation of warmth and true companionship, the fragile construction seemed to hold some deeper meaning; pehaps loss, or the fear of loss. A second carving of wood appears to have been sculpted with fire and intense heat, shaped to appear vaguely humanoid. The most precious among this first set is a small thing of ivory though impossibly detailed down to the flow of her hair. This one sat on a pedestal and seemed somehow more important than the rest. Thick woman's thighs, broad hips, her innocent eyes and teasing lips. The little carving's fingers and toes, and the little creases that adorn those parts and others. She lay on a soft looking pillow as red as the velvet barrier ropes.

    "Scout and I were friends you see when others saw ill omen, the loss of him hurt more I think than of any of these women.
    "The girl I think was burned alive when I set out for revenge, I felt regret when I found her bones - that time cannot mend.
    "And this the giantess her name she said was Skathi. We shared a bed but never wed, our child she wished to carry.    "

    Cormac, the custodian continued to walk through this gallery of shapes and bodies, he'd point out those that compelled him to along the way as he lead the visitor on, and on. A woman's shape cast in polished steel standing in soldiery fashion. A rapidly melting sculpture of ice in the form of a small Elven woman dancing with a slightly taller Human woman, their freakish grins fading under the ice-water tears that flowed in torrents down their cheeks, their melting hands still holding onto each other in spite of it all. The last statue in the set is almost impossible to look at and may be made entirely out of light, a beacon against all the darkness, those who try to look at the sculpted light feel forced to bow their heads and avert their eyes of its raw majesty. For those with enough steel to hold their gaze and look through the impossible, blinding light, they might see something at the heart of it. The alabaster white core of the statue, the worn cracks that have been repaired with silver and gold, the tarnished spots that mar its otherwise hopeless beauty.

    "...my Iron Maiden is what they called her, our love was secret and hidden, she always was the other.
    These two I wed at the same time, it was a trio we made work. But jealousy was always there, and we all soon lost our spark.
    Ah, but this one means the most of me, she's a balm unto my heart. From each other we keep secrets that could see us torn apart.    "

    All along the way he points out the women he's loved, who've loved him back, the ones that never gave him a second look - the impossible ones that could've never been, the improbable ones that should've never happened. A priestess who claimed her powers were fueled through lust, women who'd used him; those who'd been used. A sordid kind of uncomfortable tour for the most part. Then there are those shining examples among the ones he's met, people he might've truly cared about, their wellbeing - or perhaps he admired their strength, or their cunning, their cruelty or their beauty in some way. Various depictions of the Geese are repeated through the cycle. The visitor, impatient, yet demands. He commands Cormac to lead him into the dark and unlit corner of his mind for he has no interest at all in these things - there's no story that he wants to know besides 'that' one; the one in the shadows. The one encased in ice.


  • Cormac lay with his hands behind his head. He stared up at the silky canopy of his large bed. He hadn't gone to meet those girls that were directed to await him on board the Opportunity, he hadn't done much of anything at all since leaving the Marrigold tavern, he always felt awkward in that place. Like a beast in velvet. He'd answered honestly when they asked of his past. He could tell them why he never so much as knew the name of the woman that bore him, how he knew the name of but had forgotten the face of the man that sired him. Maternal mortality is a fact of life, yet the blame was his. Outcast and forsaken, shield-biter. Cormac Randolph, so named after some near mythical forebear, the Rannúlfr, on the advice of the weird woman that he'd later learn often advised his father, who he'd learn much earlier than that the old man had married before his former bride's body was cold - if he were to believe the most consistent tales he'd heard. At the time at least, in their eyes, he'd shed blood before he was named, it surprised no-one that the witch proclaimed the child was fated and so it was.

    The reasoning wouldn't bring him comfort yet neither did he resent what he'd become. He remembered the witch-woman on the beach who'd loosely raised him, or at least kept care of him as one might adopt a stray dog. She gave him shelter and taught him stories, and lore, runes and their meaning. His lips thinned, amused somewhere in his bones as he suddenly caught a memory within a memory; it was always winter when he learned anything, when he had patience to sit and wait, to listen. Of course it was, it had to be. He'd have starved or froze to death if he carried on his fair-weather antics. He'd sit by her hearth and hear all she had to share all winter for what might've been a lifetime. And winters were often long and biting cold in his native home.

    Hunger was a part of it, hunger was perhaps the most of it. He'd caught fish, shot rabbits with his bow as he reached boyhood. Herded goats for a season or two. He remembered killing a man once down on the stony beach, how he'd hated it, how it frightened him.

    He grew uncomfortable in his bed and closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about it anymore, he knew where this course of thinking would lead him. The vision took him as rest eroded his mental armor. In the black of his dreaming mind the winged valravn padded past him. The raven-wolf spoke in a voice he didn't recognize.

    "You did have brothers once. No, not those ones. The straw haired boys begat of thy father left this world with full bellies, virgin blades and fear in their eyes. Kin to thee by blood and name, but brothers they were not. Look." She turned her black wolfs head aside and fixed her gaze upon a shadow. Drunkenly, with a similar languid movement Cormac's head turned to see, too. His eyes narrowed as the bright blaze of the bonfire illuminated the world before him, and among the dancing flames, shadows and smoke he saw a dozen or so other faces, few were as young as he had been in those days. Each head was capped with a wolf pelt, and everyone had a weapon and shield, and for reasons far more obvious to him now than they'd been then, there were no old men in the circle. He realized he'd been standing all the while, and felt dizzy when he saw his own face among the group, he'd worn a grey wolfskin and held as he remembered a remarkably well balanced short spear in his hand. Without thinking more on it, Cormac - dreaming Cormac - felt something bubbling up in his throat, his nostrils were assaulted he realized by smoke from the bonfire, he could feel the heat on his naked chest, in his own voice he began to speak the words of a poem he hadn't heard or even thought of in many years.

    "Your bear minds burn in the bodies of men.
    Sons of the wolf Kezef, break free from your flesh.
    Wolves will howl in the storm of Battle.
    Warriors will fall as the bear claw strikes.
    We will fight to Valholl.
    Until we return to human shape. Fearless, we shall drink blood from our enemies' wounds.
    Together we will rage in the battlefield of corpses.
    The Father of War commands us!
    Transform your skin brothers!
    Slaughter-wolves! Berserkers!
    Become your fury!    "

    As he spoke the words his field of view shifted from watching young Cormac dance with his weapons while entering a state of battle-frenzy, to that of young Cormac's last sane glimpse of the world he'd soon burn for fame and blunder. He watched the one exception, the only old man among their worthless pack. A wrinkled, leathery old man, a grey faced longbeard, keeping time to the beat of a hide drum that was probably older still. There was no ridicule. There was magic in the old-one's voice, the war-poetry that lead him as though by the hand to a state of unconscious and unfettered rage. He saw the golden light of the bonfire reflecting back at him in a dozen or so pairs of golden eyes staring back at him in the night. The vision of the warrior skald was burned away as he snarled and howled with the others, as his brothers became wolves. His mind was painted with red and black, the noise of the old drum that had kept its steady beat replaced by the rapid thrum of his frantic heartbeat - the battle music of steel meeting steel, flesh and bone, the words of the skald branded into his brain.

    He stood in darkness, he stood in silence. He considered in a moment of epiphany that perhaps there might be some lesson, he hoped, some mystical answer some final say on who, or what he really was, is, or meant to be - some augury some... --

    Three rapid strikes from some invisible shadow concealed in the dark. The first brought him to one knee as the back of his leg was slashed to the bone. The second, an ice-burning gash swept across his back, he arched backwards with his arms open and meant to cry out, but the third cut his final thoughts short as the hidden knife pierced his heart, its killing final blow. The valravn, his brothers, the skald and the fire were all gone, the warmth he'd felt from it on his chest replaced by an icy-cold river of blood. His ears filled with the sound of crying children. He defiantly craned his neck to tilt his head forward, to see. The broken girl in the shadows, in a sing-song voice sobbed the words.

    "Slaves and silver, blood, by then you had plenty. You moved quicker back then. Remember what the beer tasted like that night? It made you sick. You who had so much, insatiable, voracious you. You were born hungry, cursed with appetite. No matter how much - you'll always need more. Isn't it so? Cursed, Cormac. To hunger and yearn, ever for that which you have of most."


  • Berserkir

    A frenzy of steel and claws, Cormac in the fray drenched in the inky black of the Underdark and the sticky blood of those denizens fool enough to fight instead of flee. He moved well, he always did, stepping nimbly and avoiding flashing ax-heads and gnashing teeth as though guided by some second sight or sixth sense. A crescent of crimson opened just above his elbow, a close call left a paper-thin trail of blood along his cheek a heartbeat later, and had he not struck a killing blow first, the next swing would have almost certainly been fatal. A companion's longsword deflected the downward blow that was meant to end him, a blur of arrows streaked over his shoulders and under his arm causing his scarlet hood to flutter in their wake, the tattered frays of his crimson cloak spilled forth behind them before he himself had even moved, red tendrils like eager hellhounds hungry for the kill. The Quaggoth staggered back a single step - and joined the rest of its kind in whatever passes for the afterlife for such beasts.

    Cormac was not surprised to find that Dermin did not apologize for his lazy shieldwork, he explained instead that these creatures were difficult to taunt - that he couldn't always keep their attention. Neither did Cormac feign interest in this scientific evaluation as he drowned the deeper of his his wounds with an expensive curative. He merely raised his eyebrow and let out a rolling growl that seemed to say nonverbally "...is that so? Very interesting", or more likely, some manner of expletive.

    Their quarry had been called 'Deep Bears', though Cormac had elected to rebrand them as Cave Apes on account of their lanky arms and cave-folk 'ug-ug' way of talking. The thought amused him. It didn't much matter anymore. The cave walls had been painted in nonsense patterns of spattered blood and all had become quiet in the dark. If any were left living they'd surely saw sense and run to safer pastures. Victory, but this would not end their foray into the hateful deep places beneath Narfell's surface.

    The Elf, Ethuil, knew the path and he had kept tidy notes on the steps needed to traverse the maze that they'd have to cut through in order to reach the dark market of Ghaunttown. Cormac made fun of the Elf's bookishness. He'd never express his relief at knowing their passage was made much simpler for the planning. But it was as it always had to be. Kindness and softness were rare as winter sun from the big man whose only business was spilling blood. The deep maze would prove no different in the end. Heavy steps and wild bellowing told a tale that was articulated in the spastic rune-words that might've spelled out 'Danger' in deep axe gouges that had been carved out on the clean cut stone walls. The whole place was overrun with minotaurs, Cormac slew them in droves - their thick hides offering little protection against the biting edge of his great, heavy ax. Many more were brought down in clinical, sterile showers of arrows. Precise, Elven shots that sunk into rib cages, finding their way between and around thick bone and into tender organs, or piercing throats and eyeballs to bring about the sudden deaths of their targets. Dermin battered the ones that broke through with his tall shield and held them in place for arrow or blade to finish. All of them together moved efficiently. They were a deadly quintet, and Cormac was determined - as always - to be the keen tip of the spear. Reckless, proud. Violence personified.

    He would pay dearly for his boastful nature in the chamber of the minotaur king, the stormtouched mad creature that seemed kindred to a demi-god. Spells flew alongside arrows. Elite guards charged forth with their metal-clad horns, determined to gore - and what they could not catch with murderous horn, to smash with their greatmauls. Dermin and Cormac lead their own charge. Dermin barreled through with his shield raised before him, knocking minotaurs aside like a battering ram. Cormac whirled between them, untouchable, made invincible through his furious battle-trance. Both men came together at the end and on target. Dermin struck low, Cormac came in high. The horned king dropped to one knee, the battle was close to done - one more strike and they'd celebrate another triumph.

    Where the Wild Wolves Have Gone

    Whether by the grace of some trickster god, or the manifestation of Cormac's fated misfortune - surely one of his many curses - the bloodied minotaur managed to utter just one spell through ragged breath. Both men were stunned by the sudden blinding flash of lightning, the horned shaman used the opportunity to cast off another spell, and another, he rallied his elite guard - summoned 'demons'. It was already too late when the men regained their senses. Cormac caught a glimpse of the warrior in red, his companion, Dermin - his thick plate armor, his heavy shield, and he wished to be so burdened and well furnished. He saw arrows whip by, striking too late, cutting shallow wounds or bouncing off the spell-imbued hide of the warrior king harmlessly. Cormac coveted the safety that comes from striking from such range, he wished he could attack from afar - and began to falter. He watched as spells were uttered from the wizard's lips, and leapt from his dancing hands, and though even those would prove futile, Cormac reflected inwardly and found himself inadequate. He could only watch as Dermin withdrew, as the archers and mages were scattered. His kohl-painted steely grey eyes rose to meet the minotaur lord's. His blackened lips thinned, in fact he'd clenched his jaw to hide his terror - to stop his lip from quivering like scared child. He recalled at the last how Rika had called him heartless. The great minotaur's greatmaul caught him from the side and sent him flying. He would not recall the pain from the blow, nor from being dashed against the walls of the maze that had become his tomb. The world melted away, the sounds of the ongoing battle died with him.

    He snapped out of is fugue state to the sound of musical laughter, he was at first confused and then comforted to see Isolde's face at the other side of the table they often shared in the commons. Thick black snowflakes didn't drift down but seemed to fall like iron shavings from a sky that was made of shadows. The only colour he could distinguish in the dark were her perfectly painted bright red fingernails, he imagined the red of her lips, of the curls of her hair. None of it seemed particularly odd to him, he was enthralled it seemed - and he hung on her every word, every twitch of a smile that came to her lips. He tried to speak to her and found that he couldn't draw in any breath while the blizzard flurried about them, he was unable to articulate what he wanted from her. The soft look in her eyes made him want to beg. He wanted to be reminded of the dreams they shared, how he'd sold the idea of a simple life - a cabin in the woods - to her and how she'd been more than receptive, but happy. Out of nowhere she called him darling, suddenly she rose and looked right at him with a perfect grin that was so wide he thought it must surely hurt, and his heart raced. The shadowclad form of the red haired woman spread her arms and Cormac nearly rose to his feet, wanted, more than anything, to put his arms around her and feel her embrace - when a man's voice came from behind. He called her darling, he watched the shadowclad man step forth and steal the warmth that had surely been meant for him. He could say nothing. He could not move. This was surely hell, and he pondered on which of his sins could he be paying for, and just as the sensation of true helplessness was setting in - as their lips drew near to touching before his unblinking eyes...

    He imagined the smirk on Cray's lips as he said the words, before he could even properly see again - before he'd drawn more than half a breath. "Ye owe me a hunner'n eighty thousand".

    A sobering thought came to mind.

    Son of a bitch. Send me back to Hell.


  • . . .


  • Blackened Sunrise

    A sip of whiskey, he never did get his chance to thank Valisha for the crate. Another splash on his knuckles, bruised and skinned from 'keeping the peace'; whatever that had meant. A list of names, he'd visited three homes before he had to head home. Three names scored off the letter. The civil war was over wasn't it? The politics of it were not his concern. They bade him go and whether he wanted it or not, he must abide.

    It was that third house, the last one. The little girl that reminded him of his own Coraline - for no good reason, he understood the fugly demi-human girl that had peeked in through the doorway while he'd conversed with her father or older brother, or uncle or uncle-daddy -- or whomever, looked nothing like his girl. But she must've been close to the same age, or maybe it had been the fear in her eyes. The same look the kid would give him sometimes when he'd visited the camp without being in a fit mood for it; the times where he wanted to ignore everyone and have his woman. He realized, without regret, what a shit he could be when he really put his mind to it. The thought did not amuse him as he drank alone on his big chair.

    He'd paused his conversation and went to the girl in the doorway, he'd smiled at her and told her to go back to bed. He'd even given her a flower when her eyes started to overflow again. He always had flowers to give to sad girls. When she'd been consoled he ushered her from the doorway and closed the door softly behind her. And while he made no apology to the man who'd been speaking aloud his insurrectionist thoughts, he'd - for the sake of the girl - shoved his forearm into the confused man's mouth, shoved it in hard enough to effectively gag him. Even through the man's nose there were only muffled screams. The man could not bite down, the arm was too thick and the jaw was too wide, near to breaking most likely, and truly he took no great pleasure in beating the man so. It was just business, thats all. He'd been stripped of his knighthood and promoted to 'thug'.

    He knew the man wouldn't be working for a while, it'd take weeks just for the ribs to heal. Had he gotten carried away? Didn't matter, there were other names on the list. A few coins left on the table as one might pay a whore, the girl wouldn't suffer for this man's treason he justified to himself, and he left the man's home.

    He sat on his big chair in the lonely hall he'd called home. He could see clear to the other side with nobody to get in the way. The small table and scattering of chairs at the far end where he'd sat and looked out the window sometimes with the woman he'd called Magpie. He sat this way for a long time, till drink or sleep finally took him. No dreams would come to him. He tried to hold onto the fragment of good in him but - the names kept coming. The 'secret war' within the walls of the city. The guard dog of Peltarch was running low on remorse...

    When he awoke he looked at the next name on the list.

    When he got home that night, his knuckles were bruised and bloody all over again.

    The whiskey didn't kill the memory, after a while it didnt' kill the pain either.

    It was never enough either way to drown the guilt.


  • Take on Me

    His days pass quickly, and cheerfully. He can't think of a time where he'd been surrounded by so many friends all at once, nor a single time where support had been washed over him in buckets. Dinners that were owed were paid out in kind it seemed. Every meal was something fresh and new from 'outside'. He'd been leaving the grey paste for the rats but they wouldn't have it, it seemed.

    A blessed reprieve from sword-work, from anything at all really. Now all he had was time, time to enjoy his friends - to unravel his thoughts. They all played games, shared jokes and stories. Promises and oathes were sworn along with whispers of vendetta and righteousness. The bars simply weren't there most of the time, so it seemed to him. Though - in the end, they could all leave anytime they liked. And eventually they all did, one after the other. They'd all promise to come back and even though most did, some did not.

    Sweet words and the sobbed apologies from those he'd turned away were difficult for him. He often wondered how many times he'd give anyone 'just one more chance', but he did. And what of the other who never left his side, that he'd all but ignore for favor of the other - Cormac had it in him to be a bastard, he could burn as hotly as the sun but his coldness, the coldness of the grave, as ardent as the snow. It was all falling apart. And the comfort he could hold onto by distancing himself within the confines of his cell would be but fleeting mercy, as all of his friends seemed hell bent on throwing him back into the torturous hellfire of life on the outside, where he'd have to stand - and act, and face his problems as they are. The cruelty of his situation was not altogether lost on him, and perhaps he tried too hard to make Morgan keep to his oath and to throw away the key, for Reyhenna's prediction to come true - for him to be 'exiled' to some far-off place or at least well beyond the borders of anywhere he'd have to look at 'them' in their togetherness.

    The gods, he'd often observed, would piss down his back daily - though he assured himself that they would only drown him but once. They decided to quickly release him. Words like 'merit' and 'heroic deeds' were mixed in with the sentencing. He'd heard of men being made to convert from one faith to another or be made to drink boiling lead. The thought was only so amusing, thought the tickle didn't take away from the tug of reality. He'd be held in bondage under pain of 'something'. A mark on his face that would be primed to explode, he imagined, should he deviate. The city that forbade slaves had put him in chains.

    The spell was innocent enough, the terms were not so hard or difficult on the surface. It all boiled down to a very official 'don't be an asshole', on the surface that's all it was - all it ever would be to anyone shallow enough to believe that being bound to the spymaster prince and his jolly brother, the King, would be anything but bloodwork.

    By the time he'd gotten back to his home from the city, after paying his fine and breaking the hearts of everyone who'd loved him, there was already a letter waiting for him - the royal seal, 'orders'. The kinds of things he'd have made himself 'unavailable' for in the past were now inescapable. 'Do or Die'.

    At least they wouldn't be around to see what they'd made him. Laughing at him. Cormac the attack dog of Peltarch.

  • ?

    @kingcreeper (( great writing, very realistic and engrossing dream sequence ))


  • Wicked Witch

    He'd found himself in the heart of the city again. A fine day, the warmth of the Sun beat down on his shoulders. Everything seemed bright, and all the hard things were far from his mind. He wasn't surprised to see the sundial in the heart of the commons, or the small blue birds, the name of which he didn't recall, that were singing in the surrounding trees and warbling their nonsense from the gaps between the stonework of the near run to riot wall.

    Children were playing, he didn't pay them much mind, but their bright laughter lifted his spirits which had been low. He meandered aimlessly through the commerce district, past the Mermaid Inn, towards the Amethyst Hall. The shrill laughter from the children followed him on his way. Murmers from passers by didn't quite catch his ear, nothing articulate anyway. Their quiet tittering joined the outright laughing of the kids. Did he har laughing, too?

    A woman caught his eye as she leaned topless out of a high window, she looked like a painting. She was smiling down at him, there was more than a tease in that smile of hers -- an invitation he allowed himself to believe for the heartbeat before her composure cracked, and the sly smirk had become a fit of giggles. She pointed down at him, her giggle-fit becoming the bellowing, cawing laughter of the lower class. He was sure somewhere behind him, he could hear both of them laughing at him too.

    He turned from her madness, embarrassed, and saw that the crowd of children and city-folk had gathered in a semicircle about him, and that they too were pointing and laughing. Their chorus and pointing fingers were closing in, and even as he tried to turn away to find some peace from it all he could see the Prince, Kasimir with his arm around Thalaman - both near buckled over guffawing huffs of uncontrollable laughter. Seemed to him at the time, even the songbirds were staring at him and laughing in their own weird way. He was unsure what he felt, truly, when he heard Rosie laughing with them again. The sound had always been sweet music to him before. Now it seemed cut like a longknife.

    It had become more than just ridicule. The pants of the men had become wet and stained, they'd actually pissed themselves in the uproar. The eyes of the women were streaked with makeup from their tears, the children had begun throwing up into the street. Many by now were on all fours coughing and puking through the laughter, he watched one particularly fat woman as she asphyxiated and expired, taken by the hilarty. The topless woman let out a terrible retching sob/laugh and fell from her window, she still looked like a painting as she lay there in the mud with her head twisted at an angle that was simply 'wrong'.

    He turned his face to the sky, his breath echoey and raspy through the skull mask. A red star winked in the sky, but never seemed to draw closer. He could hear the pain of its laughter in his mind, too. Even as all else fell to dead silence around him and walls of the city - of all of the cities across all of the world - crumbled, as the existence of all things faded and fell to ruin. Everything was playing out as it had been foretold. The stern face of the woman/women he'd loved appeared and faded before him. Her words bubbled from the foreboding quiet when all other noise was absent. The crystal clarity of it seized his heart and stirred him from his sleep as surely as if someone had spoken directly in his ear.

    "...you will find yourself in a lonely hall, on a lonesome throne, drowned in blood..."

    He awoke in his lonely hall, and prepared himself for another day. The memory of the dream washing away harmlessly as his mind unmuddied the slumber and realized the reality.

    He was alone.

    ?
     1 Reply

  • Pt. 1

    A man's gruff voice barks like dry wood popping in a fireplace. He knows the voice well, though he in truth had seldom heard it. The voice of the winged beast that haunts his dreams repeats the sentiment with utmost tenderness, there's no harshness in the tone. Though the words "lift your shield" sound too much like "farewell". Cormac's heart breaks and he wants to look back, but the instruction squashes his desire; its a good man that can conquer his own wants - or whatever the philosopher said.

    "I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is the victory over self." - Aristotle

    His woman was restless. There was a need in her eyes just as well as it was in her voice, and she'd made it well known to him that she wanted to visit the mountains, she begged for snow. Cormac wondered if she knew at all what she was asking. Wondered if she even remembered the prophetic words she'd spoken in the times before. If she knew what sat lifeless at the peak - surely still sat there, frozen and 'dead'. He did not dare hope 'dead', but surely. They had left together, and Cormac it seemed had just taken his first steps towards a fated number, to walking into another twisted tale of ill omen woven with ironic fortune.

    She was not content it seemed with Blackbridge and pleaded with him to take her on yet further. It'd often been impossible for him to say no to the woman he called Magpie. This night would be no different, though he made a great effort to steer her well clear of any easy path that might lead to the frigid peak of the titanic mountain, and he lead her through deep snow where a messy half-breed of mountain men and goblins dwelled; so far as he could figure them at any rate. They fought poorly, those that were not quickly routed back into whatever cold dwellings they'd carved into the packed snow painted it with their lifesblood. This was the way of the mountain, so thought Cormac of Clan Rannúlfr. A poet at heart. His Rosie stood close by his side with his warsword from another time gripped in both hands, she cut the figure of a fine warrioress, there was always fear in her eyes he observed inwardly, fear that would not give way to flight though, a fighting fear - a suvivor's fear.

    They stood together side by side atop a snowdrift crested hillock. Thunder rolled in from the distance, though, the sound of it made Cormac grip the ashwood shaft, making the stark white boarskin creak under the pressure of it. He did not answer the rolling thunder, but it came again over the silence of the permanent winter of the mountain -- thunder, and a voice. A rarity so close to the volcano, he had never expected to meet with a Frost Giant in this place. The blue-skinned giant slowly lumbered up towards them, issuing his challenge in the storming voice of Giantspeech. Cormac understood it well enough, a challenge was being issued -- the thing even seemed to know his name. In one fist he held what may have once been the keel of a fishing boat as his tall shield, though it had been painted and decorated beyond any sort of recognition. In the other the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, an ironstone head nestled into its roots and lashed securely with ropes and and a thick chain. Cormac supposed these bindings may have belonged to the little boat. The thought made his eyebrows raise for the briefest moment, though he had no time to be lost in the thought as the lumbering giant's slow and steady pace erupted into violence as soon as he'd come into range.

    Rosie had done what any sane person might do, and stepped back and away from Cormac and his challenger. He found the giant to be slow, or perhaps he himself was simply on good form. He moved to one side to avoid a downward swing, and leaned back just barely to avoid the next sweeping blow. It was this moment that he took advantage of, and while the Frost Giant laboured against the motion of his overreach, the blade of Cormac's axe struck once deep into the knee, the second blow sunk deep into the monster's shoulder, and the third crashed through the Frost Giant's helmet where flesh gave way to bone - gave way to brain. It was over in a heartbeat it seemed. Too easy. But that's what he did isn't it? He slew giants - easily. He planted his boot on the chest of his foe and pushed, the axe came free immediately and the great lifeless body slid down the hillside. Cormac gave his woman a lust-filled look, invigorated by the kill and turned to her. A smug and eager look in his dark shadowed eyes. He hadn't quite taken a half step when this new voice split the air. It called for its brother, it bellowed its vengeful intent into slay Randolph - and cursed his twin's haste.

    There was no lumbering slow climb to the crest, the larger of the pair used his gigantic axe to aid his ascent - driving the blade deep into the ice and rock, dragging and heaving himself up in bounds. There was no time to prepare for Cormac, in moments he was confronted by the rime-maddened frenzy, blessed by Ymir's very own blood it seemed, the pinnacle of Giantkind. He indeed bore the ritual scarrification and other such signs of one of Thrym's worshippers. The cold hatred that beat off of him was itself like being kissed by Auril. Cormac, it seemed, would be no match at all.

    Axe clashed upon axe, but determination would not avail him - the Giant swung with fury and so, shaken, Cormac was unable to maintain his guard. A sneering rumble of a growl from the frosty foe signified its victory over him as it drove the keen lance-like spike at the top of his froststeel axe head through Cormac's dragonscale breastplate - and pinned him to the cliffside.

    Blackness fell over him, the airy cold wind could no longer touch him. The frosty fingers of whichever winter patron could grasp till the end of days - but within these moments the patron of Clan Rannúlfr was gone. An unkind figure stood before him, replacing all the frost-covered world where he'd stood just a few short moments ago. Clear golden eyes blazed at him from behind the skull mask. "Found you..." it said, and it approached, doubtless coming to return the fourth rider back to the fore of Cormac's consciousness after being long abandoned through the ritual on the peak. There was little malice in the voice - it almost sounded like relief. It was at that time when something unexpected happened. It was at this time the terror of his dreams finally, and fully revealed itself to him - the valravn that had always haunted him - swooped forth on its black wings and held Shay/Cormac back. The pair fought, fang and talon swept at the golden eyed shade; the skull-faced reaper slashed back at it with a dagger made from wrought oblivion. There was enough distraction for something innate to awaken within Cormac who remained at the very edge of death. He would not die here it seemed.

    All had become quiet. The hoarse breathing of Ymirskin and the frantic panic of Rosie were muffled to nothing against the ringing in his ears, not ringing, thrumming - his heart had not stopped beating, hadn't slowed but had sped up. There were no thoughts in his head beyond insufferable, uncontainable rage. The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck were bristling, not against the cold but instinctually. His fingernails, ever painted black, had begun to elongate and taper to violent points. His sharp eye-teeth, too, were growing -- and his iron grey eyes had taken on an unsettling, perhaps familiar, orange hue. Cormac, it seemed, was finally turning. His clawed thumb hooked into the gigantic axe-head, and he pushed himself off from the cliff face, the giant was far too strong for this to be a test of strength, but Cormac had become nimble and difficult to engage. He swept mindlessly towards the giantkin and the pair fought on, mirroring the battle between Shay/Cormac and the Valravn. Fang and claw against magic axe. It was hard to tell how it had occurred, but in the end two giants lay dead at the base of the high place where Cormac stood with Rosie. He'd been calmed by the terror in her eyes, by the memory of the words he'd spoken a lifetime ago to his friend Nica. "I have mastered my rage". Seemed maybe he had. He broke the silence. He had to, the way she looked at him would break him otherwise. He said to her "...did you know there's an old saying where I come from? They say that when you seek revenge you ought to dig two graves. I don't think this is what they meant".

    Maybe she was amused. He really hadn't been paying attention by then. He never spoke of it, not even to her - likey he never would. He himself didn't really believe it, he'd by then decided that it'd just been a vision of his death brought on by the battle-trance that sometimes chased off or consumed all other thoughts when the need was dire. The wound was gone at least. Rosie said nothing, she asked nothing.

    Pt. 2

    “I must not fear.
    Fear is the mind-killer.
    Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
    I will face my fear.
    I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
    And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
    Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
    Only I will remain.”
    — Frank Herbert

    There's hell up on that mountain. Nothing but hell and misery, and there are men that'd suffer such things in pursuit of gold or fame. Cormac, though, hates that mountain - hates everything to do with that mountain. He'd always found it hard though to say no to the woman that he often called Magpie.

    Looking back it almost seemed a trap had been laid out for them to stumble into. Bones stripped of their flesh littered the blood-saturated red earth that simply could not absorb any more. There, in the middle of it all, within the spell-circle of arcane sigils laid out and stupified -- a still living Hill Giant. Cormac's voice rumbled like the grinding of stones; "...tell us Trollborn what happened here, and I'll send you well to Jötunheimr" when he was bade to communicate in Giantspeak. There was no answer. Nor had Cormac truly expected one, he'd meant Trollborn as an insult to his kind, insinuating that Hill Giants are low born. He loathed their kind almost as much as he loathed Trolls. He pondered the Fey-maddened accursed Fomóraigh. Even as someone cast a healing spell on the Hill Giant, even as the Giant got up to flee he pondered his loathing for these lesser Giants. What caught his attention were the dull, killers' eyes and snarling voices on the edge of the forest - the man-shaped things that walked on all fours like beasts that were closing in around them. There was little negotiation; and the battle came on quickly.

    The second instance of misfortune had come. He'd come out without his armor, and he would soon pay for his hubris. He realized all to late that the things that were bearing down on their small group were neither men nor beasts, but 'things'. Abominations. His blood was aflame with all the fury of Hell itself, Reyhenna close by his side as had become such a common occurrence. They all fought for their lives. Cormac fell first, and for a time the world wheeled. Far away growls and snarling nonsense-speech, and faded. Snuffling throaty voices that said nothing came from all sides, he saw the trees, and faded. The tunnel where there were some voices that seemed to speak language, stone gave way to 'flesh', the maddening stink of the place and... faded.

    When he was finally brought to, he could see that Reyhenna was close. By his side again. The thought, in spite of their situation, amused him. There they were bound and hung aloft with their arms outstretched; crucified. He'd committed this act on others before at a time when neither mercy nor cruelty meant much in his mind. Still, he was reluctant to believe that he'd deserved this fate. He struggle against the chains when the feral non-human guards moved away, and rested when they passed by more closely. The steel bar would flex - at least, he imagined that it flexed - but would not break or permanently bend. The chains would not break. He grew angry at the wretchedness of this misfortune.

    There was some discussion, gloating mostly it seemed to him. A masturbatory pat on the back for bringing in such a fine pair, and wouldn't they make such 'perfect' additions to the meat, and oh how the undead one lavished them with his own brand of acidic pity. That one took his leave when the robed one brought up some terms that they had agreed upon. Business as usual. The pragmatic part of his mind could just about appreciate that. He could almost see himself in those shoes, even.

    It was only when the robed figure went too far with it and cut Rey' with his knife to comment on her fine blood that Cormac finally threw his all into the only escape plan he could figure. He strained and heaved on the chains, he stressed his whole body against the crossed beam and threw his arms forward against the chains. All the sinews of his being turned taut like metal wire. But neither the beam nor the chains would break. The ritual had begun. He'd tired himself out from resisting against his captivity, and had nothing left when his skin had started to bubble and burn, parts of him threatened to split open. He wanted to believe that this was simply torture but no, this was more - they were being turned, absorbed, they were to be broken and reformed into one of 'them'.

    His mind raced, he searched for options within himself. It would have to be now. If any of it was true at all it'd be now, or never. He'd turn, change, not into a fleshghoul abomination but into the beast he'd only been partially aware of, the creature that had been brought forth by Kelemvor's knights - the weapon they'd brought into their eternal battle against the undead. He'd change and he'd burst free from this bondage, he'd slay them all, he'd fill these halls with terror and -- and...

    The lock clicked, Reyhenna had already dropped down from her hanging place and vanished from sight under some spell by the time Cormac's feet hit the ground. He was half-mad with the mad thoughts that had just been vanquished from his mind. The voice of Rosie at his side bade him run. And all of them fled... there was no victory in that place; but at least there was no great loss either. Though even in his mental and physical weariness he refused to join in the merriments shared by the others, he'd been beaten and he'd suffered and he hurt. Even Isolde dressed in small clothes could not bring him from his miserable inward thoughts.

    He walked off.

    None followed.

    Pt. 3

    “Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.” ― Marcus Aurelius

    The sky turned dark, too dark for midday. Darker than any oncoming storm - and there were no clouds to be seen, nor any stars. The sun still burned but it was dull, masked somehow. Meadow didn't quite blame Cormac for what had happened, yet he suspected that she did. She'd have been right to suspect, for he could tell that she did not hear the voice that seemed to speak directly to him - and with familiarity. She called him 'Harbinger', and spoke of how he had heralded the coming of the devouring star. She spoke of oblivion and the void beyond. She bade him come and see. To look over the edge one more time with her; to come and see.

    He knew somehow exactly what the voice meant and to where he must go, and he knew that he truly must for he was being drawn by powers he'd long believed to be dead. Though he walked as Cormac he knew that he would be recognized as that other one - that skull-faced one from so long ago. Still a part of him, it seemed. Maybe rekindled from his time up there on that cursed mountain. Maybe. The questions came as he stared down into the dark portal that threatened to spill Ginnungagap's black void out into the world, that nothing-waste that would consume all things from faintest sound to brightest light, the space between spaces where things like 'light and dark' are mythical. His steely stormcloud gaze observed the things that seemed to swim forth from it and meander around, alien things made of nightmare and madness. The questions came; the offers and the temptation. The Voice did not reveal itself.

    When the Voice, this demi-power, had heaerd enough and grown frustrated she had set her mad things upon him. He fought them off one by one as they shambled on inky tenticles out of the rift. Each one he smote became a reeking puddle of filth and decay on the ground. He never saw the one that had shambled up the cliff behind him, his heel had been dug into the ledge as he held off the waves, he didn't realize the danger until he felt the absent chill of the vast nothing wrap around his calf. He wheeled and hacked, thrusted at and finally slew the horror that had blindsided him, he watched it fall and splash upon the rocks below. The sight amused him. By the time he'd turned around another was upon him, he couldn't resist it and they both fell - following the last together. There was no good landing for either. Cormac lay broken on the shores of the lake. There was no panic in his final breath. His final thought was to curse his ill fortune, and then nothing.

    "He deserves better don't you think, my love?" the voice of the Valravn spoke clearly, a woman's voice. He could see her clearly now as she was. She wore a robe that was accented with black feathers, her hair was blacker than the void that was belching out its demons. She had grey eyes and her lips were painted the colour of blood. Cormac felt no pain. He felt nothing. A man's voice spoke from nearby. It was gruff and verged on being unkind. The figure wore an austere coronet of leather, his hair was not quite black - Cormac in his fugue state suspected it had greyed with age by now, though he recognized the face very well. The voice argued "Meddlesome witch, we mustn't. You can't." , the woman's eyes teased in response, sly, cunning beyond measure. She whispered to Cormac "You remind me of him in your affairs. I named thee, though we never met. I have always wished to tell you that I am sorry that he blamed you for my death. He cursed you the day that you were born - not out of hate for you Cormac, but for his love of me. You two are too much alike! I have longed for the day where my spirit could speak freely with you, and now as the veil is thinned I --" her words were cut off by the crown-bearing other, the man's tone was ugly and cut through the woman's sweetness like a knife. "He'll remember none of this, woman! Leave it. We should not be here". The valravn grew visibly frustrated and seemed actually to caw at her lord, her feather-lined cloak billowed in the windless space between life and death. "Thou knowest not!" she screamed shrilly, the void shook, and she forged a baleful spell.

    The signs that she conjured hung in the air about the shattered remains of Cormac, the words she spoke shone down like the mantle of stars that were weirdly made absent by the unknown being, the Voice. The magic of the curse that had been laid upon him at birth, that had marked him from the very day he had entered the world, was plucked from his lifeless body on the day that he was supposed to leave it. "Go Cormac Randolph, and do not forget the face of your father!" It was then that the man's gruff voice barked out like dry wood popping in a fireplace. He knows the voice well, though he in truth had seldom heard it. "Lift your fucking shield!" The voice of the winged beast that haunts his dreams repeats the sentiment with utmost tenderness, there's no harshness in the tone. Though the words "lift your shield" sound too much like "farewell". Cormac feels heart break and he wants to look back, he wants to search madly for the face of the woman that had been speaking to him - the moment has passed, he stands atop a cliff with a steep drop at his back, instinct takes over and he wheels around at the touch of some thing upon his leg. The thing is thrown to its ruin, and a thought comes to his mind; his blackened lips quirk up at the corner as his father's voice leaps forth from some buried memory. He turns with his shield raised and bears the brunt of his foe's assault, catching it on the surface of his roundshield and driving it back before running it through with the full length of his warsword. No more come for him. He tells Rosie at his side that its over, that he'll keep her safe. He didn't understand why his cheeks were wet nor the bitter inexplicable sorrow that had gripped his guts.

    The winged woman took form nearby and spoke to them both, calling him 'the Harbinger', and her the 'Demon Touched'. But it became clear as the Voice spoke that not only was she not of this world, but that while she knew of Cormac her knowledge was based on 'rumor' more than kenning. This amused him; his legend had spread beyond the confines of this mortal world into the vastness of unreality. Dizzying. When she offered him power he refused, and rejected her. When she questioned his existence he explained to her that he is just a man, that in choosing to be just a man he'd been denied oblivion and his place among the riders. He told her plainly that she had chosen poorly her champion.

    The new patron of Clan Rannúlfr, and father to those that will bear his banner long into the future laughed, and spoke bleakly and without cheer. He admitted, as the sun might admit that it radiates light and warmth. "You see, I am as you say - weak flesh. And cursed to carry no luck with me at all, wherever I go. The very gods have turned their sight from me. A better champion you'd find among any pack of wild dogs".

    Cormac perhaps will never know that the power of hate, the curse of love, would unbind him from the finality of 'death'. It's likely he'd never recall ever having spoke with the mystical woman that had gave birth to him beyond the terror that often haunts his darkest nightmares. He could never imagine either that he'd been slain and dashed upon the cold stones at the base of that forsaken mountain. Would Kelemvor favor him hereafter? Would Shay/Cormac resurface from all of this? Was he truly to become the beast? He only knew victory, and that would be enough.

    The winged being, the 'Voice', she swore that the age of 'ichor' was upon them, and that come what may - they would someday kneel before her. Cormac and Rosie laughed about this later.


  • Rain had passed through the old gypsy camp before sundown, the ground had drunk in the water and every rock and bough was slick and wet. The clinging fog that held through the night had not allowed the forest world to dry, and as Cormac made his way out just as the horizon threatened dawn's first light he knew already that the new day was threatening to be unseasonably warm.

    He rarely stayed in camp with Juniper, and even more rarely would wake so early. The twins had made their demands once or twice through the night, and after the second apparent contest to see which could scream loudest, he'd found that he could no longer sleep. He instead opted to take a morning stroll. With his tattered cloak pulled about his naked torso he found himself quickly deep in the woods, the smells of wet earth and satiated leaves still damp with the previous nights deluge assaulting his nose. He liked the fragrance. The earthiness was unironically grounding for him, and the brisk chill in the air that he was so sure would die off soon tinged his cheeks with their own rosy right.

    His heart suddenly throbbed and his hand dropped to the dagger at his thigh. Something in the shadows had caught his eye, and he'd chosen it seemed to creep up upon it. A thin predatory grin spread across his pale lips - as yet unpainted in his morning ritual - as a plan rapidly came to mind. His hand knew the task before it came to mind, even. So quick was the thought to come to him that he'd surprised himself. He first bent, then stretched the hand wielding the blade out until if found the target. A quick jerk, and lifting by the cap with his free hand, and the big mushroom was free of the stump from which it was growing. As he looked around he realized there were more, dozens perhaps. Some medium to large nutty brown ones, a big mustard yellow one growing off the side of a tree. He avoided many of the smaller ones until he found a bunch growing together, thin stalked with chalky white caps. He cut enough of these to make a bundle. All in all he ended up with a neat basketful of wild forest mushrooms.

    He likewise filled the basket with herbs that weren't commonly used in the dishes prepared by city folk, in particular the grassy wild onions and garlic that grew weedy-like in the sun dappled crevices' where rock met earth and strange spear-like chivey things that grew in patches among white flowers.

    He was pleased by these simple things, and it wasn't before long that he found himself back within sight of the camp that Juniper and her family had called home. The delicate stream of white smoke from one of the roughly fashioned chimneystacks told him what any wolf that'd roamed close to civilization might've guessed - there are people here, yes, but they haven't fed their fire in many hours. Asleep, probably. If he'd been feral, truly feral, he might've kept the thought going and considered having their chickens, or snatching a fat little child from the cradle and eating it for supper. The thought that didn't quite come to mind amused him yet further, though his lips thinned and came to tug down at the corners. The babe sleeping inside was after all his own.

    He spent much time in preparation before so much as touching a knife at the campsite. He'd washed his hands first, then the big block of wood they'd used for chopping on, and then over that surface he generously scattered a handful of rough salt. Many of the herbs he'd gathered were already in the cauldron adding their flavor and pungent aroma to the water that wasn't quite boiling within. The mushrooms he'd gathered were soon to follow, albeit rough-chopped and in shapeless, idiotic chunks. The silky whisper of his sharp knife shearing through the flesh of the mushrooms and then clicking loudly against the surface of the chopping block was at least somewhat rhythmic, and paced as though by practiced hand. Occasionally a piece of salt would find itself between block and blade and would be crushed and pulverized into dust, which would be transferred with the chopped 'shroom into the cauldron to cook and to simmer. The onions, and the garlic would join in similar fashion - along with some seasoning that belonged to the camp. When there was nothing more to add he put the big iron lid atop the cauldron, and as much as it frustrated him, he left it alone to do its own thing - to cook and to stew and to go from raw ingredient to, hopefully, delicious soup.

    The light of day was by now creeping in more easily, the dense mist was not yet ready to burn off in the new day's heat however and lingered eerily between the trees like a river of smoke, or perhaps the march of some spectral army - a memory, or an echo of this place's past. Cormac thought little on it. He was pragmatic, the fog would fade - or it wouldn't. It really made no difference.

    His attention instead was turned to the big bull shanks that he'd bought, he'd peeled the waxed paper back and the meat was beautiful. Blood pooled in the paper and a few flies buzzed around in the open air around the bones. He didn't admire them overlong before he brought the blade of a heavy cleaver down upon one of them, and with the thud - thud - and third thud with a wooden mallet the bone finally gave, and split. He worked the big knife through the bone to at least try to make sure the split left two even sides, and did the same to the second bone in no time at all. He'd been warming oil in a shallow ceramic pot by the same fire that his soup was cooking over. He'd used some of the herbs and especially the garlic to season the oil and the aroma that wafted out when he took the lid off was simply delightful on its own. There wasn't much of a sizzle going on, and that was just fine. He laid the four pieces of bone into the ceramic vessel side by side and spooned some of the oily potion over the whitish pink marrow. The bones took on a spit-shiny glisten almost immediately. He placed the heavy ceramic lid back on the pot and pushed the entire thing back into the fire. He tooled some hot coals onto the top of the pot to help it bake the bones inside oven-like.

    The birds chirped, and somewhere a squirrel made its spastic rattling cry high in one branch or another. Cormac considered grabbing his bow and shooting it out the tree - he thought perhaps to roast it over the fire and to eat it, or perhaps just to shut the damned thing up. But there was a peace here that he did not wish to disturb. Spirits in the forest that he felt he'd do well not to offend. A resting Elf-wife who might be better off left undisturbed at the very least.

    Alone with his thoughts and being driven half mad by the relentless warning cry of the invisible squirrel he continued to make himself busy around camp, finding a bag of rye flour. He mixed up a mess of dry ingredients, a variety of flours that had been kept in sacks along with oil and water, and perhaps most importantly almost a full bottle of beer before kneading it all into a tight dough. He let it proof, covered with a light cloth, while he stirred his soup and moved his pot of bones around. It was at this time that he added fresh cream to the broth that had been simmering in the cauldron. He mixed the lot together, it was still very watery and refused to thicken up. This didn't seem to bother him as he went about preparing the meal. He was absent disappointment simply by keeping busy.

    The dough had risen slightly and was airy to the touch. He cut the main lot into smaller portions, and then rolled those into medium sized baguettes, and laid them on a rack by the fire to bake by the open flame. He had to turn them often and occasionally adjust their position so as to not let them burn, and to stop them from drying out over much.

    Morning had come and gone. The mist that would or wouldn't fade had given way to bright midday light that spilled down through the canopy and lit up the forest floor. Little white flowers popped up around the roots of ancient trees and seemed to dazzle magically as the light hit them just so. The squirrel had either relaxed or had left. Some late rising birds made their cries, and some of the smaller ones had come to peck around the campsite for scraps and bits.

    He'd taken the bones out from the fire and they were resting on a plate. To the still-hot beef and herb infused oil he added the leftover flour and stirred the mess over the fire until it became a rich, dark roux. This he scraped into the cauldron, which in turn thickened the mushroom soup.

    He sliced two of the four small baguettes into bite-sized cuts and laid them out with the bone marrow he'd served, the other two were left on the plate with a nearby dish of fresh creamy butter, presumably to be eaten with the soup that he'd prepared.

    Everything was ready to go. All he needed now was his companion, his Elven wife. All he needed was for the dour thoughts to stop plaguing him, to stop the bristling chill feeling from crawling up and down his back. The voice of the black-winged wolf ever present in his ear nagging and jeering. A bead of sweat rolled off his brow as he thought about stealing it all away to some part of the forest where he could pour the entire pot out and bury it before anyone could see the mistakes he'd made; he should've started with the roux, adding it this late would probably give the soup a doughy four-ey, or burnt taste. He wondered if he'd burnt it. His heart grew colder as his thoughts turned to the marrow, what if she didn't even like this kind of thing? She's an Elf after all -- should he have gone with cabbage instead? What if he'd misidentified a mushroom and poisoned her and her family - what if...

    The flap of their tent opened with a billowing, flopping sound. The purple haired woman who stood there stooped in the makeshift doorway chased his dark clouds away. For now.

    "Hungry, little Elf?"


  • "...it's a quick job Cormac. The guys a tramp - a no good bum. Just get the coin and meet the contact right here. It'll be fine..."

    He'd been starting to think this was all behind him. Kasimir hadn't asked him to do any 'under the table' sort of work since Thalaman lost interest in him. Things had been dry. That'd been just fine, amends wouldn't be made easy but he'd been trying. And by now he'd come to terms with the fact that some people would never see him as anything but a brute, a thug, or a letch with too many wives.

    These thoughts didn't cross his mind as he put his breastplate and helmet on. Though he found himself unable to meet Isolde's gaze as he left the commons to do the thing that the cowardly knaves had bade. He checked that he had his knife, a pointy stiletto blade - a knight's dagger - that he'd kept over from that Lathanderite's trove. A memento of sorts, sentimental. He thought of her briefly.

    It didn't take him too long to find Everett in the farmlands. The old man might've been clueless as he went about his chores. Cormac's mood had grown even and dispassionate. The sullen look in his stormy grey eyes hidden behind the iron mask he'd taken to wearing, and cast in shadow by the last light of the dying day. It crossed his mind that the old farmer might not see another. The old man threw another hay bail onto the stack in his barn. The palaver was brief.

    Cormac gruffed, conversational - but blunt "Everett, isn't it? This your barn?"
    The startled man let out a shallow yelp and wheeled to look at the much taller man who'd surprised him. He calmed and spoke finally "Ah! Yarp, my barn."
    "...and that's your house over there near the cliff? All these beeves yours?" He spoke in the same gruff tone as he took a few more paces towards Everett.
    "That's right. All mine." The old man didn't back away, he just stood there like an idiot and answered chummily. He mopped his brow with a rag and then pulled out a wooden pipe, lit it, and began to puff. Cormac was a little put out by this, he was trying to be at least a little bit intimidating and this bumpkin geezer was making his shakedown seem like his fifteen minute break.

    Cormac's jaw clenched. He kept his composure and continued his inquiry. "...doing well for yourself. These beefs bring in a lot of coin?" ... and so the talk went back and forth for a while, yes - and no - and something about an old nobleman, an Ashald, in the city who bought cans of milk by the dozen. Eventually the Skald-turned-thug turned to the old man and said the words that he surely knew were coming.

    "It's time to pay. The money loaned to you, the five thousand." The even chumminess had turned to an unkind rasp, the sound that maybe a rough-scaled snake might make as it coils about some tame thing that had come to the end of its days. "It's time to pay" he repeated.

    Everett the cattle farmer puffed on his pipe, puffed and puffed - seemed maybe he wouldn't stop puffing. The orange glow in the bowl was like the birthing of another galaxy now that the sun had fallen behind the walls of the city and left everything in darkness. He took the pipe from his lips and said quite friendly enough "Sorry, I don't have it". He'd looked like he might've gone on with his excuses, some mewling nonsense about how times are hard and maybe about the price of feed. There was none of it, Cormac wouldn't stand for any of it. The lies, the blubbering - the blathering, it made him sick right to the back of his throat. The big man's nostrils flared, and he lashed out the only way that made sense to him.

    He punched the man, not on the chin or crosswise on the jaw - but squarely in the mouth. The sharp studs on his gauntlet turning the old man's face into something akin to ground beef, and Everett's knees went out immediately. Cormac wouldn't let him fall though, and held the yokel up by his shirt and backhanded him once, twice, and a third time before permitting him to drop. The whimpering broken faced man was trying his darndest to crawl away, he wouldn't get far. Cormac squatted nearby and retrieved the old man's pipe, and he puffed on it himself as he rose and strode close behind the desperate farmer. When the bowl was good and hot he tossed the pipe into the barn, into the hay that had been stacked. The whole thing ignited quickly, white and orange flames sprung up - choking smoke billowed out from under the roof. The evil barbarian leaned down and gripped Everett by the shag of hair on his head and turned the bumpkin's face toward the fire by force. Dragged him to the fire, and held him there till his eyes boiled out of his skull and nothing remained of his face but a charry grin. Such was deserved of those who didn't pay their debts; of those who lied to him. The ragged sobbing breaths of the ruin that had been a cattle rancher not even ten minutes ago were silenced when Cormac pulled out his remaining pistol and put a hole in the man's chest. After all, he wasn't a cruel man - not Cormac.

    Over the sound of his kettle-drum heartbeat and the rough, animal breathing from his heaving chest, the words came it seemed from another world..."and they took Esmerelda, my prize cow. My daughter could tell you more about it" Everett's words snapped him out of the thought. He stared at the old man, his dark eyes blazing and his teeth clenched at the vivid premonition, at the apparition before him. "GEORGE!" the old man cried. "GET OVER HERE AND TELL THE STRANGER WHAT YOU SAW!"

    And there she was, the plump and heavy chested milkmaid daughter of the man Everett. A frosty cold sensation came to Cormac's gut, he felt like turning away and running from this mad place, from the beautiful girl named George. He softened, and listened to her words like she was reciting poetry in that weird accent of hers. Where the bad men went, how many there could've been - and of course she knew her numbers for who but she would count the cans of milk. He swallowed the wet lusty feeling down and assured them both that he'd do what he could to get the prize cow back, and he'd even pay their debt in full today for two or three beeves tomorrow.

    Cormac and Everett shook hands, and parted on friendly terms.

    The debt would be paid, no bones broken - no blood spilled. None of the old man's at least...

    When he'd finally return to the city he found he could meet Isolde's gaze again. Perhaps there'd been a change somewhere along the way after all.


  • **The Opportunity lazily rocks, unsettled in her spot in the docks. There's an occasional woody bump as the ships large hull meets and collides with the much smaller S.S. Nancy. Ships bells sound all across the docklands and the rowdy voices of drunken sailors cuts just above the turmoil of whipping shore winds.

    None of it stirs Cormac, who lays in a wakeful state within the captain's quarters. And neither the easy breathing of the purple haired smiling Elf woman that rests atop him with her head on his chest, nor the unashamed Human girl with blonde hair that sleeps soundly in her night clothes with her head nestled on his arm at the shoulder, the one that snoozes calmly and evenly into his ear, can give him the comfort that he so needs.

    The wolf looks up to the ceiling where shadows cast from the sooty dim light from the few candles that were left burning during the trio's evening together. The shadow of an overturned wine bottle casts its weird green/grey shadow on the opposing wall. There's no smile on his lips.

    Thoughts come and go in drifts not unlike the waves that lap and beat against the walls of his wooden castle at sea, his ship - 'his ship' - the Opportunity. Asha had called him a guardian once upon a time, and Berkleigh had said it best at the Marigold Tavern, of course Cormac had snarled at the gentle mannered barkeep for it. "...you have a need to look after them...", or somesuch. Did he really only look for the broken ones, the ones with a screw loose? Reyhenna might allude to something like that in the future, it'd strike him with no less poignancy than the time at Marigold. Still, maybe. He thought. Maybe. This thought brought him to Raazi, and he wondered how long it'd been, and when it stung too much he gripped and his fingers sunk into the flesh of one lover or the other, and he tried not to moan or hitch his breath as a tear rolled back from the corner of his eye.

    "You can't kill it like that Little Crow. You won't drown her memory in flesh". The words came from a voice that had been silent for so long. He didn't respond. He didn't even think of a response. He was on the mend - getting better. The mad thoughts and wild tendencies were in the past. He hadn't even used since Juniper and Valisha had started joining him regularly, not anything stronger than wine anyway. And, it'd seemed to him for a while now that people were actually enjoying his company - they'd certainly remarked on his heroism, told stories of his deeds without being prompted.

    "...you can't kill it like that, wolf. You won't drown her memory --" ... and he was to be a father again. Juniper had told him not too long ago that she'd visited with the priest, and that it was certain. Another one swearing that she loved him. Maybe his cursed state was truly ended after all. The world, it seemed, was lavishing gifts and good fortune upon him at last. Even when he'd did wrong it seemed to invite a favorable outcome; he was living a charmed life. He found that for all of that, he couldn't help feeling completely and miserably alone.

    "It's a thing that can't be killed. It's because your hair is black and her wolfish look in your eyes." He squeezed again, a mild yelp and a sigh from one of the women let him know that all were yet at rest. All but him, though he ever suspected the Elf might be laying between rest and wakefulness by now. One of the candles died and the shadows danced one step to the side. He wondered to himself whether or not he might have to kill her if she ever came back. A thought he'd gone wild with rage at when Varya had suggested something similar. He argued with himself internally, wrestling with both parts of it. On the one hand, how could such a thing not cause his blood to boil - for good or for ill, Raazi had been his wife, and the mother of his child Rafni. On the other hand - yes, she's a demon - does she even have a heart that could love him? Did she ever really?

    He knew in his heart of hearts that she'd struggled, that much was plain in the letter she'd written for him. The letter he'd never finished reading, probably never would finish reading. He would try to find his comfort. He struggled with himself, but the Elf that had fallen in love with him, the one with purple hair - and the blonde haired girl he'd jokingly made his deck-swabbie, might at least make it a little easier to accomplish....**


  • White Raven

    A soft voice asked, "But how did you know?"
    The far away voice compelled, "But I didn't."

    A crumbling deep sound from within the darkness.

    "You couldn't have known she'd be there, that you'd be murdered in this high, cold place." the soft voice continued.
    The far away voice insisted yet further, "I didn't know."

    The rumbling of ice upon ice from deep within the bleak, frozen dark.

    The yellow eyed wolf looks up at Cormac from his side, the ravens wings that challenge the blackest night lie flat against its back. It suggests yet further. "But you came here to die?"
    The man whose raven black hair had sprouted a thread or two of brilliant white, stark enough to challenge the stars and the moon in the sky answered thus, "Something awaited me here. Perhaps its name is Death."

    The wolf stared and pondered. After an eternity it wrapped its cunning mind around some words in its own riddle. "Yet you live. Between places, you are neither living nor dead. Tell me Cormac Randolph; if Death waits, are you not rude to keep him waiting?"
    The frozen corpse offered no response. And so the raven-winged-wolf resumed.
    "And if you came to find an answer that you might live on, have you not also failed to do that? Perhaps not. In the eternal in-between you elude death and forsake damnation. Aoth might smile upon the bones of you for that. If the mad-woman had not injured you so, you would have died here. Do you realize that she saved your life?"

    A dull creak from the rimeclad barbarian upon his frozen throne. Hoary shards of ice tremble and splinter off. The valravn's yellow wolfs' eyes narrow and its black lips curl at the corners.

    "You won't let me die. You won't let me live. What do you want from me, beast?" A thought from another realm cries out. Dark clouds seem to roll over the mountaintop as a new blizzard sets in. The few mountain-dwelling ravens that had tried their luck at pecking the glassy ice that covered the man-corpse's face were startled into flight, and soon their raspy cries were ghosts in the fog.

    The wolfbeast offered no answer.

    The frozen man continued his psychic monologue -- or dialogue with this eldrich deity; "Give me peace. Let my sword mark the grave of some fool. Let my guns lie silent. Should my axe be raised again in war let the wielder be cursed. Let me 'die', beast. Give me peace."

    The yellow eyes of the wolf raise once more to meet Cormac's golden gaze, frozen and unblinking. "You know as well as I, Cormac Randolph, that none of this is my doing. This is not the end I wished for you. You have rolled over and accepted a fate that is unfit, unworthy. You have disappointed me and, I think, yourself. Is it not so?"

    A thin, hairline crack begins to split the icy coffin that houses Cormac's frozen flesh; only a slight thing at his cheek. A pulse of gold illuminates the glassy ice and hoarfrost exterior, it pulses like a beacon as his golden eyes light up. The offense of what the valravn says runs too deep even in his frozen heart to be ignored by the relentless spirit of the man within.

    The crack ceases; the pulse dies. Eternity resumes as the spirit of the man and the wolf set aside their bitter argument.

    For now...


  • Miss You

    He'd stood facing the doorway to room A7 in the halls of the Bardic College for a while, he was sure he could hear someone in the room on the other side of the door but hadn't quite plucked up the courage, or really found the words yet that he'd wanted to say. Once or twice he'd reached for the door handle - apparently intent on bursting through the door and baring all he had to the mercy of his intended recipient. At the last he resigned to rest his forehead against the cold wood planked door and to speak softly.

    "...this isn't the first time I've made a mistake. Only, I think this time it's different and I don't think I can come back from it. Shay was right -- they've all turned away from me -- and here I am at your door. Will you open up and talk to me? Do you think I could see you just this one last time..?"

    The last few words came out choked and to his own ears uncomfortably desperate. The seconds that passed in silence seemed like eternity - he was about to turn and leave when he heard a fumbling at the handle, the hard 'click' of an opening lock. Elation washed over him as the door slowly creaked open and dim candlelight spilled out from the growing gap.

    "...Isolde I --"

    His words were cut short when the point of a stiletto dagger was thrust aimlessly up towards his face. A shrill woman's voice demanded of him.

    "Who the hell are you and what do you want at this hour?!"

    Cormac stepped back from the doorway, he stiffened and his breath caught and stilled. His nostrils flared and he stood up straight and squared his shoulders, he drew in a breath and began in his dark robust voice.

    "...My name - is C--"

    He was cut off suddenly again by another shrill outburst from the dark haired Half-Elven girl, and that seemed somehow more immediately dangerous than the dagger from earlier.

    "Nobody CARES who you are, you old creep!!"

    These words were followed by the sharp echoing clap of the door being slammed shut. There was a finality to that sound. The big man swallowed hard, he wondered if he should apologize - the thought passed quickly, and he vacated the Theatre building just as swiftly. He didn't think on it again until much later, but he guessed that would probably be the last time he crossed that threshold on way or another.

    "Nobody cares who I am".

    This thought on the other hand hounded him through the last course of his journey. He didn't try to guess at how long it had been since he'd seen anyone else. He'd watched lush green turn to muddy brown and stunted growth, and from there the landscape turned to dull grey and frost, and from there to near constant snowfall. He tried to not rest for too long on his stops as he couldn't help wondering when he turned into an 'old creep'. Once on the long road a wolf had howled in the dark, it had been a lonely sound and no other wolves had responded. Cormac hadn't used his voice at all since the woman in the college had interrupted him; he almost wolf-cried back out into the dark himself but for the awkward feeling that comes from such bitter loneliness. The barely audible sound came out muffled, and strangled itself to a weary sigh before it could fairly start let alone articulate. There were shadows in the dim embers of his campfire, the light refused to dance in his eyes.

    He thought little about Rafni, the child he'd sired with Raazi. The words he'd said so many times before had become truth to him. Just another one of my little bastards who'll never know their father's name, or his face. Maybe for a while he'd fooled himself into believing this time was different. Hadn't he been there to see her born? Hadn't he named this one? Held her? She'd cried for him when she missed him. He'd fallen in love with the little crease of a dimple on his little girl's cheek when she smiled too. And -- he'd come to find that those kinds of thoughts were getting hard to put away as he drew closer to his destination, and that they made his heart hurt. He didn't hate Raazi for it. He missed her, too, he understood.

    Descending Angel
    His next campfire hardly burned at all, a low flame that sparked and spat angrily against the frozen mountain wind. The coals of it tried to blaze their bright red but their forlorn glow was pitiful in the frigid night. Wind whistled over the top of the blanket of white snow that seemed to be tucked into every nook and craggy cranny on the rough mountainside. There was little shelter and Cormac's back and shoulders quickly became snow covered and he became just another lumpy outcrop. He stayed that way hunched over the dying embers all night. The falling snow did not relent with the coming dawn.

    The world flattened, he was drawing closer to the mountaintop. The throne at the peak would be within reach today. His shallow breaths lingered before him, hot puffs that had started coming out ragged and irregular. He'd left much of his equipment behind, he'd figured after all, that he'd have little use for a cumbersome axe or his blackened chainmail, or even his big roundshield where he was heading. Cormac Randolph who bragged that he could smell a trap had made another mistake.
    For in the winding rocky crags where the wind is slowed to a mere eye-watering, a step down from the flesh biting or skin ripping, in the hollow places where a fire might be lit and stay lit and a tent might be pitched and stay pitched, the wild mountain folk would often migrate through. Cormac would be lucky enough to encounter a handful on his way to the top.

    He had left his axe and his shield behind but only a fool would travel anywhere unarmed. His longsword rasped from its scabbard as one howling figure sped towards him more than half obscured in the blizzarding snow. The wide arcing swing of his foe's greataxe might've ended Cormac's trip right there if he'd been just a little slower, or if his enemy had been a touch quicker. He caught the next swing early with his sword and forced the scruffy bearded man back a step. Cormac was already out of breath and knew the fight must end soon, no fancy sword-work today. The mountain man recovered rapidly and brought his axe up overhead; he meant to bear down with all his might and cleave Cormac from crown to sternum, or to split him clean in two like a dry log perhaps. It would not be so. An almost lethargic step forward and an impaling thrust of the black bladed longsword saw the fur-clad vagrant drop his big axe behind his back and cartoonishly clutch the small portion of blade before falling back into a snowdrift, the man died quickly and snow had already started to cover his body and his face by the time Cormac had caught his breath and leaned over to recover the sword.

    Before his hand could grasp the handle, before he could so much as tug the blade free, a shrieking woman had jumped onto his back. He felt her drive her fist into his side a few times; all the while screaming inarticulate bloody murder. He was caught off guard, numb with cold - startled with the ceaseless yelling. Cormac reached back over his head and grasped at whatever he could lay his hands on and still the woman drove her fist into side, his ribs, his back. One of his fists became tangled in her wild hair under her hood, his other hand found purchase under her arm, and in an instant he'd thrown her clean over his head and into the snow where her presumed companion lay dead. The woman scrambled to her feet roaring shrilly like a startled mountain-lion. The witch-demon, shrieking banshee bitch had a pair of crimson bladed daggers in her hands and she rose bow-legged and ready to pounce again. By the time she'd thought about taking a half-step towards him though, Cormac had already slung the sawn-off Lantanese rifle out from under his cloak and fired true. A red lake and ribbons of guts met the snowbank behind her a few seconds before the woman, blasted backwards, had hit the wall herself. Still she screamed. Her wild echoing rage wasn't quite the 'boom' of his big gun's report, but the devil was in this sound. She hissed and scurried, she crawled through the snow on her belly leaving a bloody trail. There was no sense to her movements, the woman herself didn't seem to know or care where she was going - the sound in her awful cries made it seem that she didn't know whether she was fleeing or attacking either. Cormac drew his pistol and fired another ball through her back. The crack of gunshot echoed all over the mountain - the woman no longer moved, her frantic cries had ceased almost immediately.

    Cormac stood with his pistol pointing at the dead woman a while longer, his black painted lips tipped down at the corners. It wasn't too much longer before he felt his legs threatening to give out. The numb cold of the mountain blizzard was giving way to wet heat that made his pants leg stick to his thigh and all the way down to his knee. He could see spots of blood on top of the new snow. The snow would quickly cover it up, and then more drops - an endless battle that he was sure to lose.

    He never did recover the longsword.

    He staggered the rest of his way up the last steep stretch of hill. The places where the woman's knives had punctured had started to ache so much that he wished the numbness of the cold would come back. Nevermind. His uneven breathing had become rasping loud moans before the frost covered throne had ever come into sight. Black spots drifted before his eyes and more and more he felt it might be terribly wise to rest. Just a few minutes and then he'd go on, he thought. Just enough time to gather his strength. He hadn't felt drowsy since he'd slain Shay. All the rest he'd needed he'd had on his bleak throne. Now he could barely keep his eyes open. Short puffs of breath hung in the air before him as he made his way onward.

    By the time he reached the seat he was all clapped out. He'd started coughing a while back and by now he couldn't catch a breath, the cold irritated his throat; his mouth was full of cotton, so it felt. Almost like he was getting whisky drunk. The dribbles of blood that forced their way out of his mouth had frozen and formed pink icicles that hung from his beard. Another puff of breath, this time barely a shallow ghost. His chin dipped and another breath gurgled its way up and moaned its way out of his throat.

    "Ma..?"

    He rasped the word, or maybe the question, as the feet of strangers stood in the snow before him. He managed to look up and to see the ones who stood there. A wizard in blue robes stood watching him. Another man dressed in blood-spattered full plate stood resting on a downturned greatsword, to this man's left another light haired man dressed in purple chainmail stood. And in the middle standing a full head and shoulders taller than them stood a great warrior with sullen yellow wolf's eyes, a reflection of himself. The four shadows stood and watched for a time. The puffs of breath had ceased and a thin layer of frost had started to take over the figure that sat on the throne. Slowly the four sank away into their shadows. The yellow eyed one hesitated half a heartbeat, but soon there would be nothing at the peak of the mountain but the moaning wind and whipping snow.

    Sure there might've been rumors afterwards. A shadowy figure coming between some maiden and the loss of her virtue at the hand of some dirty bastard. And maybe the occasional hushed tale of some would be villain found with a small hole in his chest. The ghost of vengeance who'd engulf lesser boogy-men in shadows and bear them straight down to hell, himself. And were there not nights where a long shadow would spill out over the commons; and didn't that shadow have horns, so they'd say? Maybe they never did. Maybe it's as plain as it is written. Maybe he's simply gone.


  • For The Sake of Revenge

    The sharp edge of a silver knife made of shadow cuts through the twine with a satisfying, musical 'ping'. Cormac looks down at the stitched up chest wound of Kyrie who lays dead upon a raised slab before him. The needle is set aside and in the same motion Cormac picks up a comb that, in the dark, looks like it might be carved from ebony. In truth the teeth and spine have upon them and impart the fruity musky smell of sandalwood; the thing having long ago been fashioned from a cut of the expensive wood. With it he combs Kyrie's hair with the tenderness of close family, dearest friend, or most sincere lover. His golden eyes take in the shape of the dead man's face.

    "...it wasn't meant to be this way Kyrie. Stabbed in the back like some common bandit -- I know. 'I' suffer knowing that you were robbed of your victory. You deserved better is all I'm saying..."

    He eyes the dead man's neat hair and perhaps decides it's 'too' neat, for he strokes the bangs to tussle them and give them a little 'volume'. He sets the comb aside and brings up a bottle of scented oil which he generously applies to the naked body before him, careful to anoint the sallow hollows, his underarms and rubs, his chest and legs, the man's hands and his face. He even applies some behind Kyrie's ears. Cormac's golden eyes give Kyrie's corpse a soft look, and tuts at the unshaven face that can't do aught but stare back up at him. The shadowy knife materializes in his hand and Cormac hunches over The Swordmaster. He rakes the razer edge of the knife down the man's cheeks - though with all the care of a trained barber, and shears the messy stubble away. He shaves the dead man's neck and the bristles that threaten to become whiskers from under his nose, too. He leaves a short goatee on the man's chin and a trimmed and shapely soul-patch just under his bottom lip.

    He might've looked satisfied with his work, proud even; though as he admires the clean shave he begins to stumble - first going weak at the knees and then dropping the blade which vanishes before it hits the shadow-engulfed ground. He braces himself on the slab with his free hand, his golden eyes swimming and drifting as he begins to fade and black out. He catches himself and gruffs, wheezing and panting doggedly as he slinks wraithlike back to the cracked throne into which he slumps. An immediate gasp of relief is sighed out. He sits there for a long time without moving or saying a word, his golden eyes exploring the collapsing shadowy chasm of his once glorious plane. He feels under his cuirass and winces when his fingertips reach the cold wet spot where his beating heart ought to be, and when they brightly sting the open wound they've found. He slowly brings his hand out from under his leather breastplate and stares at his quivering fingers. No blood, bone dry... and yet he 'had' felt the injury.

    His golden eyes survey the fracturing void that had been his home. Black ooze pouring down unseen walls, black ooze tinged with an inner red. Black, bloody ooze that spills into pools that disappear. His gaze turns skyward where once upon a when there had been stars, entire constellations that he had put there; born of his love for a woman, he'd pricked the darkness and brought forth stunning little lights. All gone. A swirling vortex dominates the entire sky like an upside down drain that at any moment will suck the entire plane up and out of existence. The thought chilled him to his bones and yet somehow, upon this cracked seat, he manages to take his rest. His body slowly becoming more and more invigorated as the soulless void of his body takes energy and sustenance from the shadows that make up his little world. Or what's left of it.

    His eyes see more clearly from here the bright lines where Kyrie's swords had cut him and stabbed him, deep slashes in the black. Gouges that deeply wound the surrounding shadows, the places that hurt most and bleed their weird black ooze. He finds his jaw clenched, for how long now he couldn't possibly know. His bottom lip quivering like a child whose toys have been trod upon and broken, verging on pitiful tears.

    "...I don't know what you've done to me. I don't even know if I can fix it. You really got me good Kyrie, I think you've cut me deep. Is this the mutual destruction you spoke of? Will my body soon lay upon such a slab?.."

    The dry 'tsk' he utters echoes in the chamber of void and he rubs his eyes with his fists to fight back the tears that surely must come, surely they must.

    "...no, I don't think there's a slab for me. I don't think anyone will lay me out and tend me when my time finally comes. I had such 'plans' for you, Swordmaster. I though I might turn you into some twisted thing -- a weapon, or a shield maybe. I thought it'd be fitting but -- but I don't feel like it now. Of all the injuries you've inflicted upon me I think your piss-poor death has been the most grievous. Do you understand? You've broken my heart Kyrie..."

    He sniffs aloud and pushes himself up from the throne. Hours, maybe days had since passed. Maybe only hours or minutes. The body still gleamed from the oil and hadn't began to decay; though in this place of all places, would it ever? The knife that hadn't been in his hand materializes from shadow as he lifts Kyrie's by the wrist. He carefully and meticulously begins to trim the corpse's fingernails. He trims carefully in small etching cuts almost as though he'd regret hurting the dead man further. He cuts the nails down short though on all ten fingers and all ten of his toes, too. While he cuts he offers;

    "...when I was a boy, the Seeress told me that when a dead man's nails went untrimmed before he was buried, that his fingernails and toenails would be taken by trolls back to the real of the Jotun, where they'd use the untrimmed nails to build upon the hull of their great ship of war. That the funerary rites were important; else the endtimes would come..."

    Across The Rainbow Bridge

    The body lying upon the slab with his fatal wounds stitched shut, his body oiled, his beard and fingernails trimmed, and his hair combed is at rest and naked before Cormac. When he's certain there's nothing more he can do for Kyrie's outward appearance, he begins to dress the dead man. Rough brown woolen pants, a stiff off-white linen tunic cinched at the waist with a new belt. Sturdy leather boots of a quality that most common men might own but one pair in a lifetime, and gloves both supple and tough befitting of a swordmaster. The dead man's shins are furnished with metal plates and his body is dressed in a chain tunic not quite as long as the linen undershirt he'd been put in. A sword belt is tightened around the waist over the mail with a scabbard that houses a fine longsword. Sturdy, decorated pauldrons are fitted to the corpse's shoulders to hold the big red cloak in place. Strapped to his guard-arm is a broad roundshield which is laid over the body of the dead man. And a helmet plated with shining bronze and gold inlays is finally placed on the man's head.

    He places his hands on the chest of Kyrie and he starts to force the body out of his realm and back to the material plane, a location he knows well in mind. At his back, although they daren't step into his crumbling plane that might cease to exist at any moment, he can feel the eyes of his three 'Brothers' upon him. He can feel their collective wonder, and something more than indifference -- perhaps 'malice' at this mortal's decision to break their laws, to 'take' from Death instead of relinquishing.

    Cormac steps out of a doorway made of shadows which closes soundlessly behind him and winks out of existence. In his muscled arms the limp body of Kyrie, the gold-plated Mithril chainmail glittering brilliantly in the light of the dawn, the shadows of the pillars and the great statue of Tempus in his austere shrine just outside the City of Peltarch stretching far as the sun begins to rise.

    The body, furnished with sword and shield, armor and helmet, cloak and boots is laid out at the feet of Tempus - this man's Lord - with a bleak and pragmatic grimness that only Cormac's sullen face could convey without words. The barbarian fusses over the body, straightening the cloak at first, and then throwing the material over one side of the body for dramatic flare. He rests one of Kyrie's hands on the pommel of the longsword worn at his hip. All of the man's own battle furnishings having crumbled to ruins and dust upon his defeat. The swordmaster that Cormac had called a 'knight' looks indeed knightly in his death-splendor. Something in the scene reaches Cormac's romantic nature and he stands a while, looking between the finely dressed body under the stern gaze of Tempus.

    "...I don't pray. I never had -- I've been accused of being a poet but I've no words for this kind of thing. This man laid out before you stood against many. He did not flee though he could have. He is my enemy, and one of the closest things I've had to a friend for a long time..."

    He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, and his shoulders slump - maybe it's shame or something else that squeezes his big, heavy heart.

    "...I think my seat in your golden hall will be empty overlong, o' Lord of Battles. I yield my place to Kyrie, the Swordmaster. If he has no kin there let him find mine; let him sit shoulder to shoulder with them, pray he tells them that Cormac Randolph too was no coward, tell them that I didn't flee either. Tell them -- something..."

    His thoughts turn to Ysgard, to Gladsheim -- he thinks on whether he'll see such things before his end. He has no idea that the answers will all too soon be revealed, how right - and how wrong he is in his musings. For now he simply slips away back into the shadows, back to Discordia and Ruin where death and madness dwell. He takes to his throne ... and there Death Rests...