Recent content by Mortivore Urn

He finished his swig, and the mug hammered down on the table, scattering a card or two. A brief shadow fell over his face. A memory flittered by his mind's eye, like a fragile butterfly, wounded and weakened. A dark-haired boy grinning wildly, teeth all askew, bright white and seeming to escape...

"Indeed." His voice thrummed deeply, unamused and about as sweet as salt. A single finger tapped pensively on the table, betraying what his stony face would not. "I like to put myself in the mind of those I hunt." A weighty pause. "One must think as the enemy, to predict them." The...

Mortivore approached Kirsten and placed a hand on her armoured shoulder to arrest her determined stride, leaning in to whisper: "No doubt they intended to burn us, should we refuse their terms. An opportunity to rid themselves of the last Dreadlords would be too valuable to miss." His neutral...

He stared at Reven in response to his jest. Not so much as a fish-bone of humor to be found in those dark, brooding eyes. His mouth puckered, twisting some of his long beard. "Fish make for poor bartering. However, I suspect you might hold something else of worth." He picked up one of the...

Another woman in fine clothes, such as might be found with a wealthy merchant or a guild artisan, approached the first one in conversation. He could barely make out the name. Zinnia. And in response, Livia. But then their conversing dug below the reach of his ears. A perfectly innocuous pair...

The old fisherman sat in a humble three-legged chair, in the corner of the Copper Cod, near a window weeping rainwater. His tall frame and long cloak all but smothered the modest chair, hood still pulled over teeming grey strands. A veined hand gripped a sizeable mug of dark ale, foam sprinkling...

Mortivore gripped his private symbol of Jura below his robe, a silver pendant which aided his concentration, his secret token of worship; an incongruence in the otherwise stalwart Dreadlord that Enkardo had rightly sniffed. . But instead of addressing Enkardo or his subtle challenges...

Mortivore didn't miss a beat. This was as good an opportunity as any to let out his bile when it came to Cortos, accummulated over almost half a century fighting them. "You must be lacking in either historical knowledge or common sense, Cortosi. Perhaps both. Your Radiant Church is a fine...

Mortivore met Encado's studying gaze with an appraising look of his own, sizing him and his horse up as one might with a slab of meat at a slaughterhouse, inspecting it for rot or wriggling maggots. The leader of this delegation held that loathsome vanity of Cortosi commanders, who decorated...

Mortivore's face twisted below his beard. A barely perceptible scowl, the distaste dripping like acid from his tone: "Cortosi lies. They scheme against us, no doubt. Same as the capture of Cliff Keep, when terms of surrender were offered - and every unarmed Anirian that poured out were...

Having secured a fallback plan, or some measure of one, Mortivore sought the company of his peers again, with the same inescapable tenacity as an umbral warden. His boots scythed through tall grass, gnashed earth and gravel, before grinding to a halt before them - just after Kristen had asked...

Mortivore pulled out a metal sphere from his belt as he walked. He whispered to it like one might weave a child to sleep, but rather than filling it with lullabies, he imbued it with memory. An artefact accessible to other mages steeped in manipulating the psyche. Soon, he found Miller by the...

Mortivore dipped his chin once in curt acknowledgement. "It is settled, then. I will endeavour to bewilder their movements, leading them into these traps." He drew a long inhalation through his nose and closed his eyes, as he steeled himself for the night. "We should prepare." With clenched...

Mortivore's face moved with some inscrutable emotion, obscured by his beard and the shadows of his hood. His jaw worked much in the same manner as a salamander slowly prepared its maw for a beetle. The small pupils of his eyes flitted imperceptibly, taking in not just her words, but every...

The young Kristen's words stirred something within him. Something deeply buried and long forgotten. Her idealism might be called naive, but it seemed that war had not yet spoiled her sense of honour. Much as that idealism might be an obstacle to him at this moment, it reverberated through some...