Fate - First Reply A Rude Awakening

[Cormund Augur]

Cormund rolled his eyes while the bandit poked him with a stick repeatedly, flashing a grin with a few gaps.

"C'mon, eh? Tell my fortune."

The bandit continued egging him on while another whittled, two more played cards, and another two napped. Still one more drove the cart that they were riding on. Cormund sighed into his reply while he looked at the passing woods on the road going East.

"I told you, I only know when bad things are going to happen, and I can't focus it on just you."

"So what's something bad that'll happen to me, huh?"

If he weren't shackled to the cart he'd be tearing his hair out. He couldn't believe he'd been captured while he was sleeping. He didn't think anyone would he stupid enough to harm a dreadlord, even an initiate, this close to the Anirian Reach. He was so close to Vel Cirak where his assignment was, and now this cart was just taking him further south, down to the Falwood.

"You're gonna get k-killed when they come find me, for starters."

Cormund grunted after being poked in the ribs hard by the bandit.

"A real one, you sod. Not often I get to speak to a soothsayer for free. Know you arent fibbin' coz you're a dreadlord, kid or not. Now tell me somethin' 'fore we get too deep in the Wood"

"W-What makes you think the elves will pay anything for me? We're not even at war"

"Got good Intel they're looking for Dreadlords right now, beats me why, maybe to torture but-"

"ZIPPIT!"

The bandit at the reins shouted suddenly, startling the one poking Cormund. He glared at the driving man for a second before shrugging and turning to the two playing cards, getting them to deal him in.

Cormund knelt there, magic dampening shackles pinning him to the cart. He wished he was any other dreadlord right now, able to swiftly dispatch of seven by himself while shackled. If he could just get the damn things off him. He brought his gaze up and to the left where his horse, Hemlock was led along.

Gods if only they didn't have his Horse.

Once more he looked at his surroundings. The vegetation was thick off the roadsides, it was more like a path, probably a smugglers road. Wasn't he supposed to have a second on this mission? It was strange they hadn't showed up yet. He shifted his body into a more comfortable position and got ready for a long ride...

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

The cart trundled down the meagre path, wheels churning earth and clacking over roots creeping over the path, the forest overstepping its bounds on human soil. The trees whispered secrets to one another in the wind; dark things -- things only they had seen. Bloody deeds far from the vigilant eye of Vel Anir, and well beyond the reach of human law. In nature, chaos and death bloomed like wild oaths. The roots remembered all the blood spilled here, drinking it like any falling rain. And now, they thirsted for more.

Any traveller on this road could feel it. That tight grip in their throat, the tension in their chest, expecting to see someone step beyond a tree -- a sudden arrow -- a pack of glinting, yellow eyes and bristling fur. Anything. But the gnarled oaks and plane trees that sloughed off their own bark merely teased the wary traveller with the possibility of an unwanted stranger around every corner. A gentle mist lingered close to the ground, like a carpet rolled out by the dark mind of the woods, inviting errant souls to their doom.

Perhaps this had prompted the leader of these outlaws to silence his flock. Perhaps he sensed what this forest had in store for him. A flutter of wings brought some heads to look up. Black, beady eyes looked back down upon them. Two crows, one on either side, observed them like a lonely audience gathered for a spectacle -- or an upcoming feast. Faint metallic clinks, like weak woodchimes, issued from iron anklets around their thin talons.

And at last, after many a bulbous tree, twisted in their petrified dance, mocking in their nebulous danger, they parted and produced a figure. A tall one; wreathed in a black, ragged smock, hood drawn over his head, dark-grey hair and beard spilling out as rampantly as the undergrowth about him. The hood shadowed his eyes and the wind tousled his braided beard, slightly swaying like some distant silver snake. He was leaning against a smooth walking staff, both hands grasped around it for support. Staring straight at them.

The wheels of the cart ground to a halt.

"Oy, who goes there?" The leader cried and stood up, addressing this old wanderer. Their horse snorted, smelling anxiety. "Speak up, man."

The figure didn't answer them. Instead he drifted behind a tree trunk; and the trees conjured him away gleefully.

Cormund Augur

 

[Cormund Augur]

The cart lunched to a stop, bringing Cormund forward with it, hitting his head on the wood. Bringing it up, the forest seemed noticeably darker, like dread was dripping from the leaves themselves. His visions danced at the periphery of his sight, leaving the lead bandit his focus, looking off to the right somewhere. His eyes were wide and posture straight, the highwayman looked like a deer startled in the woods. The other bandits followed where he was looking, so naturally Cormund did as well.

Seeing this older man was nothing but confusing at first. He looked harmless, like he couldn't walk without the staff he held. Was he lost? At first he couldn't understand the bandits trepidation, but a shiver ran up Cormunds spine as the man slipped back into the thicket. Then, he understood better than most.

"Mortivore..."

The name escaped his lips in a whisper. He had never spoken to the man, just seen him. Once. An academy trip to The Palace in Vel Anir, walking through the hallways. Their group was being lectured about the portraits on the walls, the various important dreadlords and statesmen that they held, when Cormund began to stare off like he often did.

He was witnessing a vision of a man looking confused and screaming for his mother. Like in a dream, Cormund just knew things he couldn't possibly know about the man, mainly that he was having his memories stolen one by one. Then in the vision he saw the one responsible, an older man with a long braided beard and a bored look on his face. Cormund jumped and yelled when he saw the man step out of the vision and into his real world. He and Cormunds proctor exchanged words, where he heard the name Mortivore. It wasn't one he would soon forget. When the Dreadlords eyes settled on Cormund for a moment, it was like he saw an aura of dread about him. His presence of mind returned to the moment, not knowing if he should warn the bandit

"Oy! Give us your name and your business, you shriveled prune!"

The Bandit vaulted the seat and walked hastily to the treeline. It seemed he wasn't happy about having been seen mid kidnapping. Something in Cormund didn't want to see the man suffer such a horrible end, even if he was an enemy.

But he kept his mouth shut as the thief grew closer to his fate.

The horses grew restless.

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

"Quit your hiding. I know you're there, old sod."

The bandit leader stepping beyond the trees seemed as obstrusive as an audience member walking up the stage in a theatre, inviting himself behind the curtain. Then more distantly, he cried out:

"Ah, there you are, grandfather! Come here you--"

There was a dull rustle and thud, as if someone fell; then a long beat, where the rest of the gang waited in silence on the cart, fully expecting their leader to haul out the old man. But after those half-finished words, nothing but the wind whistled. The canopies stirred.

A sudden clack of talons issued from the cart. A few of the men jumped in fright. One of the crows had landed on its wooden side, twisting its head in that perculiar avian manner, black eyes observing them.

"Huh! Bloody bird. Piss off."

The one who had once prodded Cormund now put his stick to use again, attempting to swat off the bird. It cawed at him and scrabbled further down the cart to avoid the stick, but didn't fly off -- a perculiarly brave bird. The man rose with an irritated grunt and raised his stick again, but before he could bring it down, he froze. Eyes locked on the ground.

"What in all the gods . . ."

The others clambered to their feet, sharing the view with him. Between the roots, a dark puss was leaking out, as though there were kegs there with broken taps. All about, even from the tree-trunks, tears of crimson slowly poured down, new injuries ripping through bark. Blood. These outlaws knew that colour well. The wind hissed through bloodstained leaves, as if savouring their discovery. Dread spread slowly, festering in their initial surprise, like an infection in a wound.

"Elven curses. It has to be. They must have found us," one declared.

Stick-wielder raised his borrowed branch like a rod of offering.

"We come in peace! Elves of Falwood, we bring you--we bring you a prisoner. A Dreadlord . . ."

An answer did come. But not from who they expected. Clouds gathered and contracted, sewing up the heavens and darkening the woods. The sparse daylight revealed the interloper who had dared interrupt the performance of the forest before. The leader suddenly stood back on the road; arrival unannounced, arms dangling by his sides. He approached the cart with a slow, staggering gait, hand on a sheathed dagger.

"Release the prisoner," he said when he drew near.

If they hadn't been distracted by their bleeding environment, perhaps they would have paid more attention to the strange cadence of their fearless leader. The way he walked unpertubed through a bloodied landscape, the monotone delivery. But as it stood, stick-wielder thought he had made a succesful negotiation with angry, spellweaving elves. He fumbled with the keys, dropping them at first, before picking them up again, hastily seeking to undo Cormund's manacles.

When key kissed lock, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Right lucky we found them so quickly--"

His words died on his lips when he saw his leader draw the dagger; a glint of inexplicable steel. And he didn't manage to cry out in time, before that sharpened dagger slid into the chest of the nearest bandit, as ponderously as one might seek to open a gate with a key. Mortal blood dripped and mixed with the blood of the woods. Screams and confusion reigned. The bandit over Cormund, not having yet turned the key, rose to see another of his friends stare blankly at him, glassy-eyed, raising an axe in his hands. The crow followed his eyes; and when it blinked, he blinked, in an inhuman, horizontal nictate.

Two bandits sought to slaughter their fellows with no warning; as dull and emotionless as a pair of butchers cutting slabs of meat. And Cormund was caught in the middle of it all.

Cormund Augur

 

[Cormund Augur]

Shadows of killing intent loomed over Cormund, filling his face with horror. He quickly flitted his gaze down to get himself as far away from this situation as possible.

"Oh no oh gods..."

The key scraped against the inside of the lock as Cormund bend his wrists to turn it and undo his bindings. His fumbling wasn't quite fast enough as axe rended flesh and ally slaughtered friend. Blood flowed above him as the fight ended quickly, and poured onto him. It was unfortunate that he chose to open his mouth while this happen.

Face crimson with the blood of life ended, Cormund heard the lock pop open. He stumbled back onto his rear, wiping his face frantically with his hands.

"Ohhhh. Ohhhh gods it got in mY MOUTH"

His eyes flitted around, watching as his visions condensed and merged. They all seemed to center on the bandit whose life had just been snuffed out by an axe blow. The things that might happen to him in his near, short future in the middle of this senseless violence. Another axe hit to the head, him falling over the cart, and even dropping his own blade onto his foot.

"What? Don't bite him!"

Cormund was always right when he didn't want to he, seeing the seemingly possessed man follow his successful hit with a bite to the shoulder. In the similar fashion that water does when he looks through it, the blood disappeared from his eyes. The doomsayer wiped the blood from the rest of his face and scrambled to his bag for his sword and Foresight Foci.

The small glass discs of water rattled in his hands as he ran forward, bringing one up to his eye. Visions melted into each other into more definite outcomes. The highwaymen scrambled from their card games and their sleep. His sight revealed the path of their attack, allowing him to dodge and counter, ridding himself of most of them quickly. Even if he was behind in nost aspects, Cormund was a dreadlord initiate. A few sleeping and unprepared bandits were nothing to him. He was doing them a mercy compared to what Mortivore could unleash.

Backing off, Cormund raised his blade to the last two bandits with soulless eyes. They were seemingly absent of something that helped them differentiate Friend from Foe, or maybe something was replacing it.

"Have you any sense left to strike at me? Or is t-that reserved for dead friends?"

Mortivore Urn

 

[Mortivore Urn]

One would think either of the two might respond. But instead, a third voice entered, raspy and cavernous, pinging off the pussing trees like falling rocks.

"Their senses dwindle with their purpose. They have only one task left."

The second crow had landed. Each man turned for a crow of their own, as if awaiting orders from generals rather than dumb critters. Axe and dagger clattered into the cart. The axe-wielder picked up the manacles and clamped them around the leader's wrists, closing them with two decisive clicks. The leader, in turn, picked up rope from a bundle and helped tie up the other man as well as he could, limited by his manacled arms.

The old man stepped unto the path, pulling back his hood, revealing a great bundle of tied-back hair. The blood of the woods receded, shimmering out of view, leaving behind only the natural blood of the dead and dying. It was a strange sight, a heap of bodies and two restraining one another, while the two Dreadlords sized one another up.

"You are a difficult man to find, Initiate Augur. Help tie the last one up, and we shall have words."

Cormund Augur

 

[Cormund Augur]

That voice hit Cormunds ears as an awful sound, he couldn't pick out as much of an inkling of care for the ones made into mindless servants. A kinder look was extended towards the crows. He always liked them, wise birds that they were.

As breath and pulse slowed, Cormund sheathed his sword and followed orders. Axe wielders stiff extended hands were clammy as the raven haired boy stood in front of them. Finishing the knot, teal piercing eyes met the cloudy ones across from him, making him flinch. He finished the tie quickly.

Hemlock snorted, but was calm. She was a warhorse, not so easily disturbed. Cormunds eyes flitted between her and the old man, but orders were orders. He was to finish the tie and they would exchange words.

"You should kill them too, it would be better than leaving them like this" Is what Cormund wanted to say.

"T-thank you for finding me. Mortivore, sir."

He was an initiate, had to remember his place.

"We should get going, sir. North of Vel Cirak where the elves were seen. Do you have a horse?"

Mortivore Urn