The saga continues.
The old spook nodded to itself, cloaked in shadow. The only illumination came from a cauldron, or rather the not-quite fire that burned beneath it. The surface of the vessel was blacker than the deepest cave, darker than the abyss at the bottom of the ocean. Occasionally a shadowy shape wrought in silvery light would surface and then disappear into the inky darkness.
The figure looked on.
"The break, it will come," said the leather-cased creature. The voice was that of a woman, high pitched and grating. It tittered a laugh to itself.
"Slow, she is," it said again. This time it was an entirely different voice, male and gravelly.
"Does it matter? Does it matter? Why would it matter? Why should it matter?" The high-pitched voice whined again, and the figure laughed again, gravelly and derisive.
"If not her, then another." The sultry voice of a temptress, low and throaty.
Each voice came from the single individual standing before the cauldron. They were of indifferent height, wearing a cowled robe. Their face lay hidden behind a leather mask such that only the mouth and eyes were visible. Or, at least, the holes where such things would lie. The darkness behind the mask allowed nothing but teeth to gleam and the indeterminate shine of eyes - devoid of color and character and soul - to glisten.
"No other. The time of waiting is done. We will find her."
The last voice was cold, ancient and distant as the stars in the sky. The otherworldly timbre reverberated through the undefined space where Traveler stood. There was a presence that rolled off of the strange being in waves. Soul-crushing and implacable as any force of nature, tinged with the poison of chaos.
"She escaped once."
"She will not escape again."
"All the time in the world will not be enough to elude us."
"We will finish what we started."
"What we started! We started! An ending!"
An ending. It was close. So close. The hooded figure reached out a gloved hand and, with great care, ran a finger across the black surface of the cauldron. The dragonette claw sewn into the leather stirred silvery light from within its depths, sending a coruscating wave outward.
Across the surface.
Beyond it.
Ever outward...
...the only thing holding you to them might be your own fear...
The shaman was in the grip of anger now, even if that anger was born of the fear that Alistair had accused her of. It was the truth that she would never, ever admit to herself that kindled that flame. And yet even so, she would not raise her hand against Traveler out of the very fear of reprisal.
It was not physical chains that bound the No'rei to them. Some existential dread seemed to cling to the idea of defying them.
The land had swiftly changed from the hilly, forested country of the Falwood into the ever more sparsely wooded rolling hills that preceded the great Sea of Grass. So close to the Aberessai the air and land became more sere. The town was not an expected feature of the mostly empty Sea even if it was beyond the range of her people and their endless war with anyone and everyone who stepped foot on their sacred soil.
She did not know the name of this place, and did not care. It was like so many other settlements on the fringe; a hub for trade along the margins of the wild and inhospitable grasslands. The major trade routes between Vel Anir and Alliria ran through this part of the world. It was considered safer by many than crossing the grasslands or going through the forest; one was the haunt of unfriendly tribals, the other the domain of thieves and bandits.
As such, it consisted of the expected main street, with its muddy rutted road running through the heart of the settlement and the usual collection of rough wooden structures thrown up on either side. A dozen wagons stood in the wide main avenue with their draft animals left in the traces. Local farmers, mostly. One 'van made up half of the people in town. The guard sat on barrels or leaned against the wooden beams that held up the awnings of the storefronts and eyed everyone else in town with the disinterested menace common to their kind.
She rode into town on a dusty paint. The mare was probably as tired as she was, riding night and day since the latest and last of the strange ordeals that Traveler had orchestrated. Her clothes - such as they were - were travel stained. They also marked her out quite clearly as one of the natives from out on the Sea; a loin cloth and chest wrap in dull brown and faded blue and grey, festooned with the same bone charms and feathers and bits of colored cloth as the braid down her back were as clear as a written sign.
Especially to those who lived on the border between civilization and the so-called savages beyond its grasp.
She guided her mount to the rail in front of a way house. It was the wrong time of year for it to be packed to the brim; aside from the merchants in the caravan hobbled in the street and the handful of guards, there were few others. Certainly few others that were of any means. The rail only had a few other horses tied to them. Slipping from the saddle and swaying on her feet as she landed, she tied the reins off as well and went inside.
It was early evening. The light pouring through the windows held that golden, honey-like quality that only came when the shadows were long. There were a surprising number of patrons at the tables in the large room inside. The low murmur of conversation continued on as if she had not entered even if a few of the patrons looked up and gave her a second glance.
An oddity. Uncommon among civilized lands but not unheard of. Maybe if she wasn't trying to elude some spook - and if she hadn't been so tired - she might have tried to attract more attention to herself.
Too tired to exaggerate the sway of hips. Too hungry to care about eyes. Her twisted, scarred left arm ached abominably after being jolted and bounced for many long hours. It did not make her mood especially good, either.
She stepped up to the counter. There was no bar here, merely a place to keep the strongbox and to keep records of who was staying and who not, and what they owed. There was no one manning it now; judging by the sound of crockery and metal coming from the door nearby, she judged it to be the kitchen and likely where the person she was looking for was.
There was nothing to do but wait, try to shake off the feeling of being watched.
The old spook nodded to itself, cloaked in shadow. The only illumination came from a cauldron, or rather the not-quite fire that burned beneath it. The surface of the vessel was blacker than the deepest cave, darker than the abyss at the bottom of the ocean. Occasionally a shadowy shape wrought in silvery light would surface and then disappear into the inky darkness.
The figure looked on.
"The break, it will come," said the leather-cased creature. The voice was that of a woman, high pitched and grating. It tittered a laugh to itself.
"Slow, she is," it said again. This time it was an entirely different voice, male and gravelly.
"Does it matter? Does it matter? Why would it matter? Why should it matter?" The high-pitched voice whined again, and the figure laughed again, gravelly and derisive.
"If not her, then another." The sultry voice of a temptress, low and throaty.
Each voice came from the single individual standing before the cauldron. They were of indifferent height, wearing a cowled robe. Their face lay hidden behind a leather mask such that only the mouth and eyes were visible. Or, at least, the holes where such things would lie. The darkness behind the mask allowed nothing but teeth to gleam and the indeterminate shine of eyes - devoid of color and character and soul - to glisten.
"No other. The time of waiting is done. We will find her."
The last voice was cold, ancient and distant as the stars in the sky. The otherworldly timbre reverberated through the undefined space where Traveler stood. There was a presence that rolled off of the strange being in waves. Soul-crushing and implacable as any force of nature, tinged with the poison of chaos.
"She escaped once."
"She will not escape again."
"All the time in the world will not be enough to elude us."
"We will finish what we started."
"What we started! We started! An ending!"
An ending. It was close. So close. The hooded figure reached out a gloved hand and, with great care, ran a finger across the black surface of the cauldron. The dragonette claw sewn into the leather stirred silvery light from within its depths, sending a coruscating wave outward.
Across the surface.
Beyond it.
Ever outward...
...the only thing holding you to them might be your own fear...
The shaman was in the grip of anger now, even if that anger was born of the fear that Alistair had accused her of. It was the truth that she would never, ever admit to herself that kindled that flame. And yet even so, she would not raise her hand against Traveler out of the very fear of reprisal.
It was not physical chains that bound the No'rei to them. Some existential dread seemed to cling to the idea of defying them.
The land had swiftly changed from the hilly, forested country of the Falwood into the ever more sparsely wooded rolling hills that preceded the great Sea of Grass. So close to the Aberessai the air and land became more sere. The town was not an expected feature of the mostly empty Sea even if it was beyond the range of her people and their endless war with anyone and everyone who stepped foot on their sacred soil.
She did not know the name of this place, and did not care. It was like so many other settlements on the fringe; a hub for trade along the margins of the wild and inhospitable grasslands. The major trade routes between Vel Anir and Alliria ran through this part of the world. It was considered safer by many than crossing the grasslands or going through the forest; one was the haunt of unfriendly tribals, the other the domain of thieves and bandits.
As such, it consisted of the expected main street, with its muddy rutted road running through the heart of the settlement and the usual collection of rough wooden structures thrown up on either side. A dozen wagons stood in the wide main avenue with their draft animals left in the traces. Local farmers, mostly. One 'van made up half of the people in town. The guard sat on barrels or leaned against the wooden beams that held up the awnings of the storefronts and eyed everyone else in town with the disinterested menace common to their kind.
She rode into town on a dusty paint. The mare was probably as tired as she was, riding night and day since the latest and last of the strange ordeals that Traveler had orchestrated. Her clothes - such as they were - were travel stained. They also marked her out quite clearly as one of the natives from out on the Sea; a loin cloth and chest wrap in dull brown and faded blue and grey, festooned with the same bone charms and feathers and bits of colored cloth as the braid down her back were as clear as a written sign.
Especially to those who lived on the border between civilization and the so-called savages beyond its grasp.
She guided her mount to the rail in front of a way house. It was the wrong time of year for it to be packed to the brim; aside from the merchants in the caravan hobbled in the street and the handful of guards, there were few others. Certainly few others that were of any means. The rail only had a few other horses tied to them. Slipping from the saddle and swaying on her feet as she landed, she tied the reins off as well and went inside.
It was early evening. The light pouring through the windows held that golden, honey-like quality that only came when the shadows were long. There were a surprising number of patrons at the tables in the large room inside. The low murmur of conversation continued on as if she had not entered even if a few of the patrons looked up and gave her a second glance.
An oddity. Uncommon among civilized lands but not unheard of. Maybe if she wasn't trying to elude some spook - and if she hadn't been so tired - she might have tried to attract more attention to herself.
Too tired to exaggerate the sway of hips. Too hungry to care about eyes. Her twisted, scarred left arm ached abominably after being jolted and bounced for many long hours. It did not make her mood especially good, either.
She stepped up to the counter. There was no bar here, merely a place to keep the strongbox and to keep records of who was staying and who not, and what they owed. There was no one manning it now; judging by the sound of crockery and metal coming from the door nearby, she judged it to be the kitchen and likely where the person she was looking for was.
There was nothing to do but wait, try to shake off the feeling of being watched.
