It had been months since
Caddell had arrived on the mainland from his home of Mystmarch. In that time he had seen all kinds of new things and had all kinds of new experiences. He even got to try out those mysterious stones that let people travel vast distances instantly. But then he had heard of a sea of sand west of
Elbion. A great land of mystery and hidden treasure. It was exactly the thing he had come here to experience!
What Caddell had found was relentless heat during the day and unforgiving cold at night. Utter lack of water and depressingly few spots for shade had turned the innocent optimism he originally felt into violated pessimism. And as if to make matters worse, he kept having those voices pop up in his head. Every time his mind just seemed to wander for a moment it was there. He couldn't make it out. It wanted something from him though. It wanted something he didn't think he should give it....
Then things turned for the worst....
Caddell's feet were moving on their own. He could not stop them. His entire body was slowly turning against him as well as it took him somewhere unknown. His exhausted of the heat walk had become a purpose filled march. The March Never Ends.... No. No that saying from home that came immediately to his mind was just his mind playing tricks. It was just a saying after all that was about his people's
culture lasting for eternity. It was about that invasion which lead to the perpetual storms being formed by the Storm God. It was about the work of their souls for the gods after they died....
Caddell wanted to shake that odd thought that didn't feel entirely his own out of his head, but he couldn't move it. His face and eyes were locked straight ahead. His involuntary march continued. Then he heard it. The sounds of battle. Someone was out there in the sands fighting each other. Clouds of dust rose from the ground to the sky, likely from soldiers and horses. The louder the sounds grew and higher the clouds rose the faster his feet seemed to move.
A panic began to set in. Caddell knew what was going on now. It was that compulsion. His body's need to remember his death, his near death. He was still alive after all.... He hoped. No. No he was. It was just the bad thoughts again. They always seemed to come with the compulsion. He couldn't stop this. He would throw himself into it and his hands would wield his sword no matter if his mind said to stop. It would continue till the fighting stopped or his body did. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad! He didn't know who these people were or what this battle was about. Who should he help? Who should he not? Who was on the right or wrong side of this conflict? Was there even a wrong or right side? He didn't know. He knew he shouldn't get involved. But his body, his body refused to listen to wisdom. It wished for that last battle once more. It wished for an end. It wished for the end. And right now his feet were carrying him to it.
But as Caddell began to get close, his feet began to stop. He did not notice this fact however as the screaming of the lost began to become overwhelming. The dead were angry. They were sad. They wanted vengeance. They wanted retribution. They just wanted to take someone with them. The voices were so loud that they drowned out the sounds of the battle itself as the different forces clashed.
.... Then everything went quiet. The whisper silenced it all. It silenced it so that Caddell could hear what it was saying.
Let them loose. He heard it once and then everything went blank. When Caddell finally came back to awareness he found himself collapsed in the middle of a runic circle. One made from bonemeal, salt, and his own blood. It was in ancient runes. They were Mystmarch in nature but so old even Caddell wouldn't be able to read them, as if he could. His entire felt cold. It felt as if the entirety of his body heat was gone. He drew his limbs into himself and curled up into a ball. He just laid there shivering in the heat of the sun and the sand as if they were no more warming than a blizzard. His head ached and he felt himself slowly drifting back off. Soon enough he lost consciousness curled up in a ball in his circle.
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A lone figure stood just outside the battle in full view of all who were participating. It twisted and turned around itself for a moment. A sword could possibly be made out on its hip, but it never made a move to draw it. As far as anyone could tell it was nothing more than a curious on watcher.
But as soon as the figure stopped twirling it drew a knife and spilled its own blood upon the sands. For those who could feel magic a sudden surge would be felt in this moment. Then another and another. Like the waves of the tides washing over the sands. A pale eerie light would begin to grow from around the figure and some might begin to hear a mysterious whisper. Those with good eyes would even begin to make out that the figure's skin would begin to pale until it looked frozen cold.
Then it all stopped as suddenly as it began when the figure collapsed. Seconds would pass as nothing seemed to happen. But after several moments the visible spirits of the fallen began to rise from their corporal forms. They shambled around as if in a daze. Confused and seemingly listless they all took shaky steps. But it did not last. Soon enough they came to and would turn on the living. Friend or foe. It did not matter to them now. That was the matters of their living lives. Now all they wanted was to take others with them. They did not want to die alone. So they rushed the closed living soul to them. Even the figure that had given them this chance was not safe as one of the spirits rushed towards them.
Gerra Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk Ledhros Caur Uvogin White Swallow
