'It does not look like much, does it? They call it Taliesin's Breith these days. Of course back then they called it by another name. To some it was the House of Song, to others the Poet's Dream and to yet others the Bard's Hall. We used to call it home. In Dunwaith where if you did not aspire to conquest then you prepared against invasion, a humble collection of dwellings like Cairn-Aisling didn't cross the minds of beggars, let alone Kings. Nevertheless the Dun was the closest town of note, with the exception of the Faed, but the less that place goes mentioned the better, no?
So there it rests, and within you will find people gathered during festivals, Name Days, and other causes of celebration. Here there would be song, poetry and verse. Tales of the courageous, tales of the corrupt, tales of the heroic, tales of the wicked. Beneath thatched roofs in round rooms the alert and the drunken would behold, in rapt attent, the epics, the sagas, the tales of the Before Times, and far more. It was a place of inspiration, of reclamation. It was a place, I recall, where one could rediscover the soul, if one thought it had left them. Or find the heart, if the heart was lost. It was the only place in Cairn-Aisling where people dared to dream, to hope, to imagine. And so for that I am grateful. Were it not for this humble origin, this obscure blot on a landscape of nothing, I'd never have first heard of the Sidhe, or Fairy Mounds with their resplendent halls full of richer bounty than any the Breith would ever see. Nor would ever I have had the kindling of my wanderlust lit underneath me, so that I must leap up and into the unknown world to explore all of its strangeness. And I certainly would never have performed in magical courts before austere Faerie Queens and aloof Fey Kings, magnificent and intimidatingly proud of bearing, across the Veil, on the Other Side of Midnight.
It doesn't look like much, does it? But for every place in life where one feels dreams must surely go to die, there are other places, and they may indeed not look like much. But in some of those places dreams are born...'
~ Upon Reflection, Chapter 1 of The Mirror of the Self, by Taliesin.
This is where TechSupport Paul, who has taken to writing the occasional Veil based tale, will share his work, and I'll pitch in with vignettes and certain pieces, when the fancy takes. I know we are not many here, but quality counts for something, surely?
A Thorn in the Heartwood.
Moonbeams filtered into the chamber, and motes of some strange confetti, as though the Midnight were in celebration of some union unknown to the beholder. Yet the feeling, the vibration, which permeated in abundance, was of inchoate sullen repose. As though dark secrets drifted here, and yet remained stilled by time, hanging rather more like musical notes killed at the moment of birth, almost outlined. Nothing but gaps between the spaces which no hope could fill, and no embrace could warm. She shivered. To touch such should revile, not excite, but there was ever a thrill in the illicit and a passion which ignited for her: it was not a choice.
Her breath caught, she was ensnared, by the visuals lying before her as she walked the dark stone corridors of Redemption's Demise, an ancient thought-hold of the Barren. A place where even dreams would not dare die. Why would a dream die in a place where rebirth was unimaginable? Impossible! A choking grasp around the throat of inevitability. Folly! A dream knows better than to die in such place. But it was not this stark and chilling dankness nor the motes of sadness suspended in moonbeams which caught her gaze and held her rapt.
It was the Gate. No sigils nor wards, and stonework simple but solid beneath a mantle unadorned with the splendour of fine craft. It was an unimpressive door. So why did it hold her so enthralled, so bound in the grasp of its mundane and moribund dereliction? It could collapse, this arched portal, this aged nameless wood, forbidding ingress or egress beneath. What then could truth tell of the Other Side? It was not door. The door was a construct. It was the mechanism. The centre. It cannot hold. But this centred mechanism had so far held. The key was in her possession and she had long sought this door. When an eye opens it cannot ever be closed. Not truly. It can be blinded, it can grow stale with the cataracts of the malign or disuse, and it can be sewn closed by shadow-stitch. Naevera would keep her eye open, and she would see within and without and return ere the iris expunged.
She frowned. Something was off. The chamber was only seemingly fifty yards wide, the vaulted roof was a shadowed night-scape, appearing so much like diamond studded skies, it was hard to discern. Something was in here with her. She could hear it breathing. An echo. Perhaps something of the Primordial. She could pay it no mind, must not be daunted by parlous journey. Her passion was not brief, her heart was hale. But her mind!! Her mind insisted. Hungered. Her soul ached. Ached for this. What lies in the distant blind spot. Grope for it, seize it, throttle it, know it, have it. Own it. Become it. Let it become you! Her eyes went dark with lust and she moved like quicksilver, darkness to darkness, alabaster and ebony, a Shadow Dancer. She was at the door with the key in hand when the moonbeam cried out in dismay and was shattered, it was ear piercing. A hand gripped hers, and she snapped her head around to her right.
' You are sure this is what you want?' He had come to say. Those were his words. His bald head was patterned, carven with strange sigils which seemed almost to move, or pulse and glow and shift with their own baleful version of life. The opaque disc of eclipse painted his face, but his skin was pallid, almost corpse-grey. His breeches were simple, his boots of leather. His scabbard worn slung across his back at the waist. His hands were strong, large, his grip firm as the foundations of Elsewhere and that gave her pause. She pulled back her hand and he relinquished his hold, his pale eldritch eyes a blue glow beneath a brow of warning. Furrowed.
'Scharad.' She spat with disdain, the Veil Warden was a man of secrets and hidden knowledge, and she trusted him not. ' What are you doing here?'
' You know it is rude to answer a question with a question, yes?' He admonished emotionlessly.
' Get fucked.' She glowered. ' I have sought this bloody gate for an age it seems, and you will not stop me passing through.'
' You are so confident that what you hold there is the key, and that I am here to stop you exploring beyond would it were?' He smiled. She hated him. She hated that smile. Secrets and smiles. Bastard.
' This is the fucking key, and I don't care why you are here! I must know what lies beyond. Be gone, Veil Warden, ward your veil.' She could feel the seething within her, and the source around here was vast. So much shadow. So many pools of black. The midnight was ready and there for her. But Scharad was not unmanned. And Scharad was perhaps a man with his own measures and means.
' Your tongue is crass, and not to my liking Naevere, but I am here to give warning, not to hinder you, and I am here out of love, not forbiddance. I am here not as a Veil Warden.' He went tight-lipped. Then why in blazes was he here? Liar, her mind screamed. They felt like a hot barb pricking into her clutching palm.
' Warn me? Like I am some novice Dancer with no knowledge, some doe eyed girl without power? I need no warning...' She caught his gaze and felt horror. The wellspring in his eyes was sorrow! Pain. She was killing him inside or something was. She quite enjoyed it. Veil Wardens. She despised this man. Know it alls.
' Not to warn you then. To ask the question. Life consists of the burning up of questions, does it not? Do you know what you are getting into? Are you sure that key will take where you really want to go, and what do you expect to find?'
She turned the wicked and spiked key of bone and sinew and thorned vine. It was macabre, but it was right and she knew it. ' It was in the well, beneath the seals.' She confessed. 'It is the key.' She smiled with defiant relish. ' And yes, Scharad, I know what lies on the other side. This is a Charnel gate and this is the Door of Night.'
He caught his breath and held it, and exhaled slowly. Taking her in and he seemed deeply troubled.
'What?' She demanded. ' Out with it, or leave! I have been patient long enough and there is little of patience left in me.'
' Clearly.' He muttered.
' What is on the other side, then pray tell?'
' Whatever the key decides.' He said, and there it was. She had not expected it.
' What? What do you mean? The key decides? It is not of sentience!' She scoffed.
' I did not say it was.' He smiled again. Sly bastard. He could shove that smile where the sun doesn't shine. ' Where it leads is different for us all.'
' How the fuck would you know that?' She raged, snapping suddenly, seizing the key and preparing to slide it into the mechanism. Thrice-fold seals would soon come undone. For her.
' Because it was I who placed it in the well.' He said with pleading terror behind his azure gaze. So intense. It would break her heart, but it was almost fun to watch him suffer. It was a little late in the day for him to care now.
She stopped as though thunderstruck her mind making up the distance across the constellations between them. He'd been through the door... A Veil Warden. Through the door. No....
' Yes, Naevera, I have seen the Void beyond.' He sounded so sad. So burdened.
' Why are you warning me, Scharad, why do you care, what is in this for you? Let me be!' She cried in despair, fists balled up, feeling shadow come to her.
' Nothing.' He said after interminable silence that hung suspended like the weight of a century f judgement. ' Nothing. I simply suppose I rather like you. Am fond. Forget it, childe. You see and do not see, and now must see for yourself and I can see that!' He laughed and it was cosmic music from another age. Another time. Innocence forgotten.
' Don't play with me, Veil Warden, you bore me. Your order has a thousand riddles to exhange for one grain of wisdom and a nugget of truth. No one is making that deal. Speak plain.'
' Whatever you see, you can't unsee it. You will come back changed. If you come back at all. It would...' His voice caught. She scowled. Pathetic! Some stupid attempt to stop her with allusions of some danger unknown. She was made for the unknown!
' It would what? Forget it, Scharad, I am undeterred. I walk through the Door of Night and you cannot stop me!' And with that the Shadow Dancer slid home the key, and turned the lock, amidst an exhalation of mechanics. Metal on metal, transmutations abound, wood became rippling, shimmering darkness, and she was gone without a single glance behind.
Scharad had an outstretched hand in her wake, too slow by far. He stared into the abyss. Horror on his face. A single tear rolled down his cold, painted cheek.
' It would kill you, Naevera.' He whispered. ' And I ... I don't want you to die.' The door reformed. Scharad was left suspended in a moonbeam, with a thousandfold thoughts and midnight in his mind.
In Cairn Ashling all was silent, as a crowd collectively held their breath. ' They say Maglos may be old, but his mind as keen as ever! They say he is one of the greatest living bards! But some say he is more addled than he'd have you believe. Still, chance to see a legend before you take to the stand, eh?' Asked Hector of his companion, a man whose skills as a bard were truly coming of age. ' Yes indeed.' The dark haired young man said in response. ' I'll suffer through it, though Maglos is a wordy bastard and well past his best. I might still find something in his performance to inspire my own efforts.' He grinned and took a swig of ale. ' Aye they do say he is on the wane, but we can say we saw him before the Hollows claim him.' Hector took to his stool and hushed himself. ' He doesn't know what people want in a tale, I'll show him, and these people will be eating out of my hand come the night's end.' Simmered the dark haired man. At last into the hushed room came a wire haired old man, his patches of white sprigs in clumps about crown and ears, his long nose twitching and his light blue eyes shining with a mirth that suggested he was amused by the punchline of a joke only he knew. Slowly he took to the stage, and with effort; he placed his stick to one side, propping it against the rear wall. Someone put a mug of ale on the pallet before him at the edge of the makeshift stage, which Maglos made no move for at first. Th bard lowered himself into the chair and then agonisingly reached for the frothing mug. When he claimed it, he began to drink, and the whole room waited on his words. Finally after he had drunk his mug dry, Maglos leaned forward, his veiny hands splayed across his knees, his elbows on his thighs. Then he told his story. A Channeller stands next to a Berserker and watches a Shaman. The Shaman is watching patterns that birds make in the sky. The birds are watching the figures below in the wetlands.
' See how he divines the future from how the birds move in flight? Each sweeping motion, each gathering, or coalescence, its duration, in which direction they scatter after...' Asks the Channeller of the Berserker.
'Mhmm. That what he’s doing then is it? I see him alright, ‘n I see the birds. I ‘int blind.' The Berserker responds.
The Channeller closes his eyes. The Shaman looks to the sky aghast as thousands of small
birds plummet and land on the hillside, all now stiff and lifeless. ' What do you think the Shaman sees now?’ He pauses for effect. ‘ What do you think the Shaman sees when he sees one such as myself? A wielder of a greater craft? A knower of a more potent knowledge, or even a God, perhaps?' The glint in his eyes shows him drunk on the power of the necromancy.' No. I think he'd see what I see.' Grumbles the Berserker. ' And pray tell what is that, my uncouth friend?' Asks the Channeller with a contemptuous thin smile that never reached his eye. ' Someone who doesn't think much of birds...’
Maglos smiles, and his eyes twinkle. The crowd watch on, listening. What was coming next? ' Thank you for your kindness and in listening today.' The aged bard announces, claiming his withered cane and dismounting the stage with deliberation and diligence. 'Is it over?' A young voice asks their mother to one side at the front. The mother is mouth agape and frowning.
' I'm not sure...' The dark haired man grins with wicked delight. ' Is that it? Is that all he's got? Ha! I shall blow him away like a swift wind does the tired leaf!' ' Aye!' His companion scoffs. ' Daborch Ruis, your time is now! I don't know what that was, but good riddance to it! No one even got stabbed!'
Well, here is another of my offerings. Maybe it's a tale of not poking your nose where it doesn't belong, or perhaps its don't bite off more than you can chew. Or perhaps it's just a reminder to do some research before say yes to a quest..
The Smothering Darkness
The darkness was like a physical thing. It surrounded and smothered him. Contracting his world to the surface of his skin and to what little he could hear and smell.
The sudden snuffing out of his torch turned him, at least in the dark recesses of his mind that he was trying really hard to ignore, from the hunter into the hunted.
--
It had sounded so simple when the grey and white robed druid had explained the task. Go to the tor in the heart of the Gaelen forest and return with the hilt of the sword once wielded by the knight who was buried in a stone tomb within the barrow. Some may have baulked at the thought of defiling a grave, but long years of plying his services as a Sellsword had enabled him to step over what some may think of as lines of taboo.
The journey to the forest was uneventful. Long miles passed beneath the plodding hooves of his horse. Dark birds circled overhead and he eyed them wearily. “You can all go and follow someone else, ‘cos I ain’t dead, yet!”, he spat into the dust, and focused on the road ahead.
Aware of the passing time, he ate a sparse meal of sundried meat and fruits that he had stored in his saddle packs before setting off. It was cheerless fare but it was adequate. It was late in the day when he reached the edge of the forest. He had been told that it was one of the “Old places in the world” and sensible travellers went around it, rather that disturb what may or may not call it home. But he had a job and that job lay ahead, within the forest so, it wasn’t an option, he urged his horse onwards and passed over the boundary of the forest. The woods were not untravelled, however. A narrow path, worn by the passage of men and horses, wound its way deeper into the ever-denser growth. Trees, twisted with age grew tall and stretched out their boughs blocking the light, turning the late afternoon into a gloomy, dappled dusk.
The day was almost over when he arrived at the location of his quest. He had tied the reins of his horse to a dried and twisted sapling at the entrance to the barrow. The animal seemed uneasy, snorting and pawing at the ground. Perhaps the darkness revealed by the opening carved into the mound upset his horse, or perhaps it was a scent that his human senses could not detect. Either way, it mattered little. If he wanted payment, he had to go in.
Pulling from the saddle pack an unlit torch, he began checking his equipment and weapons, his fathers sword, old but honed to a razors edge was in a scabbard at his hip and a pair of knives were strapped, one to each thigh. He eschewed heavy armour, instead preferring a lighter hardened boiled leather chest armour. Over the years, the benefit of speed and agility had paid off many times.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the passage. Within twenty paces, the fading daylight from outside no longer penetrated the oppressive gloom. A few moments later and a shower of sparks burst from the flint strapped to the inside of one wrist as it was dragged sharply across the back edge of the axe haft. Light flared in the dark as the hot sparks lit the pitch coating of the torch.
The orange light of the torch created a flickering circle of visibility, that only seemed to highlight the shadows and imbue them with a life of their own as they appeared to move and shudder as the flame flickered.
The tunnel became choked with twisted roots as he went deeper into the earth, long vegetative fingers that seemingly plucked at his clothing and tried to ensnare his ankles. It was almost as if the barrow resented the intrusion of this being who bringing light and sound into the grave dark stillness, but that was just the animal part of his mind trying to decide if fight or flight was necessary. Long years of experience enabled him to ignore the creeping sensation across his scalp, but he remained aware of...something.
A change in reflected sounds and the feeling in the air, signalled those long minutes of forcing his way through the increasingly choked passageways had ended as the way widened into cavern. As he approached the centre of the chamber, he became aware of sounds. Some he could identify, the drip of water as it collected in pools, unseen in the oppressive dark. There was also the soft scuttling footfalls of vermin, running from light to find safety in the dark. But then there was that soft susurration of air, it could have been the natural passing of air from the outside, but it ebbed and flowed, rose and fell in volume, always at the edge of awareness.
The torchlight fell onto a rectangular stone set into the ground in the middle of the chamber, the stone slab was roughly his height and six spread hand-spans wide. As he got closer, it was obvious this was of a great age. The stone was pitted and chipped and was surrounded by a choked dirty rivulet of water. A shallow depression went around three sides of the stone and was the destination of the drips of water he had heard. The water was dark and oily looking under the torch light and strange half glimpsed shapes at the edge of vision flickered in and out of existence on the surface of the water at the edge of the torchlight. With a quick motion, the butt of the torch was planted in the ground, leaving both hands free. Kneeling beside the slab his fingers cleared away the soil and debris, attempting to find a purchase for his fingers so the slab could be removed. Just as his fingers uncovered what felt like a crack that could be where the slab rested on another piece of stone, He heard, or thought he heard a cold voice in his mind. It was a single word, drawn into a breathy hiss "No......"
Darkness, thick and tangible suddenly enveloped him. The torch that only seconds ago had been burning brightly, had gone out. It gave no warning, no guttering flame and dimming of light as would have been normal, just sudden, suffocating, oppressive darkness. He almost cried out in shock, but his long years of training and hard-earned experience stilled the involuntary cry before it left his throat.
The first thought was to rekindle the torch, "Light is more than being able to see," his father used to say to him on their hunting trips through the local woods and meadows. "Light is your ward against the dark and those that hide within". Reaching out to grasp the torch, his hand closed on nothing. The torch was not just extinguished, it was gone! Dragging his gloved fingers through the muck of the chamber floor he again came up empty handed. Something had closed on him, unseen and unheard, snuffed out the burning brand and taken the torch. All without a sound. His stomach twisted inside. Suddenly he was the prey, hunted by an unknown and unseen thing! Slowly he rose and unconsciously assumed a fighting stance as he drew his sword. the point held steady before him, left foot planted strongly behind him and right foot lightly in front, ready to move at the slightest urging from his now highly alert senses.
With reflexes that had surprised many foes, he threw himself down and forwards, whilst the sword flashed out to the right. rolling smoothly, he came up into a fighting crouch, some half-heard sound had triggered that abrupt action. he didn't know what it was, or really cared, if he was honest. Long fights against both friend and enemy had taught him to trust his instincts. To open his senses to the world and let the unconscious part of his mind drive his body, it was a long series of painful lessons, but it was well learned because of that.
Running his hand across the flat of the blade his calloused and leathery palm felt a cold sticky wetness, he smiled grimly. His hidden foe now knew this prey had teeth of its own! Then a chilling thought stole into his head… The blood, or whatever it was, it was cold. Living creatures bled hot. Didn’t they?
Standing once more, he took another half-step backwards and froze mid motion when the heel of his boot came down on something he didn't recall seeing on his entry to the chamber. Reaching down, he cautiously closed his hand on the still warm but now dark torch. Whatever had dowsed the flame had also cast the torch a good distance from him. Once more, sparks flashed in the dark and for the second time, a yellow orange flame drove away the darkness and revealed....nothing. As far as the torchlight illuminated, there was only the chamber. He was alone. He didn't allow himself to calm, he tried to maintain the sense of heightened alertness as he returned to his task. After all, ale costs money, but reputation is priceless.
The slab was there as he had left it, plunging both hands into depression he had excavated and curling strong fingers under the edge of the stone, he braced his feet and heaved with all the strength he possessed. At first the earth seemed reluctant to yield its hold on the ancient monolith, but little by little, the stone began to move. As one edge rose, a foetid smell seeped out of the tomb making him gasp, choke and stagger back from the grave. The stone fell from his grip and fell back with a resounding noise. It fractured into rubble and pieces were scattered both around and inside the grave.
Covering his mouth and nose, he leant forward and peered into the pit. There it was, clasped in a cadaverous hand, the tarnished hilt of the knights sword. The blade had been removed from the hilt, broken and the shards placed at his feet. What that signified was not clear, was he undefeated and the blade ceremonially broken at his burial? or was he defeated in combat, let down by the sword that shattered in defence of it's wielder? Reaching in to take the hilt, he murmured a hasty apology to the wielder and pulled the sword hilt free, once more in his head he heard the almost voice speak, "No.... Mine....". Shaking his head, as though to clear his thoughts He grasped the hilt only to see that the long dead hand had once more tightened around the grip. Blood ran cold through his veins as the remains of the knight sat up, pushing aside the fallen rubble as though it weighed nothing. The skull, still wearing the corroded helm, turned to look at him and his eyes saw that in those empty sockets, there was a small blue point of light. The grave knight slowly stood and took a step towards the defiler of it's resting place. In his mind, the voice he had heard grew stronger. "You sought to take that which is mine. You defiled my tomb. You disturbed my sleep. This last is unforgivable. You will remember Aelthran the Butcher for the remainder of your short life!" A dry laughing sounded deep inside his mind. He said nothing but stood and once more drew his blade. He took a step back, away from the hazardous ground around the grave. Breathing deeply, he prepared to strike if the undead thing came into range of his sword.
A heavy blow from behind staggered him. A second assailant had chosen this moment to attack. Before he could react, he was enfolded in a wet leathery embrace. Sheets of animate muscle enfolded his body, binding his arms to his torso, his legs to one another. It's strength was overwhelming. The Grave Knight simply watched. He felt an agonizing pain all over his body as hundreds of toothed tendrils sawed through his armour and ripped into his flesh, drawing out his life fluids. Opening his mouth to scream out his agony, even that was denied him. The last thing he saw was razor toothed sheets of flesh, closing across his face. cutting off his breath. His open eyes were punctured by barbs that quested inwards until they found core of his mind and started to steal all the thoughts that made him.
All through this the undead Knight watched on impassive. before once more lying back in his grave. The Skinstole retreated once into the darkness, it's mind now replete with it's new thoughts and stolen memories, leathery flesh suffused with fresh blood. It would be whole again soon. Soon.
Memories in Mist 'You swim like a girl!' Mocked Tadhg, bending his knees and spreading his arms skyward as though praising the sun, in mimicry of an ungainly and unconventional breast stroke. ' I was done by time you reached the third marker!" Jeers and laughter, snorts of derision. It wasn't his fault he had never been taught to swim. Not proper. Not like a warrior should swim. But there weren't nothing he could do about that now. He reckoned his old man would have got to it. He bet his Dad was a great swimmer. Better than this prick Tadhg. Arthac had not been taught to swim by his Dad though. Even then he'd struggled to float right. Damn near drowned himself trying. He held back tears at the humiliation. Wishing his Dad would come home and teach him right. " I'll beat you one day, Tadhg, then we'll see who is laughing! When my Dad gets back from Gealbhan-Brae he'll teach me right! Then I'll show you!" He raged, feeling ire boil up inside him with the shame and his humiliation. " My Dad'll teach me! My Dad'll teach me!" Piped Tadgh with cruelty. The timber wall behind him, the others all about in a circle, gathered, and listening to the exchange around their champion. " Your Dad ain't comin' back from Gealbhan-Brae, you idiot. Your old man's dead! My Dad says so! Been gone a while! About as good a fighter as you are a swimmer!" The world span. Was his Dad dead? How would Tadgh know? It wasn't true! Was it? The laughter was loud in his ears and something bubbled up from down deep. Hot tears, snot running out of his nose. More laughter. The world stopped spinning. The world turned red... A fist caught Tadgh to the right of his temple. It flew and thundered out of nowhere! A fist crashed into ribs which made a dull cracking sound. A fist crunched into Tadgh's nose. Shadows, sullen crows, gone quiet now only looming. Laughter subsiding. Keen whistling sound. Red mist, silhouettes of the other lads. Pain in the hands. A fist caught Tadgh in the temple. A fist hammered into Tadgh's broken nose. Tadgh wheezed hard. Someone was crushing Tadgh and pummelling him into the timber of the wall circling the enclosure. Tadgh was pinned and bending over with no escape, and the fists kept slamming into his head, over and over, then under and up. They were Arthac's fists. He stared down, breathing hard. His knuckles were gashed and pink and purple and blue and red. Tadgh slid down the wall and lay in the mud. Arthac spat on him. "Serves you right!" He growled, before suddenly he was running. He left silenced boys behind, shock, and the soft wet bubbling of blood pushing out of Tadgh's shattered nose.
Arthac hefted his dagger, took a breath, and stabbed violently down. The knife plunged into the target, and the juices from the flesh coated his hand and splashed onto the leather of his tunic and hose. Sawing with his knife, he cut free a chunk of the meat and lifted it. Impaled, on the point of the knife was the still warm piece of flesh. His eyes gleamed as he inspected the prize. He had always enjoyed the feel of a knife plunging into the bodies of his foes and this was no different. He was lost in a wash of memories as he held the scrap of muscle before him. He was brought back to reality with sudden bright pain to the back of his head, accompanied by a crash as a metal disc bounced off his skull. "Hey! Stop daydreaming and just eat your damn dinner! I didn't spend all afternoon over a hot firepit just for you to sit there and stare at it!" Resounded the admonishment in his ringing ears. "Sorry, mum." He mumbled, embarrassed and resumed his meal. Even berserkers have foes that can't be beaten. Written by the Venerable Knight, Paul Manley and the italicised intro by myself. What do you expect? Lunch breaks are not that long and there's sandwiches need eating... Oh and Tadgh was right. Arthac's Dad never did come home from Gealbhan-Brae.
The Breith ~ The Venerable Knight Tells a Tale: The Truthseeker
The metallic grating of a key in the lock made Korwin’s head snap up and his eyes focus on the corroded iron door. With a horrific squealing of rusted tortured hinges, the door was forced open. The light that streamed in from outside the cell, seared his eyes and made tears run down his face as he squinted in reflexive pain. It wasn’t that the light was bright, far from it in fact, it was the simple fact that after an unmeasurable time kept in near total darkness even the merest glimmer of light would have been too much for his eyes.
Through almost closed eyelids, he could see the shape of a figure, man, outlined against the light from outside. As eyes became once more accustomed to light, the figure in the doorway swam into focus. It was a man of large build, a beard, streaked with white, covered the lower half of his face and long greying hair grew from his scalp. Broad shoulders and narrow waist told of a life that was not a stranger to physical exertion. It was the eyes that drew attention though, bright green and piercingly clear they drilled into the figure that was sat on the hard wooden chair located just off centre of the cell. It was fastened to the floor. The floor was also damp. A constant layer of water that soaked the shoes and feet.
In fact the entire cell was slightly … wrong… The door was not a true rectangle, being slightly wider at the top than the bottom. The walls were very slightly out of true, the floor sloped away from the door and a constant drip of water kept the floor wet and the ceiling was concave at one side and convex at the other. The window, whilst being covered in stone on the outside, was five sided, each side a different length. The chair in which the rooms occupant sat was also wrong, the length of the legs calculated to pitch the seat very slightly forwards, forcing the occupant to exert slight, but constant pressure with their legs to stop sliding forwards on the seat. To make it worse, the back of the chair was very slightly curved, so the occupant was made to hunch forward a small degree. The whole room was designed to keep the unfortunate occupant off balance, uncomfortable and unable to relax, either mentally or physically. The heavy chain that was shackled to one of his ankles kept him within eight feet of the chair and just short of the door.
There was no bed.
“Good morning, Korwin. Still with us, I see.” The figures voice was deep and soft, with an accent that Korwin could not place. There was no indicator that this man had been born and raised in the Midnight. “Many of our”, he paused briefly, smiling to himself before continuing.”...Guests have died by now. Some from thirst, some merely beat their own brains out against the floor, some by refusing to eat the feast we provide for them.” Involuntarily, Korwin’s eyes flickered to the remains of his last meal. It was a rat, pulled apart by his fingers and teeth. He had killed it himself after it was pushed through the flap in the door. It was not a deed he was looking forward to repeating.
“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid I have no chair for you and alas, the wine is gone.” His voice cracked and rough.
The man stepped aside, allowing two other men entry into the cell. They carried a rough hewn table and a chair which they placed in such a way that Korwin was sat at one side of the table facing the man who fastidiously flicked a speck of dust off the seat of the chair that had been brought in for him. The soldiers turned to the captive and with practised efficiency, took hold of his arms and fastened them to the table, before he could react, using the iron shackles bolted to the top with strong looking bolts.
Smiling his thanks to the soldiers who had brought in the furniture, he sat down and looked straight into the eyes of the man who had spent the last four days and three nights imprisoned in the cell.
The figure smiled, mirthlessly, at Korwin’s attempt at humour. “Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Tiarna Celebran.” At Korwin’s questioning look, he added, “Tiarna might be the same as Lord in your tongue.”
“Ah, for one moment, I thought you were telling me that your parents had hoped you would grow up to be a girl! They would have been mightily disappointed, I fear.”
Celebran just smiled slightly, he had heard it all before. Strangers to his land and their mocking. It never lasted long.
“I am also known by another title within the court. Truthseeker for the Charnel Queen.” Celebran paused noting the flinch that Korwin tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. He smiled inwardly, oh yes, this one knew. ”Now that introductions are completed, please, let us address the matter that brought you to me today. What were you doing in the castle grounds? At night and armed, no less”
“Would you believe me if I said that I was just passing through? No? Or if I told you that I was a wandering Bard, come to sing songs of far away places and deeds both great and foul?”
“Bards do not wear swords and those who wander are not normally in the habit of scaling fortress walls, rather than walking around them.” Celebran sat back in his chair and sighed before continuing. “Let us try answering once more. What were you doing in the castle grounds?”
Korwin smiled and tilted his head. He was leaning back as far as the shackles allowed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sir. Whatever I say, you would not believe. So why not just let me go? Nothing more will be said, certainly not by me.”
“Oh, really. Just. Let. You. Go.” Celebran actually laughed at the temerity of the man in front of him. Captured, beaten, imprisoned and half starved. Yet he still thought he could turn the situation to his own benefit. In any other scenario, he would be working for the Truthseeker and not sitting opposite.
“If it were that simple, then you would not be here and I would not have a job to do tonight.”
Reaching down, Celebran unlaced from his belt a small rolled leather pack. He placed it carefully on the table and unrolled it. Revealed inside were a number of implements, that Korwin was sure had grisly uses and he was the next in line to experience their attentions. A chill ran down his spine when he saw that on some of these tools, blood was still in evidence.
“Do you like my little toys, they have been with me for many years now. I suppose, in a way, they are like my friends. I can depend on them to produce results.” He looked at the now pale face opposite him.”This one for example,” Celebran delicately selected a small curved blade, less than a fingers width in length and sharpened on both edges. “This is the one I use to remove fingernails.” He held it up so the light from the doorway illuminated the small tool. “Some of my colleagues use devices that simply crush the ends of the fingers. Of course, that works, but it does leave you unable to sign a confession, because crushed fingers cannot hold a quill, can they?” Celebran smiled and turned the blade to and fro, noting how Korwin’s eyes remained focused on the blade. He continued, smiling. “Whereas with this you merely slide the blade beneath the nail and gently cut first to the left, then to the right. You can then just pull the nail up and off the finger. Much more finesse and skill required, but much better in the long run. There is a lot of blood, but that’s a hazard of the job I’m afraid. I have found that there are several substances that can be used to get the stains out.” Korwin saw with a nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach that the Truthseeker still smiled brightly, an unnerving sight as his teeth were revealed to have been sharpened to points. “I’m told it is painful in the extreme, but I’m happy to say that it will hurt you so much more than it will me.”
“That,” Korwin managed to croak out through a suddenly dry and tight throat, “Is very interesting. How did you know that this was a role you wanted to do? You know, the whole, mutilating people thing?”
Celebran said nothing, leaning forwards and staring directly into Korwin’s eyes, his voice lowered in pitch and his eyes gleamed. “This is going to be fun.” Reaching out with a motion that was very graceful and strange to see from such a big man, Celebran uncoiled his fingers and took hold of Korwin’s chin and pulled his head around and tilted it up, so his green eyes looked straight into the captives brown ones.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have rather striking eyes, hmm? I think that is where I shall begin.”
Soft fingers became like iron bars and Korwin found he could no longer move his head. He grabbed at Celebran’s arm and attempted to pull his arm free but it was like trying to uproot a tree. No matter how he tried, he was unable to loosen the grip of the Truthseeker.
Celebran brought his other hand up into view and the last thing that Korwin saw before pain and darkness became the whole of his existence was a gleam of light, reflected from the needle sharp point of a spike, wielded by Celebran’s left hand as it plunged into first one eye and then the other.
“Now, perhaps, we can dispense with the tiresome attempts at humour and defiance…….”
Korwin was barely aware of what was being said, through the pain of his destroyed eyes, the shock of what had just happened and the feel of the hot wetness of his eyes fluids running down his face and into his own mouth.
“Again, Mr Korwin. What were you doing in the castle grounds?” Something cold and metal slowly traced along the length of his jaw, he felt the sting of parting flesh and the creeping warm wetness of his own blood. He screamed.
Sometime later Celebran closed the cell behind him and stepped into the hallway. He paused when he drew abreast of the pair of soldiers who had been waiting outside since bringing the table and chair.
“You heard the confession.” It was not a question. “Take the remains to the bone pits, this thing that went by the name of Korwin will make a good addition to the Queen’s army.” To himself he thought that the Queen needed the practice, those she reanimated did not have the strength of those created by her father. Now he was a Necromancer worthy of the name. Still, everyone starts from somewhere and if the thing that was once Korwin could help with that, then his miserable life would finally have found meaning. Celebran sighed, it was getting late. “If you gentleman would write up the confession for me and sign it with my name, you may have tomorrow with your families”. The two guards nodded and smiled. The Truthseeker was a considerate boss. “Good night, gentleman. Give your families my regards.
Celebran turned and walked down the corridor and allowed himself a small smile, life had treated him well, he wondered what was for dinner tonight, these sessions always left him with a big appetite. He thought of his daughter and smiled. It was her Nameday tomorrow. He must remember to collect the dress he had commissioned for her and cakes, cakes would be nice. Celebran began to whistle a tune as he walked away from the cold dark cell. Written by TechSupport Paul Manley
Yes it does! I love the tale!