Difference between revisions of "Varnae(Chapter 3)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

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Varnae (Act I)#Chapter 3

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-Dear Diary,
-Gentle reader, if there is one piece of advice I can offer you, it is this: never let yourself fall into circumstances where your labor can be had cheaply.  Working for food is a miserable state of affairs, yet it is the best this blighted landscape has to offer.  I've half a mind to go home and hide in a cupboard, demons be damned.  (Now there's a phrase.  I really ought to have been a writer, you know; my talents are wasted here.)  I will grant you, the quest has its charms.  My hosts have allowed me, in the depths of their gratitude, to exchange things I find at pawnbroker's rates.  The moors have supplied me with enough abandoned and looted possessions that I could afford a few material comforts, were any available.  Those with a stronger back and weaker mind than I might find these prospects tempting.
-Another issue of importance is the opportunity to test a variety of poisons on living demons.  The study of the full course of a venom's effect is one of the most difficult, partially due to a lack of test subjects (extrapolation from humans can only go so far), and also because a complete understanding requires vivisection -- a messy affair that prevents reuse.  Despite superficial resemblances, demons are not rats: one cannot simply go out-of-doors and hope to trip over an inexhaustible supply of them.  However... if the cave outside is any indication, research material abounds here.  The opportunity is exciting, yet frustrating -- lacking a suitable laboratory, I cannot take proper advantage.  Field research can be so imprecise, but it is my only recourse if I hope to make a contribution to human knowledge here.
-Wasting none of the morning, I traveled across the moors to a wooden fence with a single gate, guarded by a lone archer.  She rather imperiously informed me that great danger lay ahead.  Ahead of what, I asked?  This innocent question prompted an exhaustive cataloguing of the terrible ills their order has suffered in recent weeks.  I may have written it all down sometime before, or I may not.  Others' complaints tend to make my mind wander.  Near the tail end of this, she revealed that demons and persons allied with them are present in great numbers further up the pass.  Neither wanting nor needing to hear more, I thanked her for the pleasure of her company and went on my merry way.
-Cold, wet plains lie above the moors, blessedly free of mud.  Just beyond the fence, a large stone slab carved with sorcerous symbols lay in the ground.  Its appearance is maddeningly familiar, and its size and placement lead me to believe it an artifact is of some importance, though its purpose is a mystery.  I was never the most diligent of students in the carefree days of my misspent youth, and my study of sorcerous magics was sadly neglected.  Well, one simple stone shouldn't be too difficult to puzzle out.
-The stone's main feature is a circle, surrounded by symbols of air, lightning, the earth, and a few others I do not recognize.  It is possible that this is a Summoning Circle, a protective ring intended to isolate a sorcerer from whatever unearthly force he is attempting to bargain with.  Why would such a thing be out here, in full view?  A Summoning Circle would be kept indoors, hidden from prying eyes; even Sorcerers foolish enough to dabble in the infernal aren't stupid enough to let absolutely everyone know about it.  Nevertheless, there is no sign this wasteland was ever home to a magician's tower; no ruined foundations or blasted walls lie within view to tell of its sudden and fitting demolishment.
-My examination of the slab's external features yields no insights, apart from a haunting sense of familiarity.  Cautious scrutiny must now yield to active experimentation.  Progressing with the hypothesis that this is a Summoner's Circle, the safest place to stand must be inside it,  despite its resemblance to a target.  As logic dictates, I enter the ring; bluish flames leap up from the stone's corners, and I suddenly remember where I've seen this rock before!  Another just like it lies back in the Rogue's encampment, very near the smithy.  When I first saw it, I thought it was a piece of local artwork, and did everything I could not to acknowledge its existence.  Call me old-fashioned, but the "new primitivism" movement that's so popular these days does nothing for me.  Artisans of the past made rune-covered rocks because they had giant muscles and brains the size of a walnut.  Cities are the highest apex of culture; no artist produced anything but stones and doggerel before our times.
-While the image of that other stone was in my mind, an odd thing happened.  In an instant, I was longer where I was, but back where I was before.  In short, a teleport!  The Rogue's encampment surrounded me, with its hastily codged-together walls, omnipresent piles of chicken excrement, and the less-than-ideal fragrance of masses of unwashed femininity.  Be still, my heart.  The smith, who thankfully did not notice me, was engaged in conversation with three of her cohorts.
-"I think he just acts creepy," the smith said.  "He can't be that bad."
-Oh, I can't, can I?  I'm going to have to start working on her.  One of her companions replied, "Yeah, he could!  I mean, look at him!  Ewww!"
-"The last time I saw that color," the third said, "I was looking under a rock."
-"Aw, c'mon!" the smith chided them.  "Remember, he has a mom just like anyone else."
-Naturally, I have a mother.  My memories of her are a blend of neuroses, too little clothing, far too much make-up, and sadism.  She raised me as though it was an arduous duty, using simple cruelty in measured doses.  Between her and father, there was great passion, hatred, worship, wrath, and slavish devotion, but nothing like love.  She would flirt with anyone so long as he was watching, and kept no secrets except what made her happy.  Pity any child born to such a union.
-"Well..." the third said, "maybe a really long time ago.  Even Bartuc the Bloody had a mom, that doesn't change anything."
-The smith smiled, radiant as the sun's face.  "Maybe all he needs is a great big hug!"
-Thank the earth for her blessings!  Her friends' screams of dismay concealed my own.  The teleport-stone took me away in a flash, back to the comforting chill of this demon-infested wilderness.  Now, after a short rest to settle my nerves, I feel ready to resume my quest.  My observations on the effects of poison on demonic creatures will come later; I am not sure I can calmly comment on them in my present state.  Begging your forgiveness, gentle reader, but this important matter will simply have to wait.
-In the meantime, I shall comment on the local life (or unlife).  The Fallen are out in numbers, with shamans who can raise them from death to their former state.  Lest anyone believe this means they are highly skilled in matters of life and death, I must remind you that a Fallen One is not precisely alive.  "Raising" one is a relatively simple matter of repairing the broken body, rather than entrapping and returning the soul.  Interspersed among these demons are a number of women, obviously of the Rogue order but now fallen from even that lowly state.  Distressing as it is, the priestess was correct: they are obviously under Hell's influence.  No woman, not even these martial matriarchs, would appear in public looking like that.  I shall say no more for modesty's sake.
-Journeying over the plains, I have found a number of fascinating novelties.  The Fallen Ones have made camps, decorated in proper barbaric fashion with the bones and skulls of those whose lives were happier than their own.  Some have even made rude tents of flayed human skin.  To my knowledge, this degree of social organization has never been observed before.  Another unanticipated development is what I shall call a High Shaman, capable of restoring a lesser shaman to action.  As interesting as they are, I am glad I've only encountered one, as killing it was a dangerous proposition.  The death released an explosion of internal energy, spattering blood and bile for yards around.  Field research is not without its risks, but I am not being paid enough to tolerate all this mess, that is the simple, final truth.
-There is one beast I have neglected to describe thus far: the Sasquatch.  Huge, hairy bipeds with an unpleasant aroma, these creatures plod about in forests up and down the western continent.  A few laired in the cave on the moors, and I have found more in another cave here.  Sadly, their presence forces practicality on me: I am now wearing a helmet.  One blow to the head is bad enough, but these creatures are so tall that that is their only target and I am fond of my brains, thank you very much!  All the same... very few helmets are made with any thought beyond protecting the head.  None have style, there's no sense of elan; they say nothing beyond the wearer's admission that there is something valuable inside his skull.  Even the occasional plume or riveted pattern is only added as an afterthought.
-The caves are quite enjoyable; I thoroughly kill every last thing inside.  Naturally drained of water, they are relatively dry and near enough to the surface to get plenty of air.  Perhaps if I am successful here, I can cut a deal when the local real estate market opens up.  These caves should be reasonably priced, this far out in the countryside.  Ah, there's the rub; local real estate will be cheap as dirt, because no sensible person wants to live here.
-Leaving the cave and my flight of fancy behind, I finally make my way to the local graveyard. I've spent many a happy day in such places; how saddening that such familiar things should distress me now.  The undead are out in force.  New Zombies, fresh from the earth, shamble about aimlessly without orders -- until they see me.  Skeletons, the flesh long since fallen from their bones, also react violently to my presence.  As poison is a material embodiment of death magic, it has less effect on reanimated corpses, but beating them to death the old-fashioned way works as well as ever.
-By the willow in the center of the graveyard (itself decorated with fresh corpses) a vision in white awaits me.  She is most palpably evil, with skin like fresh bone and ivory horns growing from her head.  The dead respond to her immediately, rising from the ground at a gesture; I cannot make out what she does to protect them from my magic.  So as not to disturb her at her work, I hide behind a convenient headstone.  I'm not sure what intrigues me more, the ease with which she casts, or the grotesque way her body has warped.  This evil lady has unmistakably given herself completely to darkness, but knows so much of death.  I wonder... would father approve of her?  Oops!  No time for that; she's seen me.
-Just done with the battle; triumph and sadness fill my heart.  From her bow, she shot fiery arrows at me; quite a "hot" girl.  Then she ran to a new position; a "fast" girl too.  I had to exert all my manly prowess just to challenge her pace.  Sadly, her entourage of followers came between us.  She and I ran up and down through the graveyard, among and around that throng of the dead; the battle was almost a ballet in its use of point and counterpoint (no pun intended, please.)  It was almost with sadness that I plunged my dagger into her one last time, and watched her soul slip away, dragged down into the depths of Hell.  Her knowledge, her subtlety, the way she screamed when wounded... she was truly a vision.
-Understandably, I was full of melancholy as I returned to camp.  The war leader, who I'd never expect to understand, greeted me with open amazement.  "I can hardly believe you've defeated Blood Raven!  She was one of our proudest warriors... and my greatest friend."
-"Yes, a truly amazing woman," I said, a tear trickling down my cheek.  "I doubt I'll ever see anyone like her again."
-"Uh... yeah," she replied.  "She didn't hit you on the head, or anything?"
-Never let it be said that I pay no attention to a lady's feelings, even one who would kill me if I called her a lady.  Perhaps I was also feeling a touch maudlin.  "Your concern is touching, but you need not worry.  I was... anxious that you might be upset by the deed which had to be done.  She wasn't the sort of girl one would take home to mother anymore."  Actually, she and mother would probably have gotten on smashingly.
-From her expression, it was obvious that my show of sympathy was unconvincing.  It was equally obvious that she didn't want to believe the truth, and would accept the sham.  Entire political philosophies have been based around that sort of decision.  "O... K.  There's no way we can pay you, but one of my scouts can serve you as a mercenary."
-"Ah, a servant!"  It's about time these people came to understand what class of person they're dealing with.  "I shall treat her as well as one of my own."
-"You'd better not," she said, suddenly very suspicious.  "If I hear you've done one thing..."
-"Gentle... Kashya, is it?  I'd never harm a hair on her head.  Should she die, I will of course respect your ways and leave her to molder in peace.  I swear it."
-With a cynical snort, she nodded.  Will nothing convince this woman?  "Yeah.  Right.  Your gear looks beat up.  Why don't you get Charsi to fix it?"
-A not-unreasonable fear gripped me.  It was true, father's quilted vest had suffered in the battle, and his dagger could use a new edge.  Then I remembered: I have a servant!  "You there!  Take these things to the smith's and have them tended to."
-"Um... hi.  My name's Floria."
-"Excellent.  Hop to it, I wish to retire early, there's a good girl.  In the morning, a simple breakfast will do: tea, buttered bread with black currant jam, and the least offensive bits of ham you can manage.  I take it precisely at 8, and do not appreciate slacking."
-Quite suddenly, I found the war leader standing between my new girl and myself.  I asked, as politely as I could manage, "What is the meaning of this?!"
-"I said as a mercenary," she snarled like some sort of beast, "Not a serving wench.  A mercenary warrior.  Understand?"
-Long experience had taught me when I am about to experience pain.  In fact, my nature is so sensitive that I can often feel it before it is inflicted.  As one's ability to see the light of reason correlates directly with the pain one is suffering, it took nothing more to convince me that I had made an error in judgment.  "Ah, of course," I replied.  "Silly me!  What a terrible thing I said!  It will never happen again.  Please, I bruise like a grape."

Difference between revisions of "Varnae(Chapter 3)"

Latest revision as of 17:12, 12 February 2017

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