Teller of Fortunes 7: Stand and Deliver

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The shadow darts towards the wagon at a manic, staggered pace.

It’s a blur for mere moments, until it resolves into a shape about a hundred meters out. With Ane’s carefully-focused sight-hum, the thing comes into sharp clarity: a squat, hunched figure, slumped down even as it sprints along the side of the road. Their posture is despondent and their body clad in rags, as if they stand destitute even now. Altogether, they seem alive, but wholly unnatural in their jerky movements.

A steady stream of inky blackness rises from their head and chest. It stops and stands in place, head and shoulders jittering unnaturally.

Ane jerks her head in its direction, signalling to her guards. When she speaks, her voice is a tight, tense whisper.

“Hundred yards, right side of the road. Sort of hunched down, not running towards us — yet.”

The fuhajen nods. He leans forward, squinting his trio of eyes hard as he peers into the dark. He does so for a few seconds longer, before he mutters in frustration. 

“Void, I can’t see it at all. Passing it on.” The guard peers over the front of the wagon and shouts to the riders in front, “Light in front, paletorch at the ready!”

A few seconds later, there’s the sound of tinder being struck, then the whoosh of a flame. While a regular torch would do practically nothing here, the caravan is fortunately supplied with a bullseye lantern. Its fuel is far cheaper than a paletorch, which are sued as a last resort, as just one of which can cost a small fortune.

The lantern casts out a cone of light along the path ahead, stretching on about a hundred-and-twenty feet. Beyond this is first silhouettes, then yet more darkness.

A few seconds pass as the caravan travels further down the road. Ane’s ears twitch, sensing a rapid, approaching sound coming from ahead… 

The faceless has risen to stand, and now it’s dashing, straight at the caravan.

Within seconds, it reaches the edge of the lantern’s light. There it stops and stands, revealing a black scarf over the lower half of a huikkaran’s head. Above it, there is nothing– no eyes, no nose, just inky blackness and burn marks. 

And yet despite its near-lack of a mouth, it shouts. 

“STAND AND DELIVE-”

Twang, snap!

The fuhajen looses an arrow, and it lands straight in the thing’s chest. It continues to stay stationary, shouting its nonsense like a broken poem. 

“STAND AND ‘LIVER, STAND AND! STAND AN–”

Twang, snap! Snap!

The fuhajen sends off two more arrows, this time landing them in the thing’s head. Both pound easily into the skull, shattering bone and sundering the charred face-flesh. It begins to lurch forward, slowly dropping.

“STAND! Stand! Stand. Stand…”

It falls face-first into the dirt, now silent. The voidstuff within it pools around its motionless body, like a churning puddle of tar. 

Ane exhales a tight breath.

“One down,” she mutters softly.

“Void take bandits,” the archer swears.

Now that the body is felled, the darkness pooled around it seems to… drip upwards. It’s slow, like jam falling from a piece of toast. Slowly but surely, the strange essence begins to dissipate, until there’s nothing left but a lifeless corpse. As the caravan passes towards it, someone at the front hops off. This mercenary, clad in metallic scale armor, takes the thing up by the hair. When he goes out of Ane’s veiw, she hears the grim snap of a neck being severed and something heavy being tossed back along the side of the road.

“Grim work,” the tzuskar guard comments from beside Ane on the wagon-top. “The Void-ness takes almost any corpse, but not ones without a face to remove.” She sighs. “Decapitatin’ it probably wasn’t necessary, though I guess you can’t blame a little superstition.”

Ane shrugs a shoulder, feigning a nonchalance she does not feel.

“Better safe than surprised, I guess.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” the fuhajen archer agrees, adjusting his hat. Soon he settles into the task of counting his arrows and testing the string of his bow. 

The hours begin to pass. The shadowlands remain barren and featureless, and the caravan trundles on ceaselessly and without incident. Yet the deeper the caravan heads into the shadowlands, the more the landscape continues to warp and change… The few sparse copses of trees give way to strange, featureless land, all with soil covered in strange white webbing. Even the road wastes away, until it’s naught but an ancient trend in the dust.

The only real “feature” of the land is the occasional tunnel-mouth, each going down into the spongy soil beneath the earth. Without the shadowland’s oppressive mycelium cover, those tunnels seem lush and vibrant by comparison. With their heat-vents and own local ecosystems, they’re a world apart from this wasteland. The mycelium along some of the ground even clumps there, trying to get at the scraps…

In the distance, something begins to emerge: light. It comes in small pinpricks, barely perceptible, but it’s there all the same. Whenever Ane moves, even to breathe, they seem to flicker out. Soon, the reason for this becomes more apparent — they’re coming from behind a curtain of thick, barky trees. A whole forest looms ahead in the distance. The border of the forest seems to go on for miles in either direction, while the road continues towards it undeterred…

Off to the right, the mountain range dips lower, though not by much, just a fraction of the overall height. It still doesn’t permit much shardlight to pass from beyond it, but the dip permits some illumination into the strange, impending forest.

“Well… That’s a blessing and a curse,” the fuhajen comments. “We’ll be able to see a little, but there’ll be plenty of things for those monsters to hide behind…”

Ane nods, a slow, solemn, singular bob of her head.

“Too bad drawing cards doesn’t help much here,” she says with flat sardonicism. “There’d be less pressure that way.”

The archer lets out a light laugh. 

“Wish you’d said that a few hours ago… You’re busy spottin’, but we’ve just been pinching ourselves this whole time to stay awake.”

The tzuskar sighs, crossing her gauntleted arms. 

“I don’t think she meant playing cards… Didn’t you see the style of the wagon? She’s a fortune teller.”

“… Well,” the fuhajen murmurs, chastened. “That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have a deck of playing cards too…”

As the wagon rolls closer to the forest’s edge, the true, sheer enormousness of it becomes apparent. If this is the same forest that Ane explored in her trance a day ago, borrowing that strange body, then its small size must have disguised how large the forest really was.  The trees here seem to be two, sometimes even three stories tall. Certainly this forest hasn’t seen an axe for almost a millennium. All this time, it seems the forest has had no shardlight to nurture it — none save for the strange, ambient glow that emanates from what she can only assume is its center.  This glow is mirrored by the trees themselves, but not the ones out here towards the edge… Those strange, glowing discs must be deeper inside, hiding behind layer upon layer of these barky phalanxes. 

The wagon wheels continue to roll. It’s just a few more moments now ‘till the first wagon enters the forest. Strangely, there is still a path going through. It’s a low, desperate thing, but it’s wide enough for the caravan and also seems to stretch deep into the forest.  Not a single tree nor root marrs the dusty surface of the stones. It must be by magic or some sort of trickery that the path is preserved… or the path of some hidden fungus hidden amidst the leaf-litter. Some of them are selfish like that — pushing back other forms of life with secret poisons, so that their own might take hold. 

Ane’s fingers itch to dig into dark turf, to see what kind of tiny, botanical treasures she might find. Surely, a place like this must have some useful herb, root, or mushroom in it… The forest looks like it was distilled from a nightmare as it is, so it’s got to hold something helpful for some strange, dark facet of the mind.

Unfortunately, the caravan is dead-set on trundling forward, even though the column does move rather slowly as it squeezes between the pressing walls of ancient trees. Some of the branches dip low, obstructing the bulk of the wagons as they begin to pass through. And yet the wagons carry on anyway, snapping through even the thickest of branches with the unstoppable force of the marching trumba. 

Of course, the trio on the roof isn’t so comfortable. The tree branches force the tzuskar to join the archer at the front, where she begins to hack and whack at the barring branches, swinging her sword like a machete. The archer joins her in this, fortunately drawing a hatchet from his pack. It seems tiring work, but fortunately it comes in short bursts, with long bouts of rest in-between. Altogether, it’s enough to have the fuhajen puffing heavy breaths, though the tzuskar doesn’t seem terribly bothered — save for the twig stuck in her feathers. 

In the midst of all this, Ane plucks a stray twig from the wagon’s roof, secreting it away in the pocketbag tied around her waist. She’ll investigate it later, once she has the luxury of more time and when her humming sight isn’t pressed into service as a lookout. Right now, the two mercenaries seem very distracted by the stray branches. If something were sneaking on the caravan, they’d probably be at a disadvantage. They do occasionally have pauses in this work, though, allowing the two of them to glance around a little. 

During these gaps between weighty chops and snapping wood, Ane finds it easier to keep a lookout as well — and it’s a bit more interesting to the senses. There’s a lot to listen to out here, with the forest practically teeming with bizarre life. Things all seem a little different in this place. 

The creatures here seem to be a departure from their usual counterparts. The clap-voles are a little louder, the skittering quarrels are a little bigger… And at some point, by the side of the road, there even appears to be a three-foot tall smeerp. It’s as if all the life here were sequestered away to an island, allowed to grow and change without regard for common sense. By the look of things, there aren’t any signs of true predators — none that are living, anyway. 

The dead are another story.

A strange echo permeates the woods, like a voice bouncing off of trees. It almost sounds like a bark. This notion is only comforting for a few moments, before the sound comes into greater clarity… There are vowels and consonants in there, even if no true words can be discerned. 

Ane sweeps the forest with her gaze as best as she can —  first the path wending ahead and behind them, then the underbrush lining it, and then up into the trees. The vibration of her hum against the leaves makes it difficult for her to see very far, but she might be able to catch a burned-away face or a stray limb before it’s too late.

The path ahead holds nothing. Just a dark, lonely road.

The path behind holds nothing. Just a long train of wagons, followed by trees. 

The underbrush — was that a grinning, half fused mouth? No, it was just a large, wet leaf.

But the trees…

“Erue enee nikethai! Sylaa, sylaa!” The non-words, maybe another language, cry out in a chant. They’re falling, falling, until…

THUD.

The form of a large, hook-armed callosian falls onto the roof of the wagon. It could’ve crashed through anything not made of such sturdy old wood. The thing’s face is burnt away, charred like the coals of a long-dead flame. Its body is ancient, skeletal in parts, and otherwise half torn away. The head is still intact, offering onlookers a view of half a pair of disturbingly perfect, pierced lips, burnt shut halfway through their span. Above, the eyes and nose are lost in a crater of whispy darkness. Below, the monstrosity is covered in strange fabrics, patterns, and jewelry — an ancient horror, lost to time.

“Sylaa, Sylaa! Krun tukka sin laan! Sin laan, sin laan!” It echoes, again and again, slapping its arms of fused flesh together. The hands have worn way to bone, and that bone to a point, marked by endless bite-marks. “Sin laan, sin laan…” It raves in ancient tongue.

“PALE TORCHES! Light them!” The archer calls desperately. “FACELESS ON THE-”

The thing lumbers forward, planting its feet, before…

THWACK.

…slamming one of its hook-bone hands into the archer’s torso. He’s tossed back, sent tumbling from the roof of the wagon. He lands with a thud and a clank, striking the wagon coupling below, before doubtlessly tumbling onto the road beneath.

The tzuskar had only just drawn her sword. 

Far back on the wagon train, there’s a similar commotion. Another Faceless is there, stomping on the top of Jiselmo’s wagon. There’s a shriek, and Jiselmo cowers into his cabin, latching his roof-hatch shut. Atop it, a featherless, Void-ridden tzuskar stomps powerfully. He hefts a strange, bulging sack over his shoulder, and carries a savage stone-fashioned axe in-hand…

Ane’s group has more than their own share of trouble.

Ane barely has time to get out a word, and, when she does, it’s less a word than a kind of startled yelp as she scrambles to her feet. She holds the knobby length of gurran jawbone clutched in an iron grip, swinging it high over the point of her shoulder as she readies herself to strike the shouting callosian’s burned-away face.

The tzuskar has fortunately come to her senses, just as surprised as Ane. She stands backed up against the front of the wagon, much like the archer was before he took his fall. She steels herself and plants her feet, taking a wide stance as she faces the creature. 

“Over here, ugly!” She shouts, too frazzled to quip. She raises up her metal shield and clangs it against her sword, drawing the monster’s attention. “See if you can toss me so easily, bastard!” She flares her wings around her in a shielding sort of fan. It’s not enough to block incoming attacks, but obscures her center of mass, making her a harder target.

The Faceless, already positioned between her and Ane, turns its full attention towards the warrior. This leaves his back and skull exposed to Ane, showing the cancerous bald-patches on its cranium that give way down to the bone. Bizarrely, it throws testing punches at the guard’s shield, as if it’s trying to disrupt her stance. 

“Sin laan, sin laan! Krun tukka sin laan!” It continues to shout. Its voice is irate and raw, moreso than the usual mad raving. Void, the tone even sounds like it’s instructing. 

Ane doesn’t need to be told twice. Once the creature’s back is turned to her, she brings the curved end of the jawbone down on the bared, rotting skull. The sheer weight of the weapon forces her to follow through completely — it’s less a blow intended to strike the creature’s skull, as it is one that fully intends to go through it.

The strike is bone against bone. With a loud THWACK, the bludgeon clubs straight through the back of the Faceless’ skull. Once the bits of flesh and skull are shot off like shrapnel, a deep, seething nothingness is revealed beneath. It swirls within what was once the cranium, tumbling over itself like smoke in a bottle. With the back removed, it billows out, bringing with it the horrible stench of old flesh and baneful magic. 

The mawkish, sulfurous stink of death blows over Ane’s face as the callosian’s skull gives way. She takes a half step backward, bracing herself as she yanks the heavy jawbone free of the crushed mass of splintered bone and papery, desiccated tissue. 

Suddenly the form goes slack, then slowly tips forward on the force of the wagon. It falls towards the tzuskar, who’s left only a moment between her and the crash of the body. She manages to bring her shield up in time, catching the thing’s weight. With a flare of strength, she tosses it aside, letting it topple from the roof and down to the road below. 

Behind the tzuskar, a flash of white light flares up. It’s not wholly familiar to Ane, but it’s distinct and well-known enough to be identified: Palefire light.  The caravan dares not stop now. Faceless tend to attack in hoards, just like the men they once were. The paletorch, while expensive, is the only option to ward off more attackers. The halo of light barely reaches back to where Ane and the guard stand. It certainly doesn’t reach back to the other wagons, where they hear a muffled-

“HEEELP! By the gods, lumberjacks are even worse after the expiration date!”

Jiselmo shouts his quip, jesting faster than ever while peeking out of his hatch. He immediately ducks back down before the stone axe can strike, hitting the wooden hatch instead. His drivers are frantically searching for paletorches in their packs, but seem to be coming up empty. 

When Ane hears Jiselmo’s cry, her hum darts to his wagon. It’s too far of a gap for her to jump, and there isn’t time to scramble down, get past the trumbas, and scramble up the side of his wagon…

“Go,” Ane shouts hoarsely to the tzuskar. “I can cover this for now. Go!”

The guard nods. Without a word, she spreads her wings and dashes towards the end of the wagon. She takes flight just in time, catching enough wind to catch her wings into a short glide befroe she can tumble to the road below. She comes to land upon the first wagon of Jiselmo’s train, briefly dropping to one knee as she steadies herself. Once she has her balance upon the swaying wagon-top, she dashes forward, battered sword at the ready and her shield raised high. She leaps the next gape in-stride, then stops and takes up her stance. Across from her, the Faceless immediately raises its head, now focusing upon her. That entrance was hard to ignore, after all. 

“Put your backs into it!” The Faceless raves, heaving up its axe. “A path for the king!”

The tzuskar spits. “Another condescending one, great!”  Apparently she’s had enough of being scolded by old, dead men.

The two clash, as the creature swings its whole body into every blow, hammering against her shield. One of those strikes could probably sweep a person off their feet. This guard, however, gives it no ground…

Back on her wagon, Ane finds relative quiet. There are no more shouts coming from her end, and all the action now seems to be further back in the train. The paletorch lit in the front seems almost useless up here. It’s a bit of a waste, too, since it’s likely to burn out within a few minutes. Unlike the sort that cities use — which draw upon a whole leyline system of magic — this one carries just a short burst. It’s enough to frighten, damage, and even sometimes kill Faceless in the short term, but it doesn’t do much good in a prolonged situation. 

Ane curses under her breath. They’d be better served by snuffing the paletorch, at this point — it isn’t doing them much good back here, where the Faceless actually are.

She sweeps the path with her gaze, then the underbrush, then the trees. It’s hard not to watch the fight against the other undead creature, but she can’t run the risk of letting her attention waver enough to miss another onslaught.

Back on Jiselmo’s wagon, the fight between the tzuskar and the Faceless is long and bloody, even if it’s carried over less than a minute. Even in armor, the woman moves quite a bit faster than the creature, able to duck under the arcs of its axe-swings. It’s a tough thing, though, since the warrior quickly finds she can’t rely upon her shield in this. Whenever it catches a blow, the metal dents and threatens to permit a strike straight into her arm.

Grunting with effort, she dodges back from a swing, then takes a follow-up from the blunt side of the weapon straight in the gut. She nearly doubles over. Gritting her teeth, she stares up at the thing. Grinning with an unnatural hunger and rotten, charred teeth, it raises its crude axe high over its head. This would be the finishing blow, cracking down against a foe too battered to roll aside…

A pair of voices comes from below:

“ONE… TWO… HEAVE!”

The raving creature stumbles back, lifted off-balance by the hatch beneath its feet. The mercenary regains just enough of her breath to leap after it, plunging her sword into the thing’s skull. It pierces through, letting out gouts of ink which soon dissipate into the air. Panting, she takes a knee, treasuring her life for a moment while the dark bleeds out of the creature in front of her. 

As the abomination falls away, Jiselmo and Korin pop out of their hatch. The two performers seem triumphant, grinning to one another. 

“See, Korin? I told you the old lift-and-trip would work,” Jiselmo declares proudly, hands on his hips.

“Would’ve worked sooner if you’d just lifted on ‘heave’ like I said,” Korin chides him, crammed into the hatch with his tzuskar wings.

“I was waiting for ‘Three’! Who does ‘one, two, heave’? It’s either heave-ho, or you count. Honestly,” the two  banter, smiling from adrenaline and triumph. 

Back atop her wagon, Ane breathes a tense sigh. She can hear Jiselmo (it’s hard not to hear Jiselmo, sometimes), so at least that fight is over with… 

She nudges a bit of gummy, rotted flesh off of the heavy jawbone with the tip of her shoe, and then returns to her vigil.

Teller of Fortunes 6: Adorned with Bones

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The rest of the march towards the shadowlands is filled with anxious anticipation. Couriers step a little faster than usual, and dinner conversations vary between being terse or filled with wonder, depending on the speaker. Jiselmo, with his wont for drama, certainly likes to speculate about the shadowlands, spinning yarns that stretch the very bounds of credibility. The more practical members of the caravan, like Vasht the knife-thrower or Nelea the animal tamer, take the subject more seriously and only speak up to shoot down the more dangerous falsehoods. Nelea makes sure to give Jiselmo a firm rebuke when the topic of “comely Void-maidens of the black eaves” arises. Not only are such whimsies dangerous, but the bit about them wearing “hoop-skirts like whirlpools” was really too much anyway. All in all, it’s not nearly as good as his fibs about “shadow-moots,” wherein the older Faceless gather to bicker about municipal politics.

After some time, the caravan rolls to a stop again, pausing outside the usual sleep-wake-eat cycle, and one glimpse out the window tells why: the edge of the shadowlands are just ahead, like a black line drawn across the grass. Beyond, the chlorophyll-based plantlife dies off abruptly, save only for the hardiest sorts. The grass shrinks down to bare soil, replaced only by the occasional fluffy fungus and copse of glowing trees, or perhaps the ivory trees usually found in tunnels.

The rest of the caravan engages in last-minute preparations. Some people take this time to hop out and take their own measures, though it’s also perfectly normal to remain in one’s wagon and let others come to them. And given Ane’s agreement with Vasht, she’s certain to receive at least brief instructions at some point — either in-depth, or in passing. So, the Teller of Fortunes waits.

In the meantime, she makes her own preparations — a full waterskin, a few juicy appohs, comfortable clothing — all things that will ensure she won’t need to clamber down from the roof of the wagon for much. She even removes the dusty thing adorning the top of the split door’s frame. It’s long, oddly lumpy, with a dull, yellow-gray sheen… To look at it, it seems like little more than a mass of bone, raw and unshaped by any caring hand.

This is mostly because it is.

She wraps both hands around the end of the arm-long gurran jaw, and gives it a few short practice swings. It’s heavy, but not so heavy as to keep her from using it — she’s used the mean edge of the dead beast’s teeth to let shardlight into a few skins before. Years ago, one of the caravan’s mercenaries had even given her a ribbing over it.

“How’re you even gonna swing that more than once without falling over?” The mercenary chuckled, with a wry smile and a lazy flip of her dagger.

“Don’t need to, if I swing it right the first time,” the Teller of Fortunes had brazenly countered.

Thus armed and provisioned, Ane makes her way to the top of the wagon. It’s an easier trip than it seems — the old wood houses a set of iron rungs, hammered into the wall for just such an occasion. If Vasht sees her, he’ll know she’s ready. If he has anything else to tell her, well, he can jolly well flutter up there himself and do so.

In time, Vasht swoops in, flapping his sextuple-set of wings as he comes in for a landing. He manages to slow down just enough that he lands comfortably upon the wagon’s roof, with the hurried look of someone who’s moving around between a million places at once. As ever, the shadows beneath his eyes hint towards a lack of sleep. The tzuskar stops, glances around, then looks towards Ane — and as he sees the old gurran bone, he furrows his brow, causing his eye-wing to fluff.

“Ah. Bringing that bruiser out…? I’d only heard about it ‘till now,” he says with a smirk. Then he motions to a couple of mercenaries out of view, absently continuing some instruction from before. 

Ane shrugs gently, as she polishes the ruddy cheek of a slightly bruised appoh against the thigh of her trousers. 

“If there ever was an occasion for it, this seemed like it.” 

“Hopefully not,” Vasht replies. “There’re guards in the front and more in the back. If Faceless get up here, either they’re too smart, or the mercs are too dumb… or they’re dead,” he says with a dry humor. “Anyway… If we know some are coming, then we have some paletorches that’ll help. They just don’t last long, and we’ve a ways to go,” he reasons. 

“Understandable,” she replies, casting an experimental sight-hum over the assembled wagons. If they pass through the trees from her vision, she won’t be able to see much… But “not much” is better than “nothing,” and the eyed races are no good at all in the dark. Shasii like Ane fare much better without light.

Ane then remembers the faceless pantster, undead and chittering in the dark lands ahead, and a small shiver tickles between her shoulder blades. What seemed ridiculous in the comfort of her cabin has sharper, more sinister edges in the fringes of the shadowlands.

Still, part of her is curious about what it would feel like to touch a Faceless mind with her own, and explore it the way she did that bird-spider. She has never tried — never really wanted to. Would they still be aware, trapped in some kind of unliving hell? Or just as they seem, babbling their idiot poetry to no one?

Ane’s never touched a sapient mind like that. She had tried once. She was young, very young, and so was the round-cheeked callosian boy who watched her feed the trumbas with a sneer on his lips. His clothes and face were clean — doubtless kept that way by the governess who held his hand and made sure he kept his distance from the grubby shasii girl with straw in her hair and grass stains on her knees. She saw his lips move, though even her keen hearing couldn’t pick up what he said over the creaking and lowing or the trumbas, or the chatter of the crowd. It’s probably best she didn’t hear him.

Later, she’d snuck some of the old herbalist’s concoctions — a foolish thing to do, when she just barely knew what any of them did — and lay on her mat in front of the old woman’s stove. 

And, before she slept, she reached out to try to steal a piece — just a piece — of the little boy’s life.

Did he have a nursery full of toys and cake after dinner? Did he have parents who read him stories, or brothers and sisters to play with? 

She didn’t find out. She had, for a second, touched a world that felt like a hot kettle in its intensity — so loud, and so bright that holding onto it was like clutching a cactus paddle — and, when the horrified herbalist had found what she’d done, she’d given her several dissuading whacks with a ladle for her effort.

Ane had not tried to touch a sapient mind again. When her mother’s former wagon no longer needed to be stuffed to bursting with costumes, she had moved into it to read cards and see what the herbs would tell her without Dynkala’s help. 

Even thinking about it is enough to waken the sensation of scales — still with the pink softness of a baby’s — on her cheek, the welts on her legs, and the bitter rumble in her stomach. It had probably been nothing more than a hallucination, however vivid, and Dynkala had been right to punish her for dabbling in things she didn’t understand. She was lucky all she had come away with was an aching head, sore legs, and an upset stomach.

Ane sniffs at the passing breeze, with its earthy smell and thickness of anticipation. 

Vasht, still there in the present, shrugs his shoulders. 

“Need anything before we get moving? The guards should be up here in a minute,” he says, to the sounds of footsteps on the path below. 

Presently, the surroundings are still grassy and normal — normal, at least, for another half-mile or so. Once things reach the shadow’s edge, it’s like stepping from one painting to another. The rolling hills and swaying blades of grass give way to an abrupt line of thick, foamy mycelium. Their ghostly white tendrils reach up over dark hills, like crests upon waves. Underneath them, the specs of ivory are visible in the distance. 

Ane shakes her head.

“As long as the hired blades can feed and water themselves, I’m fine,” she assures him.

“Of course,” he assures her. Then, with a grin he adds, “Enjoy the ride.”

With that, Vasht turns and begins to take off. He spreads all six of his wings, dashes across the short span of the roof and catches the wind, sailing up into the air with a mighty beat of his wings. By the look of things, he’s going to make another pass along the shadow’s edge, then return to visit others manning the wagon-tops. There aren’t many. For now, it just seems to be Ane, and then Jiselmo in the distance. He’s halfway out of his skylight hatch though, and likely intends to drop inside at the first hint of trouble. He waves jauntily in the distance. 

It takes a moment or two longer before the mercenaries arrive. One of them, a fuhajen, simply floats up to the top. He’s an odd sight for his race, adding leathers on top of the usual chest-baring robes of his people. There’s a feathered, wide-brimmed hat on his head and an oaken longbow on his back. He regards Ane with his trio of sapphire eyes, then nods.

“Hello. Reporting in,” he greets her amiably.

Then there’s the sound of another clambering up the side of the wagon. Ane hears the light jingling of her chainshirt as she makes the ascent, before a  lightly-armored tzuskar with a mop of wavy blond hair finally crests over the top. She wears a circular shield strapped to her right arm and a sword sheathed upon her hip. The mercenary stops at the top for a moment, smiling politely as she gives a wave in greeting. 

Ane nods politely to the pair, though she doesn’t try to make small talk. She’s going to be occupied with keeping her eye on the spaces between the trees, and it’s not likely she’ll have the attention to chat either of them up. Besides, she doesn’t really need to know them much — Jarrik doesn’t keep hired guards around long, or he’d likely find himself at the end of a sword for stiffing their paychecks too often.

They soon take up their positions, with the Fuhajen perched near the front with his bow at the ready. The tzuskar sits near the back, ready to either defend the wagon or to intercept an approaching Faceless. 

“I’m sure you know already,” the tzuskar says lightly, “But just point and call out whatever you see. Our goal is to get it before it comes near the caravan.”

Down below, Ane can hear the sound of the wagon’s hitch being checked. Up ahead, trumbas snuff and clatter in their harnesses. It seems like the wagons are about to begin rolling. She nods.

“Got it. Not sure why Jarrik has us going through the shadowlands, but hopefully it won’t be long.”

The woman frowns. “It can’t be for anything good, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Well,” the bowman chimes in with a twang, “Nothing but Faceless and Friends out there. Not the sort of company most people would pick.”

With a slight jolt, the wagon begins to roll. There’s the slight crack and creak of wood being pulled into motion, working admirably against many years of wear. Soon the pace becomes steady, at just above a walking pace. The trumba are faster than most beasts of burden, though that’s not saying much with three wagons in tow. They almost seem to be moving faster than usual, as if they’re rushing to get through this area. 

Ane bites into her appoh, crunching quietly, then settles into silence. There won’t be anywhere to stop in the shadowlands, so she’d better take the chance to eat now, as meager a meal as it may be.

The two mercenaries go quiet and settle in for the long haul, keeping a wary gaze outward. They might as well be alert and ready… even if they can’t see very far in front of their faces. 

 

The next half-mile is like any other caravan ride, except for the anticipation. Up ahead, the line of darkness slowly inches forward. With it, the land beyond begins to come in with greater clarity… and there’s much to see, especially for someone with echolocation like Ane. It all comes after a strange phalanx of bleached bones, with ribs tossed askew and skulls staring eyelessly towards the sky.

For some reason, it seems a great many beasts have died along this border. 

After this initial line, the sets of bones occur in occasional smatterings across the grassless fields. Some are more recently departed, still carrying their fur and some of their flesh. One creature, strangely, is still alive, fur and sinew twitching and grasping towards the sky. The caravan’s arrival is heralded by its distant, mournful mooing. The gurran cries out repeatedly without sense, with tones somewhere between mating and maimed. As Ane catches sight of it, she sees the thing isn’t even Faceless; it’s just stark-raving mad. The beast’s mighty head is ducked down to the dirt, shoving its curled horns into the white tendrils of mycelium.

Alive or not, it already seems to be glorified fertilizer. 

Ane can feel a knot of anxious anticipation tensing in her belly. Part of it is dread — the forest is full of terrors, and it’s her job to keep them safe — while part of it is a kind of eagerness at testing the accuracy of her vision. Will the strange glowing circles be on the trees? Will she hear the repetitive chatter of the Faceless pantster?

Soon, the caravan leaves the mad, mooing carcass in the dust. Its haunting cries continue on for some time longer, until finally they fade into the distance behind.

So far, the environment has been crisp and clear to Ane’s vision. To her, it’s less like going into darkness and more like entering into a world that’s a different shade of heat. She can see the flecks of dirt upon the fungus-ridden soil, and even the fibers of said fungus as it weaves in-between the dirt and roots. This valley has no secrets to hide from her thus far, and strangely, there is the occasional sight of life: lost animals, random clumps of struggling grass, then copses of trees that seem fed by the mycelium. 

They, too, are adorned with bones. 

In contrast to Ane’s clarity, the two mercenaries are clearly, visibly lost. Their postures are slumped and yet tight with tension, breaths catching with an air of sudden helplessness. Out here, they don’t even have regular torchlight to guide their vision. That would draw too much attention. Instead, they’re simply waiting. To their eyes, this land is nothing but a deep, endless black, with nothing but the distant shards in the sky offering pitiful pinpricks of light. 

Truly, this sort of land is a thing of dire fables. Many tales begin with this sort of journey… They also tend to be stark departures from the usual fare, trading fae and whimsy for darkness and dread. Parents often chastise their children about venturing anywhere near this sort of place, and in truth, it’s wholly unnecessary. No child in their right mind would come here. Children may hassle a stray dog, but this would be poking a dragon’s belly. 

After about an hour of riding, the mad animals cease to be a feature. All goes still in the darkness, save for the steady rumble of the wagon beneath Ane’s feet. Even here, it feels somewhat reassuring — as if even this dreaded land can’t take away that feeling of life, of movement and steady progression. All is otherwise still…

Then, up ahead, a shadow stirs. It hastens, and then darts along the side of the road towards the wagons…

Concerning the Voidsoul, “Faceless”

Shaejra Rim-Seer, of Claw-and-Bark

Fifth of Nocander, Year Eight-Ninety and Six of the Shattered Sun

Recommendation: Eradicate and Exorcise

 

Shape

This creature, if one may call it that, consists of a inky-black false liquid, which perpetually dissolves. Despite this, it never depletes. It is corporeal in movement and form, yet it can reduce down to almost any size and mold its shape to fit any container. It may be vaporous, as containment requires an airtight vessel. Voidsouls may slip through even the slightest cracks and crannies, whether it’s under a door, through a break in a window, or into the holes and fissures of the flesh that litter any mortal vessel.

It moves towards creatures, both living or dead, even when deprived of direct line of sight. Either it is a simple elemental force, drawn to these things, or it is like those of my ilk: hungry and wishing to sate itself. I feel no kinship with this mote, this dollop of ink; where I hunger for flesh and knowing, the Voidsoul longs for simple corpses. Still, this Rimseer’s guess is towards the elemental. In either case, it seems possessed of supernatural sense divorced from sight, sound, etcetera, instead seeing bodies and obstacles with unerring focus.

Any attempt to disassemble this creature or dilute it into baser agents has failed. The most one can do is “divide” it into smaller Voidsouls.

When presented with a body, the Voidsoul will seek to enter it by any means necessary. Should it reach a proper “host,” the Voidsoul will slip inside any facial orifice it can find… Upon contacting the body, it burns and mars the flesh, rendering the host’s face unrecognizable without exception. These burns progress as the Voidsoul “grows” within the skull of the host and eventually overflows from all orifices and wounds.

Within minutes, the Voidsoul will outgrow its host and seek to “reproduce.”

This is done via controlling the host through some unknown means. The host will move as if alive, and even spout random nonsense, usually something commonly spoken. The main aberration in their behavior is in their drive to find additional bodies, living or dead, by any means. This naturally includes violence, as well as odd feats of cunning.

When faced with any form of Shardlight, the Voidsoul will promptly combust, as well as any host it maintains. Depending on the size of the host, this process may be more gradual. Yet if the Voidsoul is left without a host, it will combust immediately upon contact with Shardlight.

Truth

The new myths lay out dogma, saying these creatures come from the sins of one man: Animus the Defiler, the Devourer, Liberator, and so on and so forth. He received a dark power, then rose against the draconic tyrants that ruled the realm. His power overcame him, a lesson was learned, consequences occurred, and overall, a neat little story unfolded.

That’s all a load of kravak dung.

The oldest of monstrous spirits recount battles with the Voidsoul going back millenia, long before the “Shattering” occurred. It seems that, in some form or another, Voidsouls have always existed. No doubt they are more common during this millennium, but they are by no means unique to our time.

What is the Truth then? As is often the case amongst the Rimseer, we have only conjecture.

Mine is that they are an elemental force, a part of existence itself. If the world is a page, and our experiences are stories composed of words, then the Voidsouls must be the ink. Perhaps this ink has gone astray and spilled across the page, creating aberrations where it should not. Still, thinking of them this way, it makes enough sense to anyone with black-stained claws like mine. The ink wishes to spread across the page. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t know of words, nor stories, nor any other purpose. It simply wishes to spread.

Purpose and Lament

Why does ink spread? Perhaps it was made for this purpose, and intended for a controlled hand. Yet when the words take hold of the pen, casting magics and flinging reality about, perhaps the pen leaks. Ergo, the reason for this is our arrogance, and the carelessness of the author.

The greatest regret is that this cannot be undone. When ink is upon the page, it can never be fully cleansed. One may cover over it, or destroy the page entirely… but this cannot change the past. When the Voidsoul leaks from creation, it cannot be put back in.

Then what happens when a Voidsoul is exorcised?

Perhaps the page is burned…