Helen sat astride her steed as it trotted down the road. The path was cobbled with golden nuggets and set with mortar, irregularly pounded into hoof prints and cart-wheel tracks. The road was wide enough to allow two carts to pass by with room to spare and sloped gently to allow for drainage. Along the edges past the gutter were waist-height brick walls marking the boundaries of fields; occasionally, Helen passed by a wooden gate leading to homesteads and through lots of golden wheat stalks.
The journey was tedious and dreadfully slow. The pace of her mount was nothing to declaim, but the length and breadth of her homeland were vast in its hidden realm, closed off though it is. The trip to the jungles of Stenathon took a bit of time, but as she drew further and further away from Arsada, it seemed as if the days stretched into an unending doldrum.
What few travellers she passed paid careful deference to her, her armour marking her out as something to be feared to those who didn’t recognize her under the helmet. Those few who did know her and her mission were poor company; case in point, the men before her.
Six men sat upon armoured winter bears panting in the sun’s heat. Five were irrelevant to Helen, but the sixth and most prominent was enough for her to pause. The man was large, covered in furs plated in blue steel, and bearing a large sword in his hands. Gaudy clothes, patchwork and colourful covered his chainmail. His face was handsome if you could ignore the smug look about his perfectly trimmed visage. His beard was neat and red, possessing two braids entwined with colourful beads.
“A fine day, Harald,” Helen yelled across the small distance and then laughed like she had told the funniest joke in the world.
Harald of Varhus seemed wrong-footed for a moment before a wide grin split his face, and he also threw his head back in laughter. The sound of their humour was the only noise for hundreds of yards, scaring flocks of sparrows and sending voles and mice burrowing into their homes. “A fine day indeed, Helen!” Harald said. His voice was like a calm sea, deep and carrying. “I had not thought you and your mother would be so bold! Concocting a scheme like this to escape our betrothal? Hah!” He laughed once more.
Helen grinned, and her eyes seemed to glow just slightly. “I seem to recall beating you last we wrestled; there was no betrothal!”
Harald nodded but waved dismissively, “A technicality! Just because I failed once does not mean I intend to fail again! You put forth the challenge to your suitors; any who could beat you in a fight might gain your hand in marriage; all have failed, yet I intend to put myself forward once again!” Harald proclaimed, and Helen suddenly grew very sad.
“That was a different time, Harald, it was fun to lead you simpering fools around and good competition besides, but none of you ever came close. Regardless, our gods have chosen me to fight on distant shores; your point is moot. I have been called, and so I shall answer.” Helen said scornfully.
Harald’s face didn’t lose any of its good cheer, but his tone sobered. “Maybe so, but I would still like to try and convince you.”
Helen was silent a moment, confused. “Convince me of what?” She asked.
“Convince you to stay!” Harald exclaimed earnestly, like it was one of the most important things he could say. “Have you thought of what might happen if you just… refuse? Refuse to go on this suicide quest?” Now he seemed desperate.
Helen nodded, “We have been friends for many years, Harald, but know that nothing you say or do will convince me to abandon this path.”
Harald’s eyes watered, and he seemed like a kicked dog, “I don’t want you to leave.”
Helen’s heart beat fast, and she gripped the reigns of her horse tightly. She glared, angry and sad and hardened her heart to the cruel man before her. “That’s not your decision to make, and this little stunt has achieved nothing but make my parting harder. Goodbye, Harald, give Frikke my best. Now part your steeds before I part you from your seats,” Helen proclaimed, kicking her horse forward.
The men did not stop her, and the winter bears gave way to the looming figure of her war horse. Only when she had passed did Harald speak again to her back.
“I think I had grown to love you.”
Helen sighed quietly and couldn’t help how her shoulders were hunched. “In another life, Harald,” She called back before stirring her mount into a slow run, the better to be parted with her former friends. She didn’t need to look back to see the way Harald’s companions consoled him as she continued alone, and she only let her choked-back tears fall once she was well and truly out of sight of anyone.
Hours turned into days and weeks as she travelled the roads, and her grey mood did not evaporate even at the sight of the magnificent sunflower fields ringing her homeland. The flowers were faced upwards at the immobile sun, growing tall, almost like a forest. Helen knew she needed to be on her guard; there was little safety amongst the stalks of the sunflowers.
The road grew pitted and cracked, encroaching roots and fallen stalks overtook golden stone. Birds chirped happily in the hundreds, picking their fill of sunflower seeds right from the flowers themselves, so think were they that many birds could stand on the face of the flowers.
Helen’s steed was nervous, but she soothed it with calming pats. The sky was growing pink as she grew nearer to the blood mist that marked the border of her country, and in so doing, she drew closer and closer to the Stenathon and the temple within.
She had not seen another traveller in days now, and she found herself craving the presence of someone. At least then, she could relieve the tension building in her soul; at least then, she might have a happy memory of her last moments in her home before she was cast into the unknown.
Helen sighed; there was nothing for it. Blessedly she wasn’t accosted as she crossed through the sunflower fields, and now that the thick canopy of the jungle was before her, it was finally time to say goodbye. She need not travel far any longer, yet the hungry jungle was no place for her large ponderous steed. Helen dismounted, stripping her mount of its saddle, and gathered her gear.
Her horse stood loyally, waiting. Once satisfied that everything she had was where it should be, she turned her attention to her last friend. She retrieved her last apple from her kit; gold was its colour. “It’s time to return home now; you know the way, I’m sure. My brother will take care of you, so don’t fear.” She murmured, offering the apple to the war horse. Its big eyes stared at her, and the creature whinnied unhappily, huffing through its nose.
“Come now, I don’t want you to get gobbled up by some monster of the jungle; I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect you,” Helen replied, carefully giving the horse’s face a light hug avoiding its golden horn.
The loyal animal still seemed reluctant, but at its master’s insistence, it gently took the apple and ate its treat. “Be well, my friend,” Helen said, pulling away.
The horse nudged her as she turned around, leaning on her with its big head. Not feeling the animal’s weight, Helen stayed still and stroked its mane, staring blankly into the red jungle. Nothing more needed to be said, and Helen pulled away first.
She threw her kit over her shoulders and grasped her spear in one hand before pulling her mirror shield from its place on her back. She did not dare look back as she marched into the dark jungle.
The horse watched on until she disappeared into the scarlet leaves and then for some hours more just in case its friend should return. It knew, though, that she would not and that he would have to do as she said and return home. Finally, he reared with a tremendous and mournful whinny and clattered his hooves against the stone with a crash. His head lowered, and he turned away back along the road.
Helen trudged through the thick, overgrown jungle floor, keeping a wary eye out for snakes and spiders that might end her journey early. In the canopy, she could hear the hooting of monkeys and watch as the branches shuddered as the creatures trailed her curiously.
The heat was sweltering, not helped by the red mist coating the air in a thin film. Helen was sweating, covered in a damp off-red sheen, and though she understood the purpose of her quest, she still cursed the gods who placed their temple so far into the mosquito-ridden jungle.
Her sandaled feet caught in a bramble, cutting her leg and drawing insects in like a frenzy. Her armour was not designed with such an assault in mind, yet still, the insects seemed to fall dead soon after landing on her. Helen did not enjoy putting up with letting the critters land on her, but what else could she do? Her spear was useless in mosquito combat, and her shield was too large to wave about without getting caught in the foliage.
It was a nice reprieve when the insects seemed to disappear back into the brush, but the incredibly loud buzzing didn’t fill her with hope. A massive insect, larger than a dog and with a wingspan easily as wide as Helen was tall, flew into view, causing her to recoil with a yelp. Its several-foot-long proboscis ended in a vicious hook, which turned towards her curiously. The bug’s emerald eyes were covered in a sheen of blood mist, adding to its alien appearance.
Helen righted herself as the bug flew towards her, clattering against her shield. The proboscis snaked over the edge with a funny sucking sound, but Helen didn’t let it get any further as she pushed the creature down into the ground, practically leaping upon it. It was crushed between her and the dirt, green ichor shooting out of its body from between the plates of its off-black carapace, but it was not yet dead. It scrabbled against the ground with desperate legs, churning dust and leaves, and its wings beat uselessly against Helen’s shield pinning it in place.
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Helen growled and pressed hard, crushing the bug as fast as possible. It was not a quick death, and its thrashing grew only more desperate, but in the end, something in its carapace finally cracked, and it died.
“Bugs!” Helen spat, standing back up. The face of her shield was unmarred, save for the sticky ichor covering the mirror. Helen growled and used leaves to clean it, but after a few minutes, the slop seemed to slough off; the face of the shield was hot to the touch, but it was as clean and reflective as ever.
Dreading more encounters with such creatures though thankful for the reprieve from the massive bugs’ smaller brethren, Helen pressed onward. She immediately avoided any paths that brought her near a sickly-sweet smell, fearing the tales of the Alraune, massive Venus fly traps known to lure travellers with their sweet smells.
She was thankful when the temple of Damarus finally broke through the canopy as she crested a ridge. She was not thankful for the Roc nest between her and it.
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Digging up a grave is a much greater task when you are alone, Henri was coming to realize. Why did they have to bury Robert so deep? Six feet down shouldn’t be so far. It was gruelling, backbreaking work, but he only stopped to stretch once, twisting back and forth before returning to his grim work.
The shovel hit the dirt with a thunk, and Henri breathed a sigh of relief. He had been cursing the inability to use magic to dig up the soil, for any excess power he might exert in his efforts would surely attract things beyond the material realm and, worse, disturb the dead. He was already in enough trouble by digging up poor Robert Fletcher that he didn’t feel the need to wake anyone else tonight.
In truth, Henri had never bothered to learn the finesse required to perform wasteless magic, and errant power behaved strangely when loosed in the wild, and he was not keen to find out what that magic might do when given the Lichyard to play in.
That didn’t make him any happier as he rubbed the sweat from his eyes, blinking away dirt and dust.
The seals on Robert Fletcher’s casket were intact, and Henri expected nothing else. He had installed them recently, and it would be years before the casket decayed enough to compromise them—plenty of time for Robert’s soul to be permanently bound to the land.
Henri excavated the area around the head of the casket, enough so that he might pry open the lid and extract his gruesome target. He used the shovel as a lever, pulling iron nails from the clean, simple casket with light, satisfying pops.
He felt the seals on the coffin fail but breathed a sigh of relief when he noted that the bindings on the body were still intact. He hadn’t committed an irreversible sin by damning the man to the afterlife. Henri stood, cracked his back, and pulled a small round pocket watch from his trousers. It was made of bronze and had silver filigree over the majority of its frame. The face of the clock was covered in clear glass, displaying the inner clockwork of the watch.
Skeptically, Henri read it before checking the moon to determine the watch’s accuracy. He considered for a moment but ultimately decided that, yes, his watch was not lying to him. He nodded in satisfaction and kissed the glass of the watch, praying for his brother’s well-being, before being startled by the sound of footsteps along the cobblestone paths of the Lichyard.
There was a yawn, loud enough to carry such was the figures groaning. “Yes, Mrs. Mittens, I’m going as quickly as my legs carry me. What’s got you in such a tizzy, uh? Usually, you can scare off any beasties prowling the yard.” An elderly voice shattered the silence.
“Mrow.” Was the only response the elderly man received.
Henri scrambled to the dirt wall he had dug and peaked over the ridge, immediately spotting the hunched, gaunt figure of the Lichyard’s Crypt-Keeper, alongside the local Grave Guard, the Crypt-Keepers Kat.
The man was a typically cheerful fellow and had very clearly just been roused from his slumber by his faithful companion. He still wore his sleeping cap and night robe, bereft of even pants save for his shin height, untied leather boots. In his hand was a lantern of blue fire, and in his right was a rusty old shovel.
Henri had seen the man use that shovel before and wanted no part of it.
The Kat was chest height, black as night and possessed four silver eyes. Its muzzle was thick and powerful, and its whiskers were long, dragging along through the dirt, feeling for any disturbance. Two tails sprung from its back currently twirled together in a spiral; their tips were pure white, the only change in colour from their otherwise dark coat.
The Kat immediately locked eyes with Henri, and let loose a curious mewl, sending the man back into the depths of the grave.
“Oh? Did you spot something, dearie? What did you- wait, is that…” The Crypt-Keeper pondered, staring into the darkness of the night. “Hey! Is someone digging here?! This is a Lichyard!” The outrage in the man’s voice was clear and present, and the sound of his footsteps coming closer and closer made Henri start to panic.
He couldn’t just kill the man. Crypt-Keeper Jean-Jacques was his family’s friend! He had served the Drangvales for years, and to be killed for only doing his diligence was a poor reward. Henri made a strangled noise in his throat, catching the attention of Jean-Jacques.
“Who goes there?! I swear on all that-“ The Crypt-Keeper erupted, only for Henri to spring from the grave in one leap, arm extended.
“SLEEP,” Henri commanded, and Jean-Jacques’ face grew slack and his eyes glassy.
“I think… I’ll just… rest…” The Crypt-Keeper muttered, lowering himself into the soft grass, asleep the moment his head came to rest on his arm.
The Kat paused, unaffected. It brushed Jean-Jacques with its whiskers for a moment, making sure he was all right, before returning its gaze to Henri. It plodded forward unbothered but stopped just a few feet away from Henri and the grave.
Its four eyes searched him for a moment before it carefully crept forward. Henri removed the glove of his right hand and calmly held it out to the Kat. It sniffed once, then twice, then ran its cheeks over his knuckles and trotted forward to run around him, rubbing him on all sides.
Henri stroked its head, letting his heartbeat die down. “Damn you, Mrs. Mittens, too damn good at your job.” He mused as the Kat leaned into him. Henri’s blade, Estoc, slipped out of its sheath and angled around as if seeing with the tip of its blade. It sighted Mrs. Mittens and dove forward, circling the large creature like an excitable puppy, flying every which way, between its legs, around its head, until it finally came to rest tip first in the ground, letting Mrs. Mittens grow reacquainted at her own speed.
The Kat sniffed the blade's hilt before gaining a mischievous glint in her eyes, and like a snake, she launched forward, wrapping her mouth around the sword's hilt. She bounded around, swinging the blade with little skill but much enthusiasm. Estoc enjoyed itself, but soon Mrs. Mittens returned to Henri, who was watching with a small smile.
Kat’s had a strange relationship with death, but then again, so did Henri, so who was he to judge?
Estoc returned to its sheath with a small, satisfied rattle, and Henri said softly, “Take care of my Crypt-Keeper, all right, Mrs. Mittens? He’s not ready for death quite yet; we wouldn’t want him pulled under because he was unattended, hm?” Mrs. Mittens didn’t acknowledge him, but it turned silently and returned to its master, laying down to curl around him protectively.
Henri returned his attention to Robert Fletcher. He sighed. The rest of the dirt was cast away, and the lid lifted on its own, and out from the coffin flew the body of a once family man. Once the corpse was free, the casket reasserted itself, and all the expelled dirt was flooded back into the hole. Henri had already recklessly cast a spell tonight; what would a few more do?
Robert’s body floated alongside Henri as he fled the Lichyard back through the gate of the dead and into the tree line. His faithful carriage was waiting right where he had left it, and Henri set the corpse floating into the already-opening coffin atop the carriage. He dusted off his hands and put them on his hips, turning to look back at Drang Lake. He admired the view under the moon for a few moments before a hint of summer sun crested the horizon, bathing the sky in orange.
Henri winced at the sight and quickly swung himself into the carriage. His activities today were not meant for the light of the sun, so it was best to be done with them quickly. “Home!” He commanded the carriage, and again they were off.
In the creeping light, the forest didn’t seem too oppressive. Dark boughs gave way to lush greenery, well-trimmed hedges and handsomely manicured trees. Gardener’s tools floated throughout the road’s edge, snipping off errant branches, trimming foliage and weeding the terrain.
Henri yawned, and he again heard the curious hooting of an owl. He glanced outside the carriage, spotting it as it swooped by, perched on a pair of errant shears. Henri smiled lightly, but his good mood quickly faded, and he grew sombre once more.
Drangvale castle came into view, and Henri wasted no time. From his room, his quill and papers flew down the steps, flooding into the mortuary via the chimney. Robert’s body extracted itself from the coffin of the carriage and followed alongside Henri, who let the body enter first through the mortuary door.
The body came to a rest on a solid metal table in which divots were built to collect blood flow; Henri paced over and considered for a few moments. His quill perked up, and a page floated up to meet it. “Quill, Dictate!” Henri commanded.
“Page ninety. I have extracted from the Lichyard, the body of one Robert Fletcher, hoping that by examining the corpse of one of our recently deceased, I might understand the spiritual silence that pervades our lands.” Henri spoke, and the Quill quickly scribbled out his words.
Henri paced around the table, pondering the body. “When I first learned my spells, healing magic was described as a way to ‘make things whole,’ yet that tended to leave me with more questions than answers. When I had chosen to become a physician, I had thought that other doctors would be more thorough and that they would be interested in knowing just how our spells give the results they do, but it seems I was foolish in that assumption.”
Henri stopped, looking at the funeral vestments of Robert. “Mathematics has advanced far and fast in recent years, thanks to rigorous study, yet medicine has not seen the same progress. Why? I posit that due to cultural values, doctors choose not to study the body. They study magic and know very well how the magic of healing works, but like all magic, we do not understand why.”
“Robert Fletcher died mangled by wolves, his body ripped apart and eaten, yet my medical magic was able to put him back together seemingly from nothing. Are all his organs as they should be? I don’t know, but he looks fine, physically, for a week-long dead man anyway. Did the spell fill his body with miscellaneous meat? Did it fill his body with exact replicas of his organs? I don’t know.”
The Funeral clothes flew from Robert’s body, and Henri observed him with a clinical eye. He was tattooed, bindings Henri applied just after death to keep his spirit tied to his family and home. There was no external tampering on the spell scheme, and as the body floated into the air so Henri could observe at all angles, he could not spot any curse forcing Robert’s spirit into silence.
“Though I never had the chance before being recalled to home, my colleagues would dissect animals of any kind, dogs, cats, even Elves and Dwarfs or any other race. But not Humans. We seem to hold ourselves to a different standard as if Elves and Dwarves haven’t been our staunchest friends and deserve our respect as if they were our fellows. It is hubris that we only look without and never within.”
Henri thought for a moment before frowning. “Though I confess, I don’t really know where to start. I understand the procedure, but do I just cut him open? It seems I must.” With a mere thought, sharp knives came streaming in through the chimney of the mortuary, and a leather smock lay itself over Henri’s dirt-covered shoulders.
Henri grasped a sharp blade as it floated by and took a deep breath. “For precision, I will be operating with my own hands.” He placed the knife tip at the top of the chest and cut deeply through the skin. Little blood leaked out, but the knife still came away stained.
Feeling somewhat faint, Henri tentatively peeled away the skin of the chest, mind at a loss for what he was actually trying to do. The skin of the corpse’s chest came away like a sheet, and it floated in the air with the rest of Henri’s tools. Henri took one look at the man’s insides and grew white as a sheet.
The sound of vomiting outside a mortuary was what greeted the sun at Drangvale Castle.