Elizabeth Westmorret returned to her study, a report of the city's finances delivered in a chaotic pile of registers and ledgers. Trade had been slow in the winter, the mountains tough to pass; although creating plenty of business for the wainwrights and petty smithies. The cloud of soot and ash had finally settled, the cascading layers of cinders coming to rest in ominous blankets about the city.
'Please wait outside Damon,' she called to her aide, stepping inside the study and clicking the door closed.
The building was quaint, unassuming and attached to Alstowe's wall before steeply descending into its solid foundation. The small dwelling's walls had been constructed from smooth granite, speckled and lightly polished; clearly it had been well-loved, and taken care of.
Elizabeth carefully climbed down the candle-lit stairway, bracing herself against deep ruts that ran the length of the stairwell. Although she showed little outward signs of aging, the Lord Mayor of Alstowe had been plagued by years of stress and leadership; often acting as defacto head-of-state in place of her husband: Baron Urien Westmorret.
The Lady's study was rustic and reminiscent of a more peaceful time, exposed wooden struts and raw brick; twinklings of dust lazily flitting around the room. Musty books lay strewn from wall-to-floor, words practically peeling off the page from age.
She circled the room, tracing backwards in her memory to her last visit; trying to resume into place of mindfulness more conducive to lengthy trains of thought. Elizabeth pulled a select three books from the shelves that lined the underground study, plumes of dust erupting as she did so.
An Ecclesiastical History of Catastrophe and Kings
A Recapitulation of Deadly Foes: Second Edition
The Definitive Perspective on the Supernatural
She placed them on a hefty maple desk, oil-stained and scratched on every inch of its surface. Peeling open An Ecclesiastical History of Catastrophe and Kings, she began to skim over some basic summaries of the last two thousand years.
"Upon the fall of the Mianh royal line, control of state was passed to..." She glossed over unimportant details, focusing in on a passage that intrigued her.
When approached by his servant on the likelihood of another attack by supernatural forces, King Gulgammon replied: 'I have eyes which see no sound and ears that hear no light, and yet I have a mind that dreams of terrible futures,' although our translation may not be entirely accurate he continues, 'And so it is that the cinders dance on my eyelids when I sleep, and it is so told that I too become embers.'
It is important to note here that King Gulgammon was said to be crazed in his final years, although his predictions would come true only months later— when his kingdom was set afire and it was consumed by supposed cursed beasts.
She paused on the passage, mentally noting it before flipping to her next tome hoping to gain some clarity.
Elizabeth sped past hundreds of illustrations, terrible omens, large fiery beast, small rat-like creatures that could poison you with a glance... Or even sinewy, charred creatures; followed by the smell of soot and char, wildfires ripping through countries in their wake.
It had been drawn in silhouette, a lengthy creature on all-fours; adorned with spines from head to toe. Long legs with no muscle, thinning out to two crooked toes. Nobby shouldered blades flowering into feather-less wings, stretching out like claws in front of it.
It disturbed the Lady, sending a shiver down her spine; her hands clamped firmly around the book. She searched for a name but instead found tens scratched out names dotting the page.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Demon, Curse, Foul-one, Evil, Fiend.
At the bottom were some untranslated names, written poorly and terribly old.
Deofol, Deuil, Hellcniht.
It seemed all too similar to an old-wives tale, like a warning to children; embodying anything that could be used to scare misguided children from wandering deep into the words— they were just fairytales.
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Alder crept through the bramble, following the tracks of the Cross and Rose; sweat dripping from his brow, his sleeve-cloth having soaked through with blood. A clean cut trail had been carved through the overgrown wilds, occasionial strips of cloth hanging from thorny barbs; bright deep-sea blue muddied with bloody scratches.
He stumbled, catching himself on a briar— fresh blood trickling over now-closed wounds. He had drained himself earlier, now feeling considerably weaker; gritting his teeth with each step. Kemp's vision had now become completely monochrome, entire regions engulfed in shadows; poking and prodding for his attention.
As he stalked the path back to his comrades, he felt a continuous pulse from his target; a large thread constantly he tying the two together.
*Unnoticed for now*, he thought, *it seems they aren't as proficient as I had guessed. Crudely formed protection, complex maybe— but childish.*
The path widened as he noticed the canopy beginning to open up, Alder exhaling seeing that it was only late in the afternoon; in direct contrast to the blackest of nights permanently suspended in the depths of the woods.
Only a few hundred paces away, tents began to raise and sprout out of the ground; canvas yawning open upon its wooden stilts— emblazoned with the red and white crest of the Cross and Rose.
Ser Alder stepped into the clearing, drawing the eyes of the company before one of them recognised him and ran to his side.
'Ser! We'd thought you snapped up by the wilderness.' The mercenary gasped, Kemp remembering him as one of the archers — Victor Ward — a rat-looking man with an overtly hooked nose paired with a wiry moustache that twizzled in a chaotic fashion.
Ser Alder placed his hand on the mercenary's soldier, offering an awkward but sincere smile. The archer saw the blood still streaming down the physician's arm and quickly hurried him in to the camp, delivering him outside of the captain's tent.
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Ben Wroth and his scouts rode into the lowest part of the valley, a small region called Creekhollow. They had seen another wall of fire as they'd come in, circling around until they met the river again and the highway that ran along it. The water still streamed with bodies and ash, now a murky red and brown; thick and particularly foul to the eye.
His best rider, Pocket, pulled out in front of the group. She held loosely onto her reins, head on a swivel as embers flew overhead. Her hair had been tightly kept underneath her coif, thick cote wrapped from neck to waist where it met a pair of sturdy riding pants.
They continued on as the road opened into a large crossroads, a bridge to their left reaching over the river. They saw up ahead a large signpost and a man knelt down next to it, leaning over a long sack of canvas.
They approached warily, Wroth signalling his unit not to speak as their horses crept towards the man.
Ben dismounted, removing his right glove and tucking it under his armpit. His hands were stained with soot and bone dry, flaking in every nook and cranny. He locked eyes with the man, now noticing he was standing over a corpse; draped in pure white linen.
His eyes were sunken and spoke of death, searching Ben's eyes for signs of humanity. Wroth offered a hand to the broken soul, his dirty hand offering some solace to those no longer clean of heart.
'I haven't seen you before. Are you from the baron? Has he come to save us?' The chaplain asked, half-heartedly pleading.
Ben bit his tongue, contorting his mouth so as to not give away his accent; soft lilts becoming hard twangs and coarse pronunciation.
'No, sorry. We've come from along the border, there is trouble,' the scout captain looked towards the nearby inferno, 'More trouble.' He sighed.
The corpse in Ben's vision seemed slighlty off, great divits in between where organs should be; like it had been cut to pieces before it had been covered.
Quartered. He shivered, the corpse no larger than five feet in length. A child.
Flashes of the claws, descending onto the soldiers at the stronghold emerged in his mind. Tearing, shredding and pulling grown men to pieces. A child would stand no chance, like wheat being brought to the sickle; cut down in swathes.
'Is there somewhere safe nearby?' Ben asked, glancing down the distant winding river before it trailed off into a handful of mountains.
'There's a city no more than two days ride, Alstowe. It's old but sturdy, it should be safe.' The chaplain said dejectedly.
'What's your name?' Ben questioned.
'I'm a man of the church, but you may call me Nivre.'