Therapy: A Session With Cormac

KingCreeper

His days pass quickly, and cheerfully. He can't think of a time where he'd been surrounded by so many friends all at once, nor a single time where support had been washed over him in buckets. Dinners that were owed were paid out in kind it seemed. Every meal was something fresh and new from 'outside'. He'd been leaving the grey paste for the rats but they wouldn't have it, it seemed.

A blessed reprieve from sword-work, from anything at all really. Now all he had was time, time to enjoy his friends - to unravel his thoughts. They all played games, shared jokes and stories. Promises and oathes were sworn along with whispers of vendetta and righteousness. The bars simply weren't there most of the time, so it seemed to him. Though - in the end, they could all leave anytime they liked. And eventually they all did, one after the other. They'd all promise to come back and even though most did, some did not.

Sweet words and the sobbed apologies from those he'd turned away were difficult for him. He often wondered how many times he'd give anyone 'just one more chance', but he did. And what of the other who never left his side, that he'd all but ignore for favor of the other - Cormac had it in him to be a bastard, he could burn as hotly as the sun but his coldness, the coldness of the grave, as ardent as the snow. It was all falling apart. And the comfort he could hold onto by distancing himself within the confines of his cell would be but fleeting mercy, as all of his friends seemed hell bent on throwing him back into the torturous hellfire of life on the outside, where he'd have to stand - and act, and face his problems as they are. The cruelty of his situation was not altogether lost on him, and perhaps he tried too hard to make Morgan keep to his oath and to throw away the key, for Reyhenna's prediction to come true - for him to be 'exiled' to some far-off place or at least well beyond the borders of anywhere he'd have to look at 'them' in their togetherness.

The gods, he'd often observed, would piss down his back daily - though he assured himself that they would only drown him but once. They decided to quickly release him. Words like 'merit' and 'heroic deeds' were mixed in with the sentencing. He'd heard of men being made to convert from one faith to another or be made to drink boiling lead. The thought was only so amusing, thought the tickle didn't take away from the tug of reality. He'd be held in bondage under pain of 'something'. A mark on his face that would be primed to explode, he imagined, should he deviate. The city that forbade slaves had put him in chains.

The spell was innocent enough, the terms were not so hard or difficult on the surface. It all boiled down to a very official 'don't be an asshole', on the surface that's all it was - all it ever would be to anyone shallow enough to believe that being bound to the spymaster prince and his jolly brother, the King, would be anything but bloodwork.

By the time he'd gotten back to his home from the city, after paying his fine and breaking the hearts of everyone who'd loved him, there was already a letter waiting for him - the royal seal, 'orders'. The kinds of things he'd have made himself 'unavailable' for in the past were now inescapable. 'Do or Die'.

At least they wouldn't be around to see what they'd made him. Laughing at him. Cormac the attack dog of Peltarch.

@kingcreeper (( great writing, very realistic and engrossing dream sequence ))

KingCreeper

Wicked Witch

He'd found himself in the heart of the city again. A fine day, the warmth of the Sun beat down on his shoulders. Everything seemed bright, and all the hard things were far from his mind. He wasn't surprised to see the sundial in the heart of the commons, or the small blue birds, the name of which he didn't recall, that were singing in the surrounding trees and warbling their nonsense from the gaps between the stonework of the near run to riot wall.

Children were playing, he didn't pay them much mind, but their bright laughter lifted his spirits which had been low. He meandered aimlessly through the commerce district, past the Mermaid Inn, towards the Amethyst Hall. The shrill laughter from the children followed him on his way. Murmers from passers by didn't quite catch his ear, nothing articulate anyway. Their quiet tittering joined the outright laughing of the kids. Did he har laughing, too?

A woman caught his eye as she leaned topless out of a high window, she looked like a painting. She was smiling down at him, there was more than a tease in that smile of hers -- an invitation he allowed himself to believe for the heartbeat before her composure cracked, and the sly smirk had become a fit of giggles. She pointed down at him, her giggle-fit becoming the bellowing, cawing laughter of the lower class. He was sure somewhere behind him, he could hear both of them laughing at him too.

He turned from her madness, embarrassed, and saw that the crowd of children and city-folk had gathered in a semicircle about him, and that they too were pointing and laughing. Their chorus and pointing fingers were closing in, and even as he tried to turn away to find some peace from it all he could see the Prince, Kasimir with his arm around Thalaman - both near buckled over guffawing huffs of uncontrollable laughter. Seemed to him at the time, even the songbirds were staring at him and laughing in their own weird way. He was unsure what he felt, truly, when he heard Rosie laughing with them again. The sound had always been sweet music to him before. Now it seemed cut like a longknife.

It had become more than just ridicule. The pants of the men had become wet and stained, they'd actually pissed themselves in the uproar. The eyes of the women were streaked with makeup from their tears, the children had begun throwing up into the street. Many by now were on all fours coughing and puking through the laughter, he watched one particularly fat woman as she asphyxiated and expired, taken by the hilarty. The topless woman let out a terrible retching sob/laugh and fell from her window, she still looked like a painting as she lay there in the mud with her head twisted at an angle that was simply 'wrong'.

He turned his face to the sky, his breath echoey and raspy through the skull mask. A red star winked in the sky, but never seemed to draw closer. He could hear the pain of its laughter in his mind, too. Even as all else fell to dead silence around him and walls of the city - of all of the cities across all of the world - crumbled, as the existence of all things faded and fell to ruin. Everything was playing out as it had been foretold. The stern face of the woman/women he'd loved appeared and faded before him. Her words bubbled from the foreboding quiet when all other noise was absent. The crystal clarity of it seized his heart and stirred him from his sleep as surely as if someone had spoken directly in his ear.

"...you will find yourself in a lonely hall, on a lonesome throne, drowned in blood..."

He awoke in his lonely hall, and prepared himself for another day. The memory of the dream washing away harmlessly as his mind unmuddied the slumber and realized the reality.

He was alone.

KingCreeper

Pt. 1

A man's gruff voice barks like dry wood popping in a fireplace. He knows the voice well, though he in truth had seldom heard it. The voice of the winged beast that haunts his dreams repeats the sentiment with utmost tenderness, there's no harshness in the tone. Though the words "lift your shield" sound too much like "farewell". Cormac's heart breaks and he wants to look back, but the instruction squashes his desire; its a good man that can conquer his own wants - or whatever the philosopher said.

"I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is the victory over self." - Aristotle

His woman was restless. There was a need in her eyes just as well as it was in her voice, and she'd made it well known to him that she wanted to visit the mountains, she begged for snow. Cormac wondered if she knew at all what she was asking. Wondered if she even remembered the prophetic words she'd spoken in the times before. If she knew what sat lifeless at the peak - surely still sat there, frozen and 'dead'. He did not dare hope 'dead', but surely. They had left together, and Cormac it seemed had just taken his first steps towards a fated number, to walking into another twisted tale of ill omen woven with ironic fortune.

She was not content it seemed with Blackbridge and pleaded with him to take her on yet further. It'd often been impossible for him to say no to the woman he called Magpie. This night would be no different, though he made a great effort to steer her well clear of any easy path that might lead to the frigid peak of the titanic mountain, and he lead her through deep snow where a messy half-breed of mountain men and goblins dwelled; so far as he could figure them at any rate. They fought poorly, those that were not quickly routed back into whatever cold dwellings they'd carved into the packed snow painted it with their lifesblood. This was the way of the mountain, so thought Cormac of Clan Rannúlfr. A poet at heart. His Rosie stood close by his side with his warsword from another time gripped in both hands, she cut the figure of a fine warrioress, there was always fear in her eyes he observed inwardly, fear that would not give way to flight though, a fighting fear - a suvivor's fear.

They stood together side by side atop a snowdrift crested hillock. Thunder rolled in from the distance, though, the sound of it made Cormac grip the ashwood shaft, making the stark white boarskin creak under the pressure of it. He did not answer the rolling thunder, but it came again over the silence of the permanent winter of the mountain -- thunder, and a voice. A rarity so close to the volcano, he had never expected to meet with a Frost Giant in this place. The blue-skinned giant slowly lumbered up towards them, issuing his challenge in the storming voice of Giantspeech. Cormac understood it well enough, a challenge was being issued -- the thing even seemed to know his name. In one fist he held what may have once been the keel of a fishing boat as his tall shield, though it had been painted and decorated beyond any sort of recognition. In the other the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, an ironstone head nestled into its roots and lashed securely with ropes and and a thick chain. Cormac supposed these bindings may have belonged to the little boat. The thought made his eyebrows raise for the briefest moment, though he had no time to be lost in the thought as the lumbering giant's slow and steady pace erupted into violence as soon as he'd come into range.

Rosie had done what any sane person might do, and stepped back and away from Cormac and his challenger. He found the giant to be slow, or perhaps he himself was simply on good form. He moved to one side to avoid a downward swing, and leaned back just barely to avoid the next sweeping blow. It was this moment that he took advantage of, and while the Frost Giant laboured against the motion of his overreach, the blade of Cormac's axe struck once deep into the knee, the second blow sunk deep into the monster's shoulder, and the third crashed through the Frost Giant's helmet where flesh gave way to bone - gave way to brain. It was over in a heartbeat it seemed. Too easy. But that's what he did isn't it? He slew giants - easily. He planted his boot on the chest of his foe and pushed, the axe came free immediately and the great lifeless body slid down the hillside. Cormac gave his woman a lust-filled look, invigorated by the kill and turned to her. A smug and eager look in his dark shadowed eyes. He hadn't quite taken a half step when this new voice split the air. It called for its brother, it bellowed its vengeful intent into slay Randolph - and cursed his twin's haste.

There was no lumbering slow climb to the crest, the larger of the pair used his gigantic axe to aid his ascent - driving the blade deep into the ice and rock, dragging and heaving himself up in bounds. There was no time to prepare for Cormac, in moments he was confronted by the rime-maddened frenzy, blessed by Ymir's very own blood it seemed, the pinnacle of Giantkind. He indeed bore the ritual scarrification and other such signs of one of Thrym's worshippers. The cold hatred that beat off of him was itself like being kissed by Auril. Cormac, it seemed, would be no match at all.

Axe clashed upon axe, but determination would not avail him - the Giant swung with fury and so, shaken, Cormac was unable to maintain his guard. A sneering rumble of a growl from the frosty foe signified its victory over him as it drove the keen lance-like spike at the top of his froststeel axe head through Cormac's dragonscale breastplate - and pinned him to the cliffside.

Blackness fell over him, the airy cold wind could no longer touch him. The frosty fingers of whichever winter patron could grasp till the end of days - but within these moments the patron of Clan Rannúlfr was gone. An unkind figure stood before him, replacing all the frost-covered world where he'd stood just a few short moments ago. Clear golden eyes blazed at him from behind the skull mask. "Found you..." it said, and it approached, doubtless coming to return the fourth rider back to the fore of Cormac's consciousness after being long abandoned through the ritual on the peak. There was little malice in the voice - it almost sounded like relief. It was at that time when something unexpected happened. It was at this time the terror of his dreams finally, and fully revealed itself to him - the valravn that had always haunted him - swooped forth on its black wings and held Shay/Cormac back. The pair fought, fang and talon swept at the golden eyed shade; the skull-faced reaper slashed back at it with a dagger made from wrought oblivion. There was enough distraction for something innate to awaken within Cormac who remained at the very edge of death. He would not die here it seemed.

All had become quiet. The hoarse breathing of Ymirskin and the frantic panic of Rosie were muffled to nothing against the ringing in his ears, not ringing, thrumming - his heart had not stopped beating, hadn't slowed but had sped up. There were no thoughts in his head beyond insufferable, uncontainable rage. The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck were bristling, not against the cold but instinctually. His fingernails, ever painted black, had begun to elongate and taper to violent points. His sharp eye-teeth, too, were growing -- and his iron grey eyes had taken on an unsettling, perhaps familiar, orange hue. Cormac, it seemed, was finally turning. His clawed thumb hooked into the gigantic axe-head, and he pushed himself off from the cliff face, the giant was far too strong for this to be a test of strength, but Cormac had become nimble and difficult to engage. He swept mindlessly towards the giantkin and the pair fought on, mirroring the battle between Shay/Cormac and the Valravn. Fang and claw against magic axe. It was hard to tell how it had occurred, but in the end two giants lay dead at the base of the high place where Cormac stood with Rosie. He'd been calmed by the terror in her eyes, by the memory of the words he'd spoken a lifetime ago to his friend Nica. "I have mastered my rage". Seemed maybe he had. He broke the silence. He had to, the way she looked at him would break him otherwise. He said to her "...did you know there's an old saying where I come from? They say that when you seek revenge you ought to dig two graves. I don't think this is what they meant".

Maybe she was amused. He really hadn't been paying attention by then. He never spoke of it, not even to her - likey he never would. He himself didn't really believe it, he'd by then decided that it'd just been a vision of his death brought on by the battle-trance that sometimes chased off or consumed all other thoughts when the need was dire. The wound was gone at least. Rosie said nothing, she asked nothing.

Pt. 2

“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
— Frank Herbert

There's hell up on that mountain. Nothing but hell and misery, and there are men that'd suffer such things in pursuit of gold or fame. Cormac, though, hates that mountain - hates everything to do with that mountain. He'd always found it hard though to say no to the woman that he often called Magpie.

Looking back it almost seemed a trap had been laid out for them to stumble into. Bones stripped of their flesh littered the blood-saturated red earth that simply could not absorb any more. There, in the middle of it all, within the spell-circle of arcane sigils laid out and stupified -- a still living Hill Giant. Cormac's voice rumbled like the grinding of stones; "...tell us Trollborn what happened here, and I'll send you well to Jötunheimr" when he was bade to communicate in Giantspeak. There was no answer. Nor had Cormac truly expected one, he'd meant Trollborn as an insult to his kind, insinuating that Hill Giants are low born. He loathed their kind almost as much as he loathed Trolls. He pondered the Fey-maddened accursed Fomóraigh. Even as someone cast a healing spell on the Hill Giant, even as the Giant got up to flee he pondered his loathing for these lesser Giants. What caught his attention were the dull, killers' eyes and snarling voices on the edge of the forest - the man-shaped things that walked on all fours like beasts that were closing in around them. There was little negotiation; and the battle came on quickly.

The second instance of misfortune had come. He'd come out without his armor, and he would soon pay for his hubris. He realized all to late that the things that were bearing down on their small group were neither men nor beasts, but 'things'. Abominations. His blood was aflame with all the fury of Hell itself, Reyhenna close by his side as had become such a common occurrence. They all fought for their lives. Cormac fell first, and for a time the world wheeled. Far away growls and snarling nonsense-speech, and faded. Snuffling throaty voices that said nothing came from all sides, he saw the trees, and faded. The tunnel where there were some voices that seemed to speak language, stone gave way to 'flesh', the maddening stink of the place and... faded.

When he was finally brought to, he could see that Reyhenna was close. By his side again. The thought, in spite of their situation, amused him. There they were bound and hung aloft with their arms outstretched; crucified. He'd committed this act on others before at a time when neither mercy nor cruelty meant much in his mind. Still, he was reluctant to believe that he'd deserved this fate. He struggle against the chains when the feral non-human guards moved away, and rested when they passed by more closely. The steel bar would flex - at least, he imagined that it flexed - but would not break or permanently bend. The chains would not break. He grew angry at the wretchedness of this misfortune.

There was some discussion, gloating mostly it seemed to him. A masturbatory pat on the back for bringing in such a fine pair, and wouldn't they make such 'perfect' additions to the meat, and oh how the undead one lavished them with his own brand of acidic pity. That one took his leave when the robed one brought up some terms that they had agreed upon. Business as usual. The pragmatic part of his mind could just about appreciate that. He could almost see himself in those shoes, even.

It was only when the robed figure went too far with it and cut Rey' with his knife to comment on her fine blood that Cormac finally threw his all into the only escape plan he could figure. He strained and heaved on the chains, he stressed his whole body against the crossed beam and threw his arms forward against the chains. All the sinews of his being turned taut like metal wire. But neither the beam nor the chains would break. The ritual had begun. He'd tired himself out from resisting against his captivity, and had nothing left when his skin had started to bubble and burn, parts of him threatened to split open. He wanted to believe that this was simply torture but no, this was more - they were being turned, absorbed, they were to be broken and reformed into one of 'them'.

His mind raced, he searched for options within himself. It would have to be now. If any of it was true at all it'd be now, or never. He'd turn, change, not into a fleshghoul abomination but into the beast he'd only been partially aware of, the creature that had been brought forth by Kelemvor's knights - the weapon they'd brought into their eternal battle against the undead. He'd change and he'd burst free from this bondage, he'd slay them all, he'd fill these halls with terror and -- and...

The lock clicked, Reyhenna had already dropped down from her hanging place and vanished from sight under some spell by the time Cormac's feet hit the ground. He was half-mad with the mad thoughts that had just been vanquished from his mind. The voice of Rosie at his side bade him run. And all of them fled... there was no victory in that place; but at least there was no great loss either. Though even in his mental and physical weariness he refused to join in the merriments shared by the others, he'd been beaten and he'd suffered and he hurt. Even Isolde dressed in small clothes could not bring him from his miserable inward thoughts.

He walked off.

None followed.

Pt. 3

“Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.” ― Marcus Aurelius

The sky turned dark, too dark for midday. Darker than any oncoming storm - and there were no clouds to be seen, nor any stars. The sun still burned but it was dull, masked somehow. Meadow didn't quite blame Cormac for what had happened, yet he suspected that she did. She'd have been right to suspect, for he could tell that she did not hear the voice that seemed to speak directly to him - and with familiarity. She called him 'Harbinger', and spoke of how he had heralded the coming of the devouring star. She spoke of oblivion and the void beyond. She bade him come and see. To look over the edge one more time with her; to come and see.

He knew somehow exactly what the voice meant and to where he must go, and he knew that he truly must for he was being drawn by powers he'd long believed to be dead. Though he walked as Cormac he knew that he would be recognized as that other one - that skull-faced one from so long ago. Still a part of him, it seemed. Maybe rekindled from his time up there on that cursed mountain. Maybe. The questions came as he stared down into the dark portal that threatened to spill Ginnungagap's black void out into the world, that nothing-waste that would consume all things from faintest sound to brightest light, the space between spaces where things like 'light and dark' are mythical. His steely stormcloud gaze observed the things that seemed to swim forth from it and meander around, alien things made of nightmare and madness. The questions came; the offers and the temptation. The Voice did not reveal itself.

When the Voice, this demi-power, had heaerd enough and grown frustrated she had set her mad things upon him. He fought them off one by one as they shambled on inky tenticles out of the rift. Each one he smote became a reeking puddle of filth and decay on the ground. He never saw the one that had shambled up the cliff behind him, his heel had been dug into the ledge as he held off the waves, he didn't realize the danger until he felt the absent chill of the vast nothing wrap around his calf. He wheeled and hacked, thrusted at and finally slew the horror that had blindsided him, he watched it fall and splash upon the rocks below. The sight amused him. By the time he'd turned around another was upon him, he couldn't resist it and they both fell - following the last together. There was no good landing for either. Cormac lay broken on the shores of the lake. There was no panic in his final breath. His final thought was to curse his ill fortune, and then nothing.

"He deserves better don't you think, my love?" the voice of the Valravn spoke clearly, a woman's voice. He could see her clearly now as she was. She wore a robe that was accented with black feathers, her hair was blacker than the void that was belching out its demons. She had grey eyes and her lips were painted the colour of blood. Cormac felt no pain. He felt nothing. A man's voice spoke from nearby. It was gruff and verged on being unkind. The figure wore an austere coronet of leather, his hair was not quite black - Cormac in his fugue state suspected it had greyed with age by now, though he recognized the face very well. The voice argued "Meddlesome witch, we mustn't. You can't." , the woman's eyes teased in response, sly, cunning beyond measure. She whispered to Cormac "You remind me of him in your affairs. I named thee, though we never met. I have always wished to tell you that I am sorry that he blamed you for my death. He cursed you the day that you were born - not out of hate for you Cormac, but for his love of me. You two are too much alike! I have longed for the day where my spirit could speak freely with you, and now as the veil is thinned I --" her words were cut off by the crown-bearing other, the man's tone was ugly and cut through the woman's sweetness like a knife. "He'll remember none of this, woman! Leave it. We should not be here". The valravn grew visibly frustrated and seemed actually to caw at her lord, her feather-lined cloak billowed in the windless space between life and death. "Thou knowest not!" she screamed shrilly, the void shook, and she forged a baleful spell.

The signs that she conjured hung in the air about the shattered remains of Cormac, the words she spoke shone down like the mantle of stars that were weirdly made absent by the unknown being, the Voice. The magic of the curse that had been laid upon him at birth, that had marked him from the very day he had entered the world, was plucked from his lifeless body on the day that he was supposed to leave it. "Go Cormac Randolph, and do not forget the face of your father!" It was then that the man's gruff voice barked out like dry wood popping in a fireplace. He knows the voice well, though he in truth had seldom heard it. "Lift your fucking shield!" The voice of the winged beast that haunts his dreams repeats the sentiment with utmost tenderness, there's no harshness in the tone. Though the words "lift your shield" sound too much like "farewell". Cormac feels heart break and he wants to look back, he wants to search madly for the face of the woman that had been speaking to him - the moment has passed, he stands atop a cliff with a steep drop at his back, instinct takes over and he wheels around at the touch of some thing upon his leg. The thing is thrown to its ruin, and a thought comes to his mind; his blackened lips quirk up at the corner as his father's voice leaps forth from some buried memory. He turns with his shield raised and bears the brunt of his foe's assault, catching it on the surface of his roundshield and driving it back before running it through with the full length of his warsword. No more come for him. He tells Rosie at his side that its over, that he'll keep her safe. He didn't understand why his cheeks were wet nor the bitter inexplicable sorrow that had gripped his guts.

The winged woman took form nearby and spoke to them both, calling him 'the Harbinger', and her the 'Demon Touched'. But it became clear as the Voice spoke that not only was she not of this world, but that while she knew of Cormac her knowledge was based on 'rumor' more than kenning. This amused him; his legend had spread beyond the confines of this mortal world into the vastness of unreality. Dizzying. When she offered him power he refused, and rejected her. When she questioned his existence he explained to her that he is just a man, that in choosing to be just a man he'd been denied oblivion and his place among the riders. He told her plainly that she had chosen poorly her champion.

The new patron of Clan Rannúlfr, and father to those that will bear his banner long into the future laughed, and spoke bleakly and without cheer. He admitted, as the sun might admit that it radiates light and warmth. "You see, I am as you say - weak flesh. And cursed to carry no luck with me at all, wherever I go. The very gods have turned their sight from me. A better champion you'd find among any pack of wild dogs".

Cormac perhaps will never know that the power of hate, the curse of love, would unbind him from the finality of 'death'. It's likely he'd never recall ever having spoke with the mystical woman that had gave birth to him beyond the terror that often haunts his darkest nightmares. He could never imagine either that he'd been slain and dashed upon the cold stones at the base of that forsaken mountain. Would Kelemvor favor him hereafter? Would Shay/Cormac resurface from all of this? Was he truly to become the beast? He only knew victory, and that would be enough.

The winged being, the 'Voice', she swore that the age of 'ichor' was upon them, and that come what may - they would someday kneel before her. Cormac and Rosie laughed about this later.

KingCreeper

Rain had passed through the old gypsy camp before sundown, the ground had drunk in the water and every rock and bough was slick and wet. The clinging fog that held through the night had not allowed the forest world to dry, and as Cormac made his way out just as the horizon threatened dawn's first light he knew already that the new day was threatening to be unseasonably warm.

He rarely stayed in camp with Juniper, and even more rarely would wake so early. The twins had made their demands once or twice through the night, and after the second apparent contest to see which could scream loudest, he'd found that he could no longer sleep. He instead opted to take a morning stroll. With his tattered cloak pulled about his naked torso he found himself quickly deep in the woods, the smells of wet earth and satiated leaves still damp with the previous nights deluge assaulting his nose. He liked the fragrance. The earthiness was unironically grounding for him, and the brisk chill in the air that he was so sure would die off soon tinged his cheeks with their own rosy right.

His heart suddenly throbbed and his hand dropped to the dagger at his thigh. Something in the shadows had caught his eye, and he'd chosen it seemed to creep up upon it. A thin predatory grin spread across his pale lips - as yet unpainted in his morning ritual - as a plan rapidly came to mind. His hand knew the task before it came to mind, even. So quick was the thought to come to him that he'd surprised himself. He first bent, then stretched the hand wielding the blade out until if found the target. A quick jerk, and lifting by the cap with his free hand, and the big mushroom was free of the stump from which it was growing. As he looked around he realized there were more, dozens perhaps. Some medium to large nutty brown ones, a big mustard yellow one growing off the side of a tree. He avoided many of the smaller ones until he found a bunch growing together, thin stalked with chalky white caps. He cut enough of these to make a bundle. All in all he ended up with a neat basketful of wild forest mushrooms.

He likewise filled the basket with herbs that weren't commonly used in the dishes prepared by city folk, in particular the grassy wild onions and garlic that grew weedy-like in the sun dappled crevices' where rock met earth and strange spear-like chivey things that grew in patches among white flowers.

He was pleased by these simple things, and it wasn't before long that he found himself back within sight of the camp that Juniper and her family had called home. The delicate stream of white smoke from one of the roughly fashioned chimneystacks told him what any wolf that'd roamed close to civilization might've guessed - there are people here, yes, but they haven't fed their fire in many hours. Asleep, probably. If he'd been feral, truly feral, he might've kept the thought going and considered having their chickens, or snatching a fat little child from the cradle and eating it for supper. The thought that didn't quite come to mind amused him yet further, though his lips thinned and came to tug down at the corners. The babe sleeping inside was after all his own.

He spent much time in preparation before so much as touching a knife at the campsite. He'd washed his hands first, then the big block of wood they'd used for chopping on, and then over that surface he generously scattered a handful of rough salt. Many of the herbs he'd gathered were already in the cauldron adding their flavor and pungent aroma to the water that wasn't quite boiling within. The mushrooms he'd gathered were soon to follow, albeit rough-chopped and in shapeless, idiotic chunks. The silky whisper of his sharp knife shearing through the flesh of the mushrooms and then clicking loudly against the surface of the chopping block was at least somewhat rhythmic, and paced as though by practiced hand. Occasionally a piece of salt would find itself between block and blade and would be crushed and pulverized into dust, which would be transferred with the chopped 'shroom into the cauldron to cook and to simmer. The onions, and the garlic would join in similar fashion - along with some seasoning that belonged to the camp. When there was nothing more to add he put the big iron lid atop the cauldron, and as much as it frustrated him, he left it alone to do its own thing - to cook and to stew and to go from raw ingredient to, hopefully, delicious soup.

The light of day was by now creeping in more easily, the dense mist was not yet ready to burn off in the new day's heat however and lingered eerily between the trees like a river of smoke, or perhaps the march of some spectral army - a memory, or an echo of this place's past. Cormac thought little on it. He was pragmatic, the fog would fade - or it wouldn't. It really made no difference.

His attention instead was turned to the big bull shanks that he'd bought, he'd peeled the waxed paper back and the meat was beautiful. Blood pooled in the paper and a few flies buzzed around in the open air around the bones. He didn't admire them overlong before he brought the blade of a heavy cleaver down upon one of them, and with the thud - thud - and third thud with a wooden mallet the bone finally gave, and split. He worked the big knife through the bone to at least try to make sure the split left two even sides, and did the same to the second bone in no time at all. He'd been warming oil in a shallow ceramic pot by the same fire that his soup was cooking over. He'd used some of the herbs and especially the garlic to season the oil and the aroma that wafted out when he took the lid off was simply delightful on its own. There wasn't much of a sizzle going on, and that was just fine. He laid the four pieces of bone into the ceramic vessel side by side and spooned some of the oily potion over the whitish pink marrow. The bones took on a spit-shiny glisten almost immediately. He placed the heavy ceramic lid back on the pot and pushed the entire thing back into the fire. He tooled some hot coals onto the top of the pot to help it bake the bones inside oven-like.

The birds chirped, and somewhere a squirrel made its spastic rattling cry high in one branch or another. Cormac considered grabbing his bow and shooting it out the tree - he thought perhaps to roast it over the fire and to eat it, or perhaps just to shut the damned thing up. But there was a peace here that he did not wish to disturb. Spirits in the forest that he felt he'd do well not to offend. A resting Elf-wife who might be better off left undisturbed at the very least.

Alone with his thoughts and being driven half mad by the relentless warning cry of the invisible squirrel he continued to make himself busy around camp, finding a bag of rye flour. He mixed up a mess of dry ingredients, a variety of flours that had been kept in sacks along with oil and water, and perhaps most importantly almost a full bottle of beer before kneading it all into a tight dough. He let it proof, covered with a light cloth, while he stirred his soup and moved his pot of bones around. It was at this time that he added fresh cream to the broth that had been simmering in the cauldron. He mixed the lot together, it was still very watery and refused to thicken up. This didn't seem to bother him as he went about preparing the meal. He was absent disappointment simply by keeping busy.

The dough had risen slightly and was airy to the touch. He cut the main lot into smaller portions, and then rolled those into medium sized baguettes, and laid them on a rack by the fire to bake by the open flame. He had to turn them often and occasionally adjust their position so as to not let them burn, and to stop them from drying out over much.

Morning had come and gone. The mist that would or wouldn't fade had given way to bright midday light that spilled down through the canopy and lit up the forest floor. Little white flowers popped up around the roots of ancient trees and seemed to dazzle magically as the light hit them just so. The squirrel had either relaxed or had left. Some late rising birds made their cries, and some of the smaller ones had come to peck around the campsite for scraps and bits.

He'd taken the bones out from the fire and they were resting on a plate. To the still-hot beef and herb infused oil he added the leftover flour and stirred the mess over the fire until it became a rich, dark roux. This he scraped into the cauldron, which in turn thickened the mushroom soup.

He sliced two of the four small baguettes into bite-sized cuts and laid them out with the bone marrow he'd served, the other two were left on the plate with a nearby dish of fresh creamy butter, presumably to be eaten with the soup that he'd prepared.

Everything was ready to go. All he needed now was his companion, his Elven wife. All he needed was for the dour thoughts to stop plaguing him, to stop the bristling chill feeling from crawling up and down his back. The voice of the black-winged wolf ever present in his ear nagging and jeering. A bead of sweat rolled off his brow as he thought about stealing it all away to some part of the forest where he could pour the entire pot out and bury it before anyone could see the mistakes he'd made; he should've started with the roux, adding it this late would probably give the soup a doughy four-ey, or burnt taste. He wondered if he'd burnt it. His heart grew colder as his thoughts turned to the marrow, what if she didn't even like this kind of thing? She's an Elf after all -- should he have gone with cabbage instead? What if he'd misidentified a mushroom and poisoned her and her family - what if...

The flap of their tent opened with a billowing, flopping sound. The purple haired woman who stood there stooped in the makeshift doorway chased his dark clouds away. For now.

"Hungry, little Elf?"

KingCreeper

"...it's a quick job Cormac. The guys a tramp - a no good bum. Just get the coin and meet the contact right here. It'll be fine..."

He'd been starting to think this was all behind him. Kasimir hadn't asked him to do any 'under the table' sort of work since Thalaman lost interest in him. Things had been dry. That'd been just fine, amends wouldn't be made easy but he'd been trying. And by now he'd come to terms with the fact that some people would never see him as anything but a brute, a thug, or a letch with too many wives.

These thoughts didn't cross his mind as he put his breastplate and helmet on. Though he found himself unable to meet Isolde's gaze as he left the commons to do the thing that the cowardly knaves had bade. He checked that he had his knife, a pointy stiletto blade - a knight's dagger - that he'd kept over from that Lathanderite's trove. A memento of sorts, sentimental. He thought of her briefly.

It didn't take him too long to find Everett in the farmlands. The old man might've been clueless as he went about his chores. Cormac's mood had grown even and dispassionate. The sullen look in his stormy grey eyes hidden behind the iron mask he'd taken to wearing, and cast in shadow by the last light of the dying day. It crossed his mind that the old farmer might not see another. The old man threw another hay bail onto the stack in his barn. The palaver was brief.

Cormac gruffed, conversational - but blunt "Everett, isn't it? This your barn?"
The startled man let out a shallow yelp and wheeled to look at the much taller man who'd surprised him. He calmed and spoke finally "Ah! Yarp, my barn."
"...and that's your house over there near the cliff? All these beeves yours?" He spoke in the same gruff tone as he took a few more paces towards Everett.
"That's right. All mine." The old man didn't back away, he just stood there like an idiot and answered chummily. He mopped his brow with a rag and then pulled out a wooden pipe, lit it, and began to puff. Cormac was a little put out by this, he was trying to be at least a little bit intimidating and this bumpkin geezer was making his shakedown seem like his fifteen minute break.

Cormac's jaw clenched. He kept his composure and continued his inquiry. "...doing well for yourself. These beefs bring in a lot of coin?" ... and so the talk went back and forth for a while, yes - and no - and something about an old nobleman, an Ashald, in the city who bought cans of milk by the dozen. Eventually the Skald-turned-thug turned to the old man and said the words that he surely knew were coming.

"It's time to pay. The money loaned to you, the five thousand." The even chumminess had turned to an unkind rasp, the sound that maybe a rough-scaled snake might make as it coils about some tame thing that had come to the end of its days. "It's time to pay" he repeated.

Everett the cattle farmer puffed on his pipe, puffed and puffed - seemed maybe he wouldn't stop puffing. The orange glow in the bowl was like the birthing of another galaxy now that the sun had fallen behind the walls of the city and left everything in darkness. He took the pipe from his lips and said quite friendly enough "Sorry, I don't have it". He'd looked like he might've gone on with his excuses, some mewling nonsense about how times are hard and maybe about the price of feed. There was none of it, Cormac wouldn't stand for any of it. The lies, the blubbering - the blathering, it made him sick right to the back of his throat. The big man's nostrils flared, and he lashed out the only way that made sense to him.

He punched the man, not on the chin or crosswise on the jaw - but squarely in the mouth. The sharp studs on his gauntlet turning the old man's face into something akin to ground beef, and Everett's knees went out immediately. Cormac wouldn't let him fall though, and held the yokel up by his shirt and backhanded him once, twice, and a third time before permitting him to drop. The whimpering broken faced man was trying his darndest to crawl away, he wouldn't get far. Cormac squatted nearby and retrieved the old man's pipe, and he puffed on it himself as he rose and strode close behind the desperate farmer. When the bowl was good and hot he tossed the pipe into the barn, into the hay that had been stacked. The whole thing ignited quickly, white and orange flames sprung up - choking smoke billowed out from under the roof. The evil barbarian leaned down and gripped Everett by the shag of hair on his head and turned the bumpkin's face toward the fire by force. Dragged him to the fire, and held him there till his eyes boiled out of his skull and nothing remained of his face but a charry grin. Such was deserved of those who didn't pay their debts; of those who lied to him. The ragged sobbing breaths of the ruin that had been a cattle rancher not even ten minutes ago were silenced when Cormac pulled out his remaining pistol and put a hole in the man's chest. After all, he wasn't a cruel man - not Cormac.

Over the sound of his kettle-drum heartbeat and the rough, animal breathing from his heaving chest, the words came it seemed from another world..."and they took Esmerelda, my prize cow. My daughter could tell you more about it" Everett's words snapped him out of the thought. He stared at the old man, his dark eyes blazing and his teeth clenched at the vivid premonition, at the apparition before him. "GEORGE!" the old man cried. "GET OVER HERE AND TELL THE STRANGER WHAT YOU SAW!"

And there she was, the plump and heavy chested milkmaid daughter of the man Everett. A frosty cold sensation came to Cormac's gut, he felt like turning away and running from this mad place, from the beautiful girl named George. He softened, and listened to her words like she was reciting poetry in that weird accent of hers. Where the bad men went, how many there could've been - and of course she knew her numbers for who but she would count the cans of milk. He swallowed the wet lusty feeling down and assured them both that he'd do what he could to get the prize cow back, and he'd even pay their debt in full today for two or three beeves tomorrow.

Cormac and Everett shook hands, and parted on friendly terms.

The debt would be paid, no bones broken - no blood spilled. None of the old man's at least...

When he'd finally return to the city he found he could meet Isolde's gaze again. Perhaps there'd been a change somewhere along the way after all.

KingCreeper

**The Opportunity lazily rocks, unsettled in her spot in the docks. There's an occasional woody bump as the ships large hull meets and collides with the much smaller S.S. Nancy. Ships bells sound all across the docklands and the rowdy voices of drunken sailors cuts just above the turmoil of whipping shore winds.

None of it stirs Cormac, who lays in a wakeful state within the captain's quarters. And neither the easy breathing of the purple haired smiling Elf woman that rests atop him with her head on his chest, nor the unashamed Human girl with blonde hair that sleeps soundly in her night clothes with her head nestled on his arm at the shoulder, the one that snoozes calmly and evenly into his ear, can give him the comfort that he so needs.

The wolf looks up to the ceiling where shadows cast from the sooty dim light from the few candles that were left burning during the trio's evening together. The shadow of an overturned wine bottle casts its weird green/grey shadow on the opposing wall. There's no smile on his lips.

Thoughts come and go in drifts not unlike the waves that lap and beat against the walls of his wooden castle at sea, his ship - 'his ship' - the Opportunity. Asha had called him a guardian once upon a time, and Berkleigh had said it best at the Marigold Tavern, of course Cormac had snarled at the gentle mannered barkeep for it. "...you have a need to look after them...", or somesuch. Did he really only look for the broken ones, the ones with a screw loose? Reyhenna might allude to something like that in the future, it'd strike him with no less poignancy than the time at Marigold. Still, maybe. He thought. Maybe. This thought brought him to Raazi, and he wondered how long it'd been, and when it stung too much he gripped and his fingers sunk into the flesh of one lover or the other, and he tried not to moan or hitch his breath as a tear rolled back from the corner of his eye.

"You can't kill it like that Little Crow. You won't drown her memory in flesh". The words came from a voice that had been silent for so long. He didn't respond. He didn't even think of a response. He was on the mend - getting better. The mad thoughts and wild tendencies were in the past. He hadn't even used since Juniper and Valisha had started joining him regularly, not anything stronger than wine anyway. And, it'd seemed to him for a while now that people were actually enjoying his company - they'd certainly remarked on his heroism, told stories of his deeds without being prompted.

"...you can't kill it like that, wolf. You won't drown her memory --" ... and he was to be a father again. Juniper had told him not too long ago that she'd visited with the priest, and that it was certain. Another one swearing that she loved him. Maybe his cursed state was truly ended after all. The world, it seemed, was lavishing gifts and good fortune upon him at last. Even when he'd did wrong it seemed to invite a favorable outcome; he was living a charmed life. He found that for all of that, he couldn't help feeling completely and miserably alone.

"It's a thing that can't be killed. It's because your hair is black and her wolfish look in your eyes." He squeezed again, a mild yelp and a sigh from one of the women let him know that all were yet at rest. All but him, though he ever suspected the Elf might be laying between rest and wakefulness by now. One of the candles died and the shadows danced one step to the side. He wondered to himself whether or not he might have to kill her if she ever came back. A thought he'd gone wild with rage at when Varya had suggested something similar. He argued with himself internally, wrestling with both parts of it. On the one hand, how could such a thing not cause his blood to boil - for good or for ill, Raazi had been his wife, and the mother of his child Rafni. On the other hand - yes, she's a demon - does she even have a heart that could love him? Did she ever really?

He knew in his heart of hearts that she'd struggled, that much was plain in the letter she'd written for him. The letter he'd never finished reading, probably never would finish reading. He would try to find his comfort. He struggled with himself, but the Elf that had fallen in love with him, the one with purple hair - and the blonde haired girl he'd jokingly made his deck-swabbie, might at least make it a little easier to accomplish....**

KingCreeper

White Raven

A soft voice asked, "But how did you know?"
The far away voice compelled, "But I didn't."

A crumbling deep sound from within the darkness.

"You couldn't have known she'd be there, that you'd be murdered in this high, cold place." the soft voice continued.
The far away voice insisted yet further, "I didn't know."

The rumbling of ice upon ice from deep within the bleak, frozen dark.

The yellow eyed wolf looks up at Cormac from his side, the ravens wings that challenge the blackest night lie flat against its back. It suggests yet further. "But you came here to die?"
The man whose raven black hair had sprouted a thread or two of brilliant white, stark enough to challenge the stars and the moon in the sky answered thus, "Something awaited me here. Perhaps its name is Death."

The wolf stared and pondered. After an eternity it wrapped its cunning mind around some words in its own riddle. "Yet you live. Between places, you are neither living nor dead. Tell me Cormac Randolph; if Death waits, are you not rude to keep him waiting?"
The frozen corpse offered no response. And so the raven-winged-wolf resumed.
"And if you came to find an answer that you might live on, have you not also failed to do that? Perhaps not. In the eternal in-between you elude death and forsake damnation. Aoth might smile upon the bones of you for that. If the mad-woman had not injured you so, you would have died here. Do you realize that she saved your life?"

A dull creak from the rimeclad barbarian upon his frozen throne. Hoary shards of ice tremble and splinter off. The valravn's yellow wolfs' eyes narrow and its black lips curl at the corners.

"You won't let me die. You won't let me live. What do you want from me, beast?" A thought from another realm cries out. Dark clouds seem to roll over the mountaintop as a new blizzard sets in. The few mountain-dwelling ravens that had tried their luck at pecking the glassy ice that covered the man-corpse's face were startled into flight, and soon their raspy cries were ghosts in the fog.

The wolfbeast offered no answer.

The frozen man continued his psychic monologue -- or dialogue with this eldrich deity; "Give me peace. Let my sword mark the grave of some fool. Let my guns lie silent. Should my axe be raised again in war let the wielder be cursed. Let me 'die', beast. Give me peace."

The yellow eyes of the wolf raise once more to meet Cormac's golden gaze, frozen and unblinking. "You know as well as I, Cormac Randolph, that none of this is my doing. This is not the end I wished for you. You have rolled over and accepted a fate that is unfit, unworthy. You have disappointed me and, I think, yourself. Is it not so?"

A thin, hairline crack begins to split the icy coffin that houses Cormac's frozen flesh; only a slight thing at his cheek. A pulse of gold illuminates the glassy ice and hoarfrost exterior, it pulses like a beacon as his golden eyes light up. The offense of what the valravn says runs too deep even in his frozen heart to be ignored by the relentless spirit of the man within.

The crack ceases; the pulse dies. Eternity resumes as the spirit of the man and the wolf set aside their bitter argument.

For now...

KingCreeper

Miss You

He'd stood facing the doorway to room A7 in the halls of the Bardic College for a while, he was sure he could hear someone in the room on the other side of the door but hadn't quite plucked up the courage, or really found the words yet that he'd wanted to say. Once or twice he'd reached for the door handle - apparently intent on bursting through the door and baring all he had to the mercy of his intended recipient. At the last he resigned to rest his forehead against the cold wood planked door and to speak softly.

"...this isn't the first time I've made a mistake. Only, I think this time it's different and I don't think I can come back from it. Shay was right -- they've all turned away from me -- and here I am at your door. Will you open up and talk to me? Do you think I could see you just this one last time..?"

The last few words came out choked and to his own ears uncomfortably desperate. The seconds that passed in silence seemed like eternity - he was about to turn and leave when he heard a fumbling at the handle, the hard 'click' of an opening lock. Elation washed over him as the door slowly creaked open and dim candlelight spilled out from the growing gap.

"...Isolde I --"

His words were cut short when the point of a stiletto dagger was thrust aimlessly up towards his face. A shrill woman's voice demanded of him.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want at this hour?!"

Cormac stepped back from the doorway, he stiffened and his breath caught and stilled. His nostrils flared and he stood up straight and squared his shoulders, he drew in a breath and began in his dark robust voice.

"...My name - is C--"

He was cut off suddenly again by another shrill outburst from the dark haired Half-Elven girl, and that seemed somehow more immediately dangerous than the dagger from earlier.

"Nobody CARES who you are, you old creep!!"

These words were followed by the sharp echoing clap of the door being slammed shut. There was a finality to that sound. The big man swallowed hard, he wondered if he should apologize - the thought passed quickly, and he vacated the Theatre building just as swiftly. He didn't think on it again until much later, but he guessed that would probably be the last time he crossed that threshold on way or another.

"Nobody cares who I am".

This thought on the other hand hounded him through the last course of his journey. He didn't try to guess at how long it had been since he'd seen anyone else. He'd watched lush green turn to muddy brown and stunted growth, and from there the landscape turned to dull grey and frost, and from there to near constant snowfall. He tried to not rest for too long on his stops as he couldn't help wondering when he turned into an 'old creep'. Once on the long road a wolf had howled in the dark, it had been a lonely sound and no other wolves had responded. Cormac hadn't used his voice at all since the woman in the college had interrupted him; he almost wolf-cried back out into the dark himself but for the awkward feeling that comes from such bitter loneliness. The barely audible sound came out muffled, and strangled itself to a weary sigh before it could fairly start let alone articulate. There were shadows in the dim embers of his campfire, the light refused to dance in his eyes.

He thought little about Rafni, the child he'd sired with Raazi. The words he'd said so many times before had become truth to him. Just another one of my little bastards who'll never know their father's name, or his face. Maybe for a while he'd fooled himself into believing this time was different. Hadn't he been there to see her born? Hadn't he named this one? Held her? She'd cried for him when she missed him. He'd fallen in love with the little crease of a dimple on his little girl's cheek when she smiled too. And -- he'd come to find that those kinds of thoughts were getting hard to put away as he drew closer to his destination, and that they made his heart hurt. He didn't hate Raazi for it. He missed her, too, he understood.

Descending Angel
His next campfire hardly burned at all, a low flame that sparked and spat angrily against the frozen mountain wind. The coals of it tried to blaze their bright red but their forlorn glow was pitiful in the frigid night. Wind whistled over the top of the blanket of white snow that seemed to be tucked into every nook and craggy cranny on the rough mountainside. There was little shelter and Cormac's back and shoulders quickly became snow covered and he became just another lumpy outcrop. He stayed that way hunched over the dying embers all night. The falling snow did not relent with the coming dawn.

The world flattened, he was drawing closer to the mountaintop. The throne at the peak would be within reach today. His shallow breaths lingered before him, hot puffs that had started coming out ragged and irregular. He'd left much of his equipment behind, he'd figured after all, that he'd have little use for a cumbersome axe or his blackened chainmail, or even his big roundshield where he was heading. Cormac Randolph who bragged that he could smell a trap had made another mistake.
For in the winding rocky crags where the wind is slowed to a mere eye-watering, a step down from the flesh biting or skin ripping, in the hollow places where a fire might be lit and stay lit and a tent might be pitched and stay pitched, the wild mountain folk would often migrate through. Cormac would be lucky enough to encounter a handful on his way to the top.

He had left his axe and his shield behind but only a fool would travel anywhere unarmed. His longsword rasped from its scabbard as one howling figure sped towards him more than half obscured in the blizzarding snow. The wide arcing swing of his foe's greataxe might've ended Cormac's trip right there if he'd been just a little slower, or if his enemy had been a touch quicker. He caught the next swing early with his sword and forced the scruffy bearded man back a step. Cormac was already out of breath and knew the fight must end soon, no fancy sword-work today. The mountain man recovered rapidly and brought his axe up overhead; he meant to bear down with all his might and cleave Cormac from crown to sternum, or to split him clean in two like a dry log perhaps. It would not be so. An almost lethargic step forward and an impaling thrust of the black bladed longsword saw the fur-clad vagrant drop his big axe behind his back and cartoonishly clutch the small portion of blade before falling back into a snowdrift, the man died quickly and snow had already started to cover his body and his face by the time Cormac had caught his breath and leaned over to recover the sword.

Before his hand could grasp the handle, before he could so much as tug the blade free, a shrieking woman had jumped onto his back. He felt her drive her fist into his side a few times; all the while screaming inarticulate bloody murder. He was caught off guard, numb with cold - startled with the ceaseless yelling. Cormac reached back over his head and grasped at whatever he could lay his hands on and still the woman drove her fist into side, his ribs, his back. One of his fists became tangled in her wild hair under her hood, his other hand found purchase under her arm, and in an instant he'd thrown her clean over his head and into the snow where her presumed companion lay dead. The woman scrambled to her feet roaring shrilly like a startled mountain-lion. The witch-demon, shrieking banshee bitch had a pair of crimson bladed daggers in her hands and she rose bow-legged and ready to pounce again. By the time she'd thought about taking a half-step towards him though, Cormac had already slung the sawn-off Lantanese rifle out from under his cloak and fired true. A red lake and ribbons of guts met the snowbank behind her a few seconds before the woman, blasted backwards, had hit the wall herself. Still she screamed. Her wild echoing rage wasn't quite the 'boom' of his big gun's report, but the devil was in this sound. She hissed and scurried, she crawled through the snow on her belly leaving a bloody trail. There was no sense to her movements, the woman herself didn't seem to know or care where she was going - the sound in her awful cries made it seem that she didn't know whether she was fleeing or attacking either. Cormac drew his pistol and fired another ball through her back. The crack of gunshot echoed all over the mountain - the woman no longer moved, her frantic cries had ceased almost immediately.

Cormac stood with his pistol pointing at the dead woman a while longer, his black painted lips tipped down at the corners. It wasn't too much longer before he felt his legs threatening to give out. The numb cold of the mountain blizzard was giving way to wet heat that made his pants leg stick to his thigh and all the way down to his knee. He could see spots of blood on top of the new snow. The snow would quickly cover it up, and then more drops - an endless battle that he was sure to lose.

He never did recover the longsword.

He staggered the rest of his way up the last steep stretch of hill. The places where the woman's knives had punctured had started to ache so much that he wished the numbness of the cold would come back. Nevermind. His uneven breathing had become rasping loud moans before the frost covered throne had ever come into sight. Black spots drifted before his eyes and more and more he felt it might be terribly wise to rest. Just a few minutes and then he'd go on, he thought. Just enough time to gather his strength. He hadn't felt drowsy since he'd slain Shay. All the rest he'd needed he'd had on his bleak throne. Now he could barely keep his eyes open. Short puffs of breath hung in the air before him as he made his way onward.

By the time he reached the seat he was all clapped out. He'd started coughing a while back and by now he couldn't catch a breath, the cold irritated his throat; his mouth was full of cotton, so it felt. Almost like he was getting whisky drunk. The dribbles of blood that forced their way out of his mouth had frozen and formed pink icicles that hung from his beard. Another puff of breath, this time barely a shallow ghost. His chin dipped and another breath gurgled its way up and moaned its way out of his throat.

"Ma..?"

He rasped the word, or maybe the question, as the feet of strangers stood in the snow before him. He managed to look up and to see the ones who stood there. A wizard in blue robes stood watching him. Another man dressed in blood-spattered full plate stood resting on a downturned greatsword, to this man's left another light haired man dressed in purple chainmail stood. And in the middle standing a full head and shoulders taller than them stood a great warrior with sullen yellow wolf's eyes, a reflection of himself. The four shadows stood and watched for a time. The puffs of breath had ceased and a thin layer of frost had started to take over the figure that sat on the throne. Slowly the four sank away into their shadows. The yellow eyed one hesitated half a heartbeat, but soon there would be nothing at the peak of the mountain but the moaning wind and whipping snow.

Sure there might've been rumors afterwards. A shadowy figure coming between some maiden and the loss of her virtue at the hand of some dirty bastard. And maybe the occasional hushed tale of some would be villain found with a small hole in his chest. The ghost of vengeance who'd engulf lesser boogy-men in shadows and bear them straight down to hell, himself. And were there not nights where a long shadow would spill out over the commons; and didn't that shadow have horns, so they'd say? Maybe they never did. Maybe it's as plain as it is written. Maybe he's simply gone.

KingCreeper

For The Sake of Revenge

The sharp edge of a silver knife made of shadow cuts through the twine with a satisfying, musical 'ping'. Cormac looks down at the stitched up chest wound of Kyrie who lays dead upon a raised slab before him. The needle is set aside and in the same motion Cormac picks up a comb that, in the dark, looks like it might be carved from ebony. In truth the teeth and spine have upon them and impart the fruity musky smell of sandalwood; the thing having long ago been fashioned from a cut of the expensive wood. With it he combs Kyrie's hair with the tenderness of close family, dearest friend, or most sincere lover. His golden eyes take in the shape of the dead man's face.

"...it wasn't meant to be this way Kyrie. Stabbed in the back like some common bandit -- I know. 'I' suffer knowing that you were robbed of your victory. You deserved better is all I'm saying..."

He eyes the dead man's neat hair and perhaps decides it's 'too' neat, for he strokes the bangs to tussle them and give them a little 'volume'. He sets the comb aside and brings up a bottle of scented oil which he generously applies to the naked body before him, careful to anoint the sallow hollows, his underarms and rubs, his chest and legs, the man's hands and his face. He even applies some behind Kyrie's ears. Cormac's golden eyes give Kyrie's corpse a soft look, and tuts at the unshaven face that can't do aught but stare back up at him. The shadowy knife materializes in his hand and Cormac hunches over The Swordmaster. He rakes the razer edge of the knife down the man's cheeks - though with all the care of a trained barber, and shears the messy stubble away. He shaves the dead man's neck and the bristles that threaten to become whiskers from under his nose, too. He leaves a short goatee on the man's chin and a trimmed and shapely soul-patch just under his bottom lip.

He might've looked satisfied with his work, proud even; though as he admires the clean shave he begins to stumble - first going weak at the knees and then dropping the blade which vanishes before it hits the shadow-engulfed ground. He braces himself on the slab with his free hand, his golden eyes swimming and drifting as he begins to fade and black out. He catches himself and gruffs, wheezing and panting doggedly as he slinks wraithlike back to the cracked throne into which he slumps. An immediate gasp of relief is sighed out. He sits there for a long time without moving or saying a word, his golden eyes exploring the collapsing shadowy chasm of his once glorious plane. He feels under his cuirass and winces when his fingertips reach the cold wet spot where his beating heart ought to be, and when they brightly sting the open wound they've found. He slowly brings his hand out from under his leather breastplate and stares at his quivering fingers. No blood, bone dry... and yet he 'had' felt the injury.

His golden eyes survey the fracturing void that had been his home. Black ooze pouring down unseen walls, black ooze tinged with an inner red. Black, bloody ooze that spills into pools that disappear. His gaze turns skyward where once upon a when there had been stars, entire constellations that he had put there; born of his love for a woman, he'd pricked the darkness and brought forth stunning little lights. All gone. A swirling vortex dominates the entire sky like an upside down drain that at any moment will suck the entire plane up and out of existence. The thought chilled him to his bones and yet somehow, upon this cracked seat, he manages to take his rest. His body slowly becoming more and more invigorated as the soulless void of his body takes energy and sustenance from the shadows that make up his little world. Or what's left of it.

His eyes see more clearly from here the bright lines where Kyrie's swords had cut him and stabbed him, deep slashes in the black. Gouges that deeply wound the surrounding shadows, the places that hurt most and bleed their weird black ooze. He finds his jaw clenched, for how long now he couldn't possibly know. His bottom lip quivering like a child whose toys have been trod upon and broken, verging on pitiful tears.

"...I don't know what you've done to me. I don't even know if I can fix it. You really got me good Kyrie, I think you've cut me deep. Is this the mutual destruction you spoke of? Will my body soon lay upon such a slab?.."

The dry 'tsk' he utters echoes in the chamber of void and he rubs his eyes with his fists to fight back the tears that surely must come, surely they must.

"...no, I don't think there's a slab for me. I don't think anyone will lay me out and tend me when my time finally comes. I had such 'plans' for you, Swordmaster. I though I might turn you into some twisted thing -- a weapon, or a shield maybe. I thought it'd be fitting but -- but I don't feel like it now. Of all the injuries you've inflicted upon me I think your piss-poor death has been the most grievous. Do you understand? You've broken my heart Kyrie..."

He sniffs aloud and pushes himself up from the throne. Hours, maybe days had since passed. Maybe only hours or minutes. The body still gleamed from the oil and hadn't began to decay; though in this place of all places, would it ever? The knife that hadn't been in his hand materializes from shadow as he lifts Kyrie's by the wrist. He carefully and meticulously begins to trim the corpse's fingernails. He trims carefully in small etching cuts almost as though he'd regret hurting the dead man further. He cuts the nails down short though on all ten fingers and all ten of his toes, too. While he cuts he offers;

"...when I was a boy, the Seeress told me that when a dead man's nails went untrimmed before he was buried, that his fingernails and toenails would be taken by trolls back to the real of the Jotun, where they'd use the untrimmed nails to build upon the hull of their great ship of war. That the funerary rites were important; else the endtimes would come..."

Across The Rainbow Bridge

The body lying upon the slab with his fatal wounds stitched shut, his body oiled, his beard and fingernails trimmed, and his hair combed is at rest and naked before Cormac. When he's certain there's nothing more he can do for Kyrie's outward appearance, he begins to dress the dead man. Rough brown woolen pants, a stiff off-white linen tunic cinched at the waist with a new belt. Sturdy leather boots of a quality that most common men might own but one pair in a lifetime, and gloves both supple and tough befitting of a swordmaster. The dead man's shins are furnished with metal plates and his body is dressed in a chain tunic not quite as long as the linen undershirt he'd been put in. A sword belt is tightened around the waist over the mail with a scabbard that houses a fine longsword. Sturdy, decorated pauldrons are fitted to the corpse's shoulders to hold the big red cloak in place. Strapped to his guard-arm is a broad roundshield which is laid over the body of the dead man. And a helmet plated with shining bronze and gold inlays is finally placed on the man's head.

He places his hands on the chest of Kyrie and he starts to force the body out of his realm and back to the material plane, a location he knows well in mind. At his back, although they daren't step into his crumbling plane that might cease to exist at any moment, he can feel the eyes of his three 'Brothers' upon him. He can feel their collective wonder, and something more than indifference -- perhaps 'malice' at this mortal's decision to break their laws, to 'take' from Death instead of relinquishing.

Cormac steps out of a doorway made of shadows which closes soundlessly behind him and winks out of existence. In his muscled arms the limp body of Kyrie, the gold-plated Mithril chainmail glittering brilliantly in the light of the dawn, the shadows of the pillars and the great statue of Tempus in his austere shrine just outside the City of Peltarch stretching far as the sun begins to rise.

The body, furnished with sword and shield, armor and helmet, cloak and boots is laid out at the feet of Tempus - this man's Lord - with a bleak and pragmatic grimness that only Cormac's sullen face could convey without words. The barbarian fusses over the body, straightening the cloak at first, and then throwing the material over one side of the body for dramatic flare. He rests one of Kyrie's hands on the pommel of the longsword worn at his hip. All of the man's own battle furnishings having crumbled to ruins and dust upon his defeat. The swordmaster that Cormac had called a 'knight' looks indeed knightly in his death-splendor. Something in the scene reaches Cormac's romantic nature and he stands a while, looking between the finely dressed body under the stern gaze of Tempus.

"...I don't pray. I never had -- I've been accused of being a poet but I've no words for this kind of thing. This man laid out before you stood against many. He did not flee though he could have. He is my enemy, and one of the closest things I've had to a friend for a long time..."

He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, and his shoulders slump - maybe it's shame or something else that squeezes his big, heavy heart.

"...I think my seat in your golden hall will be empty overlong, o' Lord of Battles. I yield my place to Kyrie, the Swordmaster. If he has no kin there let him find mine; let him sit shoulder to shoulder with them, pray he tells them that Cormac Randolph too was no coward, tell them that I didn't flee either. Tell them -- something..."

His thoughts turn to Ysgard, to Gladsheim -- he thinks on whether he'll see such things before his end. He has no idea that the answers will all too soon be revealed, how right - and how wrong he is in his musings. For now he simply slips away back into the shadows, back to Discordia and Ruin where death and madness dwell. He takes to his throne ... and there Death Rests...

KingCreeper

Bohemian Rhapsody

Cormac's attention is drawn to the other side of the road, some ways out up along the ridge where some birds have been disturbed and are taking flight. As his line of sight climbs with the flock he feels a sudden hot pain in his neck. A half second or so later the sound of the shot that had just hit him. He can only think on how surreal that passing moment is before his legs give out, and he falls at first to his knees and then stumbles down over the ledge with all the grace of a bag of bricks. His blood that had spurted out in tremendous arcs now slowly pumps out the severe neck wound. It's said a man's life will flash before his eyes in such moments as these; all Cormac can see are feet stomping around in his pooling blood along with the coming darkness. Dawn had just come, sure. But by the look of it, it must be sundown already. His heart slows further, his lips are numb and his cold body shakes. A ripple of gooseflesh rolls up his arms and causes the hairs to bristle, still conscious...

The healing spell brought him back from the brink of death. He rose to his feet, and spat he iron ball that had been lodged in his throat out in to the grass. It hadn't occurred to him that such a thing might never occur again. Nor did it seem to matter, everyone had gathered around him with their shields held up. A protective circle of bodies all protecting poor immortal Cormac. He'd grown tired of explaining that he'd just get up if he were killed, and let the others have their fun.

Kyrie wasn't hiding when they discovered his location. He stood atop a hill aiming the barrel of his Lantanese long hackbut down at the tight array of shields and bodies. If he wanted someone dead or wounded he wouldn't have had to aim. But he acted as Cormac had said he would, he acted like he didn't want to hurt anyone but the 'shadow monster', the great 'evil' that he was hunting. This would be a good time for dialogue, maybe he'd finally learn something about the Swordmaster - this was good. Better yet perhaps Kyrie would give something up about the soul-drinking weapon or weapons that had been draining Cormac of everything that made him truly 'him'. How to fix it, how to get it all back and feel normal again. Maybe -- but no. One person swung their weapon, then the next - the Kyrie drew his sword.

The Swordmaster's title was well earned. It was no quick thing as such assaults are when five or six pile up against one. He defended and struck, parried and answered in kind. Without his bracers it's said he'd been weakened, and maybe that was so. Hard to tell since he still fought like a cornered tiger. His first sword shattered, then a second, a third, and when all seven of his blades were broken he fought still; driving the blunt handle of his final sword into Cormac's ribs to try and smash through and bludgeon him to death. Cormac had thrown his own sword at Kyrie's feet and bade him pick it up; Kyrie had refused to arm himself. Or maybe it was just that he'd rather die than accept aid from his sworn enemy. Whatever his reason he died with the broad blade of a halberd in his back and the curved razer edge of Cormac's great axe sunk in his chest. His ruined armor crumbled, along with his helmet. The face beneath - like Preacher - was just a man. No demon, no gods-sent being of light and justice, no hellspawned devil of wrath or ruin. Just a man.