"Everything dies."

An audible sigh went through the hall. It was a shivering, fearful sound, like dry leaves over stone. The crowd seemed to shudder slightly, a candle flame blowing in a cold wind; almost snuffed out, bringing darkness, before stabilizing once more and allowing light to return. Only Enessea was silent, hunched back against one of the smoke-stained walls of the Kinlord's hall. Her crooked fingers clutched a greasy silver platter; the knuckles were white, and shook slightly. Her painfully bright blue eyes were wide and staring. In this, she was not alone. Every Vaesir in the hall gave the Speaker their rapt attention. Drinks were forgotten, food sat in congealed puddles of fat and bone.

"Everything dies," the Speaker repeated, his imperious gaze slowly and majestically sweeping across the gathering. "Men, women, children. Earthshaker and rabbit, weed and soldier pine, every beast and plant, no matter how mighty or humble. Gods die. Even ideas perish." He stamped his staff in to the dirt floor, startling several members in the front of the crowd; several children shied away. "Civilization. Society. Intentions. Philosophies. Entropy is the natural state of every piece of existence, down to the last ember." His gleaming green eyes found the fire; unconsciously, many eyes followed his gaze, including Enessea's. The fire pit was near twenty feet long and five feet wide. Stripped carcasses, the meat long since carved, were suspended over the flames. They had nearly gone out, leaving the occasional tongue of flame and smoldering embers.

"And all that dies...!" The Speaker's voice rang out once more in to the utter silence, causing another jump and gasp to ripple throughout the crowd. "Leaves behind a small part of itself. A dream. An Echo. These Echoes build up over time, clashing across each other and the corners of eternity, like spears off a shield wall." Several of the elders and Carls in the room spoke in unison, a dull monotone, the grinding speech of tradition. "[i]An Echo, Resounding,[/i]" they spake. "[i]The clash of souls, the tongue of kings, the dying gasp of gods.[/i]" The Speaker lifted his staff in both hands above his head. Crafted of ironwood it was, wrapped in bands of bronze and gold worked with ancient runes. His head tilted back, causing his rough-spun hood to fall to his grey-maned shoulders. The Speaker was grizzled and worn, positively ancient by Vaesir standards at seventy-three winters. Pale scars mottled his thin hide; his arms and legs were thick cords of knotted muscle. He howled to the blackened beams above; "And we are the Bringers of the Echo!" he sang in a keening wail. "We are the Reaper's Toll, the Youth-Born, the Youth-Slain!"

Those Carls and Thralls not already on their feet stood, drawing oath-knives. The razor edges were drawn across palm and forearm, thigh and chest. "We are the Gallows Tree and the Hanged Man upon it!" they roared back, blood dripping from their hulking bodies to mingle together in the red dirt below. The Kinlord himself stepped forward, an imposing armored beast from the deep in his Kura'thyr. From the depths of his monstrous mask he answered the call; "There is no silence; only the absence of our song!" The Speaker lowered his staff with a thunderous crack to the floor; a flash of purple light emanated from its teeth, bathing the gathering in an eldritch glow. Enessea squeaked in terror, her crooked arms rising to cover her features. His eyes glowed like jewels pulled from the forges of some forsaken abyss.

"And what do our enemies see when our sails crest the wave?" he demanded of the Vaesir.
"Death!!" the Kinlord and his warband answered.
"And what does the world hear when our spear-din breaks upon the moor?!"
"[i]Death!!![/i]"
[i]And what will your ring-givers bestow upon you?! What is the blood-moon's price?! What is the answer to the raven-song?!?![/i]"
"[i]Death!! DEATH!! DEEEAAAATH!!![/i]"

The call and response rose to a deafening roar. The Kinlord's retainers beat their chests and tore their shirts; guards lining the walls rang their war-spears upon great shields. The walls and ceiling of the broch shuddered ominously, near matching the storm outside. Enessea silently withdrew from the hall as the warband fell upon the serving girls, mates, captives, and each other, ripping aside clothing and armor as they engaged in an orgy of violent sex, wrestling, drinking, and feasting. This would continue for the better part of the night, before the Kinlord Lachlann and his warband departed for the mainlord. Keramallt was a Canumbrian Kinhold, on the "hospitable" southern shore of the gods-forsaken island. Equally at home harpooning whales and seals as they were raiding the "soft south-landers," Keramallt was preparing for a Great Raid. They would be joining numerous other Kinlords from Canumbria on a five year or more journey to the east, to raid isolated Attolian holdings before going south. For great riches and greater glory awaited enterprising warriors willing to take risks and go far from home for an extended period of time.

Enessea was Mornblooded; her father a wealthy Vaesir retainer from Edenperth, her mother a nameless High Mornish house-hold slave. After Enessea was born, it was clear (To everyone's great surprise) that she'd inherited more of her mother's shapely traits than the father's. But the taint was still clearly there, and when she was old enough, she'd been sold for a pittance to a passing slaver out of Jansport. Her first fifteen years of life were dark, wretched, and less said of them, probably the better. She'd lived in Jansport and various other Skornish Clanholds before a strange turn of events had changed her life and fortunes forever. The Kinlord Lachlann had been on a raid to honor a blood-feud against the Kinlord of Estein. Enessea had been a glorified camp-follower in the warband of the Kinlord Argerac; his shield-wall was broken by the Canumbrian's ferocity, and she (Along with the rest of the less valuable plunder) had been abandoned in their hasty retreat. She'd been taken a'prize by the Kinlord Lachlann and brought back with him to become part of his household. It was an honored position, as she was responsible for caring for his wife and children, in addition to general cooking and cleaning duties. And the Canumbrians seemed to express no interest in her womanly features, such as they were.

At just over five feet tall, Enessea was incredibly short to Vaesir standards and tastes. Her fore-arms, thighs, calves, and shoulders were covered in a fine coat of silvery fur, and a pair of tufted canine ears poked out of her shaggy, unruly mane of grey fur. Her feet and hands were the usual Mornblooded crooked, almost useless but for simple tasks, her face was ashen in hue and asymmetrical, and her lips were constantly bleeding and torn from her jagged teeth. So by Half-Mornish standards, she wasn't all that hard to look upon, especially with her bright, innocent blue eyes. But the Canumbrians seemed more than content with their Vaesir wives, though the occasional horny red wench or lad could be seen among the "pillow-slaves". While not a gentle ruler or kindly man, the Kinlord Lachlann and his family did not mistreat her without cause. All in all, things could much worse for the young mutant.

"What did you think of the Raid Ceremony?" a creaking voice rasped out of the shadows. Enessea's heart nearly stopped as she jumped nearly a foot in to the air. Her mouth was opened in to a great round O of surprise as she landed, wincing in pain as the shock went through her crooked feet. "Er, ah, em..." she stammered out, trying to remember not to press her lips and teeth too close together. It made for awkward conversations and simple sentences and words. Many thought her simple as a result. "It was good," she said in her slow, halting way. "The Carls will slay lots and take lots gold." She stared at the ground and shuffled back and forth in the dirt, still clutching her befouled serving platter almost like a shield before her. From the corner of her vision, she saw the Speaker approach, his staff thumping firmly in to the ground as he hop-skipped forward. He'd taken a spear to the thigh forty some-odd years ago and the wound had never healed properly, ending his raiding career. So he'd become a Speaker, discovering a latent talent for magic, oration, and language as he traveled the wilds of Canumbria, spreading news, history, and faith between its rough-and-tumble brochs and holds.

The Speaker, Treugarth by name, halted mere inches away from Enessea. His expression was curious, condescending, like he was examining an insect or a dead fish. "Good. Very gold. Much slay." He snorted derisively, looking the Mornblooded up and down while leaning heavily on his weathered staff with both hands. After a moment, his gaze softened and he shook his head. "Your wyrd is tangled, young one. You will not spend much more time in this land." Enessea looked up in surprise, her eyes wide, her expression startled and sad. "I -ill leaf Canurria?" she said in a hush, wincing as her teeth scraped her gums. Treugarth snorted again, closing his brilliant green eyes, his head bowed and shaking side to side. "Nay, child," he whispered, his voice low and gravelly. "Your wyrd takes you from the Mornlands entirely. I see a great worm coiled around a greater tree with fruits of many colors; the tree is rotting, and many of the fruits have fallen. Ravens quarrel over the slime and ruin." One eye cracked open, transfixing her with the weight of prophecy. "You will cut down this tree. Or you will hang from it." He shrugged dismissively, his cloak falling about his shoulders; the pitch-black cloth caused him to meld with the darkened hallway, almost making him disappear. "Your choice in the end, girl. We all have a choice, and we all have a voice." With that, he was gone, leaving Enessea alone, and very confused.

The next morning she was aboard the Kinlord's flagship, the newly crafted drakkar [i]Cthonian[/i]. A fleet of ten more lesser ships followed in wake. Swathed in a sealskin coat, Enessea stood at the ship's aft, looking out at the frozen shores of Canumbria as the snow-cloaked towers of the Keramallt broch faded away with the horizon. She was afraid, but she was also hopeful. Perhaps she was destined for great things. Perhaps she was to be a sacrifice on fate's altar. Regardless, her life had been nothing but a desperate struggle since she'd gasped for her first breath. Her history of pain, abuse, and humiliation had been forged in the Mornlands; in the south, perhaps she could rewrite her fate.

SEEKER OF RUIN