[h3][center][i][color=778899]~ The Morkt ~[/color][/i][/center][/h3]

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[color=F0F8FF]The black sand cut like shards. A withering man clung to it, sinking his fingers into the cold, dry earth. He wore tattered chainmail that had been bloodied and bent. His lips were cracked and pale, barely able to release the icy mist from his breath. But breathe was all he could do. Behind him gently rocked the remains of a longboat. Its inhabitants were freshly rotting and the heat of their bodies created a feint yet pungent steam. The man rested his head in the sand, listening longingly to the soft tides that broke against his legs. He wanted nothing more than to feel the sweet taste of fresh water. Yet the salt of the seas was a cruel mistress. 

Suddenly he was yanked. His hair, cut in the standard fashion of a braided top with shaved sides, became a rope to the rough hand which snared it. He could feel himself being drug by his head. However he was too weak to fight. His limp legs cast a trail in his wake. He was being drug to a small gathering of flickering lights. It was soon that he could see these lights were torches held by a mob which had collected on the beach. He could hear hushed voices. They started as sporadic whispers but their melody grew into a haunting unison. They were singing a low and solemn song that he had heard many times before. Amongst the chorus was the shrieking cries of a shaman. The witch danced around a now lit pyre, so bright that the crippled man could only see flickering shadows as the figure writhed like a beast possessed. 

The figure approached and pressed its face up to his. She licked his cracked lips with a sadistically gentle touch. Then he felt it. The splitting pain of a knife plunging into his bowels. The shaman rent the knife up his abdomen and sent an ear splitting scream into the night sky. With two quick strokes she flayed his abdomen and hollowed out his entrails. The refuse of his guts were thrown into the fire. In their place was thrust a bundle of thatch which had been soaked in seal pitch. The man mustered his strength to remain propped at the knees. His arms were outstretched and he could feel the gentle lift of his neighbor’s hands keeping him aloft, but doing so of his own will. Whether it was honor or exhaustion, the man gave no screams. Even in his failure, he was making his people proud. 

The shaman set the straw alight. With his last breath he uttered a sigh of relief. The flames tore into his chest and soon licked out of his open mouth pointed to the stars and the night sky. 

---

Ida’s icy blue eyes looked onward. Her muscled fingers dug into the arm of her friend. Gnima, daughter of the shaman, stood arm in arm against the cutting breeze. Though their skin betrayed their heritage, they were nothing short of sisters. They shared the fates and realities of this cruel world. Ida and Gnima had been born on this desolate rock, but to vastly different casts. Ida was a smith, the finest this wharf had ever known. Her thick blond hair blustered about her seal skin parka. Gnima was the blood of a primordial, a minor caster destined to be the leader of the wharf when her mother passed. Her skin was a pale caramel, her dreaded locks adorned with the shimmering winnings of suitors. [/color]

[color=6ecff6]“Do you look forward to doing this thing?”[/color][color=F0F8FF] Ida asked, staring onward at the flickering carcass. The muffled cries of the raider’s family had traded itself for the ceremonial canter. The man’s son, perhaps five or six, shreaked into the folds of his mothers cloak.[/color]

[color=a187be]“Ida, this is not our land. You know this is not about want, it is about necessity. The Primordials save us from the Deep Ones. It is not our place to judge the morality of the gods. The fault lies not in them, but in ourselves.”[/color]

[color=6ecff6]“And do we do these things for the gods or do we do them for the Morj? Do we not cull the herd of our cowards and failures to sharpen the Mistress’s ax?”
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[color=a187be]“Perhaps. But perhaps that is the will of the gods.”[/color][color=F0F8FF] The tone of her voice was soft, uncommitted. It was the words she had been raised to say, but still they itched her throat. [/color][color=a187be]“Where does your man Trygve raid to this season?” [/color]

[color=6ecff6]“He would not say. He does not say much to me of late. Something troubles his horizon, but I do not think even he understands what it is. He said the world is changing; it’s edges grow darker and close.”[/color]


[color=a187be]“If there is an edge to this world, he will find it.”[/color]

[color=6ecff6]“And if he fails, you will be the one to stuff his gut...”[/color]

[color=F0F8FF]A desperate cry split the tension that had been rising between the friends' embrace. The young son of the executed warrior had made a bolt for the frozen bay. The mob watched on as he scrambled to escape this place. They stood silent as he sprinted over the black sand and onto the frozen waters of the bay. For a moment they all envied him. A daring escape. But at the edge of the water, not even his mother dared to follow.

A trident thrust through the thin ice from below and gored the child mid-stride. The Morj had been watching, they were always watching. His body perched as a monument to false hope. Still many onlookers envied him.  [/color]