N3v3rM0r3
Ezekiel
Pizza Box
RPM
Hos
rush99999
tadcfnaf
Syrenrei
Zeus23The night passed fitfully with rain driving a continuous tattoo against the slate roof of the Townhall. Marguerite was glad for the room she had been offered to care for the stricken boy. It was warmer and drier than the hayloft at the Maw, and much less likely to result in an altercation with Johan. Angry the cheesemonger might be, but he certainly wasn’t going to break into the half timbered building to force a confrontation. Breaking the peace like that would carry a considerably steeper penalty than his wife’s displeasure.
The boy slept uneasily, tossing and turning constantly and mumbling incomprehensibly to himself. Though he never seemed to quite wake, at times he seemed to still as though staring sightlessly behind closed eyelids. At those times Margueritte fed him with tiny spoonfuls of dark honey infused with powdered willow bark. She prayed to Shyalla as she had been taught and sometime after midnight her prayers were rewarded when his fever broke. After that she began to press a cloth dipped in sweet dessert wine, acquired from the Mayor’s cellars between his lips. He sucked at the cloth as much by instinct as conscious design but the nourishment seemed to do him good, his breathing slowed and lost its ragged edge and after an hour or so Margureitte felt confident enough to try to sleep on the palette beside the boy.
Margueritte rarely dreamed. At her dooming ceremony she had been warned to beware of dreams but that hadn’t much concerned her until, one winter night, she had dreamed of cold water closing over her head and dragging her down into the darkness. Waking she had the taste of salt on her lips, from tears she had assumed. The news had come a week later that her brother, Otto, had drowned when a storm had wrecked the ship he had been taking from Courrne to Marienburg. She tried not to think about it too much. There had been other such dreams over the years, though none since her father had cloistered her in the Shyallan convent, effective payment for her older brothers recovery from the Red Pox. Tonight she dreamed. Vast trees, taller than the Gray Mountains clawed up towards the veiled heavens, spreading their branches to stop even feeble starlight reaching the forest floor below. In all directions stretched an ominous darkness, inky and absolute in its intensity. An evil hunger and hatred seemed to fill the forest around her, pulsing like the artery of the world. Wings beat overhead and she glanced up. A raven, its feathers crimson as fresh blood glared hatefully down at her, flexing its talons till wood shaving feel from the bough upon which it had alighted. It swooped down at her like a thunderbolt, a soul splitting caw erupting from its beak. Margueritte turned and fled, running barefoot across the leafmould with no direction in mind but away. For a moment she thought she had escaped until, with the perverse logic of dreams, she found herself back in the same clearing with the same crimson raven. Time and time again she fled, each time arriving back in the same fell clearing, each time the bird getting a little closer to her before she escaped. Finally she could run no longer and stood mute as the creature swooped down to rend her flesh. To her shock there was a sudden bolt of white and a dove darted from above to intercept the bird, worrying it and tearing at it with its own much less impressive talons. Both birds hit the ground infront of her in a storm of wings, and snapping beaks. For a moment it seemed the dove was pure white but it turned to look at her revealing a dark discoloration under its left eye. It cooed at her urgently.
“What?” she tried to say, though her dream lips didn’t move to form the sound. The dove gave an exasperated coo and then launched itself at her, battering her face with its wings.
Marguerite’s eyes snapped open in the pitch dark. A blast of lightinging filled the room with pale light for a heartbeat, long enough for her to see a figure standing over her with something raised over its head.
“Ranald’s balls!” she shrieked and rolled off the pallete a heartbeat before the boy she had been nursing drove the heavy vase down where her head had been not a moment before. Pottery shattered and the boy howeld with something not quite human, pain and rage and other emotions Marguerite could put no name to. She rolled to her feet and dived at the boy. Growin up with brothers had taught her a thing or two that they didn’t teach at the convent and she hit him with her full weight across the hips, smashing him from his feet so hard that his head bounced auibley on the wooden floor. He heaved against her with a strength that bordered on the superhuman but she clung desperately to him, fouling any attempt to form a blow or a kick. His flesh was like a furnace and he clawed and bit at her like an animal until, after a moment, a great convolution seemed to wrack his body and he went limp. A moment later he began to sob. Having dealt with the insane before Marguerite did not immediately release him but after a moment began to disentangle herself.
“It is alright,” she said, for want of anything better, “you are safe now.”
The boy began to laugh, though there was a touch of mania to the sound.
“Safe, safe, safe,” he chortled, drawing out the end of the word unaturally.
“None of us are safe. Get to Schartenfield. Tell them.”
“You are in Schartenfield,” Margueritte pointed out, “what are you supposed to tell us?”
“They took us off the road. Held us in the pens. Like chickens,” the boy raved, making exaggerated clucking noises before reverting to sobs. Margueritte crossed to the fireplace and drew forth a sliver of smouldering timber before blowing on the end. It flared to light long enough for her to light a wax taper, throwing the simple roomroom into sharp relief.
“What is your name?” she asked gently, guiding the agitated child to the palate after brushing of the broken shards of pottery.
“J...j...j… Johan,” the boy stammered, the name wretched from him with considerable effort. Marguerite shot him a skeptical look.
“Seriously?” she asked.
“Yes… Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrift,” the boy managed, seeming to draw strength from repeating the name, as though it were a talisman or a prayer.
“What are you supposed to warn us about Johan?” Margueritte pressed.
“The Red Crow! The Red Crow!” he half shrieked, suddenly looking panicked. Marguerite felt her blood run cold, the uncomfortable memory of the dream rushing back in a wave.
“Who is the Red Crow Johan?” Marguerite pressed.
“DEATH,” the boy wailed, snot running from his nose in clumps. Marguerite tried for several more minutes to extract more information but any mention of who or what had taken him and his family inevitably lead back to more ramblings about death and red crows. Reluctantly she gave the boy a draft of wine infused with what little milk of the poppy she had left and within minutes he lay in a deep, and hopefully dreamless sleep.
Marguerite stopped by the loft, keeping a sharp eye open for any of the apparently innumerable Johans, and collected the herbs and potions that were ready for use. She also uncovered a small sword, stolen from a swaggering Tilean a few months ago, that she had wrapped in oilskins and hidden under the hay. Like the pistol it didn’t do her image any good to carry the thing, but times were more dangerous even than. She belted on the sword and tucked her pistol into the leather wrappings before hurrying to the square in search of Bock. As luck would have it the priest she had met in the tavern the previous night and his greatsword wielding companion were already there. She hurried up to them
“Father….,” she trailed off having forgotten the fellows name. Broderick or something? It didn’t really matter.
“The boy woke this morning, briefly,” she declared, feeling a little self conscious to have the three mens full attention. She adjusted her white robes slightly, feeling more foolish than before to be wearing her sword.
“I’m afraid his mind is disturbed and, though I asked Shyalla to salve his hurts, it may be weeks or months before he regains his full senses.” It might be never, but she didn’t see any reason to be needlessly gloomy.
“His name is Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrif,” she told them, making a gesture in the general direction of the town. She had never been there but had heard of it from the locals.
“Something he called the Red Crow, took him and his family off the road, probably imprisoned them, he mentioned ‘pens’ but fell to hysterics when I asked for any details.” She shrugged in apology, although it certainly wasn’t her fault.
“He also seemed to have come to Schartenfield to warn us, though he was too confused to tell me more than that we were in danger.”
The boy slept uneasily, tossing and turning constantly and mumbling incomprehensibly to himself. Though he never seemed to quite wake, at times he seemed to still as though staring sightlessly behind closed eyelids. At those times Margueritte fed him with tiny spoonfuls of dark honey infused with powdered willow bark. She prayed to Shyalla as she had been taught and sometime after midnight her prayers were rewarded when his fever broke. After that she began to press a cloth dipped in sweet dessert wine, acquired from the Mayor’s cellars between his lips. He sucked at the cloth as much by instinct as conscious design but the nourishment seemed to do him good, his breathing slowed and lost its ragged edge and after an hour or so Margureitte felt confident enough to try to sleep on the palette beside the boy.
Margueritte rarely dreamed. At her dooming ceremony she had been warned to beware of dreams but that hadn’t much concerned her until, one winter night, she had dreamed of cold water closing over her head and dragging her down into the darkness. Waking she had the taste of salt on her lips, from tears she had assumed. The news had come a week later that her brother, Otto, had drowned when a storm had wrecked the ship he had been taking from Courrne to Marienburg. She tried not to think about it too much. There had been other such dreams over the years, though none since her father had cloistered her in the Shyallan convent, effective payment for her older brothers recovery from the Red Pox. Tonight she dreamed. Vast trees, taller than the Gray Mountains clawed up towards the veiled heavens, spreading their branches to stop even feeble starlight reaching the forest floor below. In all directions stretched an ominous darkness, inky and absolute in its intensity. An evil hunger and hatred seemed to fill the forest around her, pulsing like the artery of the world. Wings beat overhead and she glanced up. A raven, its feathers crimson as fresh blood glared hatefully down at her, flexing its talons till wood shaving feel from the bough upon which it had alighted. It swooped down at her like a thunderbolt, a soul splitting caw erupting from its beak. Margueritte turned and fled, running barefoot across the leafmould with no direction in mind but away. For a moment she thought she had escaped until, with the perverse logic of dreams, she found herself back in the same clearing with the same crimson raven. Time and time again she fled, each time arriving back in the same fell clearing, each time the bird getting a little closer to her before she escaped. Finally she could run no longer and stood mute as the creature swooped down to rend her flesh. To her shock there was a sudden bolt of white and a dove darted from above to intercept the bird, worrying it and tearing at it with its own much less impressive talons. Both birds hit the ground infront of her in a storm of wings, and snapping beaks. For a moment it seemed the dove was pure white but it turned to look at her revealing a dark discoloration under its left eye. It cooed at her urgently.
“What?” she tried to say, though her dream lips didn’t move to form the sound. The dove gave an exasperated coo and then launched itself at her, battering her face with its wings.
Marguerite’s eyes snapped open in the pitch dark. A blast of lightinging filled the room with pale light for a heartbeat, long enough for her to see a figure standing over her with something raised over its head.
“Ranald’s balls!” she shrieked and rolled off the pallete a heartbeat before the boy she had been nursing drove the heavy vase down where her head had been not a moment before. Pottery shattered and the boy howeld with something not quite human, pain and rage and other emotions Marguerite could put no name to. She rolled to her feet and dived at the boy. Growin up with brothers had taught her a thing or two that they didn’t teach at the convent and she hit him with her full weight across the hips, smashing him from his feet so hard that his head bounced auibley on the wooden floor. He heaved against her with a strength that bordered on the superhuman but she clung desperately to him, fouling any attempt to form a blow or a kick. His flesh was like a furnace and he clawed and bit at her like an animal until, after a moment, a great convolution seemed to wrack his body and he went limp. A moment later he began to sob. Having dealt with the insane before Marguerite did not immediately release him but after a moment began to disentangle herself.
“It is alright,” she said, for want of anything better, “you are safe now.”
The boy began to laugh, though there was a touch of mania to the sound.
“Safe, safe, safe,” he chortled, drawing out the end of the word unaturally.
“None of us are safe. Get to Schartenfield. Tell them.”
“You are in Schartenfield,” Margueritte pointed out, “what are you supposed to tell us?”
“They took us off the road. Held us in the pens. Like chickens,” the boy raved, making exaggerated clucking noises before reverting to sobs. Margueritte crossed to the fireplace and drew forth a sliver of smouldering timber before blowing on the end. It flared to light long enough for her to light a wax taper, throwing the simple roomroom into sharp relief.
“What is your name?” she asked gently, guiding the agitated child to the palate after brushing of the broken shards of pottery.
“J...j...j… Johan,” the boy stammered, the name wretched from him with considerable effort. Marguerite shot him a skeptical look.
“Seriously?” she asked.
“Yes… Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrift,” the boy managed, seeming to draw strength from repeating the name, as though it were a talisman or a prayer.
“What are you supposed to warn us about Johan?” Margueritte pressed.
“The Red Crow! The Red Crow!” he half shrieked, suddenly looking panicked. Marguerite felt her blood run cold, the uncomfortable memory of the dream rushing back in a wave.
“Who is the Red Crow Johan?” Marguerite pressed.
“DEATH,” the boy wailed, snot running from his nose in clumps. Marguerite tried for several more minutes to extract more information but any mention of who or what had taken him and his family inevitably lead back to more ramblings about death and red crows. Reluctantly she gave the boy a draft of wine infused with what little milk of the poppy she had left and within minutes he lay in a deep, and hopefully dreamless sleep.
Marguerite stopped by the loft, keeping a sharp eye open for any of the apparently innumerable Johans, and collected the herbs and potions that were ready for use. She also uncovered a small sword, stolen from a swaggering Tilean a few months ago, that she had wrapped in oilskins and hidden under the hay. Like the pistol it didn’t do her image any good to carry the thing, but times were more dangerous even than. She belted on the sword and tucked her pistol into the leather wrappings before hurrying to the square in search of Bock. As luck would have it the priest she had met in the tavern the previous night and his greatsword wielding companion were already there. She hurried up to them
“Father….,” she trailed off having forgotten the fellows name. Broderick or something? It didn’t really matter.
“The boy woke this morning, briefly,” she declared, feeling a little self conscious to have the three mens full attention. She adjusted her white robes slightly, feeling more foolish than before to be wearing her sword.
“I’m afraid his mind is disturbed and, though I asked Shyalla to salve his hurts, it may be weeks or months before he regains his full senses.” It might be never, but she didn’t see any reason to be needlessly gloomy.
“His name is Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrif,” she told them, making a gesture in the general direction of the town. She had never been there but had heard of it from the locals.
“Something he called the Red Crow, took him and his family off the road, probably imprisoned them, he mentioned ‘pens’ but fell to hysterics when I asked for any details.” She shrugged in apology, although it certainly wasn’t her fault.
“He also seemed to have come to Schartenfield to warn us, though he was too confused to tell me more than that we were in danger.”