Category: Zelucellia

On 2024-08-19

In Other Stories, Uncategorized, Zelucellia

<- Children of the Blood | Sins Past & Present ->

Standing in the ruins of luxury beneath jagged moon-burning shardlight. Ready for battle and afraid of what comes after. Didel rushes forth from below, huge and bloody. Lost deep in the bloody depths of her killing mir and not what I expected. Her war form was not wolf or bear or rat or cat but Namus-lulul, a possum. A possum hybrid large as an ogre with dagger-fangs and shortsword-claws, screaming her rage and hunger and stinking of blood and violence.

My soul writhed as we met her at the head of the stairs. These were my pack, strong and bright and fighting together. Hatsuko-enzidh and Vivian-bhakiir and Drashi-irmirska were a line of steel and claw. Enzidh‘s blade cut and parried and danced around claws that left ragged wounds in their wake. Bhakiir was a shadow and a storm, worrying and severing and hamstringing Didel to hold her back. Irmirska…

Drashi-irmirska was a goddess of war. Heedless and powerful. As confident now with a greatsword as before with words and lore. She shrugged off blows that would have staggered Enzidh or killed lesser souls. Struck with reckless, glorious strength and power. Shining arcs of steel and blood and scale and sinew. Inspiring…

Didel’s shrieking roars kept the others back but did not slow their courage. Leera-ninna‘s arrows struck like rain and thunderbolts, spreading frostrime like blood with each strike. Lishan-azah‘s magic turned aside blows and saved lives by grace of magpie wings, though could little hurt Didel directly through the shield of her Rage. Charlotte-zaazi‘s spells were precise and lethal as a knife-dancer’s daggers.

The Rage rose like fire, burning me to meet Didel claw to claw. The pack was fighting so fiercely. I needed to fight. I hungered to stand with them. To feel meat and bone splitting beneath my claws. Kept it back, teeth grinding and spitting words of power and fierce magic at Didel as long as I could. But it was not enough. The Rage rose too high and I felt myself fall not just into the Wasu-Im but into the true dark depths.

I met Didel eye to eye clad in my killing form. Tore into her with claws sharpened with moonshadow magic, rent her flesh and exulted in that feeling. And overstepped. Overreached in my exultation. Didel had been cautious, wounded and playing possum. Faking injuries and false death to lure us in. And I was lured. For all the fury of the gauru, Rage is not skill at arms and she saw the chance to strike. Tore me from my feet and splintered me like firewood. Sent tumbling, half-broken and alive only because of the last gasps of Rage she tore out of me.

Didel found renewal in my wounds. A resurgence of strength that she turned on the rest of my pack. She coughed forth oily darkness and stole all our eyes, stalking and striking in the new night as arrows and blades tried to bring her down. Used the last of my magic to wrench consciousness from her, to force Didel and her Beast into slumber before she could kill anyone else, then let the last of my Rage fade and pain take me into darkness. Stupid old wolf…

Next I knew was Zaazi was lifting me up to pour a healing draught down my throat. It was sad. Why was it sad? It called me friend and did not want me gone. But my misstep let Didel almost kill us all. Almost break free and devour the herds of Brolko. Did not have the strength to say anything, let the sharp warmth of the draught heal my wounds and chase away death before She could claim me. And I saw a knife in my hands and Knew.

A flash of memory. I remembered being laid upon a stone altar. A masked woman holding that knife. The one in my hand. Carving into me, working a Rite on my flesh. And I knew that Rite. The Pealing. A dark and terrible thing but a way to help Didel. Part her from the endless hunger of her Beast and give her life and freedom. I did not think. I simply acted, working through the memory.

The blade cut through the sleeping werepossum, carving off its pelt and leaving a sleeping halfling woman within. Every fibre of me was fire as I cut. My soul was screaming with all of her pain and mine and the bloody flesh-cutting memory of being atop the stone altar. I collapsed again, lost in bloody memory and fires of pain. I heard Erissin-irelum arrive overwrought at the bloody ruin I had made, and a pair of eyes lurking in the darkness that met mine before I passed out. The Hoarmother thanked me for the gift. What had I done…

I woke again outside to many many questions. I had few answers. Told them what I knew, that the rite had parted Didel from her rage and hunger but she will remain as empty within as any who have borne a Beast. Some changes cannot be undone. Didel remained asleep through all this and Irmirska let her slumber on her coils. Kind hearted snake.

Some of us braved the tomb again to find any answers that remained there and recover the skeletal remains Didel had cradled in her bloody madness. Perhaps it would bring her peace. Found the tomb was succumbing to age and time. Blood that had flowed endlessly fresh was spoiling and clotting. Vermin were creeping in to feast and despoil. Without Didel’s Beast it had no more purpose. It was simply a place to be consumed by time. We found the remains, a few other oddments and the pelt that I had cut from Didel which sung of magic and dark trickery. Nothing else remained. The ragged body of the Beast was gone, without trail or scent or sign of its passing.

Wounded, half-broken and exhausted, we set to rest and heal before travelling on. Irmirska wished to travel with us. Saw her noticing me, writing and drawing things in her journal. Will not blame her or any of them for wanting me gone after seeing all that happened in that tomb. Yet they do not. Strange kindness.

Irmirska had theories about how old the tomb was, either a few centuries or much older. Centuries or millennia, but built with no great cultural signifiers that she recognised. I have theories as well but did not say anything. My memories are fractious and broken things. What have I forgotten? What did I know?

I must talk to Enzidh. Her blade is talking to her now, stirred to wakefulness by the violence in the tomb. It must be one of the Angels come down, but what does that mean? Is Enzidh Kin or simply happenstance or coincidence? Threads are moving behind the world and I do not yet know the shape that is forming. But I must speak to her, to know and to know if the pack will still have me after all they have seen…

Children of the Blood

On 2024-08-05

<- Blood and Gifts | Death, Birth & Change ->

Almost sad to leave Brolko. Too many herds of people but some were pleasant or kind. The pack goes on with their mission. Six more towns needing help and I will go with until dreams say otherwise. Or they wish me gone. One or other will happen soon enough. Until then, they are good company.

A few last threads before we left. Visited Gryffa still recovering, she did not know us but thankful for bringing her to help. Little dog was still friendly, guarding her from too many questions. Gave it some treats for being kind to her.

Hatsuko-enzidh and Lishan-azah had epistolary business with the sheriff, letters to be sent and schemes to be fluttered through. Charlotte-zaazi practiced shooting with the formerly foolish children turned deputies. The doll is quick and clever as ever. I kept away, waited to leave. Did not want to be around people. Was sure they could smell the blood on my claws, the ninnisu still strong in my bones. The hunger already crawling into the back of my thoughts. Rgg… No. I will keep it under control.

We left late in the morning toward Ugroccoz, following reports of witchery problems. Zaazi fears those might be its Miss and worries, though tried to not let feelings show too much. From there we will probably go to Zrag through mountain passes but that is thought for later times. Ugroccoz is two days away, perhaps longer if the trails are poor and people are slow.

Lishan-ninna lead the pack, keen-eyed and silent as a falcon on the wing. Took us by paths across prarie and beside fast-flowing streams that lead back toward Brolko. The shade was welcome, still don’t like travelling under the hot sun, and the streams had fish. Some caught for Enzidh to cook later. Some taken by Vivian-bhakiir for sport. Some I took myself. Tasty with well-crunching bones but cold and too watery.

Erissin-irelum spoke to me on the road. Friendly. Warm. Kind, but stirred up old thoughts. Yriantha’s rings felt heavy and cold. The etchings are all gone. I barely remember what they looked like when we carved them. What she looked like before…. no. I cannot think of that pain now, not with the hunger still coiled in my heart. Time does not heal wounds, it grinds away the bright moments and leaves dust and old memories and the weight of lost years. But I will try to hope. This is not the same. Irelum has her magpie and her own wolf to protect her. I will try for hope’s sake.

Path took us near caves when we heard it. Sound. Anger. Violence. Something being beaten and struck with rage. Crept closer. It was a woman. Serpentine and pretty, strong with sun-dappled scales. Beating on a very old door in frustration but calmed and comported as we approached. She called herself Drashi, said she was a scholar seeking knowledge of old things and the deep forgotten past, could not work out how to open the crypt door before her, covered in age-blackened silver and inscribed in script she could not understood.

I knew the words and when I read them I knew what was within. A tomb of one of the Old Kin, the Children of the Roar. Hopefully dead and merely angry in spirit.

Oh Child.
Rise with nature’s name.
Body of dirt, mind of water.
Soul of air, heart of flame.
Be now Ryxai’s daughter.

Oh Youngling.
Part the rivers with mammal’s paw.
Let the winds carry with avian’s wing.
Bear the boulder with reptile’s claw.
Have the torch lead your insect’s sting.

Oh Wanderer.
You walk with pride, no purpose.
You fight with joy, no respect.
You speak with spite, no circus.
You walk invincible, incorrect.

Oh Warrior.
A predator hunts to feast.
Yet it balks not nature’s garter.
Your rage her’s in the least.
Choose now honour or martyr.

Oh Hero.
Your tales we burn in stars.
Your songs among our get.
Rest your rage in binding tars.
Let the world forget.
The Poem on the Tomb

I did not tell them the whole poem. It does not translate into their words easily, but I told of the danger and the age of it. Did not want to open it, but knowing that the door could be opened Drashi-irmirska would keep trying and would go in alone. Should not have let anyone see that I could read the words. But it is done and cannot be undone. So better to go together and ready than let her die alone in ancient darkness. On her promise that she would disturb nothing, I spoke the poem’s final words to open the door – the name Didel.

Beyond the door lay carnage. Stairs descending into darkness slick with remnants of blood and rent by immense claws. Utter rage had ruined this place, kept back from the door itself by keen silver spikes blackened by old blood and time. No-one else knew what this meant. Could not let they would walk into a hungry maw like lambs, so I told them. This was not a tomb. It was the resting place of one of my kin, and they would be lost in hunger and rage. Kind Enzidh offered to provide them with food, not understanding the nature of the hunger. Had to tell them that as well and felt I had laid my throat bare on the floor for them to carve open. No-one did, but I saw the look of fear and something else in Irmirska‘s eyes. But she did not retreat, instead seemed to be sketching me. Why? Nothing worth remembering of this old wolf.

They decided to explore anyway. Better to find the kin within and calm them or rend them than allow them to run free and cause more harm. Among the ruined rooms and stairways were traps of bloody simplicity. Deadfalls and tension-triggered impact traps made of old bloody bones and remnants of the dead. All intended to keep something inside than keep intruders out. In one great chamber were shardlight lanterns, set to burn the Children… Was this made by Iduth Isihar?

Exploration ended abruptly as Vivian-bhakiir found a trap unawares and was sent tumbling down stairs. I sped after her. Bhakiir had been kind and would help if I could. I was not careful. Struck by another trap and hurled down as well. Bruised but not broken, we found the heart of the tomb as the rest of the pack gave chase down to find us.

Waist-deep in a chamber filled with pooling blood was a weeping woman, maddened and fighting the silver fire of the ninnisu with every ounce of her will. Lost in its depth and desperately hungry for the hunt and the kill. Didel. Subject of the poem in memoriam and prisoner in this place.

Enzidh tried to talk to her but the claws of rage and hunger were too deep in her soul. She reacted when I spoke to her in Haremehir. Heard me when she did not hear Enzidh. Shook off an offer to sate her hunger together by hunting the wild things outside. She called me a fool pup, barely Changed. Told me that mere animals were not enough for her. Asked where my Elders are. Why do I not remember?

Is this my fate? Cannibalism and madness and endless rage? I do not know…

Her control slipped. Cracked like glass. She held together in hope we would flee and not be devoured. Could not let her escape into the world, devour Brolko and all its mewling little people. Had to face her.

We fell back to the room of jagged, moon-burning light and readied to face her Beast…

Blood and Gifts

On 2024-07-22

<- Eyes in the Storm | Children of the Blood ->

More needed done after the violence with idiot children bandits and speaking to the sad Small God trapped beneath the earth, before we could leave and rest. The taken had to be done with. We should have just scattered them and let fate and gods take the foolish. No, Enzidh and Azah bickered like old wives about putting them to a blade or into cages and we talked to them all. Dragged out every story from them.

Rgg. It was the right thing to do. Sort the rot from the unspoiled. But so many words and so many stories that wound around and through me like thorned vines. All these braying two-leg herds are so tiring.

The innocent and the foolish were sent home. The less spoiled were thrown to the winds with warnings. The sinners and the unpardonable met Enzidh‘s sword. One went willingly, burdened by sins unspoken. Looked her in the eyes as she snuffed him out.

None were caged. It was the right thing to do, but why does it feel so wearisome. Why do I need to tell myself that?

Returned to Brolko after that, Erissin-irelum carried by Enzidh. Nitra-izisakh went her own path, wished her well. Bridiyya-namirska remained to free Ky’trrix, both would follow the next day to heal the sicked wife. Did not notice talk on the road, thoughts still stained by the thorny words and bloody ends of the taken bandits.

Brolko was bright. Sheriff was wrangling new deputies, glad that the bandits are gone but conflicted. Some old tangle of connection with dead Cormund, now severed and lost. Still seemed glad to see us. A strange feeling to be wanted, to be celebrated. Still too many voices. Lingered at the fringe, felt safer there.

Tried to rest. Good food helped but hunger remained. Sleep never came, driven off by every sound loud as screams and every scent burning. Everything howled and my blood sang with it. Had to get out, had to be free, had to hunt.

The rest is a broken mirror. Jagged fragments of memories drowned in night and blood. Killing a rodent thing and eating it blood-hot. Vivian-bhakhiir finding me devouring my prize. Hunting with her. Raking the eyes and splitting the belly of a water horse before getting tossed half-broken into mud and dust. The fire in my blood guttered out, engulfed by fog of shame and emptiness. Not at the pain but the loss of control. Why?

I remember running free like that before. Long ago. How long ago? I don’t know… After the silver light and before I saw myself and knew myself. Before I knew my name. I am myself. I am Morwyn mac Tíre. That’s what matters. I am me and I am free. Why do I feel shame for being free?

Vivian-bhakhiir guided me back to myself and my place of rest. She was kind, offered to hunt with me again. I will, in time. Urum da takus.

Finally was able to sleep after all. A few hours of dreams and tangled visions. Amahanam Iduth poured their light into my soul and I remember only fragments. Burning green stars and silver fire flowing like blood and the world writhing beneath its skin. And a word as bright and loud as screaming sunlight but gone before I could remember it.

Spent the rest of the night carving. Needed to make something of the water-horse teeth. Something for the pack. I do not know how long we will linger together, something for them to remember me by, for their kindness and company.

A butterfly for flitting changeable Lishan-azah. A falcon striking prey for deadly-sharp Leera-ninna. A sword-shape like moon-crescent and grass-blade for noble Hatsuko-enzidh, that she may know why. A sharp gemstone blade-shape for brilliant Charlotte-zaazi. A paw and flashing claws ready to strike for kind-sharp Vivian-bhakhiir. A ribbon-shape of wolf and magpie wings for Erissin-irelum and her wives.

Worked through until dawn on those, carving dreamshapes into ivory. Felt good to create with my claws. Felt clean, like I had cleaned the last remnant echoes of death from them.

Was finishing the carving in the common room of the inn when word rose of strange arrivals – Bridiyya-namirska and Ky’trrix. No violence or harm, Brolko too sleepy and confused. Ky’trrix got his crackers and cider, then helped Reane’s sickened wife. Freed her of a dream-curse that was eating her from within before they birthed new agyamut like it. Unpleasant end, good she was saved.

Remainder of the morning was spent with too many people. Talking. Trading. Shopping… rrgg… Something interesting broken the sea of grey, someone invisible tried to steal from a trader when I was buying wine, smelled like zaazi but why would she do that?

Gave the carvings to the pack when they stopped talking to all the people. Do not know what they think. Hope they liked or understood. Afraid they do not and think me buying their kindness or am sentimental and foolish. Fool old wolf! Gifts are gifts, not for any other reason.

Just as I was writing this, Zaazi gave me a gift. I did not expect that. Very kind. Embroidered a design of wolf and moon onto my cloak. Beautiful delicate needleworking. I will treasure it. Foolish old wolf, maybe they do enjoy your company…

Collected Morwynisms

On 2024-07-06

This is a collected list of the odd terms Morwyn has used in her journal or in RP sessions, along with any known or implied meanings.

Agyamut-ka (Old Ones?) – Written about when discussing the source of Cormund’s magic and the appearance of beings from the Astral Sea
Ama – Appears to be a name of a being of veneration. Thanked for a dreamless night after fighting aartuks and Cormund’s bandits for the first time.
Amahanam Iduth – Appears to be an object of veneration or worship. Invoked for protection of Szabina.
Arrathag – Written about the rod of stone that cursed Reane’s wife. May be an angy epithet.
Azah (butterfly) – Nickname for Lishan.
Bhakiir – Nickname for Vivian.
Enzidh – Nickname for Hatsuko.
Farasmirska – Used to refer to the wyverns.
Gauru – Morwyn’s term for her werewolf form.
Haremehir – Morwyn’s term for the rumbling, growling language that she speaks. A dialect of the Terran form of Primordial.
Harzu thimir – Said to Lishan and Charlotte when asked about her past. Means something similar to ‘I don’t know’ but not specifically.
Izi-guth – Written about burning aartuks.
Izisakh – Nickname for Nitra Glizzy.
Irelum – Nickname for Erissin Minn.
Irmirska – Nickname for Drashi.
Iduth Isihar – A person or group Morwyn suspects may have made the tomb that sealed Didel away
Kul kusura udmeda – Written about the saving of Gryffa from the farmhouse destroyed by aartuks. Seems to be expressing approval of wise or honourable action.
Mirskazisu – Used to refer to the snake-horse Selesnya.
Namirska – Nickname for Bridiyya Saxus.
Ninna – Nickname for Leera.
Ninnisu – Reference to her urge to hunt.
Nusir innakh – Said in admiration when Lishan, Hatsuko and Erissin’s complex relationship seemed to be brewing to romance.
Rahag kuthuu. Thi sah kathar – Angry words written as she wrote about Charles Zp’pt’s “On the Question of Gender” and felt herself falling into Rage.
Urum da takus – Said when thinking about hunting again with Vivian.
Wasu-im – Some part of her Rage, the name she uses for both her metamorphic abilities and the deep well of anger that fuels them.
Zaazi (Gem-soul): Nickname for Charlotte

Eyes in the Storm

On 2024-07-06

<- Desert Fires | Blood and Gifts ->

Attempts at stealth and surprise failed. Ironic, only things worth merit in this broken child-fort ruin were the locks on cages. Freeing Nitra-izisakh raised alarm and the hunt became a storm. Most children-playing-bandits were too dull-witted to fight, but numbers were on their side and some were still capable of violence.

Lean rogues with fiery whips and brutes with fists of arcano-steel burned and battered Lishan-ninna, Charlotte-zaazi and I before they fell to arrow and needle-precise blades and shadow claws. Still hurt. A lot. Ribs broken. Only anger and adrenaline kept me standing, alive but sharper and keener than before. The Rage swirled under my skin, clawing to get out with new ferocity.

Cormund duelled with Hatsuko-enzidh and Erissin-irelum and Lishan-azah. Good, three women teaching the brute man the flaw of his lies in the only language he understands. His maul was brutal as he, left bloody bone-cracked wounds with each blow. Azah nimbleness and shining new shield kept her safe. Enzidh was made of iron and silver, almost breaking the maul on her tenacity.

Stole Cormund’s eyes from him with a weave of moonless night. He grew new ones that hung in the air like spoiled fruit and hurled baleful magic, but it was not enough. Scythed and carved by enzidh‘s wind-grass sword, finished by zaazi‘s nimble stroke. He died as he lived under the shadow of that soulkilling book, worthlessly spitting impotent hatred. Good. Should burn his body before the venom poisons the soil.

Remaining bandits surrendered or fled with his death and the storm ended. Found our breath again. Wounds tended and healed. Discussion was had about what to do with those taken. They should be checked. Victims of Cormund and the venom of that book must be found and saved. The rest go to the winds. They fed on the weak, let them be weak. Fate will decide if they live or die.

Met the cause of the foolish children’s dull-wittedness. Bridiyya Saxus. Tiny dragon lady, the one who traded the cursed rod to the sickened wife in Brolko. She poisoned the bandits’ food and stole their wits, then burned some with lightning as we fought the rest. Explorer of history. Could not speak a common tongue with most of the pack, but Nitra-izisakh translated. She knew of the tunnels beneath, ruins and secrets. The place where the Small God lies? The hunt must go there, cut such tumours out of the world’s flesh.

Erissin-irelum and Hatsuko-enzidh had a true reunion. Old lovers beautifully reunited. Tension with azah. Words lead to charm and truths and yearning bubbling forth like fresh blood. A marking of sorts – not a wedding, not yet – as Erissin took both enzidh and azah as her own in a ritual of dominance and love, with ribbon and knife and arcane power. Marked them as hers and wound the skeins of their souls in her hands. Felt warm and charmed by the display. Good to see such bright moments even in a dark place of ruins after a storm.

Took the chance while gathering the remains of the dead to collect materials from my kills. Something to remember this storm by. Somethings to remember this pack for. I have ideas for what to make.

After a rest we descended into the darkness beneath the broken fort, guided by Bridiyya-namirska. She spoke of tombs to great dragons beneath the earth and the fool children had spoken of Cormund finding ruins under their fort. Likely the same.

Tension lifted along the way. Azah and Zaazi refound connection. Relieved that the pack is coming together. Am unused to spending much time with others. It is pleasant but it hurts when they fight. They asked about the words, could not explain that they are my thoughts. Other words get stuck like bones sometimes, choke me when I try to speak. Azah asked of my past and I told her of the silver light and seeing my face. Don’t know why I did that. The butterfly is charming but promised now. And tension remains. Who was I Before?

After a great chasm we found the tomb. Bridiyya-namirska named it the resting place of Burrathix, the Sky Sailor, a great blue dragon. It was pretty in a haunted way, but the tomb was empty. Nothing. No remains. But we were not alone.

Something was lurking above us far beyond any sight except Leera-ninna‘s keen eyes. A wet voice burbled in our minds, afraid to come out until weapons were put away. Convinced it to come out with directness. No harm intended, just curiosity. It did not feel like a threat. It was Cormund’s patron, the small god he found beneath the world and gained power from, and it was not monstrous but piteous, lonely and sun-starved and hungry.

The being – Ky’trrix – told us everything in exchange for a promise to get it out of the cold tunnels beneath the earth. Poor creature only offered Cormund power because he promised it freedom. It was disgusted by his hate and venom and upset that he had never completed his duty. So I made the promise. No cages.

Ky’trrix had been sent to the area to break the structures of society by a manticore being more than a half-century ago. It had found the tomb and the remains of the dead great dragon, had eaten them and had grown too large to leave. So it had been alone down there for decades until Cormund found it. It just wanted out, to feel the sun on its skin and drink cider and eat normal food.

Bridiyya-namirska will use magic to shrink it enough to leave, and it will help her find another tomb to a dragon-god as apology for eating her sacred treasures then flee to its home beyond the moons before the Aartuk find it. Not the small god I expected. It wished to eat crackers, not souls or terror or manflesh. Not all agyamut need be burned from the world. Not all ‘monsters’ are monsters.

I will think about this as I sing this tale to the moons tonight.

Desert Fires

On 2024-06-01

<- Wayward Youths| Eyes in the Storm ->

Wrote too soon. Sleep and rest called but there were still threads to follow, picked up by the pack before I met them. Halfling woman – Reane – sought help, her wife sickened and curse-poisoned by encounter with a rod of twisted stone from an arrathag hole beneath the sky. Rrrr, more agyamut-things from beyond the moons? Some other tumour in the worlds flesh to be cut out and burned out?

Too hurt to chase down such prey yet. The halfling woman offered shelter to rest and sleep and strengthen before the hunt. Kind soul. Hatsuko-enzidh cooked for her and for us, a broth of meat and mushrooms and aartuk. Very hot, lit a fire in our hearts, but a good fire. First meal eaten with anyone in too long. Since last with Szabina. Thoughts of her kept sleep away, so spent moonrise sitting under starlight, sketching the night and remembering her. I miss her smile. Amahanam Iduth watch over her until we meet again, so I may share tales of this pack for her.

Sleep came eventually, but no dreams. Thank you, Ama, for peace amid the chaos of people. The pack sharpened their claws with new steel and bright magic before setting out, armed with shining cobalt and cunning swords and potions to heal the dying. Wise. We go to hunt fool children and ruins where cursed stones are found, both in the same direction. Did Cormund find his small god in that place? Too many coincidences.

The hunt was peaceful. Good to be away from Brolko and its two-legged herds. Good to feel the wind and the quiet, smell the scents of stone and life. Still too much energy, the fire from last night burning inside my skin. Kept my hands busy carving, pouring fire to shape bone into a gift for one who made me laugh. Charlotte-zaazi was curious about the carving. I gave her the snake-shape I made walking to Brolko. Felt right, her smile was bright and sharp as the prairie-serpent I saw resting on sun-hot rocks a tenday ago. The carving is not as pretty as her, I am no delicate artist, but the heart shone through.

Then Lishan-azah decided to try to play magpie and steal the gift. Foolish little butterfly trying to flit into things without a care. The Rage stirred. It was nothing. Foolishness. Yet echoes of the Rage lingered and I could only think of harm, the half-carved shape left unfinished until the storms of mood clear away.

We found the camp of the foolish children, playing at big bad bandits. Weak walls and shoddy structures, poor sentries and poorer alarms. A child’s idea of defence. Strange mounts outside but no guards saw us approach. Too focused on a thorn-dragon slumbering on the remains of one of their walls, each shooing the others to poke the creature. Foolish children…

Took advantage of their mistakes to find the shape of the place. Found two prisoners – Nitra Glizzy, feisty fiery goblin woman recruited and chained by the bandits, made to make their pyrearms and now seeking to escape; and Erissin Minn, elegant elven woman known to Hatsuko-enzidh, who freed herself on seeing enzidh and greeted her with sharp words, a slap and a kiss. The wolf is ever-charming. Lishan-azah‘s winter paleness turned summer-crimson at that.

One sentry was brought down by silent blade and silent lightning, and we stand ready to strike. Then I saw the book. Books. Many copies. Charles Zp’pt’s “On the Question of Gender”. Crimson acid is in my veins and searing me. Thoughts of those sad eyes from my dreams seeing it and finding toxic false joy within. I hate it. Too weak a word. It needs to be flensed away. Burned. Excised.

Rahag Khuthuu. Thi sah kathar…

no. breath. do not fall to Rage now. breath.

How many others are like the girl back in Brolko, soul-broken by this book only barely free? How many more have been broken by Cormund and his lies? How many like the dream-sad eyes? No. I cannot think of them now. Not now. Save who I can and burn the one who brought this hateful, soul-killing thing back into the world.

Wayward Youths

On 2024-05-14

<- Hunting the Hunters | Desert Fires ->

Brolko was trouble like all towns are. Too many people in one place and the world curdles.

Took the woman – Gryffa – to a healer, but did not get a chance to find flower for wife’s grave. Raised voices, even more raised than most, in the town. Large orcish man on a snake-horse steed. Pretty creature, beautiful fangs, chained by a saddle and burdened by his bulk. He was shouting at an orc-blooded old man with sheriff badge, extorting fees from him and the town. Felt my teeth lengthen at the reek of his oily pride and stinking cruelty.

Hatsuko-enzidh spoke. Complemented the pretty mirskazisu with shining scales. Demanded explanation, sought discussion. Strange, she could not understand the orc’s intentions. Cormund, the orc, refused her words, insulted the sheriff and enzidh. Others emerged from the shadows. Cormund’s pack, wiry and stinking of confidence and youth.

Battle began with the grass-wind blade. Swift and brutal. The sheriff was struck down by the snake-horse that rampaged and struck all around. Leera-ninna evaded its venom to rain her falcon-arrows down on foes. Hatsuko-enzidh duelled blade to spell on rooftops with Cormund and two knife-fighters. Lishan-azah played fox to bandits and scattered them with divine dread. Charlotte-zaazi fought precise and keen, nimble and merciful. Vivian-bhakhiir stalked the fringes and made prey of would-be ambushers. And I fell into the Rage.

So many sounds and hurts in quick succession. It rose within me with fury I have not felt in a season, but I gripped it in my claws and never slipped beyond the wasu-im. My howl wrenched consciousness from some of the prey. Another tried to stab me. Succeeded in stabbing me, though I felt nothing at the time. I saw enzidh stumble for a moment in her duel and I lashed out. Claws of deathfrost moonlight tore the air and bled Cormund, scattering him into sand and ash and the stench of curdled starlight.

*Selesnya the snorse, showing her fangs*

His pack shattered and fled. Some were caught and ensnared. Others escaped. My Rage was spent with Cormund and I remember little. There was a knife in my side, bleeding stopped when it came out. Enzidh and Ninna found the mirskazisu, saved her. Very kind of them. Poor thing was beaten, mistreated, afraid. Selesnya is her name. A pretty name for a pretty creature. She wanted to be free, to hunt prairie dogs and not be fed on rats.

Charlotte-zaazi called Cormund a warlock, with magic taken from the Old Ones. He may not be dead, stolen back by his master to safety or punishment. Agyamut-ka – Old Ones – another sign of intrusion from beyond the moons. A bad wind, or the reason for the skeins and the grass-wind sword dreams? Time will tell. I will listen to it.

The taken bandits talked. Youths seeking freedom from the chains of this nowhere town. Respectable dream, poorly achieved. These were some of the missing people, disappearing piecemeal over years, caught in Cormund’s pack. None had his power, taken from a secret place in the caves they lair in. With a secret god he did not share with them. Another intruder to be hunted?

They will find guidance by helping the town they hurt, and give the sheriff a purpose and a pack of his own. Deputies in service until a better path found. Its a chain but they made it themselves. And one found herself, though was denser than a wyvern’s egg. That pain in her eyes felt familiar, like the face in my old dreams. It does not matter. She will become herself and her friend. Her companion? Something more? She will help her on her new path.

Tomorrow we hunt the small god and its shadows. Tonight I will sleep. I hope I do not dream.

Morwyn mac Tíre

On 2024-05-14

Wandering Moon-Touched Sorceress

*Fangs hidden and cautious. Art by Jill the Succubus*

RPG/Campaign: The Southern Seven (Homebrew D&D 5e Variant)

Morwyn mac Tíre is a wanderer in the wild-places between the cities of Zelucellia. She is a standoffish and solitary woman, driven by strange dreams and the enigmatic magics of the moons, and preferring her own company to so-called civilized people who are ever quick to reject her feral nature.

Her full backstory lies below.

Collected Morwynisms: A list of the odd terms she has used, along with any known meanings or references that may explain them.

The Southern Seven

Hunting the Hunters: Morwyn joins a band of adventurers facing otherworldly foes in a burning farmstead, including a face seen in her dreams.
Wayward Youths: Trouble flares on the return to Brolko as bandits arrive in town, armed and hellraising.
Desert Fires: The band follows a trail of banditry and curses east, and Morwyn finds something that stirs old and hateful rage.
Eyes in the Storm: Violence erupts, old loves are renewed and secrets are found beneath the earth.
Blood and Gifts: The aftermath and consequences of violence must be dealth with, and kindness can cut like thorns.
Children of the Blood: Departure from Brolko brings new acquaintance and an encounter with a possible future at the end of a bloody path.
Death, Birth & Change: The pack faces down a terrifying werebeast, memories are stirred and a life is both ended and reborn.
Sins Past & Present: The aftermath of battle with Didel, and an ascent up a mountain brings unexpected changes.

Hunting the Hunters

On 2024-04-30