The Journal of Morwyn mac Tíre
<- 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.
The Poem on the Tomb
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.
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…
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