Desert Fires

The Journal of Morwyn mac Tíre

<- 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.