#Morr bird companion is a crow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

internationalspacehobo · 4 years

Text

uuh just some writing. Companion piece or prequel or w/e to this thing.

I promise I’m not usually this edgy gang but warhammer lore calls for edge sometimes, so bear with me.

A raven watches six figures standing around an open grave. They stand quietly, shifting uncomfortably, both because of the cold, and the given circumstances. They carry muskets and pistols, spears and swords. Their mud-stained clothes, under thick leather coats, betray their varied allegiances, forgotten as they may be. Blue of Middenland standing next to Talabecland’s yellow and Stirland’s green. Two wear no colours at all, their origins even murkier than the others’. None of them talk, there is only the occasional rattle of a belt being adjusted or a blade loosened in its sheath; or a cough, as one of them drags on a well used pipe. It’s a clear night without rain or wind, and the light of the moons is the only thing allowing them to see.

Kneeling on the ground next to them is a seventh figure, wrapped in a tattered grey cloak. His arms are caked with earth up to his elbows as he continues to dig with his bare hands. Around him are piled several objects, each a hands-width apart from the other: a pair of bird-like skulls, a sprig of lavender and some iris petals, an hour glass, two silver coins, and a scattered pile of thin bones. Finally, the crouched figure’s hands scratch wood. Something flashes over his eyes, and as he mutters an incantation, the coffin’s lid begins to crack, before being blasted open from the inside. Unable to hide a pleased smile, he leans back, waiting for something only he understands.

The smell of the burning tobacco mixes with that of wet earth and putrid flesh. One of the standing figures is praying to Morr under his breath, and several have made the symbol of the Hammer, more reflex than a conscious act of devotion. They know the defiling of a grave is unlikely to be forgiven by even the most lenient priest. The raven caws, and the soldiers flinch as a slight breeze blows through them.

The man sits up and lets out a sigh. “Finally.”

He pulls a stick of incense from a bag, followed by two pieces of flint. A spark, and the sweetly scent of strange spices mixes into the dense atmosphere, as he carefully pulls out a long sheet of ancient parchment, covered in washed out reddish brown glyphs. He looks around; through his eyes, he can just barely make out the Eight Winds slowly creep and dwindle across the sky above and the earth beneath him, drifting without much direction. He focuses; here, in this place, at this time, one wind blows stronger than the others. The deep purple strands of Shyish, the Wind of death, creep around him. Its tendrils, like the tentacles of some nightmarish creature, curl and mound around the tombstones and graves.

One arm raised to the heavens, the other stretched out in front of him, he begins to intone the words, written in blood on dried skin. The soft breeze picks up, blowing stronger now, and the soldiers shudder. Beyond their sight, the wind Shyish pools around the warlock. The skulls of a white dove and a black crow, flowers plucked from a graveyard, an hour glass filled with ashes of a burned man, two pennies to pay the way, and the bones of a hand to reach beyond the mortal coil. The Winds of Magic are fickle; hard to read, and harder still to control. But they can be called upon. Channeled, through the right mediums. The mages of the Amethyst Order might have studied the purple wind for centuries, and the knowledge hidden away in their libraries was vast, but he had his own way of procuring the information he needed.

The wind was blowing stronger now, even the others could feel it clearly. Something was happening. His chanting grows louder with each completed verse, his voice straining to form the arcane words. The soldiers pull their coats closer and huddle together, the howling autumn wind biting at their faces. A glow starts to emit from inside him, visible to the naked eye. He throws his head back, his voice cracking as he reaches the last few verses. The gale is lifting up dirt, drawing sinister figures in the air; some of the men stumble as it threatens to knock them over. The raven caws again before opening its wings and disappearing into the sky.

The skulls and phalanges in front of him begin to crack, the flowers wilt, the coins tarnish. Inside the coffin, the rotting corpse begins to dessicate; moist flesh turning dry before disappearing completely, leaving behind bare bone. One of the soldiers doubles over, heaving his supper on a nearby gnarled tree with a gurgling noise. As the last grain falls inside the hourglass and the incantation reaches its zenith, even these bones crack and turn to dust, leaving behind an empty coffin, as the last remains of the person ones buried here are swept away.

As sudden as it came, it leaves. The silence of a quiet night comes back, and the air is clear of incense, rot, or smoke. Panting, he stands up, nodding to one of the others. The mercenary leaves, as he begins to gather his things, disappearing them into various bags, pockets, and pouches. None of the others speak, simply staring at him with bated breath. He winks at them; he can’t resist enjoying these infrequent moments. Finally, the one who left makes his way back, carrying a small cage with a clucking chicken inside of it. Leaving the man standing there, he kneels to be at eye level with the animal, letting his gaze drift upwards until locking eyes with the soldier.

Flashing a grin, he looks back at the creature, slowly extending a hand. Taking care not to scare the bird, he opens the cage door, offering a handful of crumbled bread with the other. The animal clucks two times, eyeing the food with suspicion, before taking a few careful pecks. Seemingly assured, it begins focusing completely on the meal. As it eats, he extends a single finger from his free hand, and gently brushes the chicken’s head. It falls over without another sound, spilling half swallowed crumbs across the cage, and lies motionless. Dead, in an instant.

He shakes the remaining feed from his hand before standing up, smiling coyly at the trembling man. The soldier winces as the man softly places his fingers on his cheek, though he doesn’t share the fate of the animal. The mage looks to the leader of the small troupe, standing with the others.

“Well, I’d say it worked, sir.”

#1.1k words is okay right?#my writing

2 notes · View notes