#and eadwulf gets some conflicting loyalties | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

therealvagabird · 6 years

Text

Omens of the Norse

Fantasy worldbuilding short by C. Christiansen. What horrific truths lie beyond the reaches of civilization? Magic and grim atmosphere await.

Scholar Cerise Raphaela—Supplementary Journal, Issue Minasburg University

Her Year 1251, 6th Age—under Calipha Shani Masuhun al-Iilha XXI

I finally have the opportunity to write once again, and I’m thankful to still be drawing breath! Less fortunate, though: my initial journal was taken from me. I was forward-thinking enough to bring a spare, but I’m not certain if I’ll get my first volume back.

If this ends up being the sole record, then I’ll recount my purpose and mission thus far. If this is the book that will return to the Empire, then it will have to suffice as a total summary in and of itself, even lacking the details. So regrettable.

My name is Cerise, scholar of the Minasburg College of Histories. On orders from the senior professors of the University, and with permissions and grants directly from the High Church in Deamid, I’ve undertaken a quest of study. I’ve been sent to the furthest northern lands reachable, so that I might observe and learn of the barbarian peoples who live there.

Missions like this have been undertaken before on behalf of the New Yahmian Caliphate (Census of Alexander Ildar, Lady Valcon’s Journals, etc.), but by my planning this was to be a study unprecedented in its execution, aimed at collecting the purest and most salient information yet gathered on the Norse tribes. With the support of the Church, I felt it reasonable to push limits in the name of knowledge. As such, my journeying party consists of a hand-selected group of my own peers whom I believe will both uphold the spirit of the study, and see it to its most satisfactory conclusion.

The research group consists of myself as chief scholar and communicator, Adept Lamya Al-Saab as cultural expert and secondary linguist, Adept Kara Demirci as recording artist, and Benton Schuler, a fellow of geographic studies and our secondary scribe. Our journey was uneventful in the brief period before we reached the northern peninsulae of the Empire’s territories, at which point we used our granted funds to hire three mercenary guards—landsknechts by the names of Adam, Viola, and Bruno. We then crossed the northern gap to the fjords of Skaeng, where we found and acquired our final member, a Kelgal (Norseman) trapper and guide by the name of Eadwulf “Red-Beard”.

As such, this leads into my explanation of the uniqueness of this journey. Former quests to study the barbarian civilizations beyond the borders of the Empire have been undertaken in secret and with a defensive disposition. I intended to break this hostility. My party was instructed to carry on them no articles of the Caliphate save for a single faithful token of their choosing (all chose their rosaries, as was expected), and my group contains no members of the clergy. As well, though we’d taken steps to move in as unassuming a manner as possible to avoid the predations of the most savage of the Northerners, I made it a policy to always tell the truth of our mission when asked. We come bearing no swords or icons of crusading faith—we are to be the outstretched hand of understanding and learning. I’m of the taqadam denominational school of thought—a believer in the most loving and embracing aspects of the Goddess. I feel it is through this approach that we’ll receive the most detailed information on Kelgal culture yet recorded.

That is my summary, in as brief a restatement as I can make it. And I maintain: my hopes and ideals were held true for most of our journey to the far North! There were times we came close to conflict, and one where we were attacked outright by bandits, but overall the Norse showed little hostility. Coldness, perhaps, as is their way, but in each village we stopped we were able to make fantastic recordings on Kelgal aesthetics, community practices, and both utilitarian and religious culture. It seems as though the mannerisms of the barbarian peoples vary much from tribe to tribe, despite what culture joins them together. They are a diverse people, in spirit if not in appearance (in that sense there are near all pale, robust, and hirsute).

It was when we reached the Far North, where the forests have grown the thickest and the settlements are few and so very far between, that we encountered our first major obstacle. We were waylaid by a roving band, and quickly overpowered for the sheer numbers and ferocity of these folk. We put up little resistance, and so were taken captive. Our possessions were taken, and we were bound and blinded after I explained our mission. Not even Eadwulf was spared. As I write this, I’m locked within a small room in what I expect is a large log hut. I don’t know what tribe this is, or how far they have taken us, but it seems we have stumbled onto lands we are not so free to roam on.

I don’t know where the others are being held. Nor am I sure where we are. We’d been relying on Eadwulf’s guidance more than our traditional maps, lacking as they were. The thought did occur to me that this might have been a plot by Red-Beard, but he was as surprised as the rest of us, and he didn’t seem the most sinister or duplicitous of barbarians. I’ve overheard fragments of speech from outside my room at several points, and it’s not any dialect of Kelgalish I’ve yet encountered. It seems to hold more Eastern tones, like the Steppe tribes. As such, I would guess we’ve moved eastward as well as northward, to the hybrid tribes of the Steppe-Skaeng hinterlands. What this means for us I can only guess at. The Easterlings—the Torb and such—have even more fearsome reputations than the Kelgal. I shall remain optimistic. Tracking the time as best I could, lacking a view of the sky, I believe I’ve been held captive here for not more than a night. The return of my possessions, or what parts the tribesmen saw fit to return, bodes well for me.

I’ll resume my writings at the next convenient opportunity—I hear talking and movement. Hope remains for the journey and our relations with this savage tribe. Protection and guidance of Liv be with me, and with those who have followed me—even Red-Beard.

—

First of all, I’m relieved to say I’ve been provided with better lodgings. I am, of course, in the same cell they had been keeping me in before, but the door is no longer barred and they have brought in furs to provide some homeliness. By their definition, that is.

It appears our charts were off more than we knew, and Eadwulf had taken us further in less time than anticipated. We are indeed on the borderlands of the Steppe, and according to the warrior I spoke with, in one of the last great woods before the wastelands to the north—north of the North, that is. We are guests, if such a word can be used, of the Dread Crows tribe. As pleasant a name as can be expected, and their village reflects such impressions.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The recap: fortune was with me, and I was taken aside by two hunters of the tribe, who demanded to know my purpose in these lands. My honesty held true, and I told them the full story of our mission here. They seemed pleased with that, as much as they could be given their stoic behavior, and informed me that my explanation matched those of my companions. I’m proud of them, I must say, for sticking to my plan!

I was then taken into the village main. This is a dismal country, it’s sad to admit. It’s only Jummadas, and yet you’d swear it was the depths of winter. Snow fell in light showers between the stark, black pines, and the sky was slate grey. The cold light and air cast the rest of the village into drab hues, from the blackwood logs of the various longhouses and huts, to the muddy trails left in the snow by the tribesmembers going about their business. I was given plenty of dark glances from men and women of all ages, all swaddled in so many furs you would think they were wild animals. Some curious details were that the entire village, containing some ten stout buildings, was encased in a sheer wall of logs. The tops of these logs were sharpened, and there were but two gates. These, I think, are to protect from other tribes that might maraud them, as resources must be scarce out here. The other odd detail was the construction of the houses—quite unlike other works of Kelgal carpentry I’ve seen. All of them were raised on squat stilts, keeping the houses a good three feet off the earth. Each house, despite its rough build, was also outfitted with a great many charms and carvings, some more elaborate than others, but abundant nonetheless. The result was a very occult appearance to the hamlet. For one of my theses at the end of my basic studies, I once catalogued an abandoned camp of one of the beast-tribes, and the appearance was similar, save for the presence of buildings. These are a wild people, but in their works you can see that they still have spiritualities and loyalties all their own.

I was reunited with my group after my brief escort through the hamlet. The locals had been rather generous in returning our belongings, but in an odd way. All of our writing and sketching materials were returned, save for my prior notebook and some of Kara’s sketches, and our mercenaries were even allowed to keep their greatswords and hammer! They were, however, deprived of their knives. Bruno balked at the oddity of this, before I posited that perhaps carrying around a large and visible weapon was less threatening to these people than having a hidden dagger somewhere on your person. I was quite proud of that assessment.

All of us, save for Eadwulf, were taken before a man known as the “Kir-Sköld”, which after some asking I took to amount to a leader of warriors. He was not a Jarl, however—that I was corrected on. I’d guess him to be akin to a knight, but as with many of these things it’s hard to find a direct link. This man was a hell of a thing to lay eyes on. The Norse are often compared to bears, but this man could have fooled an enemy with such a ruse if he’d wanted to. He was enormous, for one, both in weight and girth; and was swaddled in many layers of brown and black furs, alongside talismans of wood, bone, and even one I think might have been of actual gold. His brown hair matched his attire, and was braided and matted with further charms. He met us on the steps of the greatest longhouse (though it was about the size of three cottages in the most rural Yahmian lands), where by his side was laid an enormous round-shield, and he leaned against a poleaxe as tall as he was. Kara and Benton didn’t say a single word, save for quick affirmations when prompted, throughout the whole meeting. I don’t blame them. Were it not for my duties as a liaison, I might’ve fled!

The Kir-Sköld’s name was given as Buliwyf. Even I struggled to understand his dialect, as it was already thick due to the remoteness of this country, and he seemed an old soul whose voice had been weathered by ice and battle. Lamya was gracious in helping, though under our own furs we were both dealing with the biting cold on top of trying to make good impressions. Buliwyf did not ask us our business—I expect he was already told—but asked if we intended to continue north. I of course said yes, as I imagined there were more tribes beyond these woods, and I was interested in seeing the traditions of the furthest, most alien peoples from the Empire.

That didn’t satisfy him, and he asked—perhaps commanded—that I return South from hereon. He said that while there were tribes north of these lands, they would not hold any secrets the Dread Crows found noteworthy, and would be little more than wild bands. Hunters, trappers, but not true tribesmen.

I tried to explain the difference in opinion, saying that I wasn’t after secrets or glory, but trying to show the wisest in our Empire that the Norse were not as a whole the bloodthirsty savages they were viewed as. I came in search of truth, to maybe find that—while different—there was common ground to be had between our peoples.

The warriors escorting us found that amusing, but Buliwyf remained grim. He asked me of Liv, blessed be her name (I was shocked he knew it!), and my faith in the Goddess of the South. I didn’t hide the fact that I was a devoted of Liv, but I tried to stress that it wouldn’t affect my opinions of their own religion, for the sake of the study. He then asked me what I knew of spirits, gods, nature, and the like. I am, of course, a scholar of cultures and histories first and foremost. My knowledge of the natural philosophies and arcane studies exist only insofar as they further my knowledge of peoples. Final of all, the warrior asked me if there were any priests or mages among us. I said no to both. He said we would have done well to bring a cleric so far North—a response I wasn’t expecting. Lamya attempted to bridge the apparent gap that had formed by giving a traditional Norse blessing. The exact translation is not quite satisfactory—it relates to Kelgal funerary practices, and ancestor-worship: “May your ancestors be as ash in snow, and embers in your belly.” The meaning being a compliment to the valor of one’s family line. It wasn’t much, but Lamya hoped it would foster some goodwill between our groups.

We were dismissed soon after, and now I write this from my room again. We were provided with food; some manner of fish stew. A don’t have high hopes for the continuing fortune of this expedition. There’s something about these Far-Northerners that puts me off, I’m remiss to say. The Norse are grim, yes, but they’re also vibrant. Often to severe extremes, as a veteran of the last Skaengish Crusade some decades ago might tell you. But these Dread Crows… well, they live up to their name. I shall try my best to take in their culture, either way.

—

A quick addendum: I was informed that I alone will have an audience with the wise-woman of the tribe! I was given no further information, but was told that she will have great wisdom to impart on me. I don’t know if this meeting has a precedent in print! I look forward to it, even as I’m a might terrified.

—

I write this over breakfast, or at least what I’ve touched. We were given some manner of hearty stew which I can’t say I much enjoyed. The primary ingredients appearing to be fat, beer, and some unidentified brown sludge. I appreciated the gesture of us eating in the communal house, but I’ve not taken to the food so well. The others are on edge, which I sympathize with, but as the imminent threat of us dying or being enslaved has been allayed for now, we’re all in better spirits.

The warrior, Buliwyf, told me more of my impending meeting. Their wise woman is known as what can be translated as “Crow Matron”. I was advised to listen close to her council, as she’s meant to be a powerful magician, among other skills. This worries me, but is also the most notable meeting I may yet have on this journey. I’ve met perhaps two mages in my entire life, and both were trained under the edicts of the holy Academies. This Crow Matron would be a hedge-witch, a shaman. The energies she might tap into would be far beyond the sanctity of what is known to Southern practitioners. Of course, it’s an equal possibility the woman is just well-versed in medicine and histories. Many practices, such as mundane illusion and natural philosophies, are shared by true practitioners of magic as well as apothecaries and charlatans. Either way, it’ll be an excellent opportunity to gain insight into the morals of these Far-Northern tribes. Whatever wisdom an elder holds will be considered of the highest import, and she might give me history and lore more valuable than any I’ve gathered before!

I asked one of our escorts if they’d anything amounting to tea in this land. I didn’t rest well last night. The anxiety has gotten to me, and I had horrible, dark dreams. This climate I think may be poisonous (in a sense) to Southerners. The lack of color, smell, or warmth can have adverse effects on one’s mental state as much as physical. You can see it in the people who live here year-round! Last night, Lamya and I managed to slip away from our escorts for a few moments to witness an older man of the tribe tell stories to children around one of the fire-pits in the main longhouse. His dialect was heavy, but the tale we could discern was some kind of ghost-story. The children seemed unmoved, however, and even laughed at some parts. A healthy relationship with death is to be expected in lands where it could and often does come without warning. Far removed from Imperial sensibilities, but fascinating nonetheless!

I’ll write again in the evening, after I’ve met with the Crow Matron. The others don’t envy me, but I can’t wait! More to follow.

—

I have counselled with the Crow-Matron Sonja. I can confirm with my own eyes that she is a magician far beyond the average Academy mage, and perhaps the better to certain grand scholars on matters of natural magic and soothsaying. Her gaze is long, and her soul powerful. She has advised that we do not continue North, if we wish to bring what we’ve learned back to the peoples of the Empire. She brought my eyes with hers, to the edges of the distant northern ice-seas, and brought to life the oldest fairy tales of Yahmian lore.

We have been raised in an era of peace. For over a century now, we have beaten back the predation of the Norse and Austerlings. The tyrants of the East lay dormant and quelled by the power of the Calipha and her predecessor, but there are true evils that rest uninjured. My mission is now more than just simple research—it is my duty as a citizen to inform the scholarhoods of New Yahmi of what dangers await.

If we continue to raise minor crusades and missions against the barbarian peoples, we will be taken without warning by new horrors from the East. And I know, I know it would not be the first time the brave souls of the Empire have given their lives to stem the hordes of the Drained Lords, but we will not have any advantage this time. A shadow moves down from the North. Slow and menacing, and it will meld with the darkness cast by the East. If we hope to survive, we must ally with the barbarians we have detested for so long. Forget their blasphemies. There are gods more real than the pagan pantheons, and they will be the end of us if we don’t prepare!

We’ve been given tokens of protection by the gracious Sonja, and we are making haste to return south as soon as the sun dawns tomorrow. May the Goddess bless our virtue, and bring our warnings to the ear of the Calipha herself. I don’t know how much time I’ll have in the coming weeks to write, so this may be my last entry. I doubt any new information could surface more important than what I’ve learned already.

Salvation and fortune, to every citizen.

Record expunged on orders of the Caliphate. Declared Ain’Heretical

—

The moment Cerise entered the hut, she was awash in the smell of smoke. Regular smoke, from the fire that no doubt burned in some fireplace she couldn’t see—as just a few steps forward an impenetrable wall of bead-chains and hanging fetishes masked the rest of the room from view. There was also the incense, fragrant and astringent, like mint and pine, cutting through the wood-smoke’s earthy tones. The roof of the shack was obscured by swirling traces of the ubiquitous vapors, staining the rafters black as it leaked bit by bit through the covered hole in the center of the roof.

“Show your highest respects.” Buliwyf muttered to her, just before he closed the door to the bitter cold, “For your own sake. Liv does not dwell here.” He spoke the fatalistic words before leaving Cerise alone, with naught but the crackle of fire and faint rustling.

She took a step forward, daring to touch the hanging curtain that cut off the rest of the cabin, pulling some of the strands ever-so aside. The orange glow of firelight trickled through into the darkness.

“Come. Sit.” The words startled the Yahmian, but at the Matron’s bidding she pushed her way through, coming face to face—though not quite—with this mysterious mystic.

At first, Cerise didn’t recognize that the pile of black furs heaped across from her contained a human being. It was when one pale and elegant arm extended from the mass to beckon towards the small heap of pelts the guest was meant to sit on, did Cerise realize this was the Matron.

“Sit.” She spoke with a whispering tone, breathy and low. Hers was the same thick accent as Buliwyf’s, wavering and odd.

“Thank you.” The scholar stuttered, sitting down cross-legged, spine rigid and eyes peering into the furry cowl of the shaman, trying to catch sight of her face.

The room was drowning in charms and talismans, of bone, wood, stone, and more precious things. They hung like spiders in glittering, still strands from where they were tied to the rafters. The walls were covered in the furs of beasts, and tapestries crude-woven, depicting what must have been great sagas of the tribe. To Cerise’s left, there was a stone fireplace, low and simple, with a cauldron about the size of a large pumpkin stewing some unknown liquid. In the center of the room, between her and the Matron, was a wide dish of bronze, in which cones of incense smoldered amidst white ashes. With nothing but the fire beneath the cauldron to light the room, the shadows were stark and flickering, and the whole arrangement looked as sinister and bewitched as any Southerner could imagine of the heathen North.

“You are a scholar.” The mound of black fur spoke; single, pale hand pointing to Cerise. From the pelts of the shaman’s regalia hung yet more charms of bone, and her arm was laden with bracelets and rings, with the black swirls of tattoos obscured underneath. “You are here to capture our words?” she asked.

“Great Crow Matron…” Cerise bowed her head, “Mother of the Dread Crows, I come so that the people of my country might learn about the true nature of the Norse.” She tried her best at formality, with so little to go on as to their tribe’s etiquette.

Another arm, also bejeweled, emerged from the mound, to cross fingers with the first. The fur-pile seemed to nod, “Your respects are welcome. Though they stand on bones of ignorance.”

Cerise was tight-lipped, waiting for the wise-woman to continue. She wasn’t above admitting she was indeed “ignorant”, but then, that was the point of this expedition.

“My champion thinks you a spy, and my people dislike you on principle.” She continued, “But they too forget their true enemies. Just as the Southlings have forgotten.” The shadows of the fur hood turned, considering the flickering fire. Still, Cerise could see nothing. “What do you know of our ways?”

That seemed to be an invitation to speak. The scholar cleared her throat, “Well—I was fascinated to find how disparate the beliefs of the Norse people were. Many archetypes were present among the high gods, but local spirits, ancestor-heroes, and the like—those seemed to depend on tribe. There seemed to be—a general distrust of magic, but no different from how our Empire holds ire against mages who train outside the Academies.” She wracked her brain, “Individualistic, hardy—is there something specific you mean?”

The Matron’s hidden gaze turned back to her, “What do you know of death?”

Now that shook Cerise. She didn’t quite know how to answer—that could mean many things. “Uh, well. You seem to hold it as high as any people.”

“But not all deaths are the same.” She corrected, “And there are many in the North. Some worse than others.”

Cerise just nodded, “I imagine so.”

The figure beneath the mound straightened up, pale arms reaching with a clinking sound to the hood. Cerise’s breath caught in her throat as the veil was pulled back.

What first struck her—her age. She was so young. Perhaps not ten years older than Cerise herself. Her hair was dark and wild, her face ghost-pale, and thin lines of inked black ran along her chin, brow, cheeks. Her lips were pure black, and her eyes looked sapped of rest, with dots of icy blue peering out from the bruised grey.

“You are like many of your kind, though your mind strives to understand the greater truths.” The woman continued in her rasping voice, “But your faith—your faith is but a cage. It protects you, but it provides no path to understand the spirit of the world. Your learning—it comes without wisdom. Your leaders, they tell you what to write, and you read what they’ve written, without seeing for yourself.” She brought her fingers up to her chin, and looked up to the ceiling, eyes rolling back a bit more than was natural. Her voice was hoarse, “When my mother took her shield, she left to the far wilds and did not return. I stayed with my mor, the old Crow Matron, and she spoke the ancient words, and I learned them not by mind, but by soul. They became a part of me.” She looked down again, reaching over to one of many small satchels strewn about. From its depths she pulled some dry flakes, sprinkling them over the red-orange glow of the low-burning incense cone already in the bronze dish. At once a great plume of grey smoke sprung up, more than could be expected of such a small amount of fuel. It smelled of rich dirt, and sweetwood.

Cerise’s heart stopped as she tried to look past the fumes. The woman’s face was changed. The black on her face had grown starker, and she was like a specter of death. Shimmering forms appeared about her, as her hair flowed like water, and her eyes almost glowed. Though they disappeared when looked at, in the peripheries of her sight, Cerise could see the forms of great antlers about the Matron’s head.

“My mor, my Matron, she said to me ‘Sonja, the dark is sacred, do not fear it’, for I cried long in the night when my mother was not with me.” She continued, “‘There is Nothing to fear.’”

There was a long pause, as Sonja looked deep into the scholar’s eyes with hypnotic gaze, as if begging a response.

“What? Yes, there’s—nothing to fear. That’s comforting.” She nodded.

“So she told me the ancient words, so that I would not fear. She said to me then, ‘Nothing stares at us, so you must stare into Nothing’. And when my mother returned, I knew, and was prepared.” Her eyes were unwavering, like diamonds shining from grey ash.

“I- I don’t understand…” Cerise stammered. She couldn’t follow whatever story the Matron was telling. How she had become Matron, that much she understood, but her language was confusing. Was it an issue of translation?

“When were you born?” Sonja asked then. A simpler question.

“1230—”

“No, no, it does not matter.” She was cut off before she gave the full date, “I forget, I forget, my memories are not my own. You would have never seen the last Shadow. What do your people call it?”

“Call w-what?” she felt ashamed for her confusion, though the shaman seemed disoriented. There must have been weird vapors in the incense, if both their minds were slipping.

“The Shadows! When the whole world sickens! The sky becomes like winter, no matter the season. Crops, creatures—they fall ill, wither. The people follow. Death reigns.” She leaned forward, “And then—” she paused again.

“And then what?”

“What do you call it? The Shadow?”

Cerise pondered, “Are you referring to the Blights? The last epidemic was centuries ago. It’s the subject of legends to this day.” She was surprised the Norse had even been affected. Though the Blights had been recorded as very contagious, there would have been little chance for the illness to spread in the rural North.

The visions were throwing the Southerner off. Still she saw those wavering antlers, and the shaman’s eyes were like two distant sapphires in pits of black. “What legends?” Sonja asked. Cerise was too mesmerized and terrified to respond. She felt as though she was losing her mind. She hoped and prayed that whatever magics were at work would not stain her soul.

She shook her head, rubbing at her eyes, hoping to dispel the haze; but when she looked back, Sonja was clutching a small item in her hands she’d not had a moment before. It looked to be made of bone, or antler, and was covered with inscriptions. Both ends of its cylindrical form were sealed with caps of bronze.

“I was so young when my mother left, but I knew she too had stood against Nothing.” The witch muttered, “With steel and will, not like mor and myself. I know this because evil is a bitter thing, and does not forgive. Even after her bones were laid to rest in ashes, whatever evil she had slain would not forgive the hand that had laid it low.” Pale eyes looked down to the trinket, about the size of a fist.

“Wh-what?” Cerise leaned in, looking at the horn. The story the shaman was trying to tell was far beyond her, but she was nonetheless enthralled.

At that, Sonja the Crow Matron worked her magician’s art. She twirled the trinket in her hands, masking it with one palm, then the other, muttering to herself as more smoke plumed from the incense-bowl at her apparent bidding. With one more spidery movement of her hand, one of the bronze caps on the cylinder was at once there, and then gone, showing the hollow darkness of the horn. Where the seal had gone, Cerise didn’t know.

The imperial was about to ask a question, when a scurrying scuttle issued forth, and Sonja’s hand flashed with lightning speed to grab at something coming from the tube. A spider? A demon? The thing had tried to slip out of the container before the mystic had grabbed it in one bejeweled hand.

“You will not travel North any longer, for Nothing lies in the North.” The Matron’s whispering voice rose into a stern command. Cerise’s mouth dried up, and sweat pooled down her back, as she saw the thing writhing in the woman’s grip. A hand—a skeletal hand, with a veneer of mummified flesh hardened tight to its bones like paper. It clawed and thrashed as the mage held it by the wrist, trying in vain to free itself for some unknown end. Mindless, it seemed, as it flailed like an insect, trying to scratch at Sonja’s hand, unable to reach. “I cannot twist the paths of fate. I cannot call the spirits of the forest kinds. Nor can I bring fire from the sky. But the dead fall at my command, and my people are safe. My vision, my Raven’s Eye sees to the Far North, and it has met the gaze of the Elder One.”

“What in all that is holy—?” Cerise panted, as her eyes were fixed to the undead hand.

Sonja got up to a kneel, holding out the horrid thing towards Cerise’s face. Though she dared not look away from the aggressive little demon, the scholar noted that the witch was nude under her furs, and still covered in charms and tattoos.

“This creature is not the only thing to stir past the grip of death! This is what we must face in these lands! You forget! My own kin forget! The Elder One knows this!” more smoke plumed up from the dish, clouding Cerise’s sight in a panic. In an instant, and yet for an eternity, her mind left her. She felt weightless, and all she could see in the swirling monochrome were Sonja’s shining eyes. Trees, snow, lakes, rivers, wastes—all flitted past with arrow speed, until she was stood on a far fjord. The ground barren, and to the horizon stretched cracked sheets of blue ice, drifting in the black sea to the farthest pole. Storms howled high in the heavens above, but her sight was unfettered to the end of the world. There she saw strange mountains, and felt a cold terror grip her soul. For a moment she felt as though she might die, as the sky and the land parted on the horizon-line like an eye, and its empty gaze seemed fixed on her.

But then she was back in the hut, with Sonja kneeling forward in front of her, icy eyes shining, though the memento of horror still writhed in her hand. The magician sat back down, stuffing the monstrosity back into its tube as she whispered, and clapped her hand on the open end. Though she had held nothing before, the bronze cap now sealed the cage once again. Incense smoke subsided, and the witch’s face faded back into normality.

“You say you wish for knowledge?” she asked, head tilted.

Cerise could not even nod, terror not having unhanded her heart.

“Then tell your people the truth. Though it will be my kin that first face the darkness, I know of the ancient foes that lie to the East of Liv’s Empire. Dark magics feed each other before they feed upon each other, and you will be surrounded.”

“Why—what—” the scholar took a deep breath, “What will happen to you? How can—is any of this true?”

“My illusions do not show what isn’t true, though they show what isn’t there. Return South, tell your people. Death will come like the old legends, but if others learn like you have learned—” she reached across, pressing her pale hand to Cerise’s fur collar, “Then fewer souls might be lost, and new legends will be made.”

At that, the Matron retreated within her mound of furs, stooping and drawing her arms back.

There was a long silence, as Cerise wondered whether or not she could leave. Sonja said nothing, and may have fallen asleep for all she knew.

“Thank you.” The scholar whispered at last, getting up to leave.

“No.” she heard the witch rasp, “I bore ill fortune, but now you carry knowledge. Thank you.”

Cerise left the small hut. Such a little hovel, in such an unassuming village, where she had gained more knowledge than she ever had at her college. Perhaps more than she had ever wanted to. But just as it had been her duty to seek it out, now she still had to bring it back.

#fantasy #short story #horror #norse #viking #worldbuilding

15 notes · View notes