Curse

Balan Makki · Feb 03, 2008, 05:50 PM // 17:50

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

The Cartographers

It is a time of new hopes and wonder. The greater world has changed and civilization has cut new paths throughout Tyria. Time and events have carved a new world. And though many rivers have run dry, others grow wider and fuller. Upheaval shakes the world and many mountains have crumbled, while some have grown higher yet, and others have risen anew. The oceans now wash over costal lands as a new power awakens. All is newly forged by the hammer of time. It is now a new time, for new beginnings. From past lineage, heroes have lived, fought and died to lay a foundation upon which their children now stand. A legacy of greatness now opens before two young boys as they walk unaware onto this path carved by the heroes of legend. The story of their heroic deeds, lives, loves and adventures are herein told—this is a tale of heroes present, as well heroes past. For these boys, this is their first step upon the path of legend, and as their journey begins so does their fated struggle with the most ancient of evils.

Swept by winds of change, leaves toss and tumble down the valley’s path covering the forgotten trail of heroes gone and travelers past. The mixing colors of bright autumn sparkle with the magic of a crisp, early day. Squirrels wrestle among the boughs, rattling limbs, seemingly unaware of two boys below, walking without direction, foraging about the forest. The boys stop to turn a stone and watch centipedes and spiders shy in naked daylight. They are treasure hunting, combing the woods for artifacts, oddities and collectables. Intent on excavation and discovery, unraveling mysteries afar, molding from clay an unknown world, reforming mountains, rerouting rivers and gorge, thus the boys have filled their pockets with quartz pebbles for snow capped peaks, they have found a large snake skin to wind river-like through mountains of sand, wood-ears and musky bark. Still, they have room for more, their hands not quite full, their search not quite fulfilled—their makeshift map being far from finished. They now build the new world, in a new time, where mysteries abound and adventure is forever lasting.

Suddenly one boy halts and his eyes widen. He sees across a weedy glade upon a mossy bolder a turtle shell. Surely this is it, the sign the boys have been waiting for. Surely this can be no other than a message from the Gods. Perhaps it is an omen left by the ancient Unseen Ones, the Old Ones of lore. It could even be the lost helmet so valiantly donned by Jalis Ironhammer the Dwarven King. Imagination being the spark of any adventure, this boy seemed to have a firestorm brewing.

Standing in awe, he whispers, “Munks . . . look. Look!” and runs into the sun-streaked glade where hails a treasure of treasures. Above in the trees the squirrels stop their play and watch as a stranger runs towards the moss covered bolder. Chittering and chattering, a broiling dancing starts upon the vaulted branches. Something strange begins to rattle above.

FIG TREE MAN · Feb 03, 2008, 05:54 PM // 17:54

not bad how long that take you?

Balan Makki · Feb 03, 2008, 06:04 PM // 18:04

Quote:

Originally Posted by FIG TREE MAN

not bad how long that take you?

Well, about a month of stolen moments and free time has this first chapter, about 20 pages, taken. I thought I could use an old story and plot and just fill in the lore, but this story is taking a life of it's own, as well, I'm discovering how little of the Guild Wars lore I really know, and of course, how little is known about Guild Wars 2 lore, wherein this story unfolds. Thus, I'll likely edit the story heavily, when we known more about GW2. You'll likely notice many placeholders, such as Slaines (an old Scottish castle of which was the inspiration for Bram Stroker's Dracula), and other unfamiliar "Imaginary" local. . . I'm still in heavy edit mode, much of it will likely change to suit the greater story. I have fun gluing together all the first draft nonsense. . . also note that I'm experimenting with Tense--Past and Present--so the grammar may get a bit bumpy.

Munks yells, “Tal no, stop. Look up!” but it is to late, Tal reaches for the bleached turtle shell—an acorn pops him on the head. He looks around, then another strikes him square in the face and he looks up.

The canopy above explodes in chaos, as raging squirrels, raiding gerbils, and shrewd wood lemmings along with other forest denizen begin an assault. The interlopers become besieged, it is a trap, and an epic battle ensues. The forest lights with acrobats and soaring flyers. Storms of pebbles, sticks and dried dung rain like grapeshot from the trees. In surprise, Tal backs up and slips on the bolder whereupon sat the bait.

Munks at the edge of the glade yells “Nutty Bombers! Run Tal, Run!” Tal rolls over to get up, but it is too late. In squeals of fury, wood lemmings and gerbils spring from the surrounding shrubs, charge from beneath weeds and mulch, with bucked-teeth bare and little claws sharp with bloodlust. Munks is frozen in disbelief. Never has so dire a battle befallen these boys. Sure, there was that one time a very fierce minnow skale had latched onto Munks middle toe, but a handful of salt and jay feather took care of the that, and even though it had left him with a week-long limp, and both boys with a new respect for things so small, no adventure up to now could have ever prepared them for this. The boys were now witness to something far greater. Caught up in an event know only in fairy tales. The expression on Munks face says, “It cannot be happening, it cannot be true—”, but then, to see Tal rolling on the ground his eyes full-moons of terror might suggest, “it is happening, and it is true.”

And so behold. The boys now bare witness to a phenomena none but old wives and crusty tricksters claim to have ever seen. In the canopy above, organized by rank and row is a great army of miniature forest militia know throughout myth and lore—and mostly bedtime stories—as The Iron Acorn. A cult of magically enchanted forest rodent bent on the conquest of all things great and powerful; “Conquest and Domination” being their motto. When stirred to anger, these docile vermin glow as red-hot as the over-heated bed warmers by which they forge their name. It is said by many a trickster and taleweaver that The Iron Acorn can easily be identified by the oaken acorn shells they wear upon their little heads.

Tal flails on the ground, tribbles of fur and acorn shells fly as he throws off his attackers. Then, in a shaft of light near the edge of the glade, ‘it’ appears—The White Dwarf—a small bristling rabbit and fabled leader of the Iron Acorn, his blazing beady red eyes matched only by two fierce front teeth. He charges in a zigzagging “Fhht! Fhht! Fhht!” of hissing rage, twirling twice midair for added flare. Tal leaps to his feet in terror, but the White Dwarf, with a high-pitched screech, leaps higher, landing on Tal’s shoulder with rabbit feet slashing and buckteeth biting. Munks makes his move. . .

Humiliation and utter defeat can have a tremendous effect, even on the most stalwart of soldiers, but these are young boys, both resilient and tireless. Having achieved their objective in the face of such overwhelming odds, they scurry away bruised, nicked, but not broken, with an uncanny sense that this will not be their last encounter with The White Dwarf or The Iron Acorn. And perhaps, for Munks, this scar cuts deeper, soon to push to a head and blister, so it seems best not 'lay bare' the exact particulars just yet.

Balan Makki · Feb 03, 2008, 06:06 PM // 18:06

It could be said, that these boys have been planning an adventure for some time, (most of their lives, truth be told) and have been debating the finer points on which adventure they will first undertake, thus having more than a few planned. With endless discussion, discovery and research, they have narrowed down their choices and settled on three possible adventures.

The first choice: follow the Heart of the Shiverpeak Highlands, ridge to ridge, into Tyria’s Hope—the Holy Land—to explore the ice caverns and crystal palaces of the Verata Wizards. It is said the Verata welcome young zealots into their ranks, being the practice of dark-magic renders even the most virile sorcerer impotent. Hearsay suggests that adoption is the only feasible way to maintain such a cult. However, it is frequently rumored, mostly in quiet late-night whispers, that abduction, kidnapping and enslavement are the primary means of recruitment, but as rumors go, this is mostly unconfirmed, and thus very few speak openly of it for fear of spontaneously combusting, or an errant meteor striking off their arm, or waking up with poison sumac sprouting from their eyes.

In fact, it was just the other day when old Mrs. Macullus, the chronic town gossip, was finally found—Dead—near the compost pile behind her neighbor’s house with marigolds sprouting from her mouth. “Sylvari magi’s for certain,” was the village consensus—Verata wizards having a fancy for capturing Sylvari, then sapping and juicing them of every last drop of magic, then enslaving them. And Ole Mac—that was Mrs. Macullus nickname—was relentless in her flip and snide comments against the Verata and their suspected “fowlerer neaphits”. Of course, this was but a mere foil for her fist shaking, relentless and thoroughly ungrounded accusations and damnation of many neighbors and locals, and their use of “The Wicked ‘eratac magiks!” Even the most studied theorists were confounded by her mysterious death, and though she was known to wallow on all fours below many a neighbor’s windowsill, tangled in the ivy, there was some sympathy for her mysterious demise. “Poor thing” tisked Tal’s mother, “she was ever so lonely, but too proud to show it. Still, it’s sure a dirty business, her being found, mouth stuffed with manure, and her bushy hair trapped like a tangled rats nest among the nearby blackberries—”. It bothered Tal and Munks very little to think the Verata had anything to do with Ole Mac’s death, for they had secretly conspired upon who should be hexed next in the village, once they have mastery of the Verata ways.

The local fear of Verata required a code-name, so the boys refer to them as Icelanders, and represent the majestic Verata towers of Tyria’s Hope with tall chunks of quartz and copper ore quarried in a nearby creek. They kneel at their work, the two probable young explorers, in considerate concentration, continuing to create a makeshift model of greater Tyria. Forming rivers and molding mountains upon the floor of Trefort. The floor of Trefort was actually the ledge of a stone outcropping hanging halfway up the side of a steep hill.

Balan Makki · Feb 04, 2008, 05:42 PM // 17:42

The boys had disagreed where best to locate their secret fort, Munks preferring the cool quiet of a small cave, more a borough in fact, up the valley a ways, at the foot of a hill. Tal argued for a large lofty tree with a cradle of forking branches that cup like an open hand, but more like a closing claw to Munks. Opting not to displace the squirrel nest in the grasping tree, or the bagger colony that wintered under the dark roots of the mud cave, the boys decided to coop “Wolfend’s Notch”, renaming it Trefort—a hideout formerly off limits to Tal and Munks, being the private domain and hunting stand of Wolfend—Tal’s older brother. Wolfend called it his Notch as a warning of what he would do to Tal’s head were he caught within bowshot of it. Though in fact, the stone outcropping was more a ‘notch’ in the valley, being it jutted out on the inner turn of a bend, affording an excellent view and vantage point for hunting, lounging or scouting. Tal now absently thumbs the small hairline scare, the notch across the side of his nose; unconcerned as he ponders the world at his feet.

“See,” Munks points his toe, “that’s what Donner meant. The Heart is not separate ridges; he’s says it's a single long ridge, only dipping now and then.” With the side of his foot Munks moves a mountain, represented by a mound of sand and stones.

What does Donner know about anything?” grumbles Tal as he blots grey moss on a cut begot by the Iron Acorn.

“He’s the magistrate, and talks lots to strangers and travelers . . . an he gets round” says Munks.

Tal’s eyes narrow, “What do you mean, by ‘Gets round’?”

“Look, I’m just saying. There’s no sure way of telling if our chart here is right, it’s the only one I know of—we gotta go by what others say. Be it rumor or fact.”

“Yeah, but my Da’s map shows pretty clear the routes down through the northern Marshes,” replies Tal.

“It only shows rivers and valleys to Osprey. The path to Slaines and Tyria’s Hope are along the ridge here,” Monks points his toe; “your Da’s map doesn’t show that.”

“Hey Munks, you think there’ll be anyone at the harvest festival? Travelers I mean. Someone as might come by way of the Heart Ridge? Or maybe the Gorge?” Tal then blurts, “What about Xo? It’d be grand if she comes this year, wouldn’t it?”

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 04:21 PM // 16:21

“Xo? You mean that trapper that was hereabouts a while back?” asks Munks.

“Yeah, she’d know all about Slaines and the Raider's Isle,” Nods Tal, “Even Tyria’s Hope I’d wager.”

With map almost complete and plans laid by, Munks and Tal have their three choice adventures before them. The first being Tyria’s Hope, the Holy Land, now controlled by the Verata. The next possibility is Raider’s Isle, port of call to all seafaring adventurer, pirate, and nefarious rogue or otherwise. Obviously, it is true: every boy does hold secret a desire to be a pirate, especially these two lads land bound between the Shiverpeak Highlands. And so goes the third likely adventure; to travel to Slaines Ruins, a massive castle city, formerly know as Adamas, The Head of the Flying Serpent, an old vast ruin rumored to harbor the lost secrets of the Old Unseen Ones, as well, many more archeological treasures of centuries past—archeology being one of Munks favorite pastimes. Tales tell of jade colored leviathan turtle shells beached along the outer banks of the massive castle, so then, when Tal had seen the bleached turtle shell in the glade of the Iron Acorn earlier this day, well a boy’s imagination knows no bound, for him it was a divine omen of the first order. The turtle shell now rests firmly against the outer edge of the model map, where sharp angular pieces of granite represent Slaines. And atop a small granite spire stands a shriveled dead mouse, wearing a red grape-leaf cape—a fare representation of the Necromancer that supposedly resides over the ruins; said to be an old mouse of a man.

“But why would Xo come back?” replies Munks, “She was awfully treated last time. Even your Ma had a few stones to toss at Xo given a chance.”

“Pff. My Ma was the only one did toss a stone. Seems she’d lost Donner’s attention or something.” Remembers Tal, “and a good thing it was Donner she hit, not Xo.

“True, that wolf with Xo looked hungry, half the village about pissed themselves when it appeared an began howling at sundown.”

“Maybe if she comes she’ll bring that wolf again.”

“Maybe,” agrees Munks.

The boys look again to the world at their feet, a world of unknown mystery and adventure, and they continued shaping this model world as only two young boys can. The autumn afternoon is warm and breezy. Sunlight filters through branches and varied colored leaves shedding a dappled patchwork about Trefort, formerly Wolfend’s Notch.

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 04:22 PM // 16:22

Tal’s older brother, Wolfend, had outfitted the deep ledge with large stumps and logs for sitting, a large stone fire pit—now converted to represent Tyria’s Hope—and a drying rack. The drying rack, no longer used for pelts and meat, now supports a lean-to of woven thatch and switch grass, creating a small hideaway for the sorts of things two boys would collect. Things like bones and small animal skulls, twig bows and arrows, canebrake whittled and barbed to a point for spear fishing, sun bleached cedar sticks made for walking, an assortment of peculiar rocks, wood ears and feathers, dried bugs, beetles and butterfly wings, a set of antlers and a couple of bird’s nests.

Wolfend hand left home six years past, maybe seven, Tal could not remember exactly, but he does remember the day it happened—the day the White Mantle came. The stink of wet equine, sodden leather, acrid steal, and . . .

The clouds had fallen from heaven, thick fog swallowed the mountains, a steady drizzle soaked deep to the marrow.

Wolfend had packed the night before and was now waiting at the village inn. Tal remembers being awakened, dressed and fed milk-soaked bread. Then he and his mother, capes donned, set out into the dark dreary morning, slogging several miles on foot to town. Town square was full with horses and several large wagons. Fur cloaked men tended equipment and went about their waking business. One flat bed cart sat center, villagers—early risers—were milling cautiously about it. Strapped down with many ropes, a massive bulk weighed heavy upon this large central cart.

With a child’s curiosity, Tal stepped towards the cart’s burden. It was huge and shiny, like cut polished stone, or, “is that what rubies look like?” wondered Tal—a hue of blood red glowing in the misty grey of morn. The shape was familiar, like something seen in a dream perhaps, or a . . . teeth, it has very large teeth and a large lifeless eye—an eye still sinister and angry in its sunken socket. Even now, many years past, it is etched so vividly in Tal’s memory. It looked like the giant head of some fantastical creature, severed and limp. Tal had look to his mother for an answer, but she was looking away, stunned, paralyzed, shocked by the sight of the cargo upon another cart. Upon this other cart, underneath a tattered tarp, Tal’s mother stared at what seemed to be burnt, charred, limbs—not wood or tree limbs, but the hands, feet, arms and legs of dozens upon dozens of men that lay lifeless and bloating in a drenched heap. Tal’s mother would not move. Tal tried to pull her away, but she did not feel him, she did not heed his needy tugs. Tal looked back at the hulking head of the beast, severed and rotting, looked to his mother again. Her hands were to her mouth, she was gagging, and then it hit him. A sulfurous stench so strong, so putrid, so foul it clutched Tal’s breath like strangling hands, punching him in the gut. Spittle dripped from his mouth, as he dry heaved, unable to gain breath. So many years passed it still sent shivers through Tal. Two guards were laughing with gestures and mocking eyes, but all was silence to a deafening ring in Tal’s head as he choked for breath to return. Tal felt a soiled hand grasp him and pull him away. His mother blundered from the street out of town. She cried, choking with sobs, as they struggle home, shin-deep in mud, knowing that they had not said “Good Bye” to Wolfend, somehow knowing that they would never see his brother, her son again.

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 04:37 PM // 16:37

“Have you asked your Ma yet?” inquires Munks, distracting Tal from his dark ruminations.

Tal did not look up. He pokes his toe at a costal floodplain near Raider’s Isle. He then replies, “No, not yet. She’s been real busy getting ready for the Harvest Festival.” Then he looks at Munks and adds earnestly, “She’s taken to wearing it again.”

“Your Da’s Compass Stone?”

“Yeah, I thought she’d forget about it, forget about him. Might be she won’t let us borrow it for our trip.”

“Oh . . .” then an idea occurs to Munks, “Say Tal, I just read in an almanac that if you take a piece of iron and float it in water you can make a good compass that way.”

“—does iron float?”

“Hmm—no, I don’t think so—weird that someone says it would. Maybe they used a hollow tube or something,” then remembering, “Cork, that’s it, you float it on cork.”

“Might do for what we need. I’ll grab some nails at the barn.”

“And I’ll grab a cork. Lyssa knows there are plenty of them rolling around my Uncle Jebthas’ forge. It’s a wonder he hasn’t blown himself up mixing so much ale vapor and hot slag.”

The lads discuss possible through routes to the southeast. They could raft through the Northern Marshes to the Raider’s Isle, or possibly a detour by way of Verdant Cascades, or venture to Asura lands, but the Asura were not known for their hospitality nor pleased to see young travelers, as tales tell of enchantment traps set roadside that magically shrink shoes and britches to painful measure; requiring the exact work of surgeons or barbers to relieve—very dangerous business.

The boys know a journey south to Raider’s Isle would be easier this time of year, as the oncoming winter snow would follow behind them, rather than meet them head-on, as would a journey north, were they to travel by way of Gorge towards Slaines or Tyria’s Hope. Nevertheless, the thought of becoming a Verata Wizard, or maybe discovering the horde of the Old Ones is still too tempting to let weather stand in the way. Monks suggests that they become pirates first, then they can sail the coast to Slaines, and raid the ruins for buried treasure, but then, there would be no need to divide a treasure among a ship full of mates were they to find the treasure first. They could just gamble for a pirate ship, hire a crew and sail as co-captains—starting at the top rank is always best, most definitely. What about the lure of Verata magic and treasure . . . they just cannot decide, so they leave Trefort behind, equipped with sling, bow and arrow—in case the Iron Acorn reappears—and head home to Tal’s family farm for supper.

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 04:42 PM // 16:42

“Hunting? With what?” grumbles Tal’s mother, Wheisa. “You can learn to hunt rabbits and chipmunks here in the valley.” Munks and Tal glance at each other and then blush—embarrassed by the mornings encounter with The White Dwarf and the Iron Acorn. “Once you’ve proven your prowess you can then move up to bigger game, like feral cats and marsh geese,” she retorts. Tal had just suggestion that he and Munks were planning an extended hunting trip north, but Wheisa continues, “You’ll just be gutted by a buck in rut, or smashed under foot by a Jotun, or a Charr raiding party will tear you to pieces and eat you like a roast chicken.”

“Fishing in the Gorge?,” replies Wheisa to an alternate request by Tal, “it’s hundreds feet deep to even reach the water below, and shear cliffs that drop to jagged stones, much too dangerous, you’ll just fall in trying to cast a line. No, its better you stay round here, young Talrend, the local creeks and bogs have ample fish.” Young Talrend is the name she uses when being stern.

Tal attempts another suggestion but is routed again, “Slaines is more than just an ole castle, listen to Wheisa boys.” This is Aunt Millah, Munks’ aunt and, as usual, she is in agreement with Tal’s mother.

I’ll not have ye wanderin about,” admonishes Wheisa as she sets the table, “An Slaines is definitely no place to be about, besides it’s well over a months travel—in good weather—you’ll just get lost.

“We won’t get lost. We can use Da’s compass stone,” pleads Tal.

“Oh, ye’ll get lost an worse; the Far Hills is crawling with danger. Furthermore, you’ll be forgettin any idea of your father’s heartstone; you’ll be respecting his memory an leavin his things be. I’ve plans for that trinket, and it’s well time we let your father’s memory rest, and moved on with our lives.”

Tal chews his food, despondent and broken. So many plans dashed upon the resolute, unyielding tower of maternal virtue and totality. Monks sits across the table arranging his food; he had over-turned his halved acorn squash, sculpted carrots into legs, celery into a cannon and modeled a siege turtle; with celery leaves pinched to shape the fabled Luxons, the masters of the Jade Sea of lore. Munks rolls his plate to and fro like waves tossing a high sea and smiles at Tal under his lowered brow.

“Son,” says Aunt Millah, “when you’re through playing with that food, I expect you to eat every last bit.” Munks pops two Luxons into his mouth and starts chewing. Tal, reaching quietly across the table, spears off the head of the amphibian and swallows it whole; both Munks and Tal began to shake with silent laughter. “Seems we’ll be getting quite a crowd at the festival,” says Aunt Millah, “weather being what it is, and now there’s word of a royal enterprise to the east moving our way—seems the Prince himself might be by and by.” Both boys stop their antics and looked at Aunt Millah.

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 04:49 PM // 16:49

“Yes, indeed—it does seem to be sizing up,” mutters Wheisa, “Magistrate Donner has just sent word that he needs provisions delivered eastward upon the morrow,” she continues sighing. “I just don’t know how I’m going to do it all with one day left before the festival.”

“I’ll look after things around here, deary,” offers Aunt Millah, “you go ahead.”

Wheisa’s brow rises slightly, likely remembering the last time she left Aunt Millah and Uncle Jebtha in charge. Moments pass as they picked at their food, then Wheisa opens negotiations, “Boys, I’ll make yea a bargain. You get these silly ideas of adventure outa yer heads, and I’ll let you take the mule up the eastern pass to the expedition convoy. Magistrate Donner will be there waiting. He has requested grains and salt. You’ll need to get started well before dawn, to get back here by dusk. The trails up the ridge will be covered in leaves.” For a thoughtful moment she considers, then reaches into her blouse and slowly withdraws a white oval crystal. It is polished smooth, the size of her palm—she holds it looking. It reflects the flickering candles about the table, every point of light, seeming to enter infinitely down into its depths, while amplifying an outward radiance. “It’s only right you use this tomorrow,” she holds out the heartstone, “it will be too dark to see the trail.” Bound in a leather strap, she lifts it over her head and hands it to Tal. “It will show you the way.” Then she adds hastily, “You’ll be respecting Magistrate Donner, none of your antics, you here?”

Tal holds his fathers heartstone. It was warmed, having been against his mother’s bosom. “I’ll set out at the first cockerel’s crow. Munks, you coming?”

Balan Makki · Feb 08, 2008, 05:58 PM // 17:58

Needing to pack and provision, the boys quickly finish their dinner and rush to the barn. They arrange the bags of grain and salt; set halter, lead and other tack at ready and go in search of Belle the mule.

“I think she was near the honeysuckle earlier”, says Munks. Belle had an insatiable sweet tooth, and even though the Honeysuckle was not in bloom, there was a small patch of sweet grass near the edge of the meadow’s honeysuckle hedge. The stars were reaching their brightest, the moon almost at a full harvest blue. Dew had settled on the high grass and the night song was alive in full chorus, a choir of nocturnal bug, bird and beast.

The boys search the far meadow, but find no sign of Belle. They begin to circle the melon patch suspecting that Belle may be gorging on leftover pumpkins or squash. Belle is not there, but they do startle a night owl perch above, hunting the patch for rodents and in a warble of hoots, it flutters away. The boys continue towards the creek at the head of the valley, perhaps Belle had gone for a drink.

“Use the heartstone,” say Munks, “you know how it works?”

“Oh, yeah, you just gotta picture in your mind what you want and a shard of light appears pointing the way” Tal holds the stone out as he and Munks concentrate on the fat ole mule, Belle, but nothing happens. “You can concentrate too Munks, I think it helps if we’re both thinking the same thing.”

“I am, I was, um I will.” They try it again, but still nothing.

“We’ll be in a real pickle if we have no mule tomorrow. . .”

“or can’t make that stone work”, continues Munks, but then the stone starts glowing—just an ever so faint pulse, pulse, pulse. “Look, something is happening” They look into the crystal depths as shards begin radiating more fully in all directions from the center outward, “What does that means?”

“Don’t know,” wonders Tal confused, “never known it to do this. Look there,” Tal points. A glimmering dot appears, a red pulsing heartbeat, near the outer edge of the stone, and slowly begins to move inward. He blinks, thinking it was something in his eye.

“That’s weird it’s moving towards the middle. What does the middle mean?”

“We are the middle;” replies Tal, “it’s coming right at us.”

“What’s coming right at us?!” worries Munks.

Balan Makki · Feb 10, 2008, 01:46 PM // 13:46

The boys look at each other, they face the direction indicated by the red point in the heartstone. A scuffing sound as foot steps drag up the lane, and a coughing, hacking then a loud spit, “hauck Tooo!”

“Eh? Oh, evenin boys” says uncle Jebtha, as he staggers forward, “Hunting snipe?” referring to the rock in Tal’s hand, “Been a good season for it. I was some snipe hunter at your age, best rock tosser herebouts. I could kill a rat at fifdy paces. I’ll show ya a trick or two,” Jebtha grunts as he bends down to pick up a pebble, but loses his balance and topples over. “Em, stay low is the first lesson, you wanna sneak up on a covey o snipe? you gotta stay low.”

“Ok uncle,” says Munks, “Aunt Millah is inside.” He helps his uncle to his feet and brushes him off. “You good?”

“Eh? Oh, I’m good alright. See, the trick in tossin is getting the right spin on the stone, but the spin has gotta start in your toes, and move up through your hips like this.” Jebtha snaps his hips as he swings his arm losing his balance again. Tal catches him this time. “Well, it takes practice, I’ll need to bone up on my skills. Then I cans show you some master snipin’.” Jebtha staggers a bit as he tries to balance himself. Tal casually backs away to avoid Jebtha’s volatile breath and explains that they are looking for the mule.

“Gone missing has she? You’d better find her.” Jebtha wags his finger, “Been word of wolves in the valley. Seems the Queen’s expedition is nearby, ‘hic’. They has been driving all manner of beast northward, an the wolves are following the game trail. Say, you boys seen your aunt Milly?”

“Yeah, she’s inside, Uncle.” Repeats Munks. “You ok the rest of the way?”

“Eh? Oh, I’m ok alrighty.” Slurs Jebtha, “She’s in the house you say?” Jebtha starts forward, and then stops.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 03:39 PM // 15:39

“House is that way, Uncle.”

“Eh, alright.” Uncle Jebtha places a hand on Munks shoulder, trying to remember something, “You’re a good lad, an when I gotta bit a time I’ll show you the Way of the Snipe. You’ll never go hungry once you learn it. Em . . .” He turns, disoriented, and then sees Tal, “You’re a good lad too— I knew your father, ‘hic’, tragic story. Real tragic, you’re a good lad. Here, take this. Is’ a good un” he hands Tal the pebble he had picked up and Tal takes it. “Keep it,” he insists and Tal pockets the pebble. “Goo luck sniping, Lads. Don’t forget what I taught you. Is all in the hisps.” Jebtha turns left then right. “Em, alright where was I.”

Munks points his uncle homeward and then watches him stubbles up the lane towards the house.

“Lets try again” says Tal raising the heartstone skyward, but the inner glow is gone and only moonlight radiates from the crystal. A braying mule is heard in the distance towards the wooded valley. The boys fail to notice a glowing whorl forming at the edges of the stone as they step briskly towards the distant “Hee Hawws—” of a distressed Belle.

Finding the low-road into the valley Tal starts to call tentatively, “Belle. Belle!” he then curses, “Where are you, you ole manure bag.” The boys search deeper nearing the dark wall of forest. “She's probably stuck again, could be anywhere. . . Belle!”

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 03:41 PM // 15:41

Earlier that week, Tal and Monks spent the whole of a morning digging Belle out of Ten Brooks Bog. She had sank up to her haunch and brayed an earsplitting aria as the boys pushed, pulled and dug at her; all three near the brink of exhaustion. The memory of wet and cold, and both boys as was Belle, covered from head to foot with bog muck only adds to the despair of what they were likely to find, “She’s Skale bait if she’s in the bog again. . .”

“We’re not going into Ten Brooks now are we?” asks Munks. The bogs being the last places any sensible person wants to wander at night. “We can wait til morning.”

“We better look now, she may be in trouble,” replies Tal in frustration . “We’ll need her in the barn ready when we leave early morn. Without a mule, the trip is off. You want, you can head back, but I’m gonna see the crusader expedition—”

“Tal—” Munks points at the heartstone. Tal tucks his chin glaring at the bobble about his neck and closer inspection reveals a whorl in the stone, and at the edge is a red glimmer—pulsing like a rapidly beating heart. Within the center whorl, an image takes shape; it is the image of a mule lost in the dark, its head on the ground, it lets cry. . . a second, not more than a caught breath later, the bray of a mule is heard in the distance.

“Hellfire!” curses Tal, “She’s in the bog again,” both the pulsing glimmer upon the stone and the distant bray from Belle point bog-ward.

“Oh great.” Replies Munks.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 03:46 PM // 15:46

. . . “a trail’s ahead. It should get us close enough to spot her,” says Tal. “If she’s stuck again we’ll need to fetch a rope and shovel.” Taking the trail, the boys plunge through forest’s edge, the thick underbrush blotting out the moon and starlight. Night whispers rustle and creak as they push their way into deeper woods; the green and black of night is broken only by moonbeam and deeper shadow. The air begins to chill as they near the cool waters. The boys sense the bog nearby as the brackish sweet smell of decay and muck grows strong. They feel pockets of warm air giving way to misty tendrils of cold reaching from the murky waters. Pushing through head reeds, near an inlet creek, the boys stop and stare. They stand at the edge of the bog on a soft mud bank, but the bog is invisible. The murky water of Ten Brooks is now hidden under a very low fog that hovers chest high, only a few feet atop the water, a billowing blanket, mysterious and foreboding.

The cold and stink of the bog and the eerie glow of the moonlit mist sends a visible shiver through Munks, “Right then, I’ll go get the shovel and rope, and maybe see if Uncle Jebtha can help.”

“We don’t know if she’s stuck yet,” returns Tal. “Belle!” He then motions to Munks and they skirt the bank between reed and water. “Belle, you ole sod-wrecking flee-bag.” He consults the compass stone and it points into the center of the bog. “Says she’s over there” Tal points.

“Heeee, Heeee, Heeeee, Haaauuw!” Calls Belle.

“There,” points Tal, “something is moving over there.”

“In the middle of the bog?” retorts Munks.

“You stay here, no need for us both to get wet, specially if you’re going to fetch a shovel and rope.” Tal grits his teeth, and slowly wades out into the waters cursing and groaning. Munks watches as Tal is swallowed in waist deep water and chin high fog. Tal looks like the disembodied pumkinhead of the fabled horseman of yore, His bouncing thick red hair glowing above moonlit fog, a rolling apparition upon a cloud of mysterious trepidation moving towards a stand of trees a hundred paces on.

At the valley’s base, the bogs know as Ten Brooks spill slowly into the fields and creeks that irrigate the local farms and village. A natural spring, along with seasonal melt, maintains the waters least waist high. In autumn, the water is still and foul, and usually bringing migratory birds, predatory raptors, and the occasional small carnivore. Tal’s farm being one of the nearest to the bogs, (as well, the nearest to the valley pass leading towards the Shiverpeaks) he had seldom heard of anything more dangerous than a snapping turtle, or minnow skale hereabouts. ‘But’, he thinks, ‘it doesn’t mean there isn’t something out here.’ He pushes forward, nerves on edge, nearing the stand of marsh maple and black oak. His boots suck into the soft silt below. He reaches out for a gnarled root hanging from a large trunk and climbs upon a tangle of vines, roots and deadwood. He looks back and sees Munks in a star-lighted patch on the rearward bank and he waves, and then climbs up several more roots nearing the large, split trunk of the tree where he hopes to aquire a better vantage point.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 03:56 PM // 15:56

As Tal reaches for the split in the tree trunk, a pile of leaves suddenly explodes. Flapping, screeching dark objects burst in Tal’s face from a nearby branch. He reels, falling into the bog, enveloped by the fog blanket and submersed below the putrid, stagnant water. Unfortunately, his mouth was open mid-scream as he flopped backwards and he breaches gagging and choking on bog muck. Looking up he hears the fading whistle, “Snip-p-p-p p p . . . Snip-p-p-p p p. . .” as a covey of bats-like creatures flutter through the moon-dappled shadows of the upper canopy into the star bright sky beyond.

“Where those night snipe?” yells Munks from the bank, “—you alright?”

“Chaa, yah aua a Hauh!” chokes Tal, spiting and sputtering, “Godz! ats awful!” He grabs for a root and pulls up onto the slippery brambles again. Breaking off a limb he whacks it against the tree where upon issued the nest of creatures. Feeling confident of no further surprises, Tal climbs into the crook of the tree and rakes hands through his sopped hair. “Yeah, bloody snipe!” Tal calls back to Munks. Then looking ahead, “There she is Munks,” he yells, having spotted Belle the mule. “She’s on the other side.” The mule brays. Tal now sees the hindquarter of what can only belong to Belle poking out of the fog on the other side of the bog. She appears to have gotten stuck face first in the muck, her head and front legs bent low and hidden below the mist.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And she looks stuck,” says Tal in dismay, “It’s just another hundred paces. You go back and get help. I’ll stay and see what I can do.”

“You sure?” calls Munks.

“It’s only a half league to the farm, you’ll be back within the hour,” and he adds, “grab a pole for leverage.”

Munks agrees, and promises to return promptly with tools and help. Dropping into the bog again, Tal wades towards the far bank where Belle now grunts and squeals in frustration.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 03:59 PM // 15:59

“Hold still,” insists Tal as he reaches down into the thick mist hiding Belle’s head and shoulder—her haunch, tail and splayed rear legs are the only thing visible above the fog. The mule’s front legs are completely sunk into the soft marsh silt and Tal was having trouble keeping his own legs from sinking. “Really bad place to drink, Belle,” says Tal reassuringly as he tries to help the mule hold her head above the waters edge. “Haauw!” replies the mule.

Tal, needing to release the mud suction firmly holding Belle’s legs, begins searching about for a long branch to dig with. He decides to break loose a clump of nearby reeds to lay pillow like under Belle’s chin to keep her head above the shallow water. He then wanders a short distance and finds a deadwood sapling and wrenches it from the loam. Belle begins to sing.

“What is it ole girl?” calls Tal as he runs back to Belle, sapling in hand. Belle is clearly distressed, something has spooked her. Tal reassures her with firm caresses, but also smells—a rotting fish smell—and then something moves in the water. He stands, sapling raised, a clot of muck still dripping from the sapling roots. The night has become deadly quiet. The mist swirls as something large moves through the water. Realizing the danger, Tal moves between Belle and that ‘something’ in the bog. Then it calls, in loud guttural warbles, like the plucking of a large cable, or the echoing crack of frozen ice. It calls, and others come. Wakes churn in the bog’s mist as other unseen creatures converge on Tal and Belle. Tal sees the blanket of fog swirling, alive before him, as creatures move hidden underneath. The others return the call and the echoing chorus becomes deafening. In the glowing heartstone, Tal sees seven or more red, beating glimmers converging in all directions.

“Skale!” yells Tal in realization. Belle agrees in brays of terror. Tal starts swinging the sapling wildly as his legs sink lower and lower into the silt that has trapped Belle. As he swings, the nearby fog swirls, mixing into the air above, becoming more transparent. Then they appear at the broken edge of the mist, the size of large dogs—bull-faced and fish-eyed. They are more than Tal can count. The sight of the predators is enough to send Belle into fits of hysteria as she starts thrashing, striking her head and neck against the reeds pillowed below, laid for her by Tal. A sucking sound is heard and then several rapid thuds as Tal looks around and sees Belle has freed herself and is dancing backwards, kicking wildly at the Skale that now try to flank them on the banks. Tal suddenly realizes, watching Belle crashing through the reeds and galloping away, that he is now as stuck as she was, his legs now sunk to his crotch, the mule now, at speed, heading to safety, while he remains trapped, surrounded by hungry skale. He swings his sapling with all his boyish might, but fears he will soon tire, or the skale will sooner charge him in-group.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 04:04 PM // 16:04

The creatures close in, forming a circle around Tal. A skale stands before in front; watching curiously; waiting patiently as Tal swings the branch back and forth. Suddenly, with blinding speed, the skale snatches the weapon from Tal’s grasp, grins and tosses it into the bog. Now weaponless, Tal continues his defense by tossing mud and wet muck helter-skelter. Then the skale racket and clamor ceases as does Tal’s struggle. Beyond the ring, issuing from the dark shadows, something very large lumbers into view. A skale the size of a mountain troll appears, arms as long as fence rails, it overshadows everything. It wears remnant armor and bangles of bones about its neck and waist. An amazingly long arm darts at Tal, gripping him by the neck and lifting him like a doll from the slurping bog. The alpha skale cackles in deep guttural gurgles, its eyes gleam in hunger and drool hangs from its dagger sharp teeth.

Tal is losing consciousness, his hands struggle against the clammy steel-grip of the meat-hooked claw about his neck. He sees in the corner of his eye the eerie glow of the heartstone at his breast. His heartbeat is bursting from his chest, his breath wheezing to get passed a crushed throat, legs kicking in air, his struggle becoming weaker and weaker. Seconds seem like eternity. Cold washes over him and the weight of his body begins to numb as if frozen in ice. The world around him turns sparkling white. The low fog seems to crystallize into a billion glittering stars from an unseen universe. Mists of stars lift heavenward from silken smooth water; the trees radiate and sparkle, seemingly covered by ten thousand fireflies. There is a sudden flash. Tal is jerked high. He is floating in space, swept up by a sense of timelessness; the painful death-grip at his neck no longer hurts. The moment of death hovers bright as a jeweled kiss—a pure and virtuous grace—inevitable and untainted. Suddenly the dead hand of Grenth grips him, and he sees the ground below rush up and strike as hard as a bolder from a landslide. Warm spray pelts him; there is a ripping sound, and the loud cracking of bones. Vision blurred from the impact, he reaches out and touches the ground and realizes it is cold and rock solid—no longer soft and spongy loam. He reaches again and feels a warm slick smear across a rubbery mass at his side. He tries to draw breath, but the air is so cold it does not pass his lips.

Balan Makki · Feb 28, 2008, 04:56 PM // 16:56

Numb, with a bodiless feeling, Tal tries to stands, his eyes struggle to focus and he takes a breath—it cuts his lunges like broken glass. Exhaling smoky frost in the deadly silence, he realizes that Ten Brooks Bog is now transformed; it is frozen solid., The rising fog has crystallized into an luminous and unnatural mist. At his feet lay the large skale half frozen in the bog, the other half . . . the other half is gone, torn completely apart. Black blood smears the surrounding ice and ground-frost; in a single stroke, a butcher has hacked, torn and tossed parts of skale everywhere. Tal is covered in black blood, but is himself unharmed and whole. The other skale are either fled or gutted, twitching in death throes. Beyond the carnage, the bog is no longer dank and murky, it has now become a crystal forest from some fantastical fairytale; everything is covered in ice and horefrost. Stars and moon glitter in infinite brilliance, turning night to day. There is no sound except a grinding—a chewing.

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 02:02 PM // 14:02

Tal slowly turns towards a rumbling snarl. Bathed in glimmering moonlight appears a ghostly and stoic fiend. From the Mists of Legend before him it stands, its thick fur beard is blood-spattered, its massive head is bowed and feeding—a Frost Wolf of immense size; larger than a Mantle Charger, but far leaner, its legs being very long, its shoulder and haunch strongly supporting a long lean torso. In its maul is the missing half of the alpha skale. With a front paw, it presses down and rips a limp limb from socket. Eyes wary, in victorious feast, its bloody fangs devour and ravage the butchered quarry in large crushing gulps.

Glancing around, Tal sees only the single lone wolf—it is not with a pack; no others, only this unreal apparition summoned from cold hell and surrounded by carnage. Tal stands to the wolf’s side and rear, beyond the beast’s line of sight. Several paces behind is a swath of broken, trampled marsh reed trailing away, now frost covered, where Belle had so expeditiously made her escape. Tal slowly steps towards the path and safety, then a ‘pop’ like a thunderclap and a small reed snaps underfoot. Their eyes lock: Talrend, a half grown boy, still gangly and androgynous. And a giant creature, which turns so fast that it leaves a trail of frost lingering in the air—hailing from the Mists; legendary in size, still as a statue, poised, crouched in the moment before a deadly lunge. Ice blue eyes hold Tal frozen in fear. The depth and knowing in those eyes weakens Tal’s knees; the eyes are like a sunset sky, glowing with an edge of fire on a faraway horizon, eyes that seem strangely familiar.

Hypnotic and paralyzing, it considers a new prey. The Frost Wolf rocks back its massive head and a gruesome howl racks the forest, Tal slams hands to his ears, the ice covered forest shatters, the moonlit frost bursts its hold, drifting airborne, dusting the ground. The howl continues and Tal’s bones vibrate as if electrified, the sound is so terrifying, the intensity so great, he holds tight his bowls lest he soil himself.