The harsh Salvic cold robbed him of his scent before any of his other senses. There were no familiar smells here, in this dead frozen land at the edge of the world. He found himself strangely nostalgic for the mingled gestalt of cheap perfume, sweat, blood, filth and spice that could be found nowhere else on Althanas besides Radasanth. The snow lay like a stifling blanket across the earth, visible now from his place on the ship. It smothered any feature of the land that Constantine might have recognized. He adjusted his reindeer skin parka around himself, pulled the hood of wolverine fur closer to his face, and considered just how far away from his home he'd come.
Constantine was not from the north. Anyone could tell that at a glance from his chattering teeth and incessant shivering, if his accent didn’t betray him first. His Salvic was beyond functional, albeit a thick Coronian drawl occasionally earned him a round of laughter from the locals. He didn’t care. He was pleased to have finally arrived. Even the cold didn’t bother him, despite his body’s superficial reactions to it: the prickling of gooseflesh across his skin, painful harshness of each breath. The chill of death had hardened him to more worldly hurts such as this.
The journey had been a long one. He’d set sail from Radasanth nearly a month ago, stopping at the Alerian coastal ports to pick up other travelers and exchange commodities. The sailors had quickly made a cutthroat out of Constantine, their uncouth manner rapidly eroding any trace of nobility left in him. A few were headed towards Salvar themselves, and their exchanges with him quickly smoothed out many kinks in his knowledge of their language. By the time the voyage ended, he was trading barbs with them almost fluently.
For the first time in an age, Constantine found himself warmed by the presence of others. He enjoyed himself on that long, unforgiving trip, even as he rationed his meals and armed himself with weapons against all the traps the world could send against the unprepared. He forgot himself, forgot the black dreams which unfurled their wings across his mind like nocturnal predators. He forgot the name Nepharen-Ka, forgot the Fade… for a time.
Always, without fail, something drew him back: a smile too close to the devil’s own, a glimpse of the pendant hanging from his neck in his own reflection. Even now, as he remembered it, his hand went unconsciously to the amulet concealed beneath his clothing. Despite all the warmth they provided him, the grotesque idol felt cold against his still chest. Sometimes, the creature inside it stirred, and he mistook the movement for an errant heartbeat. Thanks to it, the urgency of his mission was never forgotten. But the memories of why it had been undertaken crackled like coals in the hearth.
Memories of dark places and dark beings. Every time the images rolled across his consciousness into his mind’s eye, he shuddered involuntarily.
In remembering, he could not feel truly close to those around him, no matter how kind they were. He felt detached from their good-natured bickering, removed from the liveliness that commanded the ship’s deck in daytime hours. He withdrew from them, for a time, only to emerge days later in the same frail good humor as before. The merchant he shared his quarterswith, one of the fairfolk, understood this. He gave him the wide berth he knew his Radasanthian bunkmate would appreciate in these moments, even if the tradesman did not understand what exactly troubled him.
Constantine had made an acquaintance of the elf. Despite the man’s slight stature and effeminate face, he commanded a strength of character not often found and certainly not to be undervalued. Wyrden, as Constantine discovered was his new friend’s name, would continue upriver from Tirel towards Knife’s Edge. He hoped to see Constantine later, as he would be traveling a ways farther north around Archen to ply his trade of furs and spices. Constantine genuinely hoped to cross paths with him again, taking a strange sort of solace in the man’s softspoken manner and calm comprehension of his inexplicable moody fits. His smell evoked the same sensation as the cheap perfume street vendors wore back in Radasanth.
He welcomed any memories of home. They filled him with a nostalgia stronger than hunger. He craved his old life with an intensity that hollowed him. This too reminded him how important it was he keep his goal a tangible thing before his eyes, never losing sight of it, like a wolf stalking the steppes for its prey.
A few miles from Tirel, the Testhan lost its momentum. The river slowed then drooled into the brackish estuary that was the Gulf of Scales. For a moment the waters around the port lay still and motionless, only to become a churning pit of angry, frothing waves, hissing spume like a furious beast. Huts and rotting jetties clustered near the water’s edge like fungus, and the shore was dominated by buildings of remarkably familiar architecture. Tirel was a deceptive city, to be sure. It lulled visitors into forgetting the rumors of Salvar’s inhospitable, alien culture. Even the Church’s hand barely brushed this place with its long fingers.
For Constantine, however, it was proof that he had already come so far, but that his journey was only beginning.
~*~
It is nearly a week and a half since I have left Tirel. A part of me longs for it as another yearns for Radasanth, as if I leave more and more of myself in each waypoint on my quest. Now, however, I am on the cusp of my real destination. Armavir is a small town, from what I’ve heard. Not many can fathom what interest it could hold to a person such as myself, and when they say this I can practically taste their true meaning. The venom behind their soft words and thin smiles.
What is a soft noble boy like you doing here in Salvar? What do you want from our land?
I offer no answer. No real one, anyway. I am clad in an armor of lies. I am a historian, I tell them, and I have found a missing link to some old dead culture buried in the dirt near Armavir. Or I am a collector and a contact has uncovered a piece I have long searched for, to complete a set. None of these stories are real, although all contain a fragment of the truth, like vessels of pure water tainted by just a drop of blood.
To Wyrden I told the most. I am hunting a secret, I told him, that might free me of a terrible burden. I might have told him more, if I had not felt the otherworldly cold against my chest... the soft nibbling, like a babe sucking at its wetnurse’s breast. The elf understood discretion, unlike so many of the unruly sailors that plumbed the depths of my patience in search for the truth during those long evenings wasted in the tavern. I cared for them, nonetheless. They were all good men. I only hope that I have not doomed them with the unfortunate providence of my passing through their lives.
I wish to write of something else, but… I do not know if you are familiar with the countryside of Salvar. If so, you will know that there is not much to describe: snow and the distant jagged outlines of mountains. Infinite cold. Trees bare of branches whose skeletal arms reach vainly toward the sky. Silence, save for the small mutterings of we men who trudge our way across earth that begrudgingly allows us passage.
If the rumors that led me here have found ears in Radasanth such as mine, I have no doubt that in Salvar more than a few have heard what the wind whispers. A witch of great power, a true daughter of Podë, has come crawling out from beneath the ice, plotting who knows what. I have not cut the truth from this cloth, not yet. Her myth is bruised by tales of great evil and others of shocking humanity.
What I do know is that the Church can’t be far behind me. The Ethereal Sway are ruthless. Their infamy precedes them even in places as far away as home. I’m sure you know what they say. Witch hunters roaming the countryside, scouring the heresy from the earth itself. Entire villages have been put to the sword for harboring the child of a child of a warlock. Whole cultures are extinguished beneath the glare of the All-Seeing Eye. Looking out of the carriage I occasionally see the blasted ruin of a hamlet annihilated by the inquisition. That they wouldn’t have latched onto this heathen morsel, draining it like the vampires they so revile, is unthinkable.
So many intertwining threads. My life has become a spiderweb of nefarious plots and alien agendas. I twitch at the behest of fingers connected to a hand which might as well cup the world itself. Anywhere I look I struggle to see the same strings attached to my limbs, to know just who else might be a puppet in this sinister game.
Gods damn the cold. I would give anything to spend a night by the hearth with you, swapping stories and drinking unwatered wine. Even just to sit in silence and ponder the coals. A sleepless night, with your consent… I suffer troubling dreams. In the darkness images roll across my empty eyes, and I cannot always tell whether they are nightmares or if there is a whisper hiding somewhere in the sounds of twilight. I used to find great beauty in the stars when no clouds obscured them, but now I am afraid to look up for fear of what might lurch out from the inky void between them.
I shall speak of this no more. Soon I will arrive to Armavir. I shall try to send this letter as soon as possible, but it will take at least as long as my own journey to return to you. Perhaps I will wait, as our correspondence will be necessarily stilted. I would not leave you starved for details of my fate for months on end.
I’ll end the letter here for the moment. I hope to continue writing soon.
C.R.H. II
~*~
The setting sun washed the interior of the chapel in its warm orange glow. Behind the altar, Saint Denebriel’s wooden visage glowered down upon the assembly with eyes full of pious intensity. Constantine flinched beneath the weight of her legend, the glory of her faith. Subconsciously he fingered the hideous idol that hung from his neck. An instant later he cursed himself for offering anything resembling prayer to the monsters of the Fade.
He waited patiently among the church’s wooden pews, his belongings piled beside him. The elderly priest moved slowly around the hall’s perimeter, lighting in turn each of the torches ensconced in the old stone walls. Only when he had completed this duty did he turn to face Constantine, a smile creasing his weathered features. When he drew close, Constantine noticed that his eyes were the color of ice, and clouded as if the man were troubled by something.
The priest rested one gnarled but sturdy hand on the back of the pew as he approached. “Hail, o weary traveler. How may the Church guide you this night?” he said in Salvic, managing to make the gruff language seem elegant.
Constantine replied in his own accented dialect, “I have come seeking refuge from the cold, Father. A courier should have brought my letter to the steward of Armavir some weeks ago. I am Sarcellus Creed. I have come as a researcher and academic from Radasanth, seeking to study the ruins not far from Armavir. In pouring over a few ancient texts, I have discovered a potential link between them and a civilization predating the War of the Tap.”
“Oh, you!” the Father said, suddenly switching to his Common with startling fluency. He had no clear accent. “We’ve been expecting you. Lots of travelers in town of late. Why, you just missed a few witchhunters who are visiting Armavir to look into that dreaded witch nonsense. They’ve been around all the nearby villages of late, but praise Denebriel, all we’ve been wanting is some peace and quiet…”
Constantine listened politely to the priest’s rambling. “May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?” He too spoke in Common now.
“Father Iosif Vedenin, son. May the Sway guide your path.”
“Amen.” There was a brief silence between them. Iosif appeared lost in thought for a moment, then caught himself. “My apologies, dear child. I- I’ve things on my mind. The steward has had accommodations prepared for you. If you’ll be needing anything, the general store’s across the way from here on the other side of the plaza, and the Wailing Wench tavern flanks it.. If you’ll be needing any sellswords, that’s where you’ll find them. I’m sure your coin shall stir their passion for history with all due swiftness, God willing.”
“Of course. Might I ask, Father, where you learned to speak Common so well? I’m afraid I can’t profess to such a mastery of your own tongue.” For an instant the troubled look in Iosif’s eyes cleared, replaced by a glimmer of pride. Excellent. Even old men’s hearts could be tamed by plucking the same simple strings.
“I’ve a passion for the study of foreign languages, I must profess. Though it has not been my fortune to travel far since giving myself to the Sway and basking in the glory of Saint Denebriel, I have had the opportunity to speak to many travelers such as yourself on their pilgrimages from distant lands.”
“I share your passion, Father. Perhaps soon we might sit and discuss the matter over tea? I myself boast fluency only in Tradespeak and Alerian, and of course a rudimentary knowledge of Salvic.” He paused to rub his hands together and exhale. “In the meantime, however, I would deeply appreciate it if you could show me to the place I’ll be staying. I’m afraid the trip here has left me utterly exhausted.”
Iosif nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”
The house was a few blocks from the church. By then the plaza had been largely deserted, save a few early drunks their sober counterparts meandering their way over to the Wailing Wench. Constantine chanced a glance overhead to see the moon. It regarded them as impassively as stone, like the blind eye of an old titan. A dusting of stars littered the night sky, obscured here and there by the thin wisps of clouds and the plumes of smoke rising from hundreds of chimneys across Armavir. The town’s population was a good few thousand, and by and large the settlement flourished. Peering through the windows of several homes on the way to his new dwelling, Constantine noticed more than a few pleasantly plump families, despite the harsh environment.
They stopped near the town’s outskirts. Here Armavir’s prosperity subsided into comfortable squalor: not a slum like you’d find in Radasanth, populated by urchins and the living detritus of society’s dregs, but a place where you could expect to see a man hollow-eyed with hunger if you looked closely. Constantine grimaced, but he would at least not need to waste his gold on a small room in the inn. He’d need the space for his belongings.
As Father Iosif approached the door to his house, however, Constantine’s face betrayed his shock.
“I’m to stay here? In the house of a heathen?”
Iosif faced him, his expression darkening visibly. Then he turned away from the alleged historian. His hand gently brushed the symbol of the All-Seeing Eye that covered the door to the domicile in flaking white paint.
“Garrus Markov was… a troubled man. His death was a bitter reminder for the people of Armavir that the heathen is an ever-present threat, that even our neighbors can be tainted by its corruption. When I close my eyes, I still see him standing amidst the flames, watching us with naked hatred unlike anything I’d ever seen. Unlike the Garrus Markov I’d known for years and years.” He traced a cross before himself in the air. “May the Lady Denebriel save his holy soul.”
Constantine’s surprise faded into curiosity. He resolved to learn what he could of the man from what he had left behind, in his spare time. “I… see.”
“Well then, Sarcellus, I’ll leave you to settle yourself. Visit me in the church if you wish to discuss anything. You might pay the steward a visit, as well. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear you arrived safely. Oh, and I’d nearly forgotten, welcome to Armavir. May your stay be a prosperous one, and let the Sway guide you.”
“Thank you, Father. I hope to see you soon.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, the priest shuffled off. Constantine hauled his belongings inside the house, setting them beside the door, only to turn and nearly recoil in horror as his gaze met that of a specter staring at him from beyond the grave. A painting hung on the wall across from him of a woman, deathly pale. The painstaking attention to detail made the work transcend from art to a portal into another place and another time, where the woman breathed and hungered and dreamt like a living thing.
She regarded him with smoldering green eyes that were at once warm and cold, flirtatious and prudish. Her bitter smile and wild black hair suited her. She was terribly beautiful, though Constantine suspected the subject of the portrait had long aged to dust, measuring by the painting's withered texture. It appeared Garrus Markov was a collector of fine art, judging by the other similar works he discovered scattered throughout the house.
That night, as he sat by the hearth gently nursing a goblet of wine and returning to the labor of his letter, he couldn’t help but shudder beneath her gaze.
Leopold
03-04-14, 07:59 AM
A witch in the darkness is a demon in the heart they say. Salvar, of all places, is full of such demons. It is fortunate for many that its heart is all but spent, beating black ichor ‘stead of blood, lies instead of the truth of living.
- Sentara Liber, Witch of Antler
“I fucking hate this country,” spat a merchant and his manservant in unison.
Leopold Winchester and Wilfred, the butler-of-sorts stared at one another. In a time-honoured tradition of friends’ bonds in-awkward-situations histories old, they broke into laughter after many awkward minutes. The merchant tidied himself up after their long journey and combed back his hair with a whalebone edifice to his wife’s insistence on pristine business.
“The people are more the problem,” Wilfred conceded. He drove his hands into his fur-lined pockets and tensed his buttocks in the bitter chill winds of the late night. Pointing ahead, he clarified further. “Especially those sort of people.”
At the end of the once-muddied, now glacial street, there was a break out. Township gave way to rural idyll, and then to the frontier of a newly rebuilt home-come ruin. There, or so ‘father’ said, rested a curious individual. It was not often Leopold roused from the pursuits of his mercantile fascinations. First light today however was an exception. Strangers seldom spoke freely of the War of the Tap, especially in Salvar.
“It looks deserted.” Leopold said flatly. His discontent was less to do with their environment, and more to do with the prospect of confrontation. Fighting sober was not a courteous pursuit. “Let’s come back in the m-” he stopped mid-sentence, mouth wide open, letting in the winter.
Wilfred trudged ahead, hobnails smashing down the frozen earth and scuffing little trails of progression over the religious backwater of their enemy’s homeland. Without the need to speak, the man’s haggard expression as he took matters into his own hands told Leopold no, they would not come back in the morning.
“-or let’s wake the poor fellow up from his bedchamber with twenty questions and stinking feet.”
Darkness purveyed their continued journey. Armavir was as deathly silent as a mausoleum forgotten in the peaks of Berevar’s most abyssal heart. Leopold pictured withered husks of midwives and battered skulls of anglers lying on wooden floors and cobwebbed beds. Nobody, even with candles dancing phantasmal in windows, appeared to be alive. Something scared them, mayhap. Something broke their will and locked them with fear behind doors and trestles.
“Given your proclivity to drink, sleep through most mornings, and blame me for the comeuppance of late sir, no. No, we will not wait until morning.” Wilfred’s authoritarian tone brought a smile to Leopold’s face.
“Good to see you finding your feet, Wilfred.” Leopold was starting to regret giving the man a healthy raise and more responsibilities after the Winchester Rose vs. Vorgruk Stokes incident. Then again, the manservant had saved his life again and most of Knife’s Edge to boot.
Wilfred chuckled, stopped, and turned. At the verge of the property, he took the time to elaborate further on his sudden desire to get things done. His overcoat now whitened by the light flecks of snow, as though celestial dandruff had marred his otherwise elegantly dishevelled attempts at professionalism.
“I am not finding my feet sir. I am finding you yours. You want to find the underlying cause of witches, warlocks, and wayward wonderers, right. Right. You want to make sure nobody puts back your plan to bring your family back right. Right.” Wilfred grit his teeth. “We are going to knock on the door. Talk. Bribe. Kill if needs be, and then be on our way to whatever turns out to be the next phase-in-this-plan-of-failure.”
Leopold baulked. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively, ruffled his hair free of snowflakes – teetered back and forth. A howl of wind, unexpected like an old friend, whipped across their bow. He shuddered.
“Take the lead, Mr Johnston.”
Wilfred, without hesitation, trundled across the garden, haunted by artistic echoes, and clambered up the step. Three knocks. Three more. A step back. Waiting for the unexpected. The wind howled again, and for a moment, Leopold was certain it sounded distinctly like a woman’s carnal cry. He shook his head, snivelled, and turned his attentions to being an old-god in a new-god world.
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