Brackish Morass

[K-Zu-Ziro]

(Open to all, feel free to take on one of the anonymous roles or do something completely different. Jump in, do whatever, no rules! Just have fun.)

The brackish morass surrounding Etheria Port proved difficult terrain for a trio of anonymous passengers. Entering the mangrove at sundown had been met with the protestation of their beasts of burden. Animals knew better than greedy men. Their lonesome stagecoach struggled through the mire, haunted by the sodden souls of a thousand years. Pulling ahead, unnerved by the night's pitch, the draught horses stamped their hooves into each sinking puddle; their desperation to escape the salty swamp alerted those within the wagon of the animal's innate sense of danger. Blood thirst was all around them, the spectre of horror became to them the tangible deity of death, and it was watching their struggle with delight. It was waiting for the right moment to emerge from the contorted faces carved in the thick wall of trees lining their only road into the sanctuary of Etheria.

Around a bend they caught sight of a single house, catfish eating locals had long since abandoned their home to the damp grip of the marshlands. At its front they could see an open space where a door had been unscrewed from its hinges and taken away. Without light what lay inside appeared all in black—an all consuming shadow. The shutters were nailed closed, but the fixings were failing to the rusty red of oxidation. One window was open though, it faced them as they approached and showed its tattered curtains swaying with the dying motion of a sickly girl in a floral dress, but it was just the breeze. So they swore, it was just the breeze. The roof's beams had given in to the rot and left everything musty and damp. Leaning against an obtuse trunk was a set of gardening tools; a pitchfork, an angular spade and a hoe. They stood out, a mismatch to the home's decay. The trunk they were set against was a weeping willow, planted for the sorrow of a mother's stillborn.

On the willow's main bough, K-Zu-Ziro crouched, the creature was the monster in the nightmare made real. Spindly and harsh, its long limbs were bent tightly against each other, its long neck was held short with its head tucked against its shoulders. The absorbing black of the insectoid's exoskeleton was contrasted by the glossy reflection of its bulging bug eyes. It was invisible in the dark, it was motionless, its mandibles began to drip with anticipation at the thought of the victims within the approaching carriage.

[Rayleigh]

Slowly, her eyes opened. It took a few seconds for the heavy fog of sleep to clear, but when it did, a second pair of eyes gazed back at her, only inches away.

"Gods!" Rayleigh cried out, a shot of adrenaline pulsing through her as she comprehended her situation. Her small arms thrust outward, palms meeting the sturdy tree-trunk that was the man's torso. Despite her protests, and the force with which she flailed, he did not budge. Instead, it was the girl that ended up scooting to the other side of the cramped stagecoach.

William's response showed no concern for her outburst. Rather, both his tone and his blue-gray eyes danced with amusement. "You were moaning in your sleep," he commented with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders. "I wanted to make sure that you were alright."

Equal parts embarrassment and bridled anger colored her freckled cheeks. "You are terrible," countered the girl. "Terrible, perverted, and generally miserable to be around."

Her companion was no longer able to suppress his amusement. As a grin split his thin lips, he replied simply, "and isn't that why you keep me around?"

As was the case most days, Ray found herself falling victim to the man's charm. His good natured responses were the perfect antidote to her short fuse and roaring temper, though she would go on acting as if that were not the case. Of course, one did not need to be a mage like William to see through her facade. "You're an idiot," came her eventual response, her eyes as hard as the emeralds they resembled. William's smile only grew. "Why are you in here anyway?" she continued, dropping the act long enough to ask a genuine question. "You normally ride up with Lu when I'm sleeping." Louise, the woman Rayleigh spoke of, was the stagecoach's driver. With her team of horses, her quick wit, and her eagerness for adventure, she and the mechanic had become fast friends.

"Lu sent me back inside," William answered. "Said that it was getting hairy out there, and that she did would rather not have to worry about me and the horses." He scrunched his large nose, adding, "as if I am some sort of liability or something."

The brunette woman frowned. "How long ago was that?"

"I don't know. Half an hour?"

"And you didn't think to wake me up?"

He cocked one bushy eyebrow. "But you were having such pleasurable dreams."

Her mouth opened, undoubtedly to release a string of the most un-ladylike words she could think of, but the sudden, violent halting of the stagecoach kept her from doing so. There was a series of creaks and groans, and then the coach was still. Louise had climbed down from her post. They were still hours from their destination. Something was wrong. In a haphazard tumble of arms and legs, the tall, lanky William unfurled himself from his seat, opened the door, and was swallowed by the evening's dying light. Rayleigh scurried after him.

As she took her first steps, the girl was bombarded by unknown scents, sights, and sounds. The cold air carried a strange, suffocating dampness that hung heavy around her, causing her to take deeper breaths than necessary to compensate. Goosebumps raced up and down her bare arms, but she was unsure of whether it was the temperature or the unease that prompted them. Without even attempting to hide her discomfort, she hurried to where William and Louise were gathered. The blonde woman, slightly older and far taller than Rayleigh, was hunched over her black gelding's left rear hoof.

"Alder's thrown a shoe," she reported solemnly.

The nervous edge in her tone was not lost on Ray. "What does that mean?" the mechanic asked warily.

"Means her shoe is gone. These swamps sucked it right off." Lu sighed, releasing the hoof to land a few heavy pats on the Standardbred's muscular hind-end. "We can go on without it for a while, but there are a few stray nails that I need to pull first."

"Would you mind hurrying?" William's deep voice came from behind them. Both women turned to face him as he confessed, "I don't like this place much."

Somehow, Rayleigh had managed to miss the house entirely when she first exited the coach. But now, as her gaze followed the man's outstretched finger, her breath caught in her throat. The hulking mass sat atop a nearby hill, looming high over the threesome that could only gawk at its size and state of disrepair. Had the house not been so alive, she might have mistaken it for a macabre scene from some twisted artist's canvas. The low whisper of the wind whipping through the empty halls reached her ears, and the torn and tattered curtains beckoned from every exposed window. Look at me, the house urged. Look at what I have become. It was beautiful, and tragic, and Rayleigh found that she could not tear her gaze free of it.

"Gods," she said once more.

[Logan]

"So's I tell's him," said the rotund hackneyed looking fellow, "'the junk in her trunk is bunk!'"

All of the carriage-dwellers save one, the psion, erupted into laughter. He sat there with his head in his hands deriding himself for such a stupid decision.

"Oh Henry, you didn't! I mean, you couldn't," replied the gap-toothed, curvy lady next to Logan as her hand slapped down on his leg.

"Hey, careful," the psion shouted.

The woman smirked, "If you want, Logan, I'll be more than happy to kiss it and make it feel better."

The roll of the eyes nearly sent the entire carriage tumbling, or was that a bump in the dirt road? Either way, the riders tumbled to and fro, with only Logan maintaining his position on the bench. The other lady, fiery red hair and thinner, almost boyish features, landed on his lap.

"Oh my. Excuse me, Mr. McCloud. I did not realize you were packing," she said as she wiggled in a fit of laughter, which also sent the remainder of the carriage into their own fits, except Logan who was rather stoic and unimpressed. The psion helped her off his lap and onto the bench. He ran his hand through his hair as he tried to go over the plan in his mind.

"So let's go over this plan again, as it seems I am the only one paying attention at this point."

The laughter within the carriage died down as the others of the group found their individual seats.

Logan pointed to the curvier of the two ladies, "So Mary, you're pegged as the diversion. You're entire responsibility is to keep everyone else distracted long enough for the rest of us to get in and look around."

Mary nodded quietly.

"Flash'em the ol' twins and let'em have a taste of my," she ran her hands along her curves, "feminine wiles." She winked at Logan, "Got it."

The psion worked hard to hide his frustrations as he turned to the rotund man across from him.

"Henry, you're the brawn. You're entire job is to make sure anyone who comes at the rest of us finds a quick exit back the other way."

The rotund, jovial man chuckled as he popped his knuckles. "Bust'em upside's the head a few times. Got's it."

Logan then turned his attention to the tomboyish redhead and the other man in the carriage. "Thomas and Angeline, you both are with me. The three of us are going to find the piece."

Angeline, the redhead, grinned ridiculously, "You sure you want to bring Thomas along? I wouldn't mind a little alone time with you, psychic."

Thomas, a man in his late 20's with dark black hair slicked back with an unknown substance, scoffed haughtily, "You know damn well Logan can't hold a candle to ol' Tommy."

The group, save Logan again, burst out in more laughter. The psion lowered his head into his hands once more. After a few moments of inwardly debating calling the whole job off, the carriage came to a stop.

"Are we here," the psion asked as he raised his head and peered out the small window.

The rest of the group shuffled over to his side of the carriage, which sent it leaning to the one side and eventually tumbling over. By the time it finished tumbling repeatedly along its side, the carriage door swung open and the entire group, including Logan this time, fell out into the mud and grime below. Lucky for all of them except the psion, the muck did not seem to effect their high spirits or their attire.

Logan took a deep breath as he stood and shook himself as clean as he could.

"I don't think this is our destination, Mr. McCloud," Angeline said as she scooted up next to him.

Logan looked down, "Get up off the ground. You look ridiculous, Angeline."

Her green eyes glinted as she giggled up at him before eventually hopping to her feet.

"You're right, though, this isn't our destination," Thomas said as he looked around and then at a dent in one of the carriage wheels and a crack in the wooden axle. "But it looks like we won't be making it there anytime soon anyways."

Logan scanned the surroundings and settled upon another carriage about fifty yards away, which also appeared mired in the muck and grime of the unbeaten path.

"We aren't the only ones," he said as he pointed to the broken carriage in the distance.

Mary smirked, "Good, the twins are feeling a bit stuffy. They ain't used to being jailed up for so long."

Logan shook his head and tried, once more, to hide his extreme frustration at the insanity setting in from the group's laid back attitude about the job and life in general.

Thomas pointed off at a manor just past the carriage.

"I'll bet gold to platinum, whoever was in that carriage went up there."

Logan nodded. It was their best bet.

"Alright, let's head up there. If anybody is there, you let me do the talking unless I say otherwise. Got it?"

The four others nodded.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Time and again, a reason to abandon the house became clear to each and every occupant.

“Lately, I've been losing all my time,” layered dust notwithstanding, the mirror denied her a reflection. Trapped and insistent, “lately, I've been losing all my time!” in life her spouse dismissed her to be ridden with anxiety. “Take me into the city, we've got to see the midwife” those words bore their consequence into an immortal lament. For him, a brutal oppressor, eventual death came in the relief of genuine expiration, nothingness. For her, premature death made perpetual her persecution. And so the salty woods became possessed with her anguish. Widow's Trail moaned a dreadful whisper in the ears of those unlucky enough to travel its mile by night. Flora twisted from the roots to the fruits, gnarled and rotten, but growing with the strangling vigour of her ire. Fauna came as a choir to her vigil, toothy possums piled their corpses face down at the base of the waterlogged willow, they drowned in the anaerobic mud. Mother's ghost governed the sacrifice, compelling all to make a tribute of their lives, resting over the worm wrapped bones of her little one's life unlived.

The ghost felt outsiders cross the threshold into her domain. From the idle insanity of swearing her existence into a contrary mirror, her invisible presence left her bedroom and went to observe the struggling horses plough through the sinking terrain. “Pardon me,” nobody could hear the words, “but could you take me with you?” she begged with polite desperation. Death rendered her words mute, at best they were a rash of goosebumps. Melancholy grew into frantic grief, her face appeared in the reflection of Alder's panicked eye. She smiled, vindicated, the trail's curse had taken the horse's shoe.

If the living could see the dead, they would see a grim parade. Death itself smiled at the mother as she carried her laden abdomen up the trail towards the second carriage, behind her were the fading outlines of every man, woman and child who had perished to the trail's curse. Mother's curse. Their march flanked Logan's wagon at the very moment it tipped. She wanted them to peer into the mire, to bear witness to her woe. Hitting the mud awoke a colony of sleeping crabs, they buried themselves in the salt marsh's mud in great numbers. Their pincers snapped and fiddled while making for the safety of the mangrove waters.

K-Zu-Ziro turned its head, the willow's resident gargoyle came to life. Like the mother's spirit, Ziro leered with satisfaction at the predicaments of both parties. Unknown to the carnivorous insectoid, its mild form of telepathy had made it particularly susceptible to the unseen energies along Widower's Trail. A murderous beast would be a worthy soldier to satisfy the marsh's lust for souls. “Can we possibly avoid murder this evening, old bean,” Mux Drik, the voice inside K-Zu-Ziro's head, made a reasonable request tempered by the anxious mood. At one point Drik had been a living man, a human diplomat. K-Zu-Ziro took Mux's head, removed his brain, placed his victim's brain alongside its own brain. Doing so allowed Ziro to take Mux Drik's mind prisoner. Increasingly, they operated as a pair. Nevertheless, the request went ignored and the predator readied itself in the blackness, poised for an ambush.

A light came on in the house.