The Fenstalker limped into Tree-Town’s meager harbor, far worse for the last week’s storms, the hearts of all aboard, myself, companions, and crew, all still shaken by the sight early in the week of Zolos, colossal beyond imagining, reaching up from the Bore toward the grey storming sky, an unmoving figure of black borne up on an island-sized nest of writing tentacles, each monstrous in its own right. That we all saw it says one of two things. Either Zolos’s influence is so strong now it can reach into the mundane world or the crew of the Fenstalker have been long enough in the presence of Ankaran and Zolosian influences that they are touched by the Cyclical powers. I fear both possibilities, the first for this world, the second for these good men and women. It is an ill reward for their bravery, loyalty and skill that they be drawn into terrors such as this.
The ‘Stalker also rode low because she sailed heavy-laden. Knowing the possible limits of Tree-Town’s supplies, even after a year free of the terrible Brides, we carried our own season’s supplies as well as more we might share or, if Aillie, a Silverhill to her core even if she refused use of the name, might sell. Iron stock, casks of spirits, and cloth ranging from common to moderately-fine filled the holds, kept mostly secure and dry despite the foul weather by dint of constant effort.
We had more preparation from the advice of Dama
Kaela’s most unusual mentor, a dwarven priestess introduced to us with an impossibly long array of titles. “Her Glorious Magnificence, She-Whom-Dwelt-Beneath-The-Earth-And-Above-It, Lady of the Arcane Mendings, Keeper of the Wizard Word, Once-Princess Enrathi”. Did all dwarf-folk use such well-crafted names, matching to their legendary well crafted arms, armor, and cities? She had many questions and warnings for us, such as why we lived in islands that were cursed, driving out all her folk long ago, and why
Kaela had not returned to her tapestry (by which she apparently monitored her student). But when I asked of my one mystery, she said and Earth-oracle was the wrong choice to learn of the Wavestrider’s Cloak of Waters. Water or Fire would be closer attuned to that item, if item it even was, as it might be simply an aspect of Kael Wavestrider’s power. But I knew nothing of that from the mantel of the Wavestrider that had touched me, so perhaps it was a secret for which I was not yet prepared. We took her words somberly, and readied our way North with them fresh in mind.
Entering a harbor low, fat and ill-rigged would normally raise alarm, but in distant Tree-Town, and ship not flying the Spear was like to bring welcome new goods, and the Fenstalker was known. Mattau Stone led a welcoming band, both to greet and to help us tie up to their much improved but still rough harbor, though there were many slips available as few had chosen to winter here. We were laden too low to come into dock, so mored out a ways and set to longboats into shore. Unloading would be considerable work, at least until the load lightened enough to tie to a proper dock.
We were greeted with insisted offerings of mead and honeyed water, even though we were familiar folk, mostly. They kept care here, after the terror too recently lifted. They seemed surprised we had come, as neither Dama nor Lord had given them word, though I was certain the former knew we we close and the later likely as well, as I had told one in letters and Dama
Kaela probably the other by her magics. But we were welcome enough, as expected, and led to the Inn, now signed as the ‘Only Inn’, a claim it would not have for long if Tree-Town continued to grow as it had this year. Palisades protected much of the town, new buildings of stone and imperfect wood – the better went to ships whose ribs could be seen rising across the harbor – with healthy greenspace around to make for a friendly, comfortable space, not so cramped as most cities nor as poor-made as too many towns. I stole a look across the harbor toward the fishers, but misty clouds kept me from seeing its state clearly. But I could see that bridges now crossed the river, joining the settlement to the neighboring works and fishertown, and that the once-neglected stumpfields nearby had been cleared and replanted with some care.
Dama
Kaela sent word she would dine with her father this evening, but I chose not to wait and headed to the new-built chapel. I was greeted there by a terribly young acolyte, not a local, I thought, because I must have met them all over the last winter. Would Magret bring such a one this long way? But no, not Magret as such, but rather her duty to her Lady. For that, I think she would travel to the ends of the world, and this was near enough there for most, and bring whoever she was told.
She seemed over-awed by something about me, like as not exaggerations and tales she’d heard, because my cloak and hat were in no state to impress anyone. But she said the Dama and the rest were ‘up the graveyard’ and sent me off with a blessing.
I found them quickly enough, hearing them first as forcefully stated prayers carried in the chill air. The burial-field had been surrounded by stone walls and a gate since last winter, and enlarged some as well. From inside were flashes of holy light and calm but firm instructions to watch the gate and anoint each carefully before stacking. Indeed, I could see from without, Magret with her left hand in mithril twin to that on my own right somehow even though the sizes were distinct, led hers in cleaning up after a couple hands of zombies.
“Too late to be of assistance then, am I?” I asked from just outside the gate, winning a smile from the young Dama and surprise from the others. She set them to assembling a small pyre, grim work though she and several of hers stole brief glances my way until it was done and they sent back to chapel and we to the Headsman’s to report.
Along the way, she offered return of my gauntlet, and I again said I’d never ask her for such. Let it protect her in her holy work rather than obstruct my spell-casting. She frowned a little at the mention of work, saying the local graves were not restful, and the risen seemed even to outnumber the dead buried within, somehow.
She made report, then accompanied me back to the Only Inn to greet the rest of my company. Dama
Kaela was graciously friendly to the younger priestess, even as she made her way out to dinner at the newbuild keep with her father. Aillie looked from Dama Magret to me and back with an expression I cannot name, but that promised some sort of mischief I’m certain she would consider ‘helpful’ toward some purpose or other.
Yvor had gathered a small number of local youths, with young Thom having made himself their spokesman. The summer had been good to the boy, filling out his hungry look from the past winter, and he seemed keen to have his little band trained to bow-crafting and archery, and thought the sharp-eyed watchman a good teacher. With a nod from Jokhula, Yvor agreed, which I’m certain will keep him well occupied for the winter to come. And the local would-be toughs better disciplined than I think they expected.
Conversation turned to a newcomer to town this year, a Greenman named Kieran Shepherd. It was he who had insisted on the clearing of stumps and wide-spaced buildings. Magret said she had not yet had opportunity to compare family trees with her likely distant cousin, but that he had settled out near where the river split and had done the growing settlement much good.
Dama
Kaela returned late after dinner with her father, reporting all reasonably well, though several matters still promised hints of trouble. Those, we might face come morning. Reluctantly, I let Dama Magret return to her own duties and settled in for the night.
The next day, over dark bread served with understandably generous dollops of honey, we decided the undead were our first worry, as Lord Dunleavy had expressed worries of these to his daughter as well. In a chill, damp rain, we returned to the graveyard and searched it, both physically and magically, and found the subtle but undeniable center of the effect. Under cover of damp leaves and broken twigs, a single hoofprint was burned dark into the earth, and from it radiated necromantic magic. Demonic in aspect, but unfamiliar… It was not the foul thing that had bound the fisher-folk, nor immediately clear as anything once held in the nearby prison. But it was not of this world, and so it could be bound. Jokhula worked the basics of a circle to protect the rest of the graveyard from this evil. It would not last long, but perhaps might give Dama Magret an hers a night or two of proper rest, mayhap even a week. And more if we could find the source of this.
Yvor led our tracking, aided by Jokhula’s arial guide. Single hoofprints, widespread as if striding or bounding impossibly far, on rooftop and rock, coming from across the river and into the wild wood.
Or, not quite so wild, as they led us to a log-framed mouth into a deep, dark opening into the earth.
