Bloodwalk

Morgy

Panting, Morgy

Morgy

"Ah, then she has rested. Good. Matters are grim enough without having to worry about her judgment." Khaemil turned away from Talmen, facing the wall, smiling and shaking his head. "Did you honestly think you would come to this point and not have your precious life threatened by some enemy? Or would you prefer that we choose a more fitting location for your Order, some place uninhabited and far away, perhaps?" "I am no coward, shapechanger. My only fear is that our ambitions may exceed our ability. We have traveled across half of Faer?n, growing in numbers but dwindling in prospects. Any reservations I have concerning this one are well founded, I assure you." Khaemil smirked and looked sidelong at Talmen. "Your doubts will mark you, human. Leave them behind when we march or they will pierce your flesh and put your body in the grave where your mind already rests." He looked back to the tower's entrance as Morgy

Despite the lingering distress of her nightmare, she was confident in her bearing. Talmen and Khaemil parted as she neared and passed between them. Her hands slowly left her aching head. Stretching her neck in a spasm that helped to separate physical action and wild emotion, she opened her eyes and beheld the monstrous troops that lay waiting on the field of stone. Although few in number compared to the garrison she hoped to command one day, the nature of the minions would be both horrific and daunting to any enemy. "I commend you, Malefactor. Your wizards and priests have done well." She favored him with a look over her shoulder. "The malebranche will be interesting to observe in battle. What little there may be." Talmen bowed. Morgy

"Go. Take your place and gather them. Our path will be prepared shortly." "Yes, my Lady." Talmen walked swiftly toward the forest's edge. He showed no emotions, but she felt him tremble beneath his mask as he stared into the trees and gripped the scar seared on his arm.

Khaemil's words still echoed in his mind, and Talmen endeavored to bolster his feelings to match his show of courage. She left his mind then, confident that his fear of her was greater than his fear of death. "I wager he will soil himself if the oracles have a guard posted at the gate, my lady," the shadurakul said over the droning work of the wizard-priests around the tower. The humor in Khaemil's jest was not lost on her, but her mind was elsewhere as she sca

Sodden grass lay bent and broken across the western edge of the Reach in the wake of the heavy rain still moving southward along the Qurth's border. In the midst of the swamped plain, a solitary figure paused in her travels and gathered the ingredients of traditional magic. The ancient language of the Ghedia, the grass witches of the Shaar, sang in the air. Mud sucked at the Ghedia's bare feet as she circled a pot of boiling water. Floating reeds churned and tumbled on its surface. Her loose clothing rippled in the wind and beaded bracelets dangled from her wrists, clicking like tiny wind chimes as she waved her arms and hummed, working the old magic of the Shaar. As she hummed, she traced a stick through the mud every so often, writing down what she saw in the boiling pot. Her deep voice continued the casting song of her ancestors, but her mood grew grim as understanding dawned on her. Her Ghedia sisters had already moved on, wandering the troubled grasslands of the Reach seeking answers and signs, protecting anything sacred as well as the ancestral ground of the Shaaryans.