[Mkguild] Cycle of Journeys - Requiem of Vengeance (1 of 4)

[Ryx]

Written rather long ago, but never posted.
I really do need to go back through all of my writing and see what's made the 
list and not... *heh*

Without further ado,
Ryx.
---<<>>---


Metamor Keep
Cycle of Journeys
Late May, 707cr
 
Requiem of Vengeance
 
                His trials were many and sometimes painful, Vinsah cum Elvmere 
considered with a wince as he took another step.  His quest, his pilgrimage, 
both one and the same, was duly made afoot as She, his Mistress, had bade him.  
A bright, shining angel in his dreams, she had given him his nom de guerre, 
presented him his mask long before he had been graced with the black mask of a 
raccoon, and even put him upon the holy journey he found himself making, paw 
after sore paw upon the long road from Metamor, his new home, to Yesulam, his 
old.
                Yet there were times he truly regretted her geas that, upon the 
track of his journey, he not ride horse nor carriage nor cart but bore himself 
on his own two paws.  Now was one such time of painful regret.  An hour before 
he had trod upon one of those long, distressingly sharp thorns that unlucky 
travelers are wont to find with their feet while out walking.  It had pierced 
the stout leather of the simple sandals he wore and sunk deep into one of the 
likewise travel-toughened paw pads with sudden, sharp agony.  Malger, the 
lecherous minstrel who served as guide and master to Vinsah’s guise of 
apprentice minstrel, had called it the Thorn of the Accursed, or Torturer, tree 
as he removed it.  None of them knew the name sages or herbalists gave it, but 
Malger’s title was apt enough.  The puncture did not bleed, or swell overmuch, 
as it was not deep, but it made continued walking extremely painful.
                But he did continue, in dogged perseverance to his quest and Her 
geas, on foot.  Only one summer ago, only a mere six months ago, he would not 
have been able to take another step.  Soft, he had been, pampered by his place 
and power.  Now, no longer Bishop, nor Patriarch’s right hand, nor even fully 
human despite the illusion disguising him, he had toughened up like the pads of 
his pained paws.  And so he continued.  For Her, his enigmatic dreamtime 
apparition, and Hum, Eli, whose holy house Vinsah feared was in a truly sad 
condition following Akabieth’s assassination.
                For Her, but who or what was she to receive his adoration and 
almost-worship?  An angel, one of Eli’s servants sent to guide him from his 
despair after his friend and mentor’s untimely death?  She had come to him 
before that event, she had revealed his mask and name weeks before the disaster 
that trapped him at Metamor, turning him from elderly, balding Bishop Vinsah to 
the much younger, furred creature he was now.  A raccoon.
                Egland had not received any such dream guardians or prophecies, 
so he explained when Vinsah asked him through oblique conversation.  Poor 
tortured Bryonoth, now a woman, had stalwartly refused to speak of her dreams.  
Thinking of Egland, and what he had learned of the once quiet, taciturn Knight, 
Vinsah found himself looking toward Malger who walked alongside his mount a 
short distance ahead, talking quietly to Murikeer.  The illusion guised pine 
marten was a freely admitted hedonist with no regard as to the gender of his 
paramours.  He had taken Egland under his wing for a time, ostensibly to help 
him learn anew how to play his viola with the changed hands his manifestation of 
the curse had given him.  But what else, Vinsah mused disturbingly, had they 
shared?
                Malger, that confounding and shockingly blasphemous (at least 
from Vinsah’s Paltidor viewpoint) creature, who journeyed with him despite 
having such radically different ideology, who owed heart and soul to his own 
dream mistress, Nocturna.  Was that Vinsah’s dream guardian, something not 
entirely of Eli’s providence, if at all?
                Something else, even?
                He remembered that he had asked once, but he could not precisely 
recall when.  Time, or his perception of it, was mutable in his dreams of Her.  
His first question, some short time after she had first revealed herself to him, 
had been, “Are you an angel?”  She offered only a calm negative shake of her 
head then, and a brief answer.
                “Ah’wei.” She had said.  I Am.  Nothing more, no elucidation 
upon that simple statement, leaving him reeling and confused, lost and not 
understanding what she meant.  She Was, but what then was she?
                Much later he had asked anew, “Are you a being of the Pantheon, 
of the Lightbringers?” Diffidently he had faced her, fearing an answer that 
might shake the very foundations of his Faith.  “Are you Nocturna?”  A goddess 
of dreams, nightmares, and omens.  An apt simile, once he had learned more of 
what Nocturna’s ethos was from the jocular Malger Sutt.  She had offered 
laughter at that question, but not condescending in its tone or regard, and a 
shake of her head.  A sense that he was a child again, having asked an adult a 
particularly exasperating question.
                And once more, her answer.  “Ah’wei.” I Am.
                That simple statement of its own, without admission of being 
Angel or Daedra, had still given Vinsah’s lifelong faith a solid shake.
                Ah’wei, an ancient phrase in the language of the Sondesh.  When 
Muhaam had climbed the lost mountain of fire, Dai’shul, and witnessed the veiled 
presence of Eli he had asked, Who are you?  What are you?  He had received only 
that answer; I Am. Ah’wei.  And nothing more.
                When Muhaam led the freed slaves of Sondesh into their exile 
across the sea they had adopted a new tongue, divesting themselves of any 
lingering traces of their oppressors in all but the oldest of texts and 
histories.  In that new tongue His proclamation Ah’wei became El’ai, eventually 
Eli. Only in the Cantacle of Exiles, and then only in the most ancient of 
archival texts, was Ah’wei still penned.
                And She Was, yet there was nothing about her that gave him a 
sense of Eli’s indwelling aura.  She Was, but altogether different from his 
presence, yet Vinsah felt no conflict of faith, for Eli was still the center of 
his Faith and belief, a Faith she never questioned, countered, or gainsaid.
                “Ah, you are in luck my good apprentice.” Malger called out, 
distracting Vinsah from his thoughts and pain.  He limped to a halt and the 
dapple gray mare, Hedda, carrying their supplies drew up to a stop with her nose 
at the back of his neck.  “Our travels for the day will be shorter.”  With one 
hand he beckoned Vinsah forward as he and Murikeer turned to look ahead down the 
trade road once again.  Favoring his pained paw he strode forward until he stood 
between them.
                A short distance ahead the forest opened into a broad clearing 
and on the far side Vinsah saw three huge, gaily painted wagons.  One was in the 
process of unhitching its team of eight huge cart horses as they watched.  “A 
traveling carnival?” he asked as he lifted his sore paw and rubbed the pad with 
his fingers.
                “A menagerie, by the looks.” Malger said as he resumed walking.  
“I’m sure they won’t mind some company on the road for a night.  We’re not, 
after all, murderers and highwaymen.”  Murikeer kept pace, the reins of his 
black mare loosely draped over his shoulder.  Vinsah rearranged his sandal and 
limped along with them, three horses jostling together in their wake.  “A warm 
fire, decent food we won’t have to hunt, skin, or cook, and some news about the 
south road will do us quite well for a night.”
                “For the price of a song.” Murikeer quipped humorously.  Vinsah 
felt the illusion-clad youth’s unseen tail brush his arm and paid it no heed.  
They had all, to include the horses, grown quite used to the occasional 
invisible touch of a tail when they walked close together.
                “Ah, many of them, don’t you doubt.” Malger laughed as they 
crossed from the forest shadows and into the slanting sunshine of mid 
afternoon.  They were half way across the glade before one of the wagon tenders 
noticed them.  After a few moments of study the man gave a short whistle and 
returned to his work.
                Marvelous Maxamillian’s Magical Menagerie of Magnificent 
Monsters was painted in brilliant blue lettering across a field of yellow 
scrollwork.  All around it were depictions of rare and fantastic beasts and 
Vinsah noticed that no few of them had the appearance of humanoid traits.  A 
bipedal fox, a bear wearing glasses and holding a great book, a striped horse 
holding a violin and dressed in dancing veils.  He noticed Murikeer’s long look 
at the paintings as well while Malger’s attention was taken by two armed and 
armoured men who appeared between the wagons.  One, a young muscular man, 
carried a spear with a long, tapered blade almost as long as the shaft itself.  
The clean, polished metal gleamed brightly in the sunlight.  The other, older 
and black bearded, held a sword in his beefy hand, its well honed edge gleaming 
as brightly as the spear.
                “Is the hospitality of the road so far gone?”  Malger asked 
pleasantly with a nod of greetings and a pointed stare at the sword.  “We’re but 
weary travelers on our way to Silvassa, and the Festival of Song.  Malger, I am, 
and these two louts are my apprentices, Elvmere and Murikeer.”
                The swordsman sheathed his sword with an efficient motion and 
shrugged.  “Lotta strife in the air, minstrel, talk o’ war and bloody raiders 
across from Pyralia.” Beside him the youthful spearman couched his lance skyward 
as the trio drew nearer.  “Yer boy has the look o’ a Yesul.”  Dark, heavy browed 
eyes glanced toward Vinsah from a face masked by a heavy, though neatly trimmed, 
black beard.
                “Indeed he does, soldier, an exotic face to draw the rubes.  
Parents were merchant types from some city named Abeef in the Holy Land.  They 
were put up in some dandy fine homes in the trade district of Isenport, but fell 
down on their prosperity and now you see where their heir ends up.”  Malger 
explained as he stopped before the two guards.
                “Abaef.” Vinsah supplied blandly.
                “Ah, you see?  Strange tongue, those Yesulites, very strange.  
Now, the one-eyed lad’s all Midland stock, from up north.  He were an apprentice 
mage ‘til he drunk himself out of grace with his sorcerous master.” Malger 
snorted derisively.  “And now I’ve got him, just so long as I can keep him 
sober.”
                The older guard grunted.  Turning, he led them between the 
wagons.  “Scars on ‘is face’r pretty fresh.  Old master take a bit o’ justice 
from his drunken arse?”
                Malger carefully lead his mount over and around the tangle of 
guy ropes and wagon yokes while the spearman fell in behind them. “Oh, no, that 
he lost killing the man who murdered his intended.”
                “To bad fer ‘im.  ‘Orses’r picketed over there under the trees 
if ye care t’ mix yers int’ the lot.  Keeps ‘em upwind ‘r they’re like to spook 
at wot they smell or ‘ear.  Lot o’ strange noises’n smells comin’ from the 
beasts ‘ere.”  Indeed, the redolent reek of caged animals was sufficiently 
potent to cause their noses to wrinkle and whiskers to lie flat as they passed 
between the wagons and across the center of the circle they made.  The guard 
smacked the side of one wagon as they passed and a growling moan responded from 
the other side.  A wooden awning was lowered down on the side of the wagon, 
denying them a view of the beast within.
                There were thirteen wagons in all, nine which held the creatures 
of the menagerie, two carrying supplies and pavilions, and one for the master of 
the show, Maxamillian.  The guard led them between two more wagons on the far 
side of the circle and once more into the forest.  Another camp was being 
erected in the shadows of the trees, consisting of the common laborers of the 
troupe.  Soldiers, wagon tenders, grooms, and the half hundred other laborers of 
the menagerie were gathered there tending to the needs of the wagons, horses, 
men, and yet to be seen beasts.
                After seeing the various artistic depictions of strange beasts 
Vinsah found himself most curious to see them.
                “’Is magnificence’ll be about a bit later, ‘im and ‘is ‘re up in 
‘is wheel’ouse enjoyin’ their day an’ a meal with th’ Lightbriner priestess come 
from Asi’el.” Explained the gruff guard as he watched the trio unsaddle their 
mounts and prepare a small portion of the commoner’s camp for themselves.  
Asi’el was the name of the town a short distance further south that Malger had 
first set as their goal for that night’s stay.
                “Lightbriner? Why’d you not set up closer to town?”
                “Hin Osrin, I think were her surname.  Great fat old gal, but a 
good face.  Lord o’ Asi’el say ‘e not want the beasts withina league o’ ‘is 
manor ‘r folk.  Got no love fer th’ show, ‘r ‘is magnificence, one’r th’ other.” 
The man shrugged, “I be Grimmarn, by th’ by, these be me men.” One hand waved 
toward the soldiers milling about. He hooked a thumb at the young spearman.  
“An’ me boy, Trei.”
                Malger gave the young man a nod of greetings.  “His 
magnificence?  Hardly complimentary.”
                Grimmarn shrugged again.  Down among the wagons a chorus of 
loud, coughing roars, bellows, shrieks, and other sounds less identifiable began 
as handlers went about doling out food.  “Ye’ll see when ‘e comes out t’ show 
the Lightbriner ‘is collection.  Struts like a cock in a ‘en’ouse ‘e do.  ‘Im 
an’ ‘at coterie o’ lickboots as follow ‘im everywhere.”  The burly guard turned 
and spat into the dirt.
                “Such love.” Malger said, watching as Vinsah and Murikeer 
unloaded the pack mare.  Though they performed the same menial tasks every day 
Malger always watched them.  His instruments were fragile and precious, after 
all.
                “Ain’t there?  Ah, ‘e pays damned well, as not much ‘ere fer 
bandits t’ sack so they usually jus’ let us be.  But ol’ Max, well, ‘e treats 
‘is common smallfolk like most nobles do; rough when ‘e take note o’ ‘em, 
ignores ‘em like vermin elsewise.”
                “He employ you long?”
                “Nae.” Grimmarn looked up as a whip thin ranger trotted up.  
They exchanged words briefly and then the ranger wandered away.  “’E ‘ires new 
swords each year, from up Ellcaran way and therebouts.  One year ‘e ‘eads down 
along th’ coast, th’ next along th’ mountains.  To Tournemire an’ likely 
Whitestone Tower this year, an back t’ Ellcaran sometime come spring.  One year, 
all ‘round.”
                “Long journey.” Malger took the flute in its sleeved case as 
Murikeer unpacked it and handed it across to him.  He tucked it in the loop of 
his belt where he most commonly carried it, like a third sword on his hip.
                “Aye, twice’s long’s a caravan down’n back, but four times the 
pay.” Grimmarn grinned, brown teeth flashing amidst the thick black thatch of 
his beard.  “Food, hai?  An’ song.  Fellows be glad t’ ‘ear music as made by a 
minstrel wot not be havin’ fur.”
                Malger blinked while Murikeer and Vinsah looked up on surprise, 
briefly arrested in the middle of preparing their camp.  “Without fur?”
                Grimmarn hooked a thumb toward the wagons.  “Ye’ll see.”  The 
three travelers looked at each other dubiously as the bearded guard commander 
led them back toward the thick of the commoners’ camp and introduced them. Their 
questions and curiosity were very shortly thereafter buried in performing for 
their bread and ale.
 
                Two hours swept by in a seeming eye blink and the sun was still 
in the sky, a hand span above the western tree line, when Grimmarn announced 
that Max was to show the menagerie to his visitors.  Malger and his troupe were 
ushered away from the raucous gaiety they had raised in the commoners’ camp and 
led over to the wagons.  Grimmarn pointed across toward the huge wheelhouse 
where a knot of people, peasants and minor aristocrats by their look, were 
gathered.  “Over there, ‘e’ll be comin’ out in a bit.  Dun like fer us road 
swords t’ be ‘angin in the eaves, so to speak, so I’ll jes’ stay back ‘ere wit’ 
me folk while ye join th’ show.  Don’ worry, ‘e only asks a penny from towners, 
this camp a road camp, not a show.”
                Malger laughed and nodded as he made his way between the wagons, 
dodging ropes and yokes, and led his two ‘apprentices’ across toward 
Maxamillian’s wheelhouse.  They discovered that he was already out, baiting the 
crowd with a great speech about the trials in securing the unique monsters of 
his menagerie.  The three stopped at the back of the crowd, not wishing to test 
Murikeer’s illusion spell too closely by actually trying to mingle.  They were 
shorter than most of the people present, as a result of the curse.  They seldom 
were terribly conscious of that fact, until they found themselves in crowds as 
now.  The tallest of them was Malger, at almost five and a half feet of wirty 
acrobatic flexability.  Malger and Vinsah were almost of a same height, just shy 
of five feet not counting the ears which were not visible under their illusions.
                So they waited at the back of the crowd and merely listened for 
they could not see the showman himself.  He was a powerful speaker, that much 
was immediately and readily apparent.  His audience was rapt and drawn in close 
about him, so far that while only numbering a score plus a few they served to 
completely prevent those orbiting the crowd from getting very close.  As Malger 
and his retinue approached the crowd moved, shifting and flowing away from the 
wheelhouse to trail the speaker’s moving voice toward the first of the huge 
wagons.  Two men stood nearby, ready to raise the heavy wooden awning at the 
proper time.
                “Lords, ladies, commoners of all ages, listen and discern the 
nature of humanity.  In this, my most marvelous menagerie of magical monsters I, 
the master of beasts, shall reveal to you the great lengths to which man will 
attempt to improve upon himself, and in the end utterly fail.  What I have 
gathered here to be witnessed by your eyes, unseen by but those most brave souls 
not fearful of caged beasts, are the monuments of avarice and pride, of power 
used to the point of corruption.  I offer you beasts such as you have seen 
before, but in ways that you have never before seen them, touched by magic or 
other practices too base to bear mentioning.”
                Malger chuckled quietly and shook his head, prompting an 
inquisitive glance from Vinsah who stood closest.  Murikeer was looking off 
toward one of the other wagons.  “He’s a showman, this fellow.  I can sense the 
lineage of a True Bard in his voice.”
                “A True Bard?”  Vinsah asked as they followed the crowd.  
Through the throng he spied the Lightbringer priestess and could not help but 
blink in amazement.  She was a great, immense woman who may have stood close to 
seven feet tall had she been on her feet.  As it was her great size was 
comfortably ensconced in a huge wheeled divan being drawn by a single heavily 
muscled man garbed in little more than sandals and a breechclout.  Four guards 
paced along beside the divan, keeping the peasants at a safe distance.  There 
was a small group of aristocrats, by their dress, likewise gathered around some 
ancient nobility in their midst, creating three completely distinct groupings 
around the barking showman.  All three little knots of humanity gathered closer 
as they approached the first wagon, stealing what little view there was from the 
shorter travelers behind them.
                “There’s power in his voice, magic.  Instead of spells, though, 
they use their tales and music.”  Malger explained as he listened for the first 
introduction.  With such a small collection the barker would have to draw things 
out if he expected his crowd to linger overlong.  Since they were not a paying 
group, though, he might be moved to hasten things.  “Not great, earth moving 
magic like our young friend’s, but powerful nonetheless.”
                “To the south of this land there are others, and across the vast 
sea beyond the journey of many months lies yet another entire land of strange 
and wondrous creatures.  There are peoples in this distant place who have lost 
their grasp on civilization, which they once held before your ancestors put 
stone upon stone in these fair, temperate forests.” The showman spoke, hardly 
above a conversational tone but his voice traveled easily to every ear.  “In 
their long slide into barbarous ignorance they turned to the once lost worship 
of the qualities of beasts, turning to the creatures of their own land to find 
merits greater than their own, strengths free of human flaws, and a feral 
oneness with Nature that they had put aside during their long rise to 
dominance.  They’ve been called Skinwalkers, tribes that don the skins of their 
prey as totems, but who’ve been said to actually become the creature that their 
tribes venerate.  In that southern land there are many chimaeric tribes, 
embracing bits and pieces of this creature or that creature, taking on their 
furs like you or I would don cloaks or leggings.  Yet do you consider that some 
of these peoples may go too far?  Might try to slip into the skin of some beast 
or another a little too much in mind and heart until one day they awaken to find 
that they’re stuck somewhere in between?”
                At the speaker’s cue the two wagon tenders hefted stout poles, 
fitted them into recessed pits on the underside of the awning, and with 
practiced ease lifted it up and propped the side of the wagon open to reveal the 
creatures within.  The crowd gasped and surged back, pushing Malger’s little 
group a little further away from the wagon even though they had yet to see what 
manner of creature was captured within.



      

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