No subject

and surge upward, forcing itself from his lungs in a wordless cry of pure grief
and rage.  Shedding the comforting hand, Fox
and fighters forgotten, he spun and fled for the door.  He would find Thorne.  He would find the man and he would kill the
man; he would avenge his love’s senseless death upon the man’s flesh.  He would flense the dark evil of his very
soul!
He heard Misha bark something after him, an approbation or an order he cared
not what, and ran through the still open door, past the startled guards, and
into the cold darkness of Metamor’s halls again.
-----
December 26, 10am

Thorne!

He was right there, close enough to burn down with a single spear of
magic!  Murikeer’s teeth ground as he
pushed back into the alcove and hastily erected a concealing ward about
himself.  The man was not alone and was
so enwrapped with protective magics an arcane bolt would achieve nothing more
than to expose the skunk.  Ahead of him
walked four other mages of similar or greater magical potency and just behind
him walked a Lutin and moondog.  Trailing
in their wake was a bald man and woman in Metamoran styled clothing.  She did not look in the least like a
prisoner, walking with her head erect and arms unbound.  Murikeer figured she was a spy or other
traitor.

He watched as they filed down the corridor and listened as they bickered
angrily among themselves, and his lips peeled back in a feral smile.  Dissention in the ranks would only work to
his advantage, but he would have to have all due care with how he worked his
way closer to Thorne.  Clearly he was not
the dominant force in their deadly strength.  That, too, would be to Murikeer’s advantage for he remembered the
boundless ambition of the man; if given even the slightest opening he would
strive to rise higher in position.

At the end of the corridor they came to a narrow door and were slowed as
they first surveyed what lay beyond and then to file through it. The woman fell
to the tail end of the line and Murikeer carefully eased out of the
alcove.  When the bald man stepped
through the doorway Murikeer struck.  Grasping at the sluggish magic of the keep he hauled at it, filling
himself with the surging potency of node power to the point it made him feel
aflame, and then reached for the doorway.  With a single wrench of one hand he hammered it closed and squeezed at
the stone of the archway even as he seized the startled woman as she lurched
back from the suddenly closed portal.  The rock groaned and shrieked and then, with a rumbling crash, sundered
under his might.  The capstone exploded
in a spray of stone shards that pelted the woman and both sides drew inward,
sundering the door with a thunderclap of shattering wood, sealing the doorway
under a collapsed mass of ancient gray stone.

Screaming in horrified surprise the woman fell and scrambled away from the
tumble of stone hastily.  She felt the
hard crush of unseen bonds about her and fought against them futilely, unable
to dent the strength of Murikeer’s node enhanced magic.  He dragged her bodily across the floor as,
from beyond, he heard the crash of a counterattack moving the stone.  The woman fetched up against his feet and he
looked down at her frightened blue gaze with a show of his sharp musteline
teeth.  Kneeling he grasped her face with
one hand, letting her feel the stout claws pressing at her flesh.  “I carve stone with those claws, woman.” He
warned in a low growl, “Struggle, please, bone is far softer.”  She whimpered and shook her head feebly,
dropping her hands to her sides.

Hoisting her by his magic he darted toward another door, through which
Thorne and his retinue had entered moments before, with her floating impotently
behind him.  She tried to cry out, once,
as he passed through the door but was silenced when she was hammered against
the unyielding stone of the lintel.  “Silence!” Murikeer snarled as he continued down the hallway and through
the first door he came to.  A stairwell
lay on the other side of the door and he took it three steps at a stride.  The woman was bodily bounced against walls
and columns behind him and cried out in pain with each punishing impact.  Not hard enough to kill, or even break
fragile bones, but more than sufficient to keep her cognizant of her helpless
situation.  It also prevented her from
concentrating long enough to attempt any manner of spells, though Murikeer saw
that her potency was, at best, that of a journeyman.
Enough to be dangerous, but lacking the volume of sheer energy he could sap
from the stones.

After several long minutes Murikeer slowed and stopped in a corridor
overlooking the Keep’s inner ward.  Outside the snowy tempest still howled but it seemed far reduced from
its earlier might.  He turned to her,
“Who are you, magepawn?” he snarled with a squeeze.

She glared at him in fury, “Your death, hellspawned bea –“ her angry words
trailed away in a groaning hiss as Murikeer clenched his hand, tightening the
grip of magical strength about her and crushing the air from her lungs.  He could see that she was as cursed as he
was, a long time resident of Metamor.  From the scent of her, and the cut of her clothing, she was a
craftswoman who worked with wood; a cabinet maker or toy maker or some other
sort of carpentry occupation.  He eased
his grip slightly and waited, letting her feel the bite of the cold, still air
that his personal magic kept at bay.  He
could see no quickened enchantments about her, beyond a few simple warding
spells that were placed to shield against attacks.  There were no enchantments to prevent her
from being picked up like a wayward puppy and hauled around.

“Your name!” he barked harshly.

“Die, beast!” she shrieked back and spat at him.  He ignored the wet spittle did nothing to
worsen his already befouled state.  He
reached into his belt and drew out a wide blade of gleaming blue stone with a
bone hilt; the same blade that had been intended to kill him.  Raising it to her face he touched her cheek
lightly with the cold blade, watching as her eyes followed it and widened at
the keen edge that traced slowly across her cheek.

“Death will be yours, traitor, not mine.” He churred slowly, giving the tip
of the blade a light flick across her cheek toward her ear.  She sucked in a pained gasp as it traced a
clean line of blood across her cheek.  “Now tell me, who are you?”  The
tip of the blade slowly drew along the curve of her jaw and he watched the
muscles clench there.

“The great mage will crush this pl –“ again her angry words ended in a
breathless hiss as a fresh line of blood bloomed along the hollow of her
throat.  The razor’s edge of the stone
blade cut deep enough to sting but not deep enough to be deadly.

“Enough with the empty loyalty, bitch!” he snarled, driving the point of the
dagger up against the hollow of her chin, pushing her head up, “Why do you
cleave to the one who stripped your dick and left you with moontides?”

“Fuck you!” she spat once she was able to breathe again.  Murikeer snorted and dug the tip of the knife
at her chin.  A trickle of blood leaked
slowly down the blue stone as she winced in fresh pain.

“Nasoj has twisted you, woman, and you still kiss his toes.  Why?  What empty promises has he made?”  He dropped the dagger from her chin, resting the blade upon the front of
her cloak.  He narrowed his eyes as he
looked up to meet her gaze, “A reversal?  Undoing the curse?” he queried, dragging the knife downward firmly.  The heavy fur and velvet whispered as the
blade sliced through it with the same distressing ease it had sliced through
Murikeer’s own fur and flesh.  It fell
open and she cried out in surprise at the cold bite of air that found its way
through the thin fabric of her blouse.  


“Talk, or I strip you and throw you to the blizzard.” He warned, poking
the cloak with the dagger until it slumped from her back and cascaded heavily
to the floor.  Raising the knife again he
traced the neckline of her blouse, “Or leave you for the lutins after I carve
out your tongue.”

“You wouldn’t!” she gaped, writhing in his magical grip and batting at his
arms only to receive a savage stab of the blue blade into the muscle of her
forearm.  She let out an agonized shriek
and jerked her injured arm back, cradling it against her body.

“Try me, bitch, try me.” The skunk snarled furiously, holding the bloodied
knife up before her eyes, “I’ve done that much more and worse.  You are less than shit to me.”  He waved his knife slowly, “There are dire
wolves about as well… shall I put the scent of a bitch on you before I let you
go?”
That seemed to get through her resolve and she shivered, clutching herself
and clenching her jaw as the cold of the empty corridor seeped through the thin
clothing remaining on her; a cotton blouse and suede leather leggings.  “Please, no.” she managed at length.

“Then tell me your name!” he bellowed.

“Aresor!” she hissed in return, “Aresor!  I am only a furniture maker!”

Murikeer’s lips lifted in a snarl and he dug the knife down the front of her
blouse, the cotton parting as easily as fur and velvet.  She yelped and grasped at the cloth as it
fell open.  “Do not lie to me, traitorous
witch!  You are a mage, do not think me
blind!” he rested the tip of the blade below her navel at the waistline of her
leggings, “I saw you with that circle of mages!  Who are they, what is their duty to this battle?” he snarled with barely
suppressed animal rage.

“The temple!” she cried as she tried to keep the thin material drawn tight
about herself against the biting cold and the skunk’s gaze.  “They were to take the Lightbringer temple,
kill the wolf, take her sword!”

Murikeer jerked his head in a nod and dropped the knife away from her waist,
tapping it against the front of his thigh.  There was rather little left of his own leggings beyond tattered
afterthoughts barely maintaining his modesty.  “Take it to Nasoj?”

She shook her head fitfully, tears joining the trickle of blood leaking from
her nicked cheek, “To the dark circle, to Ba’al’s faithful.”

“And where are they?”

“Battling the monstrosity that gives this worthless heap of rocks life.  They seek to contain it, and then destroy
it.” She hissed at him.

“Where will your masters go once they have what they seek?” Murikeer
growled, ignoring her venom for the moment.  Tilting his head slightly he raised the knife and touched it beneath her
chin again, lifting her head slightly, “Where is your workshop?” he asked with
a quiet churr.

Her blue stare wavered as she met his merciless black gaze and she moaned
softly, “It… usually… it’s near the stables.” She breathed, “I’m freezing, let
me go.” She implored.

“You’re not frozen yet.” Murikeer pointed out, “How many others are there
with your circle?” he growled.

“Five!” she cried, “Only five!  A
lutin and its dog, and voice for the dark circle!”

“Five?” Murikeer chuffed with a snarling leer, “Only five?  No others?  No apprentices, slaves?  No
mercenaries to support them?”

“Only the five!” Aresor shook her head, the touch of Murikeer’s blade
following her chin.  “Please, let me
go!  They brought no apprentices, unless
they are working with the Lutins!  I did
not see any!”

Her captor nodded slowly, still smiling that chill flash of white teeth.  “They were lost, weren’t they?”

“L- lost?”

“Their duty was to capture the temple, yet they are still afoot in the
corridors.  Kyia has them going in
circles, they are lost, yes?”

She stared at him silently for several long breaths, her body beginning to
shiver as the blizzard’s icy grasp worked into her flesh.  “Y- yes.” She stammered, “Thorne attacked t- too
soon, the spirit be- became aware of us.  It has mis- misdirected us ever since.”

Murikeer leered even wider, “Good, he was always impatient.”  He raised the hand that controlled the magic
embracing her and she flinched but he only traced her unmarred cheek with the
back of his knuckles, “Who commands them, these magi?”  His breath was warm as he leaned in close,
within reach of her hands, but she was too intimidated to do more than clutch
her tattered blouse about herself.

“Kundar, th- the weather m- mage.” She shuddered at the cold, her teeth
clicking, “Please! Please, release me!  The man, Th- Thorne, he and the w- woman are mages of war, they are his
right and l- left hand.”

“I will sever his hands, then.” Murikeer growled, “Now, I give you your
reward.”
She shook her head emphatically, “No!  No!  Release me, that is rewar –“
she gasped and trailed off with a breathy wheeze as Murikeer’s dagger dropped
and drove savagely into the flesh beneath her left breast, angling upward
between her ribs and finding her heart.  Her body lurched against his magical bonds and slowly went limp, arms
dropping loosely to her sides. 

“A traitor’s reward.” He hissed into her deaf ear, releasing her lifeless
body to fall heavily upon the floor.  Only the last breaths steaming from the surprised gape of her mouth let
any stir to the cold air.
-----

December 26, 2pm

The ladder led from the darkness of some unidentifiable underground
passageway to a trap door and Murikeer looked up at it dubiously.  He could feel no cold air trickling between
the cracks in the age worn boarding nor see any lights above.  Climbing the ladder he tilted his head to
press his ear to it but heard nothing from whatever room was above.  There was a muted light through the cracks
but it was dim and gray, likely from the wan light finding its way in through a
window.  He gave it a nudge with his
shoulder and was pleased to find that it was not latched from above and
carefully pushed it open.  Above him was
a beam from which was suspended a block-and-tackle used to raise items from
below.  The heavy hook was neatly hung
from a peg on a wall and, nearby, freshly cut wood was stacked.  The plume of mist that whispered from
Murikeer’s muzzle told him that no fire had been lit in the hearth served by
that stack of firewood and he climb the last short distance into the small closet.

The door to the closet opened upon a large central room neatly arranged with
chairs and small writing desks.  These
were arranged around a central chair and single podium while the walls of the
room were entirely lined with crowded bookshelves.  Murikeer recognized the Writers’ Guild hall
though he had only entered it a few times in the past to recover books used by
the various writers for copying or research and he was pleased to see that it
had escaped, thus far, the depredations of Metamor’s attackers.  He soon discovered why when he opened the
building’s front door to find himself staring at a densely packed wall of
snow.  The windows along the front of the
building were likewise snowed under with such a weight of snow he could not
push the shutters open.  Only one of the
back windows yielded after some pushing and an application of magical heat from
within to melt the bit of snow accumulated against it.  A single broad spruce blocked that blocked
the window had also protected it from the wind and snow but the guild hall,
nestled 

into a small hollow among the Duke’s private forested park, was
otherwise almost entirely buried in snow but for the peak of its roof.

Murikeer used a bit of magic to replace the snow he displaced in his escape
before navigating his way out from beneath the spruce.  Hopefully it would go unnoticed by the
invaders; he shuddered to think what would become of the vast repository of
knowledge that was Metamor’s library should the invaders conquer it.  Even their brief occupation would be
immeasurable if they made it into the library.  Murikeer pushed such thoughts aside while he stood in the shadows of the
trees and surveyed the park beyond, rubbing his temples with one hand.  His head ached, his body ached.  Were it possible he would have thought that
his very fur ached with the weariness of his days of fighting.  He had only slept when exhaustion overcame
him, and ate food where he found it.  Usually both were cold, brief respites that came only elusively.

Time, likewise, was only a nebulous concept as both day and night seemed
little different under the heavy weight of the storm hanging over the
valley.  Night was an inky tomb and
daylight merely a dim grayness where the Keep seemed to be a world unto itself,
constrained to feet or yards by the heavy veil of wind driven white.  Currently it was through that dim gray pall
that Murikeer gazed trying to pick out details of what lay beyond the curtain
of snow.  What day it may have been, or
the hour, he could not begin to know; his sense of time had long ago been lost
to the chaos of surviving and killing.
He had been pushing himself far beyond his limits, both physically and
magically, in the past few days and he was feeling the effects more and more
heavily.  To him it seemed like only
hours, long stretches of hunting and hiding interspersed with blindingly swift
engagements with the enemy.  He had
learned a great deal from those he questioned and thought not a second time
about the deaths he had caused among the attackers.  Magic came with more difficulty and, though
he had taken in more magic than he had ever grasped in the past, he was able to
hold less and less with each passing embrace.  He hoped that he would be able to hold enough when he finally found
Thorne to exact at least some small measure of vengeance.

The broad sward of the Duke’s park was covered with a thick layer of snow
that had been churned and disturbed by a few skirmishes.  Bright crimson showed through a skein of
fresh snow upon a few unidentifiable lumps he could see but nothing moved.  The bulk of the castle and inner walls
protected the park from the worst of the driving wind allowing the snow to fall
in a thick veil stirred only by the occasional gusts and he could see the vague
forms of a huge stable, where the horses for Metamor’s knights were kept.  A short distance to one side was another
broad, low building which, knowing the nature of Metamor’s malleability, could
be anything.  He hoped that it would be
the woodsmith’s shop as she had claimed before she perished.

Following the edge of the wood he made his way toward the inner ward gate,
which stood open, one huge banded wooden portal hanging askew on a single
remaining hinge.  That the hinge was
nearly as tall as Murikeer was telling; some overwhelming force had battered
its way into the part at some point and, Murikeer fervently hoped, had made its
way back out by the same avenue.  He had
no desire to face the unknown monstrosity that had wreaked such havoc on a gate
designed to withstand the assault of a siege ram.  With a long examination of Meatamor’s inner
ward that lay beyond the smashed gate Murikeer spied no movment and in a single
swift sprint crossed to the wall of the opposite gate tower.  He was left breathing heavily by just that
short dash and grumbled to himself.

He had lived on the run for nearly six months, and then spent another year
and more surviving in the frozen north, and a mere sprint of a dozen yards left
him sorely winded.  Either he had let
himself get remarkably out of shape or the exertions were taking more of a toll
on him than he imagined.  He did need
food, that much he knew; he could not remember the last time that he had put
anything in his muzzle beyond a random handful of snow to slake his thirst.  Moving cautiously along the flank of the gate
tower he watched for unexpected surprises, noting how the snow was churned and
noted how everything had been softened by the continued fall to judge how long
ago the cause of those marks had passed.  Nothing was particularly recent, a small consolation, but that meant
little in the shifting geography of Metamor.  In the last few hours he had felt a subtle change in the Keep, the magic
had begun to flow again, surging into areas where it had been lessened.  He hoped that someone else had found, and
dealt with, the leavings of the Moranisi circle for he knew that, working
alone, he could do nothing.

He reached the side of the building near the stables and rested the palm of
one hand against one of the closed shutters, feeling the warmth of the wood,
subtle as it was.  There was a fire, or
had been, burning inside to stave off the chill.  That could mean either refugees seeking
shelter from the bitter winter bite or attackers holding out to recoup their
strength.  He spared a brief glance
across the park toward the distant hump of the buried Writers’ Guild building
and considered, just for a brief moment, sneaking back to recoup his own
strength.  There had been no food there
but it was sheltered and undisturbed which meant he could rest there and resume
his hunt later.

But later was a luxury he could ill afford.  Each moment he allowed to pass made his intelligence all the more
tenebrous.  He needed to learn as much as
he possibly could, as swiftly as he was able, to succeed in his goal.  Stealthily he slid along the wall of the building
and around to its front, scanning the snow near the door before he
approached.  The snow there had been
trodden down at some point but it did not appear to be recent.  Reaching the door he rested his palm and ear
against it to listen but, other than the warmth of the wood there was no
indication that the building was in use.  Lifting the latch he pushed against the door enough to glance within as
he readied an arcane bolt in his free hand.  The spell gave him a sharp twinge behind his eyes but he ignored it.

It was, indeed, a wood crafter’s shop, with racks of lumber near the door
and half finished furnishings scattered here and there in various states of
crafting or repair.  He eased in and
pushed the door shut behind him and looked around hastily.  As with the Writers’ Guild the crafts shop
had not yet been discovered and stood undisturbed.  A fire, more coals than wood, glowed in the
large circular stone hearth in the center of the room.  On a table he spied the leavings of some
small feast; mugs and plates of food left behind either hours or days earlier.  Securing the latch Murikeer padded quietly
over to the table and found that the serving platter the unknown tenants had
used still contained a good bit of food and he set to it with famished zeal without
even bothering to use his magic to warm it.  He used the blue stone knife to carve large slabs from the hank of
mutton with a feral grin; how appropriate that the weapon intended to kill him
help keep him alive instead.



      

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