[Mkguild] Healing Wounds in Arabarb (13 of ?)

[C. Matthias]

Don't read late at night.

Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias



April 11, 708 CR

Fjellvidden castle was built on a declivity on 
the southern bank of the Arabas River, with its 
northern extent perched over the river itself, 
massive stone pylons sinking deep into the bed of 
the river. This provided an efficient sewage 
system for the castle, as well as a convenient 
means of torturing and killing prisoners. As 
such, the dungeons were at the lowest level of 
the northern wing, interspersed with several 
false floors that could open out and drop the 
prisoners into the water where they'd struggle 
and drown if the guards didn't pull them up again.

Even with entrances accessible from the swiftly 
flowing river they would not be used by 
Fjellvidden's enemies. The entire dungeons could 
be sealed and flooded with the turning of a few 
gears in the guardhouse chamber just above. No 
army could hope to reach that chamber even if 
they were able to beach the river-doors. The 
staircase leading up from the prison was twisted 
and narrow, allowing enough space only for a single man to walk.

On the contrary, the dungeon itself was wide open 
with columns providing architectural support. 
Over a hundred men could be chained to the floor 
and languishing in the cold, dark space lit only 
by a few scattered torches, and in a hazy stink 
of human refuse relieved only when the river 
gates were opened and the cold mountain river 
water would scour everything clean and drown a few of the weaker prisoners.

But Calephas didn't keep prisoners long anymore. 
Ever since Gmork's arrival there had not been a 
need. Those captured in acts of treason were 
either killed or pressed for information in 
Gmork's unique ways. Some of these were sent back 
out into Arabarb to act as spies. The rest gladly 
gave their bodies as food for Gmork and his 
children, or even to the few bands of Lutins left 
in Arabarb. After Nasoj's defeat most of the 
Lutins retreated back to the Giantdowns, but 
there were a few who enjoyed the comparative 
bounty to be had in the forests of Arabarb.

It was these creatures that were given the task 
of guarding the two prisoners currently in the 
dungeons. Both prisoners were grown men and kept 
perhaps two dozen yards apart in the gloom. Just 
enough that if they did decide to speak they 
would have to speak loudly; loud enough that 
Gmork's spells would overhear them.

Of the two prisoners, one was a red-bearded man 
showing signs of gray, of the typical physical 
stature and features of a man of Arabarb. The 
other was a stout man with broad shoulders, 
lighter colored hair, long scars gouging the side 
of his face, and an odd foreign set to his 
features. Of course, the more distinguishing 
features were the ears, pointed and coated in 
light gray fur, his nose which had broadened and 
flattened, lips that were cleft, and oddly swollen fingers and nails.

It was to the deformed man that Gmork turned when 
he entered the dungeons followed at a discrete 
distance by one of the Lutin hunters assigned to 
the castle. The prisoner, dressed in drab, black 
rags that clung loosely to his chest and legs, 
turned his ears as Gmork approached, but did not look up to meet his gaze.

“And how is my newest pup feeling today?” Gmork 
asked with a playful growl dancing on his tongue. 
He could feel the magical skill this man had 
winding ever tighter inside of him, seeking to 
escape Gmork's inevitable grip. The chains about 
his ankles were mere formalities; Gmork's mere 
will kept him prisoner more than any chains could.

Lowering on his twisted legs, Gmork leaned just 
over his latest acquisition. A month ago he'd 
been a simple traveler passing through the cleft 
in the mountains from the Giantdowns. He'd come 
straight for Fjellvidden, watched by Gmork's 
spies. With a frightening degree of intrepidity 
he'd gained entrance to the castle without 
alerting any of the Lutin or human guards, making 
his way to Calephas's chambers.

Gmork had been there instead.

And now this would-be assassin belonged to him. 
Gmork smiled, long fangs revealed behind thin, 
dark lips. “You do not answer your father?”

The stocky man's ears twitched and a little whine 
escaped his throat. The eyes, dark with flecks of 
golden light spreading through the iris, lifted 
to meet Gmork. They were at once full of hate and 
fear. Gmork reached out a hand and gently stroked 
his cheek, noting the strange scars on his cheeks 
and neck, and then ran one finger across the 
pointed and fur-covered ears. The fur was thicker than it had been a day ago.

In a sterner voice, Gmork again asked, “How do you feel, pup?”

His lips, once full but now thin and darkening, 
quivered for a moment before a dull red tongue 
slipped between the teeth to mutter, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

His pup tried to stare at him defiantly, but 
Gmork's own gaze bored into him, touching that 
swirl of magical energy inside of him. The man's 
irises swelled larger, more beastly, before 
subsiding back to their normal size. He whined 
again, even more like a little dog, and murmured, “Fine, Father.”

Gmork smiled and gently pet him across the head. 
The hair was unkempt and dirty, but felt smoother and fuller.

“Very good, my pup. I am your Father. Your will 
belongs to me and is mine to dispose of. Do you 
not feel the hunger I have? Do you not share it? Can you not smell it?”

At the very suggestion, the man's twisted nose 
flared and drank in the tapestry of odors that 
clung to Gmork. From the many animal skins he 
cloaked his misshaped body with, to the lingering 
stink of the Lutin who'd accompanied him, all of 
it would be soon known to his pup. He lingered 
for a moment on the sweet scent of trees and 
fresh breeze that Gmork had lately passed through 
in his twilight lope. And then, his tongue 
pressed itself anew between his teeth and began 
to glisten with saliva as his breathing 
intensified. His hands and hardened nails dug at 
the stone beneath him as he pushed himself 
forward an inch or two toward the small leather 
knapsack that Gmork had brought with him.

“Oh, you do.” Gmork smiled again, and taking the 
knapsack, opened it and drew out a skin-wrapped 
hank of freshly killed thigh. Even in the feeble 
light from the torches, the deep red of the 
bloody shank was clear and vibrant. His pup 
craned forward a little bit more, panting even 
more visibly now. Gmork could see his teeth, once 
even and only mildly discolored, now straining at 
his gums and thoroughly yellowed.

With a succulent growl, Gmork whispered to his 
pup, “Do you want this? Ask for it.”

The man's eyes lifted from the meat and he whined 
again, quivering, “May I have it... Father? May I eat it?”

Gmork's smile widened as he hunched closer. The 
other prisoner, if he were watching, would have 
been able to see Gmork's tail sweeping back and 
forth across the stone floor from beneath his 
cloaks. “It's human. You may have it.”

His pup sucked his tongue back into his mouth and 
tried to inch away from the hank of flesh. Hunger 
now begat horror. He whimpered and shook his head 
back and forth. Had he a tail it would have 
tucked itself between his legs. Through the rags 
Gmork couldn't see if he'd gained such a beastly 
appendage but it shouldn't be long now. Still, 
his continued refusal to eat what he believed to 
be the flesh of a man – for he had long since 
believed whatever Gmork told him, except when it 
came to things about himself – frustrated Gmork. 
Until he could eat human flesh ravenously and 
without compunction, the transformation could 
never be complete. It wouldn't suffice to make 
him appear like himself; he had to think and behave that way too.

The hank of flesh was really from a deer, but 
there was no use in telling him that just yet. In 
sultry words, Gmork leaned over, letting his face 
press out into a narrow snout as he growled, his 
words now guttural but still plain. “You are 
hungry, my pup. You have asked my permission to 
eat. I have given it. You are hungry. This is 
food. All things, but your father and siblings, 
are food for you, my pup. All things. This too. 
You are hungry. So very hungry. It has been days 
since you last tasted blood. You yearn for blood.”

As Gmork spoke of the new pup's hunger and taste 
for blood, his eyes flicked furtively down at the 
tender, red flesh. The hank was torn at either 
end where Gmork's jaws had severed the leg from 
hip and knee, but the ends of the bone were 
visible and glistened a golden hue in the 
torchlight. The tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.

“That's right, my pup. You are very, so very, 
very hungry. But you are in no position to eat it 
like that. No pup of mine would eat sitting. Turn over; crouch as do I.”

The pup trembled and closed his eyes, ears 
turning down as if to shut out the words. Gmork 
felt across the swirling madness of his magical 
core with his carnal instinct, chiding him for 
every man-like ideal he encountered in his pup's 
scattered thoughts. Justice? Only those willing 
to eat would be filled. Mercy? An invitation to 
ruin and starvation. Truth? The only truth that 
mattered was his hunger, the food before him, and 
his father's beckoning command.

Slowly, with every ounce of resistance struggling 
the whole way, the man pulled his legs underneath 
him and rolled over until he was on his hands and 
knees. With an unsteady push, he eased himself 
onto his unshod feet, the tops of which were 
flecked with the same gray fur on his ears, and 
leaned forward on toes swollen and crooked. The 
sheer exertion of fighting Gmork's will left him panting from exhaustion.

“Oh, my pup. You are hungry. You need to eat to 
live. I have been a good father to you. I have 
brought you food to sate yourself. Eat it. Eat it like the beast you are.”

Gmork picked up the meat in one hand and lifted 
it so that the scent of it was plain to his pup's 
nose. The man shuddered as his nose drank in the 
tantalizing aroma of a fresh kill. His hands 
lifted to snatch the meat from Gmork but paused 
halfway. Instead he drove his fists into the 
stone and Gmork's grip on his magical core 
faltered. “No!” He snapped with indignation and 
force unbecoming the whining pup he'd been a 
second before. “I will not eat the flesh of man... Father.”

Gmork lowered the meat, knowing that it would do 
no good to press any further today. His mind and 
will were already twisted enough that even in 
defiance he still knew he was but a pup. It was 
progress. Not as much as Gmork had hoped for, but progress nevertheless.

He betrayed none of his disappointment, growling 
his words and lifting furred ears high over his 
sloped brow. “Not today, no. But you needn't 
fear. This is not the flesh of man.”

His pup's tongue immediately pressed back between 
his teeth and saliva dripped across his lips. The 
defiance, like a wick extinguished, was gone. He 
held out his hands, stubby fingers twitching 
eagerly. “May I have it to eat, Father?”

Gmork set the hank of flesh on the stone before 
his pup and nodded. “But not with your hands.”

The pup put his hands palm down on the stone and 
bent over the hank, tearing at it ravenously with 
his teeth, smearing his face in the blood. Gmork 
felt a surge of delight at the sight. Another 
week or two, a month at the most, and his newest 
pup would be ready to leave the dungeons and take 
his place in Gmork's family. And on that day, 
he'd tear a child of Arabarb to pieces merely 
because Gmork willed it; and he'd enjoy it too.

While his pup fed, he turned his gaze to the 
other prisoner in the dungeons. The red-bearded 
man watched him with dull but sombre eyes. His 
sallow cheeks belied an iron will and dangerous 
blood. Gmork let his snout retract back into a 
more human visage as he loped on all fours a 
little nearer this other prisoner. The Lutin 
guard watching them kept far back, refusing to approach this other prisoner.

Gmork wasted no time here. He didn't even like 
being in his presence. “Have you anything you wish to tell us?”

The man's laconic gaze irritated Gmork. If not 
for Calephas's interest in the man, he would have 
been drowned in the river two months ago when 
they'd captured him. A faint smile appeared through his beard. “Nothing today.”

“So be it.” Gmork loped back to his pup, noted 
that he was still chewing madly and gorging 
himself on the fresh kill, and then straightened 
as much as he was able, and walked back to the 
stairs leaving the dungeon. The Lutin guard 
followed him up, closing the heavy iron door and locking it behind them.

He was only halfway up the twisted stairs when he 
met one of his other children, this one draped in 
clothes that had at one time been fine but were 
now stained and dirty mockeries of their former 
elegance. Fur poked through several holes along 
his arms and upper back, and a naked whip-like 
tail dangled through a gash rent in the seat of 
his trousers. His eyes, arctic blue from eyelid 
to nose except for the coal black pupil, gazed at 
Gmork with fawning adoration. “Father! One of 
your pets has news you need to hear.”

Gmork smiled and stroked his eldest pup between 
the ears. They grew pointed and fur-coated in 
appreciation. “Very good. Let us go to the 
Listening Room and see what the little pet has to say.”


The listening room was three floors above the 
dungeons in the northern wing of the castle. This 
wing Calephas had essentially ceded to Gmork for 
his purposes so long as he did not interfere when 
Calephas wished to see the prisoners himself.

In the center of the structure, well hidden from 
any windows, was a room that had once served as 
some servant's bedroom. Gmork had fitted shelving 
along the walls, and in each of the many nooks 
had placed one of the baubles he'd collected, and 
into which he'd taken the will of his puppets. 
There were no lights in the small room as there 
was no need. The glowing baubles cast shadows in 
every direction and filled the room with bronze twilight.

Gmork and his eldest pup entered and crouched 
before the western wall filled with over a 
hundred little baubles. Only six of them remained 
dark. When they were filled he would have to kill 
some of his puppets before he could make more. It 
took over a year to fashion a single bauble. 
Until he had at least a dozen pups who could tend 
to the pets and to each other, Gmork could not 
spare the time. He growled and salivated at the 
thought of ripping out Nasoj's throat; that 
betrayer had slayed his other pups a year past. 
At least he had been able to save his baubles when he escaped from Nasojassa.

“Which one was it?” Gmork asked. The pup loped to 
the shelves, not daring to stand higher than his 
father, and tapped two separate baubles with his 
shrunken hands. “Bring them to me.”

The pup obeyed, carefully depositing the glowing 
spheres at Gmork's feet. He crouched lower, his 
cloak of furs crumpling across the ground around 
him. He rolled the baubles in his hands, licking 
each of them once and then listening to the 
voices within. They didn't want to talk to him, 
but they had no choice. They never did. He spoke 
softly to them, asking them what they knew. And 
then he knew everything that they knew. It took 
several minutes, but soon all that he wanted was his.

He offered both baubles back to his pup who was 
quick to return them to their reliquary. Gmork 
pondered what he'd learned for only a moment 
before rising and declaring, “I must tell the 
Baron what I have learned. Stay and listen to my little pets.”

“I will, Father!” his pup bayed eagerly, naked 
tail sprouting fur in patches as it wagged. Gmork 
gently stroked a hand down his head and neck 
before leaving the room behind and venturing south through the castle.

The portion of Fjellvidden castle situated on the 
southern bank of the Arabas was more conventional 
and patrolled by Calephas's human and Lutin 
soldiers. Still, it held its dark secrets and 
after asking one of Calephas's senior soldiers 
where the Baron was entertaining himself, he 
headed down toward the cellars near where the 
river doors were and where one of those dark secrets continued.

He found Calephas behind an iron door in an 
almost immaculately kept room. A tiger Keeper who 
bore nothing but a collar and harness was rubbing 
the floor with towels to clean up something that 
smelled acrid and made Gmork's nose cringe. 
Calephas was bent over a broad oaken table with 
beakers and bottles arrayed in a deliberately 
confusing profusion. A small censer kept one of 
the bottles heated, and the yellowish fluid inside bubbled with brisk abandon.

Chained to the far wall opposite the table was a 
young boy of perhaps ten years of age. He had no 
clothes on, though whatever comeliness he'd once 
possessed was now marred by unnatural deformities 
in his skull, chest, arms, and legs that warped 
and twisted his bones. Gmork was disappointed to 
see that the child had passed out from whatever 
pain he'd endured, and a long, thick tongue 
dangled from his twisted and narrow jaws. The 
skin along his sides and back had hardened like a 
thousand scabs and pressed together and blossomed 
a rich purple like a fresh bruise.

The boy's arms were forced back so that they 
jutted out of his shoulder blades and dangled 
uselessly at his sides. And his legs were splayed 
on either side of his hips, the toes curled so 
tightly that even in his unconsciousness it 
looked as if they were causing him pain. Gmork 
sneered in distaste at the pungent dry scent that 
emerged from the spent child's flesh. In another 
day he was sure to be a carcass cast into the river and devoured by fish.

“What is it, Gmork?” Calephas asked as he set a 
pair of bottles down with a sigh. “I asked you 
not to interrupt me while I'm here.”

Gmork straightened for a moment, smiling with 
confidence as he clenched his nostrils tight to 
keep from taking in anymore vile odors. “Unless 
the news was of Metamor, which it is.”

The tall aristocrat turned and gazed at him with 
baby blue eyes that betrayed anything but 
innocence. “Have they sent more spies?”

“An assassin,” Gmork replied. “One who is native 
to Arabarb and who knows the land very well. He 
is coming to Fjellvidden now and should be here in a day or so.”

Calephas grunted. “Metamorians are easy to spot. 
Even if he did once live here, I have no doubt 
you'll find him before he is within a mile of the castle.”

The beastly Gmork shook his head ever so slowly. 
“I have not sensed the telltale signature of the 
Metamor Curse anywhere in your lands, oh my 
Baron. He may not have suffered the Curse. The 
horse rules lands that have been spared it.”

“True,” Calephas admitted and began to stroke his 
clean-shaven chin with one hand. “That would be a 
clever move on their part. It's about time they 
finally had a clever idea. Nevertheless, I expect 
you to identify this assassin and capture him. My 
men are at your disposal of course.”

“What orders may I give?” He hated being 
subservient to the Baron, but it was necessary 
for a time until he had replenished his children. 
Then Arabarb would be his hunting grounds and its 
people his flock and food. On that day, 
Calephas's head would decorate a pike until the 
scent of his fouled blood was too much to bear. 
But until then, he was a dutiful servant and 
sometimes partner to the disciple of Lilith and Suspira.

“Nothing new. Let him think he has caught us 
unawares. The safer he feels, the more easy he will be to spot.”

“Just what I thought as well,” Gmork admitted 
with begrudging respect. At least Calephas did think like a beast.

“Good. Now, see to it. I have a few more 
experiments that I wish to perform then I fear 
I'm going to need a new boy.” Calephas glanced at 
the unconscious monstrosity and shook his head as 
if disappointed in his victim. “Make that a new 
order. You know which ones I like best.”

Gmork knew very well. “I will do as you ask, my 
Baron.” With that he backed out and left Calephas to his grotesque fleshcraft.

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias


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