[Mkguild] Mark's story - Part 4 (1/3)

[christian okane]

Cool! Another new story!

 

 

Chris

The Lurking Fox

 

From: mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org [mailto:mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of Prof
Sent: Tuesday, April 10, 2012 6:43 PM
To: MK Writers Guild
Subject: [Mkguild] Mark's story - Part 4 (1/3)

 

Well, well, look at the calendar. Is it already that late? *cough* 

I hesitate to count the months since the last part made it to the mailing list, but at least it’s done and part 4 seems ready to go. 

 

Again I have to thank Charles, who not only helped me with lecturing and suggestions, but wrote most of Kindle’s parts. I can only hope a tad of his dedication rubs off on me one day. 

 

And of course I hope you all enjoy it ^_^

 

 

PS: I’m open to suggestions for a better title. It’s still kind of a placeholder, although way better than the working title: “Of cats and mice” (ugh). 

 

 

_____

 

October 6th, 707 CR

 

 

Of Dreamer and dreams

 

 

A good dozen of them had made it through the breach. I don’t know what they had expected. Surely they hoped for weak resistance, believing our forces too far stretched to allow reserves. 

 

Well, my brothers and I are standing here to prove them wrong. 

 

Only a few of us against them. Experienced, battle-hardened mercenaries in heavy armor facing us: unarmored men in simple garbs. Like me all of them members of the orthodox wing, true to the word of the founder, Armin the pious, to never use a weapon on the holy ground the academy was built on. 

 

I see it dawning in their eyes, overshadowed by helmets and ventails: they’re as good as dead. 

 

We don’t intend to give them time to act. Our greatest advantage is speed, we use it. 

 

Gusts of flames and overheated steam lashing out from my left and right side. Brother Camiel and Brother Devon from the fire aspect are striking first, disrupting our opponents’ formation, making openings for the rest of us. 

 

My first adversary knows what he’s doing. Calmly he’s waiting for me to make the first move, to intercept my attack with a swift counter, trusting the greater reach of his sword. 

 

I block the sharp steel with my left bracer, hidden under the sleeve of my tunic. The man’s leather gloves discouraging me from sending a shock through the metal of his weapon, instead I fill the steel of my bracer with energy; invoke in it the power of a mighty lodestone.

 

Like glued on his blade now clings to my arm and with a jerk of the same I sweep it to the side, out of my way and almost out of his hand. Clearly I surprised him. But instinctively he tries to cover the gap in his defense with his shield. To no avail. It’s not his head or chest I’m aiming at. It’s the bright patch of bare skin between the arm armor and his shoulder protection. 

 

A slight touch with my right hand there, a not so slightly deep tap into the academy’s energy well and his movement stops, as every muscle in his body cramps suddenly. Literary petrified for one eye blink, until I let go and he’s falling to the ground. 

 

What follows is a kaleidoscope of horrible, violent images. That stops turning as the enemy retreats. 

 

In the relative silence that falls on the walls and buildings of the academy, there’s not a single cheer audible. We all know they will be back soon. Better prepared and with greater force. 

 

No time to linger around and muse. The wounded need someone to aid them. Also the dead.

 

One Hour later…

 

I found a shady place beneath the leaves of the only tree left in the garden, the rest felled for building timber. Eager for an opportunity to rest my weary flesh I sit down there. 

 

The extend of my exhaustion occurs to me when I feel a mild touch on my shoulder, seemingly only a second after, waking me with a start. I fell asleep! And there’s still so much to do.

 

“Easy, Brother Master. You have done quite a lot today. I just wanted to ask you if you are thirsty.”

 

It’s Brother Grandmaster Marcellus, prelate of the earth aspect. One of the highest ranking preceptors of the academy, handing me a bowl with water. And it doesn’t matters how bad I had needed a moment of rest, after more use of elemental powers than healthy for me. Just looking at him makes me feel guilty. Every bet he had not a single minute of relaxation. Not even the time to wash his hands or face. 

 

After the enemy tore a breach into the east wall, Marcellus practically singlehandedly held them up until Brother Master William and Brother Conrad could raise it again. The Grandmaster’s robes were in tatters, but under the tears his skin showed not a single scratch. His body, attuned to the very bedrock of our home, isn’t easily harmed. 

 

The same goes for his endurance, one could tell. Never one of those who deemed simple handout below their dignity, he had equipped himself with bucket and bowl to tend the parched throats of his brethren. 

 

I gratefully accept the offered refreshment, gulping it down greedy. 

 

“Not so hasty, Brother Master, there is plenty left”, the Grandmaster assures me. 

 

And again. The first time I might’ve just imagined things. But now I’m sure I got it right. “Brother… Master?”

 

“At last, I almost thought I would have to say it a third time”, he smiles. “These are the last days of our community”, he declares, reading in my expression I’m unable to follow. “Although there will be no more promotion ceremonies in the great hall, today you fought hard and with great skill. Worthy being called a Master. It may be not much worth, but in my eyes you are a true Brother Master.”

 

It may not, for me this means a lot, though. Never mind we’re probably all dead soon. 

 

Marcellus offers me a second bowl. I accept. Lost in thought I look at my reflection in the water…

 

*****

Dustin starts up from his sound sleep. His crisis-honed senses rising to full attention in an eye blink. A noise had woken him, one of the troubling ones. 

 

Not quite certain what is happening, but a careful man after the events of Winter Assault, he softly shakes his wife awake. “Be quiet”, he whispers in her ear, holding a little hand over her mouth. “Something’s not right. Stay here, I look around.” 

 

Almost soundless he slips out of the bed and takes his favorite knife from the nightstand. Unsheathing it, he calls up the beast and shifts into half-wolf form. Anyone who might estimate a family of children an easy target had a nasty surprise coming his way. 

 

On silent paw pads the wolf boy sneaks though the open bedroom door into the living room. Pitch-black darkness fills the apartment. Not really a problem. In his wolf form, Dustin’s eyes weren’t that good anyway. Nevertheless, his now heightened senses of smell and hearing made more than up for it. 

 

Just, the only noises perceptible are Tamara, slowly opening a drawer on her nightstand; and the soft breathing of Andrei and Lucy from their own room, easy to hear through the half-open door. A little perplexed he’s testing the air, but no unusual scents either. Had it all been a dream in the end?

 

There! Unmistakably someone is also opening a drawer, more like ripping it out of its case. And then scattering its contents all over the floor. 

 

Dustin’s head whirls around. It came from Mark’s room! It isn’t like the big cat to make such brouhaha in the middle of the night. Sometimes you’re not even sure he’s in there. Could it be really a burglar?

 

His chaps are sliding up to reveal small but well-kept and very sharp teeth. He all but formally adopted Mark into his household. The slightly moony morph is a part of his family! On Winter Assault he had to stay in wolf shape for three full days to keep his secret. Some people in the Keep still knew “David Redfield”, later named “Redhand”. Whoever was in there, if he had hurt Mark, he was about to find out where that nickname came from!

 

Gently, gently he lifts the latch. Thank the gods Mark never locks it. With the first crack open, the light of a single, lonely candle falls into the living room. Good, a little light makes it easier to aim, the knife in his hand spinning around until he has it by the blade, ready to be thrown. 

 

He risks a peek through the crack. After a moment he opens it wide, not believing what he’s seeing.

 

Mark sits on the floor, naked (never bothering with blankets or even a nightgown), his fur a tangled mess. The content of his desk drawer, his priced drawing supplies careless strewn around. Styli, brushes, quills, pens and he in the middle. With a piece of charcoal he’s furiously scribbling into his notebook. The look on his face one of plain desperation. 

 

Now Dustin can hear him muttering, under his breath, jittery and short-winded: “Can’t let it slip. Can’t let it slip. Can’t let it slip...”

 

The knife falls from numb fingers. Weapons aren’t necessary here. But what else? It practically causes Dustin physical pain to see his friend in this state. But he does not dare to approach him, out of fear the snow cat would lose the thread he’s so frantically trying to hold tight. 

 

Suddenly Mara is on his side. Quietly she shakes her head and guides him back into the living room, where they sit down in uneasy silence.

 

*****

 

It’s gone.

 

Finally I find the resolution to admit it. For a single, fleeting moment I was more than I am now. I had a connection to an entire life that happened before I woke up on that clearing. To a man with a name he didn’t give to himself, to a man with old friends, comrades, duties, maybe a family. And a purpose in life. 

 

It’s gone now and I am only Mark Dreamer again. 

 

I set my notebook back to the floor where I’m sitting. A crude drawing spreads over one of the pages. It’s a human face, that much is discernable, but smeared so much from sketching, erasing and re-drawing, it’s almost impossible to tell which gender. Let alone ethnicity. It’s taunting me, showing blatantly clear my inability to capture the fast-fading image in my mind. My original, ordinary, un-cursed humanoid face, reflected in a bowl of water. 

 

A spike of red hot anger hits me. The book lies already on the floorboards, so I throw the charcoal piece against the wall. No, I won’t cry, I refuse!

 

I get up and snatch my kilt from the drawer. I need to go out, breathe some fresh air and clear my mind. A door had appeared some when during the night, next to the piece of furniture. This happens sometimes. Usually it leads to one of the hallways (but in at least two occasions to a closet). It is a hallway, thankfully. I don’t want to risk walking into Dustin or Mara and explain the ruckus I produced. 

 

Aimless I wander through the keep; there’s no better place for it, though. 

 

After some time, maybe an hour, I start to notice a pattern. It’s seldom the keep actually blocks your way, but it likes to plant hints, if it wants you to reach a certain destination. Unobtrusively, but very persistent. 

 

The same door, again and again. So I stop to take a closer look. It’s too nice for a storage room – and too small, the latch at a similar high like the ones in Dustin’s apartment. A small door for a small person. Another age regressed keeper maybe, or one of the short animal cursed – or both, like Kiba. It’s not the little coon boy’s, though. The carvings on the frame are different. 

 

I hesitate to knock, it’s in the middle of the night, after all. But, would Lady Kyia really play me such a prank? Aw, what the heck, the worst that could happen are some harsh words. Without further delay I knock. 

 

*****

The echo of my quick knock fades only to be replaced by the scuffling of shorts claws - definitely a short animal cursed then - followed by the faint ruffling of cloth and a suggestion of metal against metal.  The steps come from deep within, and I tense as I wait to see who Kyia wishes me to meet.  The door swings inward without delay, revealing an interior lit only by the lantern carried by the keeper within.

Already expecting a short animal, I had been looking down as if I were conversing with Dustin while walking through the Keep.  I have to look even further down to reach the head of the Keeper before me.  Standing perhaps a little over three feet tall, with large, round ears, big black eyes sitting on either side of a long triangular snout that ends in a wicked array of whickers and two very noticeable incisors, while behind him a long, lightly furred tail danced just above the masonry, is unquestionably a mouse.  He’s dressed in evening linens and draped in a rich blue robe with a silver threaded sash tied about his middle.  He’s carrying the lantern as high as he can with the flame as dim as possible, nose twitching as he regards me.

"Who are you, oh knave, to interrupt my studies?  It is a beautiful night for watching the stars and perusing old charts.  Now you've gone and made me ruin my night eyes." His tail flicks to one side and he set his free paw on his hip, while his head tilts ever so slightly to one side as he looks at me. "So then, speak up!  Who are you and to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

 

  _____  

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