[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars III. Descensum (s)

[C. Matthias]

I suspect folks won't like this bit.

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars III: Descensum

(s)


Saturday, May 12, 708 CR


The pain from his bruises was long past by the 
time he laid down in bed that evening. The ride 
back to the Glen had been uneventful and he'd 
regained his balance even before they'd reached 
the ponies. He'd barely contained his fury when 
he saw that his wife had invited Natalie and her 
son over again. The interloping frog had been 
playing with his children and his children – his 
children – were enjoying themselves!

At their return Natalie collected her son that 
they might return home. Kimberly tended his 
wounds and sponged his fur clean. The bruises 
were not serious, and the few cuts he had were 
easily tended. She did note on a few drops of 
blood on his sleeve, but he professed not to know 
and she did not press. While he was tended 
Garigan watched the children who enjoyed the 
ferret's attempt to tell a story about how he'd rescued their father.

That evening James and Baerle put in a brief 
appearance. Charles listened to the donkey and 
opossum regale them with all that they had seen 
in the mountains to the north. Many of the passes 
that had been snowed and iced over during March 
were now clear and so they had an easy time 
navigating even the treacherous paths. The 
scariest moment had come when a pair of mountain 
rams had decided to chase them toward a cliff, 
but a show of magic from one of the younger 
scouts convinced the rams to run the other way. 
Otherwise all was quiet on their northern frontier.

Like the frogs, both James and Baerle also took 
their leave, followed by Garigan once the evening 
hour arrived. They stayed long enough to help 
feed the children their evening meal but once the 
little rats had been fed all of his friends 
departed. Together, Charles and Kimberly put 
their children to bed and then a short while later retired as well.

Charles spoke a little of his knightly duties for 
the coming week and Kimberly expressed her 
approval that they would keep him closer to the 
Glen. He did not ask after the rock about her 
neck for she wore it beneath her kirtle, but he 
could see the little lump in the midst of her 
bodice. He tried to ignore it and for the most part succeeded.

All was dark in their bedroom once Kimberly 
extinguished her witchlight. Charles knew 
precisely where his clothes were and where 
anything else that might obstruct his path to the 
door. So in quiet he waited, listening to his 
wife's breathing as she lay next to him. His arms 
rested atop the covers, fingers clasped together 
over his chest, while the pillow beneath his head 
splayed his large ears to either side. His 
whiskers twitched as his incisors tapped against 
each other. He kept his tail shifted to his right 
so that the end of it was already brushing the floor in anticipation.
Kimberly took her time finding a comfortable 
position. At first she was on her back as she 
usually preferred, and then she tossed onto her 
side, and then a few minutes later she tossed 
onto her other side, thumping Charles in the leg 
with her tail beneath the covers, before finally 
settling onto her back again. Through it all 
Charles never quivered or budged. He merely 
waited peering in the dark above, a dark so deep 
he could not even see his own snout.

But his wife's discomfort finally passed and soon 
she was resting peacefully. Charles waited a few 
minutes to be certain, then slipped from the 
covers and gathered his attire. He made no noise 
in creeping from their bedroom. A little light 
came through the small windows into their main 
room and there he donned his clothes, including a 
dark cloak – from his days among the Longs – that 
helped hide him while scouting. He pulled the 
hood over his ears and then crept outside, 
hugging the shadows where he would not be seen.

Glen scouts were some of the best in all the 
Valley, but Charles was a Sondecki. He kept to 
the shadows and crossed the commons with measured 
steps and quick strides. He had one advantage in 
that the scouts were watching the roads and 
forests around the Glen and not often the commons 
which always saw their share of hoof and paw 
during the day. Not so at night when most had 
laid down their heads to sleep trusting in the 
scouts to protect them from enemies without.

Charles was not an enemy, neither within or 
without, but still, he feared being seen and 
stopped. He had but one thing he must do ere he 
met Malger and he did not want either James or 
Garigan to notice. They all suspected him of 
Marzac's corruption, so anything he did out of 
the ordinary would be misconstrued. It was best if they just did not know.

He crossed the commons without raising any 
alarms. Charles pulled the cloak more tightly 
about his middle as he swept from tree to tree, 
creeping through the darkness as but one more 
shadow. There was no light in the graveyard; not 
only would the least sliver of a waning moon not 
rise until dawn, but the clouds blotted out all 
the stars. The only light that cast through the 
trees was the occasional lantern carried by a 
Glenner on their way home from the Inn or from the brewery after many drinks.

Even without the light Charles knew where to find 
his son's grave. He crept across the earth, 
skulking on all fours, until his claws reached 
the familiar stone. He ran his fingers up its 
cold surface, a familiar surface that he had 
melded into so many times before. But not this 
night. Instead he spread his cloak across the 
earth beneath which his son lay, and pressed his 
forehead against the stone. His tongue moved to 
whisper though his snout did not open. And so 
beneath his breath only a few words passed from snout to stone.

“I am coming for you, my Ladero.”

These words breathed again and again from his 
lungs, his heart, and his soul. Tears brimmed in 
his eyes, one catching in the ruin of his flesh 
before tumbling to the cross beam of the stone 
marker. He smeared the tear with his fingers, 
rubbing it firmly into the stone. He tilted back 
his snout and planted a kiss upon the marker.

Nothing more can be done here.

He nodded to himself and slowly eased himself back.

They will be watching this place. You must make haste now.

He crept back into the shadows and followed along 
the edge of the commons westward toward the Inn 
and brewery. Once he was close enough he slipped 
free of the cloak, folded it over his arms, and 
calmly walked through the main doors of the 
brewery taproom. Far too many went in and out of 
the taproom for anyone to take special notice, 
but were he to come draped in his cloak he might 
draw attention to himself. With noble calm and an 
affected air of conviviality he opened the door and stepped within.

The interior of the cave was warmly light with 
lanterns suspended from the ceiling and a 
comfortable fire crackling in the hearth. The 
bruin Lars was pouring drinks for the many Glen 
scouts who had come to wash away the strain of 
the day. Charles recognized many of them, but 
none had gone with him to Marzac or even knew of 
their fears of that place. A few waved to him and 
he waved in return, but no words were shared. 
Instead he passed the long tables with drunken 
Glenners and proceeded to the owner.

“Master Lars, pardon me, but I believe I am expected below.”

Lars turned to him and snorted, brown eyes 
narrowing for a moment. “Sir Matthias, of course. 
I gave his grace a storage room below the brewing 
hall that suited your needs. It is not hard to 
find.” He gave the rat quick instructions for 
which Charles thanked the bear and proceeded back out into the night.

He did not bother donning the cloak as he made 
his way along the southern face of the hill and 
calmly walked through the unlocked postern gate 
of the brewery. The brewing tuns within were far 
too large for even the mightiest to move, and the 
mash within too raw for any to attempt drinking, 
so Lars seldom secured the door. It was only 
during decanting from tun to barrel for 
fermentation that the bruin evinced any concern 
for his precious wares. Confidant and determined 
he opened the door and stepped within.

The air smacked him with an almost palpable blow; 
sticky warm and breathtakingly humid, with a bite 
that burned his nose and left his eyes watering. 
He hastened through the main room, all decorum 
lost and wholly unconcerned that any might see 
him – who could, unless their eyes had become 
inured to the torture? Reaching the far end he 
pulled open the double doors enough to squeeze 
through and let them thump closed behind him.

The caverns beneath the brewery were partly 
natural and partly carved out of the stone. They 
served primarily as storage, in an unchanging 
environment, for the fermentation of the bruin's 
numerous brews. During times of attack they also 
provided the Glenners a secure shelter from which 
to last out the attack or fight back. There was 
even a secret passage that emptied out into the 
mountains, but thankfully they had never need to 
use it. At least the air within was far less 
stifling, though was still potent with a mélange 
of curing scents. Charles descended two flights 
of short stairs before he found the chamber the 
bear had offered them. Standing in the doorway 
watching for him was Malger's servant, the fox 
Misanthe was had hidden under the marten Noble's 
chair during Charles' request, and stood silently 
by that morning when Charles received his answer. 
Now she was in a more comfortably bipedal form 
and seemed to glow in a bronze light from within the room.

When she saw him she nodded and then disappeared 
within the room. Charles walked a little faster, 
but the hall was long and it took him several 
seconds to reach the chamber. The fox had eased 
the door so that it was only cracked. He pushed 
the heavy door open with one hand until it had 
swung wide, allowing him a view of the room beyond.

The room, like everything else, was carved out of 
the granite hillside. Wooden supports rose along 
all four walls and crossed the ceiling where a 
hook was fixed for a lantern. Old storage chests 
were stacked against the right wall while two 
pallets with warm quilts were arrayed in the 
center of the room. A single candle and a censer 
were set beside the pallets. The room was clean 
of dust and damp with a fresh smell and a 
lingering suggestion of wine from the two racks 
of small casks along the back wall. The more 
powerful odors were that of the fox who'd stood 
watch at the door and the marten who stood on the 
other side of the pallets watching him with a 
keen eye. The scent of the incense within the 
censer was the last odor that tickled his 
sensitive nose but his whiskers told him that 
what his eyes saw, and they felt, threw the 
geometry of the room askew. Narrowing his gaze he 
glowered at the back wall but, after a few 
seconds of scrutiny he decided that such 
mysteries would only distract him from his goal so he pushed it aside.

Charles took a deep breath. “Good evening, Malger. I am here. What must I do?”

Malger motioned for him to enter. “Step inside 
and lay down on one of the pallets. You will need 
some place to sleep if you are to enter the 
dreams. I will be beside you but there is no need 
for us to touch.” The noble marten gestured to 
the fox who had stepped away to give him some 
distance. “Misanthe is here to watch over us as we sleep.”

Why would she watch you?

“Will we need watching?” Charles asked as he 
stepped through the doorway. He cast a sidelong 
glance at the fox, favoring her with the ruined side of his face.

Malger's reply was given in a reassuring tone. 
“Both to ensure we are not disturbed and to wake us should something go wrong.”

Should something go wrong? Nothing must be allowed to go wrong!

Charles twitched his whiskers and snapped his 
eyes back to Malger. Anxious, he asked, “Can things go wrong?”

Malger nodded, but lifted one hand as if to 
assure him. “They can, but it is very rare.” He 
gestured to the fox and offered a smile to the 
rat that revealed all of his little fangs. 
“Instead of fearing what might go wrong, take 
comfort that Misanthe will be here so that you 
will not take harm should something, however 
unlikely, go amiss.” Malger lowered his arm and 
pointed to the pallets at his feet. “Please, lie 
down and make yourself comfortable and we can begin.”

Follow his instructions.

Charles cast one more scowl at the far wall 
before depositing his cloak beside the pallet and 
then reclining, resting his head on the pillow. 
He folded his hands over his stomach, lacing the 
fingers together; he tapped his thumb claws 
together as his eyes stared up into the ceiling. 
His ears flicked at the thunk that sounded when 
Misanthe shut the heavy door and threw the latch. 
While she snuffed the lanterns, plunging the room 
into darkness but for that lone candle flame, 
Malger used a slender reed to light the incense 
within the censer. Charles was briefly, and 
disquietingly, reminded of the dark censer that 
had nearly destroyed them in the belfry the very 
day of his departure from his home and long journey into the south.

A long journey, a long time away from family with 
no farewells and so much loss. But what was lost 
can be found. One journey is ended, a new one begins.

The thought comforted him and he stared into the 
weird shadows glimmering across the uneven stone 
above him, suggesting creatures and people in a 
strange sort of play of light. The rat fancied he 
saw herds of deer through the forest, rats 
dancing in the night, and the blaring of a horn 
splitting a stormy sky. He watched with whimsy 
cavorting rats take up the chase with a wild hunt 
that leaped the moon that sunk into a 
river-carved gorge. And then a thin trail of 
smoke rose into view and his whiskers twitched 
with the strangely sweet incense it carried. He breathed deep and relaxed.

As the censer began to send thin tendrils of 
sweet and heady smoke into the air, Malger picked 
up his flute and blew across the opening, 
sounding an experimental tone. It hung in 
Charles' hearing long after the musician had drawn the flute from his lips.

“Gaze into the flame.” Malger's voice became 
softer, more smooth; a lilting baritone that 
seemed to have lost the animal churr that Charles 
had grown not to notice in the last half decade. 
Now, he noticed its absence. “Listen to the 
melody I play and let your mind drift, but think 
of me as you drift; it matters not the thought, 
but that it will be a beacon that draws me to you 
within the Dream.” Charles stretched slowly upon 
the pallet, comfortable padded against the 
unyielding solidity of the rough-hewn stone 
floor. He turned his head to gaze upon the 
unwavering glow of the candle that stood between 
them. Malger was seated opposite him, legs 
crossed, his form cast in shadows and highlights 
beyond the flame. “Let the flame lead to calm, 
the calm to its center,” Malger intoned in that 
low, lyrical voice like a father's lullaby 
shushing a child toward sleep. Charles felt his 
body relaxing; these exercises he was familiar 
with and fell into almost without conscious 
thought. He fell into the calm, but his center 
seemed elusive; shadowed away and blocked from 
grasp. After mere moments he felt that 
frustration melt away and simply relaxed. His 
clasped hands rested upon his stomach, his thumbs 
rubbing against each other very slowly. Nothing 
else, not even the tip of his tail curled up on 
the quilt between his feet, twitched. His chest 
rose and fell with slow measured breaths to show 
he was alive but that was all. His whiskers 
didn't even flick as the incense drifted over his sensitive nose.

Malger began to trace out a slow, serpentine tune 
that coiled around an elusive center, a 
sympathetic melody on a minor key echoing the 
music in a fading echo. Its contour was of the 
gentle caress of waves upon a hull and the 
ever-shifting dunes of his desert home. This was 
no sweet inducement to sleep for babes, but a 
sultry enchantment, suggestive without revealing anything at all.

The rat's eyes remained alert for a few minutes, 
but the combination of the unwavering flame, the 
hazy incense, and the slow, hypnotic melody of 
the flute drooped his eye lids and relaxed his 
frame. The incense, sweet and sharp in his 
nostrils, lifted his mind away from all concerns. 
Within moments he was not in the caves beneath Glen Avery.

----------

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

Charles Matthias
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