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

[C. Matthias]

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

Pars III: Descensum

(g)


Monday, May 7, 708 CR


Charles opened his eye and the world came into 
focus before him. The thin bedsheets were tangled 
around his legs and tail as if he'd been turning 
in his sleep. Beside him reposed his wife, her 
downy tan fur along her cheeks suffused with a 
soft smile as of a dream whose odor of sweetness 
persisted into the first glimmers of 
consciousness. Charles pondered in vain what he 
had dreamed of but only the silence of the early 
morning before the sun's rise replied. If not for 
the beastly eyes he now bore he doubted he would 
have even seen his wife only the stretch of an arm away.

A sullen disquiet seemed to persist in the air as 
he blinked and twitched his whiskers. A faint 
whiff of the chai from the night before clung to 
the fur on his snout. The musk of the hearth fire 
and their own odors drowned everything else out. 
But all of it felt thin too, almost 
insubstantial. Not a dream, though for those few 
moments as he lay there, the rat languished in the uncertainty.

And even as he grasped the edge of the linen 
sheets and worked his feet and tail loose for a 
moment he felt as it were a stranger's hands 
reaching out to clasp the covers. Before him he 
glimpsed a pair of thin hands with long fingers 
tipped with short, sharp claws, each of which 
sprouted short, dense fur at the wrists that 
thickened along the arms. Those hands twisted and 
moved, subtle in their art, with a care about 
their claws so as not to tear the fabric. He 
marveled in that brief moment before he realized 
that those were his paw-like hands, and his claws, and his will guiding them.

Charles took a deep breath, flexed his fingers to 
savor the feel of them returned, and then pulled 
his legs and tail free from the winding grasp of 
linen. He eased himself off the bed and lifted 
right hand to his forehead. And there his hand 
stopped for several seconds as he pondered what it was he was attempting to do.

Your duty.

Clarity returned in full at last and Charles 
smiled. There would be time for his morning 
prayers later. His hand lowered, scratched gently 
over his bare chest, and then spread outward in a 
quick stretch. He cast a quick glance back at his 
wife who still enjoyed the nepenthe of sleep. For 
a moment he reached out to wake her, but then 
drew back his hand. She should enjoy her sleep; 
once the five... four children woke she would have precious little of that.

As a long, quiet sigh escaped his snout, his paws 
searched through his clothes chests for something suitable to wear.


Kimberly began to stir as Charles slipped his 
suit of chain mail over the linen shirt he'd 
selected. He tugged at the hem to keep it from 
bunching in the rings even as his ears turned to 
listen to his wife as she shifted about in the 
bed. A slight smile creased his jowls as he heard 
her yawn and stretch. Charles draped his vest 
over one arm and gathered a sword, buckler, and 
small knapsack in the other. For a moment he 
paused at the door to listen for his children too 
but they were all sound asleep.

He stepped outside into a wet and cool morning. 
The sun had risen but had not yet crested the 
eastern mountains suffusing all in the forest 
with a gray veneer. Mud coated the ground and his 
toes sank into it as soon as he stepped out. He 
splayed his toes as wide as he could to give 
himself purchase and worked his way around the 
large roots framing the entrance to his home 
toward the stable Saulius' knight friends had built for him last winter.

Malicon, his roan pony, greeted him with a 
whicker and a scrape of hoof against paddock 
wall. Charles draped his buckler and tabard 
across the stall and hoisted a bag of grain over 
his shoulder. He filled Malicon's trough and 
while the pony contented itself, his eyes fixed 
upon something dear to his heart.

In the corner of the stables where one of the 
roots of the massive redwood in which his home 
dwelt emerged through the wooden slats only to 
disappear into the earth before reaching the 
opposite wall nestled a sinuous green vine of ivy 
along which broad leaves stretched and delicate 
purple blossoms grew. His eyes warmed, his breath 
exhaled with sweetness, and his muscles relaxed 
as a gracious peace touched him.

This vine had been a gift to Charles from the 
Wind Children of the ancient and magical 
Åelfwood. Who the Wind Children truly were he did 
not know. The little smile that had teased the 
corners of his snout now sketched an inchoate 
laugh. They had made themselves known in a swirl 
of dried leaves, acorns, and loose twigs that had 
danced about each of their company one by one. 
Their own faces and shapes were reflected back to 
them in that whirling cascade of mulch, much to 
each of their delight and wonder.

But the Wind Children had paid special attention 
to Charles who at the time was living stone whose 
only hope of returning to flesh remained in the 
future. They had circled his body many times, 
testing every granite crevice and almost, were it 
possible, tickling him with their effervescent 
touch. And when they finally continued on 
whatever course creatures of wind fancied to set 
he had been surprised to discover this vine 
growing from his back just above the base of his tail.

There it had remained for roughly five months, 
nourishing in some esoteric way from his granite 
body and then later his body of flesh once that 
had returned to him. It had curled from his back 
around his chest, and the back again, working 
upwards toward his shoulder and neck with a 
gentleness that impressed him deeply. So deeply 
in fact that the thought of any harm, even a 
bruise coming to that vine had filled him with a wretched horror.

Nor was it like any other ivy. Twice already it 
had come to his defense. The first time had been 
while they were laboring through the Marzac 
swamps; another plant had attacked them, 
attempting to transform them into a panoply of 
grotesque yellow flowers for its tempting garden. 
How well Charles could remember the sight of poor 
Lindsey who'd been first attacked, his face and 
chest unfolding into large petals collapsing 
against the water's fetid surface. But the vine 
had stretched from his body and choked that 
ensnaring plant until its vegetative fury was sapped and it released them all.

The second time had been in his fight against his 
old friend, corrupted by Marzac, Krenek Zagrosek. 
It had tried to choke him too but the fires of 
Marzac had burned the vine badly, ruining its 
flowers and fronds until only a fraction of its 
length could be saved. For two months he'd let it 
grow in his flesh again so that it might regain 
its former strength. And often he had felt its 
gentle embrace like a guiding and grateful hand 
as he navigated the dangers they had faced.

Charles loved and trusted the vine given him by 
the Wind Children. Even after learning that he 
could remove it from his flesh without bringing it harm he only rarely did so.

Until he returned to the Glen and showed it to his wife.

The rat's smile dimmed as a moue spread to take 
its place. He could understand his wife's 
discomfort with his ability to turn his flesh 
into living stone – he was frightened by what 
being stone could make him do and tempt him to do 
– but there was no harm whatsoever in the vine. 
It was nourished by him, and nourished him in 
return with its care and protection. It had never 
meant him anything but blessing and even now, as 
he gazed upon it as it climbed the far wall of 
the stable, its roots digging into the earth as 
they had once dug into his back, he could see its 
leaves stretch toward him, beckoning him to let 
it slip once more into his flesh.

She really does not understand this and many other things.

Charles grimaced and knew it was true. Kimberly 
did not understand the vine or the granite body 
he'd been gifted with. She had only ever 
understood his Sondeck abilities as another form 
of magic that let him be very strong and one of 
the Keep's elite warriors and now knight of the Glen.

She does not understand how you miss Ladero.

He choked back the sob he had not allowed himself 
the night before. Malicon lifted his head and 
snorted curiously at him before returning to his 
trough and sumptuous grain. In all those months 
of journey away from his family, how often had he 
spoke of the great joy he knew was waiting for 
him back home? How often had he spoken of his 
Ladero, his son with the Sondeck and the training he yearned to give him?

And in his heart he knew he would never have a 
bond with his other children, no matter how much 
he truly did love them, as he would with Ladero.

Charles shook his head and ground his molars 
together, claws pressing into his palms. His son 
was dead. He could not change the past. That was 
the lesson that he had learned from Marzac – the past could not be changed.

Only the future.

And he bore the emblems of his future already. He 
unclenched his paws and lifted a claw to pick at 
the metal links of his chain mail. He had duties 
as a knight now and that meant surveying the 
Narrows to learn their secrets and to determine 
how best to use the land. It had only been a 
month and a half since he had been invested, and 
his duties to the Glen had precluded him from 
spending as much time learning his fief as he 
would prefer. At least this week Baron Avery permitted him to do as he wished.

But as his claws ran along the smooth rings and 
his ears noted each clink of metal on metal, his 
eyes remained upon the vine whose leaves beckoned 
him closer with a strange sort of urgency. Slowly 
he brought his mind back to bear on the Wind 
Children's gift and his wife's discomfort. He 
would never dream of suffocating his vine beneath 
a suit of mail, but there was little reason he 
couldn't slip the vine over his armor as long as 
the root could sink into the flesh above his 
tail. Kimberly wouldn't see him until after he 
returned in the evening and so she didn't have to know.

Perhaps, despite herself, she may be right. 
Marzac used objects to drive your friends apart from those who loved them.

Charles had been about to walk toward the vine 
when that thought came to him. He stopped and 
narrowed his eyes, glancing back once toward 
Malicon who was nearly finished with his grains 
before returning his attention on the vine. Its 
leaves beckoned and the blossoms turned toward 
him, opening and closing like grasping hands.

Kayla had the swords.

He nodded slowly as he recalled the dragon 
blades, so helpful in their fight against Marzac, 
being twisted in his friend, the skunk's, mind 
until they coerced her into surrendering herself 
to the mad dragon Vissarion. His heart shuddered 
as he remembered seeing her in Rickkter's 
chambers, stretched and long, sinuous like a 
serpent with legs and vicious jaws, with only 
patches of fur remaining to show her true self. 
How quickly that which had once been trusted had twisted her mind!

James had the bell.

Even as the vine's leaves invited him closer, 
like a harridan's commanding finger, his mind 
turned to his donkey friend who had been consumed 
by a cracked bell. It had been forged in Glen 
Avery by their blacksmith Malloc and had never 
even traveled to Marzac. Yet through it Marzac 
had exercised devastating and nearly fatal 
control over his friend, twisting him to hate 
those who loved him and save but one stroke he 
would have killed Charles. One hand lifted to rub 
at his jaw, which on the coldest of nights ached 
still, where that bell had cracked the bones.

Jessica had the hyacinth.

He ran his tongue along the back of his incisors 
and then through the gaps on either side. As the 
vine before him moved of its own volition, that 
hyacinth, in its final moments had done as well 
aching to embrace Weyden and doom them all. In 
those precious minutes before Jessica and Weyden 
had left, Rickkter had pressed them for details; 
the image of that flower writhing in ravenous 
hunger haunted him. The hyacinth had been planted 
to help Jessica manipulate the Curses and in the 
end it had manipulated her, reducing all of them 
to children unable to fight back.

Kimberly does not understand, but she may be right about the vine.

Charles sighed and ground his molars together. 
The end of the vine detached from the wall and 
angled toward him. “I'm sorry, my friend. Whether 
I like it or not I have to listen to my wife.”

The vine seemed to struggle even more and for a 
moment he feared it would uproot itself to 
ensnare him. Charles wrapped his paw about the 
hilt of his sword and glared, heart burning. “Do 
not make me do this. Stay there and do not touch me. I will protect myself.”

His threat did not appear to convince the wine 
which was now stretched across the tree root, 
over half of its length uncoiled from the stable 
wall. Charles' scowl flared into a chittering 
growl as he ripped the sword from its sheath. The 
screech of metal on metal was so strident that 
even Malicon popped his head up, ears backed in 
alarm. “I warned you!” Charles snapped, giving 
the blade a quick underhanded swing; a cloud of dust erupted before his paws.

Stricken as if slapped, the vine recoiled and 
crouched against the stable wall. Charles exhaled 
and lowered his snout. “I'm sorry. But I cannot 
take chances.” He gently returned the sword to 
its scabbard. He then wrapped his arms around 
Malicon's neck and pressed his snout against the 
pony's head. Malicon jerked his head back a 
little at first but a moment later yielded to the 
rat's embrace. He ran his fingers and claws 
through the pony's mane for several seconds.

A slight smile touched his snout at last. He 
stepped back and took a deep breath. “Let's 
finish getting you ready and go find James. We 
have a lot of riding ahead of us today.”

Malicon stomped his hooves in approval.


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

Charles Matthias
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