Even Fall
Chapter Five

Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: The party finds a strange ally, and a new friend
Notes: Illustrations in this chapter are by Animama

They did not dare risk taking the book back to the village.

Instead they took it back to their hideout, where it was less likely to be found, carefully locking the foul thing in a chest and placing things over it, to make it look as if nothing of any interest or value could be inside.

“We need to study this book,” said Elaran quietly, watching as Aramais and Derith disguised the chest.

“We do,” said Whitebird. “But I think none of us are the ones to do it. What I have read in it sickens me. This is a fetid tome of death and nothing more. It promises no power, no greatness, all it speaks of is death. One book alone will not help us to unravel this dark mystery. We need more information.”

“We need another book,” said Derith.

“We do,” said Aramais. “We need four more books, but where to look? The hunting lodge was a lucky guess, and had we arrived perhaps so much as a day later this book may well have been taken to a new hiding place also. As it is we must assume we are being hunted. The game is becoming dangerous, and dropping out will do us no good. We are forced to play to whatever end.”

“But what if the King does not yet know we have this book?” said Sarrin.

“We cannot assume he is unaware the book has been stolen,” said Aramais. “Perhaps this one was of less value than the others, but it was still left in the care of a most fell guardian.”

“We are in need of one schooled in the ways of alchemy and sorcery,” said Whitebird. “None of us are wise in the ways of magic, and many answers we seek shall be lost to us without one. I fear ere we do anything more, we must seek a wizard.”

“That is no easy trick,” said Sarrin. “As a bard I have travelled far and wide, and have met many who claim to be users of magic. I have yet to meet one who can do more than shuffle cards whilst picking a pocket.”

“I thought as much,” said Aramais. “And now the true wizards will be in short supply indeed after the blight claiming the land.” He glanced at Elaran, noticing the look on her face. She seems far away in thought, gently stroking Rui’s grey fur.

“Elaran?” he asked quietly.

“I may know one,” she said softly. “I cannot swear to it, he may not be a true wizard, and indeed he may no longer live. But there was a man with whom I would trade herbs and talismans, and I believe he was a mage, or at least studying the mysteries.”

“Where is this man?” asked Derith.

“Two miles down the road from my cottage,” said Elaran. “He dwelled under the eves of the Cherry Wood.”

Derith raised an eyebrow. “Cherry Wood?”

“Aye,” said Aramais. “Once it was a great grove of fruiting trees, primarily cherry trees. Over the years it became forgotten by the nobles who once made use of it, though the local peasants still took advantage of its bounty. Now the vast acres of fruit trees have become wild, and other kinds have taken root there, forming a strange forest. It is a fair enough place. Feral and odd, and rumours persist of sylvan things coming to gather the fruit, but with the spring upon us, it should be in full flower.”

“Fruit would not sit so ill with me,” said Whitebird. “Nor would a flowering grove. So it seems we have our destination, though we must take care. We will be travelling closer to the Kings’ castle than I care for.”

***---***

The journey to Cherry Wood was a long one. After some debate they had decided to leave the book in their stronghold, feeling it was safer there than with them, where it could be stolen or mislaid. They stayed off the road, cutting across country, and steering well clear of the King’s castle and the lands, trying their best to remain hidden. The rains fell in a steady mist, making everything damp and uncomfortable, and after a time even Whitebird became stiff in the joints.

“We shall all of us be walking like our grandfathers ere this journey is done,” grumbled Aramais.

They made their way for many days through the forests that skirted the King’s lands, walking through young growths of birch and aspen. They saw little in the way of animals; if creatures did still dwell there they had become very stealthy indeed. They heard not so much as a bird or a squirrel, and both Rui and the horse were clearly most uncomfortable. Rui spent most of her time in the air, lazily riding the air currents, paws dangling, looking annoyed with the whole situation.

“Rui!” called Elaran. “What do you see?”

The cat tilted her ears. What she said, none heard, but Elaran rolled her eyes.

“Rui, do you see the cottage?”

Rui landed delicately in a tree and began grooming. By now Elaran was furious.

“Rui I am not enjoying this anymore than you, but if you would care to become the first undead muirkat in existence then please by all means keep it up!”

Rui flicked her tail. Elaran sighed. “She says it’s less than a mile ahead, the wee pissy bitch.”

There were chuckles. “Have patience with her, my lady,” said Derith. “We’re all tired and cold and dirty.”

“I know but she needn’t be rude to those of us who cannot fly!”

“How did you come to have her?” asked Derith. “A wild muirkat is a wary beast!”

“Her mother has a nest in my rafters every spring,” said Elaran. “One day that one fell out, or was pushed, the latter I suspect. Either way I was fool enough to keep the silly thing.” Elaran abruptly stopped in her tracks, eyes wide with dismay as a thought occurred to her. “The mother cat. She will be at the cottage by now. Oh I hope she is all right.”

“I am certain she is fine, dear lady,” said Derith. “She will get along as do the other wild muirkats.”

Elaran was not placated. “Rui! Go check on your mother, please. I fear for her.”

Rui spread her wings and flew off towards the cottage that she and Elaran had once called home. Elaran watched her go.

“I hope she is well. I was very fond of her.”

Derith put an arm about her shoulders. “I am certain that both Rui and her mother will be fine, my lady. Let us continue.”

***---***

By the time they reached the cottage in which Elaran’s friend dwelled, it was late in the afternoon, and though the rain had at last ceased, it was dark and cold. The little stone cottage huddled under the eaves of the wood, looking forlorn, a grey spot beneath canopies of pink and white. The windows were dark, the door was closed, and no smoke rose from the chimney. The small group of travellers stared at it, feeling a sense of despondence creep over them.

“This does not bode well,” said Whitebird.

Aramais drew his sword and approached the little house, peering into one of the windows. He could see simple furnishings, and herbs carefully bundled and laid on the table, including quantities of the purple plants they had used to rid Whitebird of the plague slime.

“I see nothing amiss in here. Perhaps your friend is simply gone as opposed to cursed? Let us go inside and light a fire, my bones are chilled!”

They went into the cottage, looking around for anything that seemed out of place, but there was no indication anything foul had occurred there. Indeed the house seemed to be still very much in use. The coals in the hearth were still warm, and the herbs on the table were fresh. Sarrin picked up a few sprigs.

“Look! Whitebird may use these to freshen the colour of his hair.”

Whitebird glared at him. The stains in his hair had faded to a soft lilac, and he did not much enjoy being called Purple Bird. Instead of offering any sort of a retort he turned his attention to Elaran.

“Would your friend mind us making use of his house in his absence?”

“I think not,” said Elaran. “Ryskul is not the sort to begrudge one warmth. Let us build up the fire, and I shall make tea.” She glanced out the window. “I hope Rui is well. Oh there she is, flying towards the cottage. Oh thank the gods of kindness. She carries something with her.”

Elaran opened the door, and Rui swooped in, landing hind feet first on the table, and setting down the tiny bundle she carried. It stood, splay-legged on the table, blue eyes only just open, with the sort of sorrowful look only very small kittens can manage. The fur was the colour of ice, as was the down that covered the tiny folded wings.

Elaran scooped up her cat and praised her, weeping with relief to see her as Whitebird picked up the kitten, examining it.

“He seems well enough,” said Whitebird. He turned the wee beast so he could look into the tiny face. “Well hello. And who might you be?”

“Rui says that was the only kitten she found alive,” said Elaran. “The whole nest was destroyed, cat, kittens and all, save for this one little white fellow.”

Sarrin walked over to Whitebird to peer at the kitten. “Poor fellow. It’s horrid being an orphan, isn’t it?”

“Rui says she will care for him, though we shall have to feed him.”

“Well we certainly cannot leave something so small and frail to its fate!” said Derith. “Though we may wish to bathe him in the herbs in case he has some taint upon his fur. It is a risk we dare not take.”

Whitebird sighed heavily. “And as I have held him then I must bathe as well.”

“As must Rui and I,” said Elaran. Rui flattened her ears but seemed to grasp this was for her own good.

“Have we enough herbs for four baths?” asked Sarrin.

“Nay,” said Elaran. “We have enough for one.”

She and Whitebird studied each other.

“I could keep my eyes closed,” he said.

“Thank you, I think I shall just leave my slip on. And we shall see what benefits, if any, are to be had from bathing with Elves.”

“I’ll wager good Aramais could think of a few,” said Sarrin.

“Oh, no, if any are to be bathing for pleasure with fair Whitebird it shall be I,” said Derith. “We have pledged eternal devotion to each other, after all.”

Sarrin thought about that. “And yet… Whitebird shares his tent with Aramais.”

“Well of course,” said Derith.

Sarrin stared at his friends, who simply returned his gaze, as if the situation should be perfectly clear to him.

“But..?” he said, confused.

“Oh Sarrin go fetch the water,” said Elaran.

Sarrin looked at his friends in utter confusion for a few moments longer, then went off to do as he was told. Once he was out of the cottage, Elaran raised an eyebrow at the trio before her.

“You boys really are terrible.”

“Oh this is nothing, fair maid,” said Derith. “Next week Whitebird shall develop morning sickness.”

Elaran rolled her eyes. “Shameful what you do to poor Sarrin.” She fell silent for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, a smile crossing her face. “Can I help?”

The door opened, and a man stepped in, clad only in leather breeches and boots. He had intensely green eyes, and long curling dark hair that fell past his shoulders. He had a simple charm about his neck consisting of a crow’s foot and some black feathers dangling from a string of leather. From his handmade belt of woven leather strips hung a small bag of some sort of reptilian hide, beaded with tiny pearls of black, red and white. A crow sat upon his shoulder, its face badly scarred, its eyes missing. The man held a dead rabbit in his left hand, and to his right stood a hellish looking hound with a rough, shaggy coat of dirty black. The monster had eyes of burning yellow, and it curled its lips threateningly at the intruders.

“Ryskul!” exclaimed Elaran. “I feared for you!”

Ryskul did not smile as he spied her, but the hound went to lay by the fire, deciding all was well. Elaran went to the strange young man.

“Are you well?”

Ryskul turned his gaze from her to the three men in his house, the crow’s head turning as his did. “I am well enough. I have missed you. Who might be these men?”

“These are my travelling companions and friends, Derith, Aramais, and Whitebird.”

“And the fourth?” His voice was quiet, and he had a strange air of distraction.

“Sarrin the Bard.”

Ryskul raised an eyebrow. “A bard. Indeed.” He looked once more at Elaran, the crow’s head again turning as his did. “I thought you dead.”

“Nay, I fled. I thought you would have done the same.”

“I do not flee from pathetic things.”

“Pathetic?” said Aramais, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck as man and bird looked at him. “You do not fear the plague?”

“Not the plague and not the spoiled man-child who brought it down. But not all have my power. I do not begrudge folk wishing to save themselves.”

Aramais had no doubt this was a mage. There was nothing else he could be. Nothing that did not have intimate knowledge of the ways of magic could exude this dark air. Yet he did not seem evil. Powerful, yes, and most definitely fell. But not evil.

“We came to ask if you would help us to find the five books the king used to bring down the curse,” said Elaran. “We have one already, hid…”

Ryskul raised a hand. “You will not talk about those here.”

“But we…” began Aramais.

“You will not talk about those here.”

Aramais nodded. “Very well. But might I ask what sort of mage you are? I have not seen your like.”

Ryskul set his crow on a perch, and then offered it a morsel of food. “I am a Shamanancer. It is an ancient craft, one too few people have knowledge of. Other paths promise more, and quickly, but the patient know true power cannot be achieved through books and charms. Books can be destroyed, charms taken, great monsters defeated. My mother taught me her ways, as grandmother taught her. It is an art that by rights belongs to women, as it makes much use of mysteries and powers better understood by them. But my mother had no daughter, so she gave the gift to me. I do what I can to not fail her.”

“Shamanancer?” said Whitebird. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“You will never meet one. Not knowingly. The art is a secret one, and those who practice it shun those who would make a mockery of its ways. It relies much on signs and omens, strange things others would stand away from. The claw of a bird found clutched in the hand of a hanged man. A black dog found at a crossroads. A blind crow that knows your name. Power is gathered over the years, and one slowly fills in the puzzle pieces that make each Shamanancer unique. I only miss one piece. I don’t know what it is, but I will recognise it when it finds me. That’s why I’ll go with you.”

Elaran smiled. “I had hoped you would say that.”

Ryskul offered her a faint smile, then looked at Whitebird. “Your kitten needs milk.”

“My kitten?” he inquired.

“It is yours.”

“And how do you know it is my kitten? We only just found him.”

“He found you,” said Ryskul quietly, and walked to the chopping block to clean the rabbit.

***---***

“Well,” said Derith, holding a tiny and most unhappy little kitten, “if it was not your kitten before, it certainly is now.”

Whitebird accepted the little beast, tinted now a rich purple, as was his own hair once more. “Poor little fellow. What madness you have fallen into! Take heart. You are now of royal lineage; the only purple muirkat that ever was or will be. Save for yon soggy feline.”

Rui sat on the table, her pale grey fur also purple, her wings looking half plucked. Elaran studied her hair in the mirror, shaking her head.

“You are a vision of amethyst beauty,” said Derith.

“I look like a bloody fool. But at least I am in good company.” She glanced towards Ryskul, watching as he pulled on his boots in preparation of going outside.

“What are you doing?” asked Aramais. “It is dark, and the dead are walking.”

Ryskul stood up and walked to a large chest, opening the creaking lid by a leather handle. “I go to consult the elements about our next move.”

Aramais blinked in surprise. “But it is dark!”

Ryskul seemed to see no point in repeating himself. He reached into the chest and drew out a small pot of some sort of ointment, and the hide of a great stag, skull and antlers attached. He set aside the hide and began smearing himself with the ointment.

“What is that?” asked Sarrin.

“Vision balm,” Ryskul said quietly. “Bees wax, olive oil, jimson weed, a few other things. It will help me to learn what I need to know.”

He smeared himself with the balm, then picked the stag’s hide, putting it on. The animal’s skull set over his head in such a manner that he could see through the eyeholes, and the forelegs were knotted to hold the hide on. Then he picked up what appeared to be a staff of pale wood, hung with feathers, beads, charms, and topped with a shard of amethyst.

“I will be back when I have learned what I need to know,” he said, and departed, leaving his crow and hound behind.

“An odd fellow,” remarked Derith.

“Odd he may be, but he knows his magic, I’ll warrant,” said Aramais. He glanced towards Whitebird, who was gently drying his kitten. “What will you name him?”

Whitebird smiled, touching his nose to the tiny animal’s. “I have not a clue, though I confess some part of me wishes to call him Hunter.”

Aramais smiled. “And would good Hunter be pleased to know you have bestowed his name upon a little purple kitty?”

“I know you all saw him as a cold and formidable warrior, but he was not without his sweet side. I think he would see the humour in my calling my kitty after him. Still, I cannot deny I would rather have him. But I think that is beyond even the greatest of wizards.”

Aramais did not miss the way Whitebird’s eyes shone. It was still too soon for him to think of Hunter without the tears surfacing. Aramais put an arm around Whitebird, holding him close, offering what comfort he could, unable to quell the guilt. He had shot him. He had raised his bow and fired a bolt into Hunter’s heart, and now he offered comfort to Whitebird in his time of bereavement. Aramais felt sick at himself.

“Whitebird, I…”

Whitebird raised a hand, halting any words Aramais had been about to speak. “Say nothing. We know who killed Hunter. I will take no apologies from you.”

Aramais nodded. “Very well, then. I shall offer none.”

Sarrin watched, one eyebrow raised, as Whitebird and Aramais leaned against one another, brows touching. He then looked at Derith, who gazed back at him serenely. Sarrin seemed to decide he’d had quite enough of this puzzle, and rose to his feet, walking to the window, gazing out. Aramais gently stroked Whitebird’s long hair.

“What do you see, Sarrin?”

“He has made a fire. I see no walking dead. He has his eyes closed, and is swaying. I was under the impression a Shamanancer needed music to work her spells. Or, in this case, his spells.”

“It can be done without,” said Elaran, “but it is far more difficult.”

“Well perhaps I could help.”

“Oh not the unicorn song,” muttered Whitebird.

Sarrin made an exasperated noise. “I do know others.” He rose onto his toes to better peer out the window. “I still see no dead. Perhaps they were destroyed by the cold of winter.”

“I find it more likely they know what dwells here,” said Aramais.

“Well if I see any I will be back forthwith, make no mistake,” said Sarrin.

He picked up his mandolin and opened the door, peering cautiously into the night. Then he stepped outside, closing the door after himself. Whitebird raised his head to look into Aramais’ eyes.

“I should like to watch,” he said quietly.

“Then we shall watch,” he said softly.

They gazed at each other, neither moving, Aramais’ fingers still toying with the Elf’s silken hair. Then he noticed Whitebird’s lips parting ever so slightly in invitation, and he suddenly felt his nerve flee him, as if he were a boy in his teens, instead of a man grown. He gently drew back, removing his hand from the thick hair. He rose from the chair, then, not wishing Whitebird to think he had been repulsed by him he held out his hand, offering to help him up. Whitebird raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“It has been a long time since last I made a man blush.”

“I am not blushing,” muttered Aramais.

“Oh I beg to differ,” said Derith, grinning.

“Fortunately he has that long tunic to cover other responses to fair Whitebird’s offer of a kiss,” said Elaran.

Aramais winced. “The length of my tunic matters not, as there is nothing to conceal,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“A shame!” said Derith. “But perhaps it matters not, if Whitebird prefers to be the rider rather than the stallion.”

“Either is fine by me,” said Whitebird, “though I confess a fondness for a horsemaster with iron thighs and hands of velvet, who knows how to apply the whip.”

Aramais cleared his throat. “If you will all excuse me, I am going to go throw myself into Ryskul’s fire, thank you very much!”

Whitebird laughed. “You embarrass far too easily!”

“Well I do not beg your forgiveness, I have never heard such talk from an Elf. AND a lady! Elaran, really!”

She waved a hand at him dismissively. “I am a healer. I have seen sores on backsides and poxes on willies and strange items trapped in places unseen by daylight aplenty. I may say what I please!”

“Yes I suppose in that case you may,” said Aramais. He looked down at Whitebird, and held out his hand once more. “But despite your behaviour, my offer stands.”

Whitebird took his hand. “And I accept.” He rose to his feet, and gazed at Aramais, smiling. “As does mine,” he said softly.

Aramais found himself trapped in the strange blue-white eyes, gazing into them, and once more felt that nervousness in his stomach. He tried to swallow his fear, and was only distantly aware of Elaran holding her hand out to Derith. He accepted it, and the two quietly left the kitchen, leaving the pair alone in the dull light of the lamps. The kitchen became quiet, save for the soft hiss of coals in the grate, and Aramais became aware of a tremble in his body.

“Will you express amusement if I faint?” he asked.

Whitebird smiled. “I promise nothing.”

Aramais laughed quietly, despite himself. “Knave.”

He gently squeezed the slender yet strong hand in his, then, steeling himself, he leaned forward, closing his eyes. Their lips met, and he felt as if he had been struck by some force, a jolt moving through his frame. He drew a sharp breath, and moved closer, releasing the hand he held so he could slip his arms around Whitebird. He held him close, nervously trailing his fingers down the Elf’s spine. Then he drew back, shaking. He smiled nervously.

“I think I just surprised myself.”

“I hope it was a nice surprise,” said Whitebird.

“Very nice, if a little frightening.” He reached up one hand to carefully trail the tips of his fingers over Whitebird’s lips. “But… I think it is too soon for more than kisses.”

“I agree,” said Whitebird. “But kisses are nice.”

“They are.” Aramais lowered his hand and kissed Whitebird once more, exploring this new feeling slowly. Then he drew back, suddenly feeling off-balance and nervous.

“We should go see how Ryskul and Sarrin fare,” said Whitebird.

Aramais nodded. “Aye. Let us go.”

Whitebird nodded. Aramais slid an arm about him, and together they left the small cottage, walking to where Ryskul had made his fire. The group gathered there was quiet. Sarrin was seated on a large stone, playing a tune Aramais had never heard before. It was dark, rhythmic and strange, something Sarrin had learned during his wanderings, a tune unlikely to be requested by a crowd of tavern patrons, but it seemed to suit Ryskul. He was swaying to the sound, waiting for the balm to take effect. Whitebird leaned close to Aramais.

“The dead watch. Do you see them? They spy from the darkness, but do not draw nigh.”

Aramais nodded. “I cannot see them, but I smell their putrid stench.”

Ryskul began to dance, lost to the world of men and monsters, his body remaining behind while his spirit found other places. The fire rose higher, and the dead things that lurked near by drew further back, fearing his power. Ryskul made an eerie figure in the darkness, shrouded in deerskin, his body dipping and swaying, casting strange herbs and resins into the fire, creating a cloud of white smoke that did not rise, but hovered over the fire and spread out over the earth, smelling of incense.

“We must step back,” said Elaran quietly. “I know not what this vapour us, but we have not the knowledge to travel whatever paths it will lead us to.”

They drew away from the fire, all save Sarrin, who continued to play, the smoke gathering around his feet and the stone upon which he sat. He kept his eyes on the fire, sitting up as he studied it. He cast a quick glance at Aramais, who looked towards the fire. His breath caught as he spied something.

“There are things in the fire. Look. Strange creatures.”

Ryskul danced and swayed, having moved from the edges of the fire to its depths, dancing among the flaming logs and branches in the large pit, surrounded by tiny leaping forms, only half visible in the darkness and churning sparks. They seemed to have bat-like wings, and eyes that burned like fire, but it was very difficult to see what they actually looked like.

“We are drawing a crowd,” said Derith quietly.

Aramais nodded. He had been thinking the same thing; that as the dead backed away, intimidated by the growing feeling of power emanating from Ryskul, that other things were being drawn nigh. Shadows crept out of the trees, coming to skirt the fire, darting in and out of the flames, some the size of foxes, some larger. Some had wings, and they flitted overheard, but none of these creatures came far enough into the light that they could actually be seen.

“What are they?” asked Aramais, and he glanced to Whitebird. He pulled away in fear, uttering a quick gasp as he saw the Elf standing transfixed, his pale blue eyes burning an intense green. Elaran and Derith turned to look at well, staring in fear and concern at Whitebird.

“Whitebird?” Aramais said softly.

The Elf blinked slowly, eyes glowing in the darkness. Aramais watched helplessly, uncertain what he should do, if anything. He gently touched the long soft hair, and felt his gut clench in horror as the green eyes turned towards him. The Elf smiled, and it was not a nice smile. Then he bolted, tearing into the woods, followed by a flurry of strange shadowy beasts. Aramais moved to go after him, but Derith and Elaran caught him, holding him.

“Let him go!” said Derith. “He has a far better chance of surviving the night than you do, and we dare not risk losing both!”

Aramais watched helplessly as Whitebird tore into the darkened woods, feeling his stomach tie itself into a knot. Dead things followed him, and Aramais wanted nothing more than to go after him and capture him, to bring him back to the cottage an keep him safe. But he knew he could not catch him.

“Whitebird,” he whispered. He did not protest as Elaran and Derith led him to the cottage.

***---***

Whitebird did not return that night. Nor did he return with the morning light. It was not until the sun was beginning to set that he came back, looking more like a feral cat than an Elven warrior. He stunk of blood and carrion, and the unmistakeable odour of wanton couplings. He opened the door and walked into the cottage, and was met immediately by Aramais.

“Where have you been?” he demanded. He was hurt and enraged and sick with relief, and it was all he could do not to grab the Elf by his hair and give him the beating of his life.

Whitebird stared back at Aramais from behind a curtain of dirty hair, subdued and possibly ashamed. “I was rather hoping you could tell me,” he said softly.

It was not the response Aramais had anticipated, and it stopped his carefully planned tirade he had worked on all night for exactly this moment.

“You do not know?”

Whitebird gazed at him. “Well, I have some idea,” he admitted. “But not where, or with whom, and especially not why. Nor do I know where the blood came from, but it is not mine.”

Aramais began to feel less angry and more worried. “Your eyes were like lanterns of green fire, and… I did not know you. It was your body, but another seemed to be occupying it.”

“It happens to sylvan creatures during the chants sometimes,” said Ryskul quietly. “The wild spirits take over their bodies, and they go to do as the feral things do. I suspect Whitebird was taken over by a wolf, or perhaps one of the great cats. Whatever he did, it is not his fault.”

“Wolf, I think,” said Whitebird quietly. “I seem to recall wolves, yet not wolves. Something else. It is hard to tell, the memory is vague and dream-like.”

Ryskul gazed at him with his strange, emotionless eyes. “In the future it would be best if you stayed away when I am spellcasting.”

Whitebird nodded, then returned his gaze to Aramais. “Forgive me?”

Aramais felt his wrath leave him, though he was still hurt and sickened by the thought of Whitebird running wild in the night, mating with unearthly things, eating bleeding flesh like a wild creature.

“There is nothing to forgive. But perhaps we should get you into a bath.”

Whitebird nodded, then cleared his throat. “So. Other than me running off and debasing myself, did we manage to accomplish anything?”

Aramais reached out and pushed back a tendril of dirty purple hair, and picked out a trapped woodbug. “Aye, we did. Come morning, we go east.”

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw