Dreamcatcher

[Rance]

There were two shadows that stood in the midst of a field -- a field a sea's distance away from fair Myrken Wood, across turbulent troughs; lands that saw the moon from its other side. One of the shadows was firm, tall, and proud, shoulders that glistened with sweat in the shimmering silver of the starlight. Its golden eyes flickered in the midnight radiance.

"The child defies us," said the golden-eyed silhouette, peering down at his side towards the smaller, more delicate figure at its right. "I have pleaded with him peacefully to come, and though he says that he shall, he speaks lies. He claims that he cannot gather those three he had wished to come with him."

The smaller figure reached downwards to run its fingers along the tall, wheat-like grasses below. Streaks of black hair obscured its face, and simply enough, it nodded upon hearing the speaker's words.

"You have asked me to call to him, and I have -- and to no avail." The golden-eye softly cupped his chin within twisted, angled claws. Braids lashed across his spine as he turned his cheeks up towards the night sky. "I am growing impatient, for my sake, and for the sake of the Moapa." He paused, gently sighing. "Am I to retrieve him on my own, then? So we may sever the connection?"

The smaller figure was leaning upon its winding staff, and leathers danced along the tall grasses as it crouched to clutch a clawed hand into the wind-stripped grasses. Up, up, it raised its hand, and separated fingers to let the dusts take to the wind, and flutter off like a curl of silk into the fields beyond. The figure shook its head, and the golden-eyed speaker scowled wistfully.

"If I am not to go retrieve him, then, how shall you expect me to repay for these crimes that I have commited?" ... Crimes. Near four-hundred years ago, he had embraced a white woman, and the white woman had in turn, embraced her red-haired son. It was a crime by the say of the elders -- by this particular elder that stood, silent, beside him -- to embrace any outside of their direct origin. If it was not native, it was not to be embraced. But Fury-of-the-Winds had not known ... and only know, had he been asked to find the boy, and sever the connection between them. And now, he was being told not to? The taller native clutched his gnarled hands.

"Tell me, then -- tell me how this shall be done," he snapped.

The elder was kissing its fingers, then, and it turned its face up towards the shimmering night sky. A smile curled along its lips, and whimsically, it spoke.

"If you leave your tribe, Fury-of-the-Winds, then its morale shall suffer. ... Send three of your most trusted assassins across the seas -- one for each of the boy's beloved travellers." The voice made Fury-of-the-Winds shudder -- a woman's voice, and a woman's eyes unlike any he had ever seen. These were why he did not like talking to the elder. This, among other things.

The golden-eyed native snapped his chin aside to leer at the demure elder. "Am I not allowed to attone for my mistakes by my own hand, then? As a true Moapa should?"

The elder clucked her tongue. "You will be able to do this, and more. If the assassins are murdered, then there will be reason for the boy to come. If the assassins are successful ... then still, there will be reason."

"I .... do not understand."

"Trust my words, Fury-of-the-Winds. Your tribe will not suffer because of your inequities. All will be forgiven, but the boy must come here of his own accord. I believe that after your assassins have attacked, he will have more than ample reason."

"And why do you believe that he will come, when we have made our first move?"

The elder smiled below her cowl, and turned away from the moon, stepping back through the woods to where, in the distance, war-drums were pounding, and the spectres of native-faces painted like ghosts, painted in the blood of fallen foes, were flashing in the firelight. ""Because, whether our assassins live or die, or suceed or fail, my friend ... we will have ascertained something that the boy will not dare let us keep. And he -- and his friends, if they are still living -- will destroy mountains and part seas, just to see that it is returned."

"And ... and how will the assassins know where to find them?"

The elder turned her head, and beckoned him to follow with talon-edged fingers. Fingers of the Moapa.

"The dreamcatcher. He has given it to one of his three trusted friends. Tell them to find the dreamcatcher, and retrieve it, along with our prize."

[Rance]

They had set out within the hour.

Fury-of-the-Winds had gathered his two most promising warriors -- a motley pair, to the eyes of any who did not know their capabilities. To the sweat-lodge, he had led them both, where they stripped to their flesh, and without shame, entered. They ladled freshwater onto red-hot stones; they passed a twisted, mangled pipe, savoring the black smoke thought to bring praise and good graces to formidable warriors. It was a communal war-pipe -- a thing shared by fighters before the tribe would enter strife. The ritual was not to be forgotten. The Moapa had little want for their long-unused peace-pipe -- no, smoking of this one, with its brash weeds and hoarse, belligerent spices, was so much more satisfying.

It was not until the midnight festivities had died down -- dances around the bonfire, celebratory songs and drums like gifts to gods above -- that they had emerged, sweat-lathered and refreshed, stinking of war-smoke. Fury-of-the-Winds said nothing as he stepped before them, through the grasses where dancing feet had earlier been stomping. The bonfire was nothing more than blowing ash and simmering embers. Behind him, the chosen two stepped in silence. They had re-clothed themselves after their hours within the sweat-lodge. The taller figure -- broad-shouldered, scraped bald save for a knot of black hair at his scalp, for there should always be something to be taken were he to fall in battle -- was a native by the name of Stood-as-One. Scar-tattoos etched his body, all his own art, dug into his flesh long ago by a sharpened bone-knife. At his side, a smaller, more demure native female was striding, her chin held high, her black hair spilling in a thousand braids down her spine. She'd a single eye, while the other was little more than a black puncture in her skull. Over one shoulder, Sings-in-the-Fall lofted a spear so much longer than she, hanging with feathers and scalplocks. They followed Fury-of-the-Winds without fault, trudging soundlessly through the bonfire-coals.

"This is a task of great import to the Moapa," he had told them in the sweat-lodge, while he'd passed the war-pipe to their hands. They'd all vicious, fleshy claws -- a mark of the Moapa warrior. A mark of Vision-found adulthood. "For the boy must be drawn here. Cries-to-Flowers has not come as we have bade him," and when he'd said this, Stood-as-One peered down towards his twisted fingers, and Sings-in-the-Fall had raised her naked chin in exictement.

Yet, the golden-eyed leader had been quick to placate the woman's apparent hopes. "Not a moment of harm will come to the child by your hands -- that is not your task. He must come to us of his own volition if I am to be able to sever the connection he and I hold. Otherwise, it is for naught. No, instead, you have other tasks of greater meaning." Fury-of-the-Winds had inhaled long and passionate upon the war-pipe before passing it once more.

"Your task is to travel to Cries-to-Flowers for three reasons: You will eliminate his beloveds. .. The woman with hair like black fire, and a heart twice as scorching, is to be killed in battle, as a warrior should. The nomad with a taste for fire-water like that of a man's shall be slain as well, and finally, the red-haired knife-thrower is to be slaughtered without question. Any others that you find to be of import to the boy? See to it that they too are killed. When we are finished, Cries-to-Flowers will come by himself if he must. He will not need his friends." He'd spoken with a calm, cool sobriety. He had invited the boy, when he'd contacted him, to allow Quincy and Khalika and Pyra to accompany him, if only to get the boy here more easily. Fury-of-the-Winds was not to be so much kind anymore, now that he had been purposefully defied.

"When this task has been completed, you will retrieve my dreamcatcher -- the child left it with his fire-haired, knife-throwing friend. This, you two shall return to me."
When he had paused, Sings-in-the-Fall had leered through the smoke and steam. Her single eye glimmered with excitement. "And the third task, Fury-of-the-Winds? What shall it be?"

And that was when they had left the sweat-lodge. And that was why they, right then, were walking towards the woods. Fury-of-the-Winds led the spear-toting woman and her silent, thick-angled counterpart into the thicket, and he paused there, holding his hands out to his sides to pause them in their steps behind him. They did so immediately.

"Your third task, and undoubtedly, the last one I wish to see fail," he whispered in the night, looking once over his shoulder at each of them with those boring, pupiless, golden eyes. ".. is to escort someone. You are to see that they arrive safely, and that they return. Upon arrival to the lands of the East, I have no doubt that they will fulfill their task. But they are, in a ways--" .. And Fury-of-the-Winds was chuckling, was turning his back to the woods so he might per at both of his assassins, smiling broadly "--extremely overzealous. See that they remain on their own task. You need not know what they and I have already spoke of .. for he knows his purpose. All you must do .. is see that they return with what I want."

Sings-in-the-Fall scowled. "I thought you wanted us to retrieve your dreamcatcher."

"As I do," said Fury-of-the-Winds, smiling. "But your third party will retrieve something very special for me -- something that, as I already said, is the true reason for this journey. What he takes from the boy and his friends will draw Cries-to-Flowers to us without fail, no matter how many of his friends fall, or how many remain. I simply nee you to see that he does not lose sight of his goal, and that he returns."

"And who is this mystery we will be accompanying?" She snapped, incredibly impatient to get on with their task. Truly, she had grown disappointed -- they were only escorting? The adventure had suddenly lost all of its potential to her.

There was a wild-flash within those golden visions of Fury-of-the-Winds. "I'm so glad you asked me, Sings-in-the-Fall. .. I would like to introduce the two of you to someone very special. I am sure you have heard of him, have you not?" And right then, Fury-of-the-Winds was turning back to the woods, and with his clawed hands thrown into the air above him, he was bellowing, laughing all the while, eyes closed, voice empowered with wild praise.

"I come to you peacefully, with the promises of battle!" He cried, twisting about, calling to every tree around him. ".. Come to me, hidden warrior! Come to me, you poor, secluded soul! Come to me, Whispers-of-Children!"

There were very few words that struck such horror into the heart of a creature. And beyond that, there were very few things that struck such heart into a Moapa warrior -- but Fury-of-the-Winds knew. Oh, right then, for how their undead hearts suddenly began to slam in their chest, Stood-as-One was baring his clawed hands, and Sings-in-the-Fall was scuttling backwards, swishing left and right, the edge of her stone-pointed spear cutting through the air as if, at any instant, the shadows might have come very alive.

".. You cannot be serious!" She screamed, and Stood-as-One was peering upwards into the trees, as if he might have found a figure standing there. But he did not. Fury-of-the-Winds was standing tall and as firm as ever, arms still outstretched, awaiting the arrival of the spoken name. Such a name had cast children to their beds at sun-down -- such a name had never been so ominous, had never been so absolutely feared amidst their people. He was the hidden warrior -- to some, a myth, to others, a terrifying reality. There had never been truth behind the stories of his face, for it was said amidst the Moapa that none had seen it. But they had seen his prowess in battle -- thousands upon thousands of rival tribesmen slaughtered within mere minutes, one story said, leaving little behind but the horrified, wide-eyed stares of blood-soaked children clutching at the dismembered limbs of their native parentage. Some said he was the ghost of a dead warrior that lived in the woods around their tribe -- others said he was a demon.

Suddenly, it was as if fear itself clutched at their hearts. Sings-in-the-Fall could not help but stare at the ground, though she did not want to. And Stood-as-One did the same, clutching his eyes shut, peering at the grasses below his feet. Though they did not see him, they knew Fury-of-the-Winds had looked away as well. It seemed as if it had taken hours for the fateful figure to approach .. and even then, they could hear nothing but the sound of crunching grasses before them, and then at once, the forward motion-stopped.

There were the jangling of a thousand beads. Without it ever having been said, they knew not to look upwards.

Not a single one of them wanted to find out which of the old stores, myths, and legends, were really true.

[Rance]

And it turned out that, this time around, they would not need to.

"Whispers-of-Children," Fury-of-the-Winds addressed, al while he was staring towards the ground. "Bring me what I want, and I shall pay you extraordinarily."

And through jagged teeth, he was smiling. There would have been little that would have stolen that glee from him, to know that he'd such a powerful creature on his side -- and that, foremost, was his very prayer of success. Sings-in-the-Fall meant nothing to him -- she had been a relentless disturbance since her birth, and she was as they all were -- young, invincible (or so she thought), and ready to take on a world she did not know. Stood-as-One, however, was far more valuable. He had been a confidant, a friend, but one of the Moapa's most vicious warriors. If it took his blow to send the boy's friends crowding the gates ot Hell, then Fury-of-the-Winds would risk him for such a purpose.

With his back to the mythical warrior, he could raise his chin again -- it was as if a weight had been lowered from his upper spine, and he stared at the two of them, their heads still directed towards the grasses. Fury-of-the-Winds murmured with indescribable humor. "Introductions completed, I will see you waste no time." And Fury-of-the-Winds was raising a hand his shock of black, greasy hair. Its ends were tied with scalplocks, old and new, but these did not matter -- no, instead, he was reaching for the eagle feathers toussled within, and three of these -- tossed to the earth with little care -- were released into the grasses.

"One for each of you, and these are my very last," he mused. "A remnant of the Wise One's knowledge, right from where it always belonged. Fury-of-the-Winds tapped at his brow and smirked. "And to think, Cries-to-Flowers was only letting it ferment in him, as long as he'd had it."

The Wise One had fallen almost four centuries past -- the medicine-man of their tribe ... he to whom Fury-of-the-Winds, as a young, steel-souled warrior, was apprenticed. And that same naive greed had seen to the murder of Wise One, as well -- it was in that sweat-lodge where Cries-to-Flowers had slaughtered the Wise One so long ago, in a single moment of inept mistake. Fury-of-the-Winds had not expected the boy act so brashly when the child had seen his own hands become claws, from whence they had been simple, pudgy child-fingers. He had sharpened them on the Wise One's throat, sucked the medicine-man's veins dry, and had fled. Not so long ago, Fury-of-the-Winds had lured the boy back -- had stolen the powerful blood from his veins -- and had let him return to his home in the East.

He should have severed the connection when he had the chance, but he had not thought of it. And now, he was searching for the boy again.

"I will see you upon your return. Do not disappoint me." Fury-of-the-Winds stepped around Sings-in-the-Fall and Stood-as-One, and soon enough, he was little more than a dwindling shdaow, and then nothing more.

Once Fury-of-the-Winds had left, Sings-in-the-Fall was scowling. She was turning from the silent, unseen Whispers-of-Children to spit off along the grasses where Fury-of-the-Winds had stepped away. She hoisted her spear, and she found it rather easy to move her head, now that she was not looking in the direction of their charge. And so, she took these few minutes to scowl, spitting venemously. ".. Feathers. He leaves us with ... feathers. And how are we expected to find this dreamcatcher, with a handful of feathers?"

Stood-as-One had not turned with her. And it was only as she was spinning back did she realize what he was staring at so passionately. His eyes had not left the ground, but that had been his choice, it seemed.

Where there had been three feathers, one was already missing. And Sings-in-the-Fall found it quite peculiar (and liberating) that she suddenly had no problems looking all about for the third member of their small group.

"He ... has- .. left," spoke Stood-as-One slowly, and Sings-in-the-Fall snorted arrogantly.

"It certainly appears so," she observed. "... which means we need to find him, does it not?" Stood-as-One nodded.

Swishing streaks of her hair behind her, Sings-in-the-Fall crouched down and clutched up one of the feathers, just as Stood-as-One did the same. She had turned to look at him, to come off with some flippant, ever-ignorant comment, just as she'd felt her stomach turn.

The world flipped over upon itself -- over and over, like a tumbler, and Sings-in-the-Fall felt like she was swimming. She felt like she was breathless. He lungs were taking on air, but they were not processing them. She could not feel the grip of her spear within her hand as she spun, and the world became a single, midnight-blue mosaic of color. It was nauseating, and exhilirating, and frightening all at the same time.

Not a trace of Stood-as-One or Sings-in-the-Fall remained in the clearing where they had vanished, by way of those peculiar feathers.

[Rance]

In the midst of the woods of fair Myrken, a pair of feathers fluttered wistfully to the earth below, and here, they would settle, slivers of coming daylight spilling through the leaves of tall, summer trees. The morning was calm, complete, and freshly new. Birds twittered their songs in the distance, and dawn bled itself dry across its favored lands.

"How perfectly convenient," mused one silhouette to its taller counterpart as they each crouched down to gather a feather. "Don't you think?"

The taller shadow nodded its head. Through the sunlight, watching eyes could not make hide nor hair of the details. Except for one thing -- except for the jagged curves of flesh-like claws where fingers should have been. As a pair, they began to walk.

A few miles in the distance, Phlynn Marion Johnford awoke with a scream -- blood-curdling, horrific, and frightened, clutching close to the edges of woolen blankets with twisted, talon-edged fingers. A droplet of sweat quivered at the end of his nose, and he stared at the distant wall, gasping.

Stranger still, and something he did not know ... was that Quincy Randall, Khalika Quiller, and the red-haired Pyra would have dreamed the very same thing.

Where it had been hidden away, and perhaps even forgotten, the dreamcatcher hummed.