The #Broken_Dagger Forum

The Ashfiend stood on a descending slope. The great height of the mountain behind him, a gray and silent sentinal in the stirred breezes at this greater altitude which toyed with the ruiend length of his black cloak. The foothills sprawled before him, sloped to cradle a breadth of forest through which he had trod not long ago. And yet it was a time immeasurable in a place where day and night had no meaning. There was nothing but a tomb, and a memory.

All memories.

An armored hand twitched at the memories stirred once again, churned and unsettled with each step upon the softening soil. Daylight cast the length of his monumental shadow upon the earth. It was a grim stain, a dark and lonely thing as was its anchor. And yet, not so dark and possibly not so lonely. It was all so new, so unreal yet so more real than anything else.

Answers.

Teron needed answers and there were precious few places to seek them. The wind moved the trees in the distance, the distances covered were measured not in fury, scorn or anguish but in the length between one stride and the next. Tireless once again he had found the measurement of time difficult save for a rough reckoning based upon the height of the sun in the sky. The sun whose light his battered armor still devoured as if insulted, or as if he were trying to hide his presence from naked light.

Or as if he were drawing all light, and all hope, into the furnace of his soul.

So many memories that threatened to put an end to his footsteps.

A hand moved to rest at a sword at his side and met empty air, an awkward pause, a move of that hand to his side as narrowed, smoldering eyes sifted across the valley between hills and forests. The birth of those downward slopes that bore rain and lush green life together, away from the mountains, the battlefield, the memorial to the slain - those slain by him - and onward. Onward towards Myrken. Where one, perhaps, might have some answers or at least some direction. If they were still present. There was no way to tell how much time had passed.

Time had so little meaning now, but also so much more. With a start, framed in the halo of his ruined cloak, the Ashfiend resumed his descent and pressed onward towards the forest. Hopefully none would mark his traversing the hills and wood as he had some time ago, bringing murder and the dead in the wake of his shadow.

Each journey started with one step. Teron took his.

Thomas Alan remembered when the Baie prowled in the darkness, and had spent countless evenings discussing wars and rumors of wars with his late brother and sister-in-law. That was all before the business with the wall had changed things. It was also before the Ashfiend had paid a visit to the farm. Luckily for him, Thomas had been away visiting with relatives in Xanth Grange at the time. Although when he returned he wished he had not been away, that he might have shared their deaths with them. On dark nights, accompanied only by stiff drink, he'd sworn that his presence would have made a real difference, fiend or no.

The last few years had been relatively peaceful, especially as Myrkenfolk recokoned it. There were often rumors of ill tidings, rarely rumors of good ones.

So it was that Thomas Alan leaned against the rickety wooden fence and chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of grass while his neighbor listened intently. For his part, Thomas scratched at the small of his neck, reckoning the irritating for a fly bite, as he continued.

"Damn thing is, "he paused to move the stalk between his lips, "when I came out the next morning, the well had dug itself." Seeing his neighbor's stunned silence, Thomas raised a forestalling hand "I know what I saw! One day, I'm laborin' at the hole, also tryin' to mind my nieces so as they don't wander off or into trouble. Myrken may be peaceful these days, but it's still Myrken! But as I told ya, struggling one day, the next morning - dug. completely."

Carl Hussken shook his head gravely, then snorted to himself. "Thomas, I'd be callin' you a bleedin' fool and be dragging you off to that remededium place," he waved a gnarled hand thick with callouses, "If'n I didn't have something similiar happen. My axe broke while I was trying to chop down that pine near my barn, finally got 'round to it, see?"

Carl spat for emphasis. He hated that tree and Thomas well knew it.

"By the time I get back from having my axe mended properly, the darn thing is not only fallen, but all the branches removed. Mind you," he continued with another spit, "it was a messy job. But, still, done for me. Mostly."

The two farmers stood in silence, taking the measure of each other for drink or strong pipeweed. They had known each other for years. Living by your lonesome in the Myrken countryside, with giants, drow, quakes, 'fiends and devils running amok, one tended to have a certain sense of humor. Neither indulged it at this moment.

"Queer thing 'bout it," Carl went on after a silent spell, "is that the tree must've been rotten or something. Can't figure out how I missed it, but the whole thing, for the most part, looked like it had some mite of frost or mold or something foul of it. And some of the branches were downright frosty." Carl leaned closer. "Its the fae, mark my words."

"Fae or Bae," Thomas grinned, "they're welcome to my labor any day. 'Bout time we had a spell of good luck in Myrken."

The farmsteads of Myrken. The shattered vessels of Myrken's lifeblood, rebuilt time and again. The Ashfiend had not been the first ravaging agent to rampage through their midst, though a more recent nightmare. There had been no corpses in Myrken. At the time, the Ashfiend had been compelled to make his own. Here, those farmsteads sprawled still, seeds planted following his defeat having bloomed into renewed life, wealth, struggles and harvests. harvests of time and hope, possibly of peace. Harvests noted by Teron's searing, unblinking gaze as he had traversed the breadth of the land.

Some of the homes had entertained him before. They had entertained the fury of his sword, the relentlessness of his fists, the cruelty of his magic. They had entertained nightmare clad in darkness, rimmed with fury, fury with feet. The simplicity with which they went about their daily tasks now, an indeterminate amount of time removed from his tortuous tread acorss the land, their work struck him as powerful and silent testimony.

They still lived, breathed, tended their tasks. They still wept, slept, worked, gave birth and died. Their farms still stood. What, the question came unbidden, had he accomplished? It set tattered lips hidden beneath the coil of a gray scarf into a mild scowl. The endless parade of life had continued, grown again, had left not even the foundation for the tomb he had been digging for the entirety of the world.

Strange impulses warred within him as he resumed his trek eastward, ever eastward. Impulses that bade him to finish that well and complete the task of tearing down the farmer's tree. There had been no tireless violence, no searing hate seeking to empty itself from dessicated veins. Merely an urging and, ultimately, an obedience. The burns of some new flame stoked within his core.

Questions. Too many questions with so few answers. The sunlight cut him as a dark and livid shadow upon the earth as he trekked towards the climbing sun. The Broken Dagger and the Priory awaited him. The farmers would talk, their kind always did. How long, he wondered, before he was seen?

How long before someone recognized the Scourge of Myrken Wood, walking its lands again?

Nothing takes long in Myrken. Particularly when a particular band of urchin children were involved - and when were street children not involved in anything? Oh, there were always -rumors.- A farm child dies and the rumors fly. But this, this was something more than just rumors.

Contrary to some appearances, Cat had a good sense for rumor versus fact - though the urchin was more concerned with "what people can be convinced is true" rather than what actually was true. Still, the tale that reached the blonde waif's ears rang true in a way the pretty child had not expected.

On one hand, this was a -problem.-

On the other hand, this was worth a -whole lot- of money from Certain People.

It balanced out.