Drow Me the Way

[BrokenDreamer]

Hot, putrid breath pants and wheezes -- snapping teeth and the growls that stitch nightmares together. Four worgs throw themselves against heavy chain collars as Drow keepers attempt to keep their tight holds upon the creatures. It takes a few strong Drow males to keep just one of the beasts under control, let alone four of the monstrous wolves.

Still. Despite their ferocity, the twisted things cower and tremble each time one simple, small female walks past them. The one thing they have LEARNED to fear. Held captive since puppy-hood, all four now stand cave blind ... blind as bats with now an even more outstanding sense of smell. Among them Matron Faeryl moves, thrusting the shirt of an old uniform beneath each of their noses.

"Find him," she repeats over and over again. "Find him." So that she might bend Phaeragh once more to her will. Break him. See him kneel before her and tremble at her might ... before lopping his useless head off his useless body. "Find him."

The command to 'find' shivers and vibrates within the skulls of the worgs. Dagger teeth start to snap again as they howl for their release. To one side of the Matron a soldier speaks, "Why just the worgs? Wouldn't Audma..."

It is all the male managed to get out. It took only one little step. One lightning quick movement. It was the twisting of the long blade in his gut for the soldier to even realize the sword had been buried to the hilt. In him.

In a dangerous, slow hiss - "Stop. Speaking. His. Name."

With that, the gasping and bleeding mess of a Drow was allowed to fall to the ground. "Release the worgs," she snaps. "Bring back Phaeragh." They are released. Four huge bodies bound into the darkness, their keepers following silently behind. Beneath the moonlight that peeks through the night darkened foliage of the trees, Matron Faeryl toes at the quickly cooling body with a dainty foot. Smiling.

***

By early morning light Drow and Worgs have all retreated back to the dark womb of the earth. Not a trace is left behind of their passing. Well, almost no trace.

On a farm at the outskirts of Myrken, a child had crept out of bed too early. Had trampled across the family fields swinging a stick like a mighty sword to find a grand adventure before he had to feed the hens.

He fell. As all Myrken heroes are destined to fall. Torn to shreds as some very large animals fought over the meager scraps that such a small thing was to them.

He was left there for the family to find. Tangled. Broken. Torn to pieces. Barely recognizable.

[Jirai]

Cat might have a perfectly respectable job now, but tigers don't change their stripes so fast and the child still frequented Myrken's streets (though the urchin was much more careful about keeping the new clothing relatively clean). There were things to hear and other children to boss around by virtue of the blonde waif's employment.

With a few hours off from hauling water and stirring soup and icing sweetbuns, the urchin was holding court amidst a group of other children of similar age and ambiguous gender. Cat was the cleanest and best fed by far. "Okay," the self-appointed leader began, "Who heard anythin' interestin'?"

There was silence for a moment, then a dark haired street rat with a finger stuffed up one nostril spoke up. "Th' farmer boy." Several others nodded agreement, but Cat simply frowned, having not heard this story yet. "What 'bout 'im?"

"'e were kilt!" Another volunteered. "Splattered blood a'over!" A third said with far too much relish. "Torn t'bits!" "Et! 'e got et by summat!" "Nah, 'e got 'napped an' they lef' a bit o' dead dog innis place!"

Cat raised a hand for silence, gnawing on lower lip for a moment before saying anything. "If somethin' killin' kids-" "Farm kids, not us." one interjected. "-farm kids, now." Cat continued with a withering look for the interrupter. "We oughtta know what it is."

"The Baie!" "Naw, I bet s'the evil tailor!" "Tailor ain't inna woods at night, stoopid!" "I bet s'a werewolf!"

"We don't know yet." Cat had to almost shout to regain their attention. "So we go find out. We're good at findin' out."

And so the small court of children spilled back out into the streets of Myrken, intent on finding out just what or who had killed the farmer boy - largely by spreading rumors of Tailors and Baie and Tentacles, oh my.

[LightForce]

It has been years since his boots stirred the dust on this road, years since he had laid eyes on these walls and rooftops. When Molly and Brennah left, so had most of his reasons for staying. So he had moved on, traveling south, resuming the search that had led him away from home six years ago. On a long journey back, he passes through Myrken Wood, preferably unnoticed and unrecognized.

Passing by the Broken Dagger, it takes no small amount of will to resist his growing curiosity (and hunger) and continue without stopping. Who ran the inn now? What condition was it in? Who, if anyone, was staying in his old room? These questions and many more would have to remain unanswered. With a lingering backwards glance, he leaves the inn behind.

Walking through the south gatehouse and into Myrkentown proper, he tugs the hood of his cloak further forward and adjusts the plain leather baldric that carries a two-handed sword and a pike separated into two sections. He keeps his head down, allowing himself a few glaces here and there as he makes his way toward the Marketplace. Many of the familiar shops and businesses are still there, which he finds strangely comforting.

Less comforting are the bits of conversations he can overhear, the strong constabulary presence, the worried looks of mothers watching over their children as they shop for tonight's supper. Something, or things, are amiss in Myrken, and by the time he reaches the north end of the bustling Marketplace, he is able to piece together some of them: the forest around the lake is withering unnaturally, poisoned sweets, the discovery of a child's mutilated corpse, a madman at a party, and a spontaneous infestation of spiders at the Broken Dagger.

Poison. Insanity. Decay. Mutilation. These were not new to Myrken, and he knew that well. It would be easy for him to dismiss these things as the usual goings-on, if not for the rumored spiders. Instead, long-buried memories now float to the surface of his mind. Events he had tried very hard to forget, faces both wicked and innocent that still haunted his fitful dreams.

He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he comes to a stop. What now? It was nothing but bad memories and suspicion at this point. He could continue on his way, returning home to finally achieve what he had set out to do. There were plenty of people able and willing to defend Myrken, and nothing set him above any of them. He wasn't needed here.

But, here could be a chance for retribution, for redemption. Vengeance for a girl who died in terror and excruciating pain, forgiveness for what he thought he could never pardon. If what he suspected was true, this would be his only opportunity.

He turns around, lifting what feels like leaden boots, and begins to walk back the way he came. Before long, he is climbing the steps to the Broken Dagger's porch. D'ran grasps the handle of one of the inn's great oaken doors, and after a moment's hesitation, he opens it and steps inside.

"A room, please. Five nights."

[Dulcie]

Dulcie would have been the person to have greeted D'Ran and tended to the needs of his room. Friendly and welcoming the fairly new innkeeper had a way of both managing the dismal affairs of living in Myrken while still keeping a smile on her face and welcoming those who came into the tavern. Still, like many others she was deeply disturbed by the news of the poor mutilated child that had been found. The talk that it had been caused by a werewolf was all the more unsettling, especially as she considered the fact that she knew quite well of one that was living upstairs. And so not that long after D'Ran's room was taken care of the innkeeper was sending a note up to that little room upstairs in the hands of one of the chambermaids.

Kacela was the one to answer the door when it arrived, the note pressed to her hand as she stared at it, giving it a curious look as she unfolded it. A bunch of squiggles on paper meant very little to the wild woman and as she went to ask the chambermaid she found that the girl had scurried off. She shook her head and her many bits of braided hair swaying with it as she closed the door and once again retreated into her room. There was no knowing why humans did the strange things they did, like sending bits of squiggly covered paper.

In all truths of the matter Kacela loved her peace and quiet, and with the Wolf-Keeper gone there was little reason for her to spend much time lingering in the common areas of the tavern, however as she settled herself down onto her bed she could hear the faintest sound of voices through the thin walls of her room.

"Everyone's sayin' it's prolly the werewolf you know." One chambermaid chattered to the other as the pair passed down the hallway. "Miss Dulcie went an' sent a note up there an' you know what they say about here. She's prolly tellin' it to get outta town or somethin' before they catch it. Can't believe the sorta trouble that gets invited into here you know? An' it was a child that was killed only makes it worse. We should go an' call the constables right up you know? It's not like she's tryin' to escape or nothin."

It was a snippet of a conversation but it was enough for Kacela to have caught the majority of the details, enough that she was as deeply disturbed by the rumour as everyone else, if not more so because of the fact that she had been mentioned in it all. There was certainly some investigation that needed to be done into this matter.