Chapter 1 - Stranger
Rumbling voices from the deep rupture the stygian cocoon. It was spun for my protection, from the slumber of denial. Curious I observe the world, as remains of lucid dreams dissolve. From the burrow I creep out once more, stumbling along the desolate path. Swarms of Shimmerwings guide the way. Inside crystalline prisons they are all aflutter, illuminating this forsaken trail. Is it me they fear? Or is it the storm on the horizon?
What remains of this secluded hamlet are its dimming lights, gradually devoured by encroaching shadows. Sinister tendrils push me towards this place. They belong to a terror which clouds my sober mind, promises a turning tide! I am reluctant, no, unwilling, to be their ally. At least, that is what I tell myself. Oh, how easy I am deceived. In truth, I do not mind the roots of darkness, slithering by my side. Ha! I welcome them, submit to them, so I can be a servant of the shadows. I fear for those in my path.
“Traveller, you have reached our humble commune in the darkest of times,” said the stocky old man, with a mean grimace, cracked like an ancient mountain face. On top of his head sat aged horns, curved backwards and deeply ridged. The fact that an old Ibex like him dwelled in the valley spoke truth of the desperate times at hand. Black strands of hair stuck to his head like tar. The lantern, which he held in front of him, swung back and forth in the wind. The flame fought furiously against the rain. The fissures on his face transformed under the hectic light like the lying visage of a shapeshifter. The old man had clearly weathered many storms in his life, but was he ready for what was yet to come?
His lips deformed as he chewed on something. The moist mass in the pockets of his mouth squelched. He smacked his lips, swallowing excess saliva in one big hiss. His tongue swept left and right between his underlip and teeth, the goatbeard wiggling. As the wind howled louder the lantern hinge started squealing. “Traveller, your answer?” the old man inquired. One of his eyes twitched, his thick neck tilted upwards. He held out his hand as if coin is what he is after. Had he noticed the demon on my shoulder yet?
I look around, turn my head to where I came from. My heart pounds faster. The darkness is right behind me, all around us, it starts to close in. I can hear the beating in my chest, even through the raging dark storm. The path that leads me here is shrouded by the void now. As I take the old man’s hand, his fingers lock around mine like a vice and he pulls me inside with one violent tug. Behind us, the thick wooden door closes with a bang and for a moment I mistake it for the crack of thunder. The screams of wind and rain transform to serenity. I am thrown to the ground from the sudden jolt. Immediately, the embrace of candlelight overcomes me. I can feel the warm wooden floorboards underneath my hands and knees. Spectres emerge from all over the room and grow in size. My eyes are still watery from the cold outside. The demon is ready to lash out. As they come closer the silhouettes become clearer. A strong hand reaches down and pulls me up in a swift swoop. Right as I stand on two feet again the same strong hand presses a warm mug to my chest and smiles. I grab it. The demon wants to drag me out again, but I can resist and it recedes. Oonlau’s agent has no power in this haven. All the patrons stand in a half circle around me and their curious eyes burn like inquisition. I am still disoriented and have no idea what form they see before them. They are friendly faces, resilient faces, the sum of the times clearly mirrored in their eyes, yet unwavering in their warmth and welcome. But something troubling plagues this society.
The man who had handed me the mug is a brawny Meles with a scruffy grey beard, just your typical Badger, really. Thick hair on his thick arms conceals the skin underneath. He points at the mug, then nods and says, “Drink.” I put the rim of the mug to my lips and a sweet nutty aroma floods my nostrils. Without further inspection I throw my head back and guzzle the nectar. Every gulp cuts louder and louder through the silence and eventually there is no drop left. Swallowing the last of it and reinvigorated I look up and across the room. The patrons look at me with wide eyes. Am I that obscene? I see them mustering me up and down and follow some of their eyes to the floor. Oh, I see it now: the Black Water drips from my coat and taints the beautiful wood in dark inky patches.
“I am sorry,” I say and hold out a hand. The room holds its breath.
The broad fellow grabs me by the shoulder, the weight of his heavy paw almost drags me back down to the floor. Then he says, “Do not worry, Traveller.” His smile is warm, inviting, home.
I want to embrace him, but a totally unfounded perceived expectation of rejection keeps me at a distance. I look around. The room has groups of chairs and tables, food and drink spread all around, the scent of it fills the space with love. Overwhelmed by it I pull back my hood. The previously silent room floods with murmur. Is it the Oonlau’s Wrath they see in my eyes?
The man removes his hand from my shoulder, his mouth wide open. “I had no idea,” he says. “What brings a Shadewalker to our domain?” The murmur stops at once as the patrons await my answer.
“Darkness shrouds these lands,” I say. “I have no idea if I was drawn or pushed to your domain.” Noticeable absence of revolt against my accusation. They know what I am talking about.
Colourful faces muster me. A wide variety of the Golden Shores denizens are present in this commune: the Meles, the Lutra, The Vulpes, The Scrofa, not to forget the lone Ibex greeting me outside. I even spy a shady trio of rare nightly creatures sitting in the corner, scheming: a Corax, a Rattus, and the strangest of faces, hard to to pinpoint the given gens from their diverse culture, but probably a Vespertilio. Scanning the entire crowd of patrons there is something missing though, someone, but I cannot quite grasp it yet. The droning love in this place clouds my mind.
“My name is Bromir Forgefall,” says the Badger. “Welcome to East Willow Creek.” He spreads his arms which seem to stretch longer than what looks right for his height. His warm smile disarms me. “I will get another round from the innkeeper and you can sit down for now. Rest a little bit, Shadewalker.”
The crowd parts for Bromir, who walks towards the bar at the opposite end of the room. Meanwhile a small group of guests rearrange a couple of chairs and point me towards a table. Someone offers to take my cloak from me. Holding up my hand is enough to block the gesture.
The tavern is loosely separated into multiple half-open sections with low ceilings and wooden beams supported by sturdy wooden pillars. A warm and cosy hearth is situated on one side of the greater common hall. From the other side, right next to the bar comes faint smoke through an open door. Although the guests have started to return to their usual carousal, the voices from that room are the loudest, making it unmistakably the kitchen.
I choose a spot where I can see the front door. I am careful to take up enough space on purpose so the next spot to me is already occupied. To my surprise this young Otter woman does not seem to care. She sits down right next to me. Her enthusiastic playful smile is disarming. As her leg touches mine I want to pull away, but some primal energy grabs my attention. Nature’s touch envelops her and like a grasp it holds me by her side.
“I am Raena,” she says. “Amongst the Druids I am also known as Dawnshade.” She holds out her hand. Her button nose is cute, and combined with the slender round head she evokes the typical beauty of the Lutra.
I hesitate. She waits. I reluctantly shake her hand. Then I say, “I am—”
Raena waves me off. “No need to,” she says, “you will reveal your self to me when it is time.”
I am at a loss for words, about to start stammering mindlessly, when I spot Bromir coming back and suppress an audible sigh of relief. He hands me another mug of that same sweet liquid from before.
“What’s in this fine drink?”
This is our finest marsh blend,” Bromir says. “The crops grow all around the shallow banks of the lake.”
“The plant we use for it, Whisper wheat, it is the only thing not minding the Black Water,” says Raena. “Although, yields go down steadily ever since we depend more and more on it.” The Otter woman looks at me, her innocent eyes lingering, as if I should finish her thought, as if she demanded an answer for a question yet not asked. Although friendly and welcoming, this seems like a community where much is left unsaid. That is often the fate of those who carry a great burden together, who walk together into the abyss of unthinkable horrors. A striking detail, only obvious on second look: no armour, no weapons, just people.
“Why do you depend more on it?” I ask.
“Hm?” Raena articulates, hiding behind a smile.
“You said the Whisper wheat yields went down because you depend more on it. What changed?”
“Have you not seen the marshland, Traveller?” asks Bromir. My frown must be obvious and harsh since he holds up his finger and continues, “No, right, you could not have seen it to its full extent in this dark storm. The Marsh is all Black Water now, dark as tar. The lake is forced to swallow it all up, through the way all the rivers feed it.” Bromir strokes his beard. He avoids my gaze.
I look at Raena, ask her directly. “And this Black Water is the reason for what exactly?” She hesitates. “Why are you so coy about this?”
Raena answers, “No one likes to talk about it, the fact that the end is in sight. The plants without resistances die when exposed to it. Anyone who drinks it goes mad, falls into this ugly frenzy. We may five or six days of clean water left in our reservoir.”
I don’t know if Raena thinks I am angry with her, but the way I grind my teeth while focusing her makes her lean away from me.
“I know I have asked before,” continues Bromir, “but what brings you here? Not often that we welcome strangers from beyond the marsh these days. More often than not we have people leave and never return.”
What can I say that will not make them think less of who I am? They will call me a Rogue, a Vagabond, a Traveller without a cause. I wish the Demon could protect me now, but not here, not amidst this warmly welcome. “Look, I—”
The front door bursts open with a bang. The intruder throws back his hood, flinging the Black Water at the walls around him. From underneath appears the face of a Fox, his fiery red hair perfect and glossy. The sharp face of the Vulpes is warped in a snarl. “You left her out there, all alone!” He points his finger at the crowd, a tremor in his arm either betraying nerves or threatening violence.
One hand tightens around the handle of the mug in front of me, but a nasty, leery impulse inside of me sends the other towards my hip. The cold grip of the dagger is soothing, a tranquil remedy for my nerves.