Poisonwell
Page 158
For a more detailed history of what transpired surrounding the fall of the Scourgelands and the revoking of the Plague, I suggest the writings of Annon of Wayland, one of the Thirteen of Canton Vaud, when he has finished it. The Druidecht have excellent memories and I know the account will be archived in their histories when the libraries and vaults are finished. What an undertaking, millennia in the making.
For all of my life, I have quested for the answer regarding the secret race of Stonehollow. I can now state with authority that they do have a name. They were called the Moussion, after the house of Aristaios Moussion, the being known as Shirikant. It was his partaking of the fruit that gave his descendants the fireblood. Because he was the originator of the Plagues, his descendants inherited a natural immunity to it. It turns out that their blood was helpful in preventing the disease from spreading. There are no records of the genealogy of this race, but if I could trace Tyrus’s line, I am certain to find that he is a direct descendent of the man. I asked him how he felt about that possibility. As with everything regarding Tyrus Grove of Kenatos, he only smiled enigmatically and said, ‘We cannot choose our parents.’
I am grateful to have Tyrus as my ally. I consider him a personal friend and the man who rescued these forsaken lands from extinction.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Arch-Rike of Kenatos
XLVII
He could not remember his name.
Hunkering against a craggy oak tree, the man shivered with cold and weariness, trembling uncontrollably. Every snap of sound, every cracking twig, caused him to start. He was being hunted by a creature, a creature that came with the mist every night. It roared in menace, snuffling through the woods, seeking his blood. He could not remember why it hunted him. He could only flee until exhaustion caused him to collapse in the shattered remains of the woods. There was no north or south, no east or west—only a never-ending maze of oak trees and desiccated leaves. He had no weapons anymore. Part of his mind nagged that he should have two. Yet he had nothing, not even a water flask. He’d been forced to drink brackish water and eat disgusting mushrooms to stay alive. There was no game and no way to hunt it. There was no ending to the maze.
His throat was scratchy and parched. The only pond he had found was full of strange, puffy fish, which he found too loathsome to try to snare. The water was hideous and made him retch and gag. He touched his face, feeling the sores again. His face and arms were full of sores. His breathing quickened again, hearing the distant cry of some winged creature. Ticking sounds came from his left, startling him. He rose, brushing off the decaying leaves, and started walking once more.
The man’s cloak was in tatters and he clutched it close to his neck, trying in vain to remember anything about his past. How long had he been lost in the woods? He tried to walk in a straight line but kept getting turned around. A menacing breeze caressed his neck, making him shiver even more. The air was getting colder. He could see the mist coming out of his mouth.
No, it was happening again! Darkness was falling. Darkness brought the creature out hunting. It could smell him. Somehow, it knew his scent. He wandered through the groves, aimlessly, terrified.
He tripped over a fallen tree branch, sprawling flat on his face. The sticks and burs stabbed him, making him groan with pain as they poked his sores. He scrambled back to his feet, looking at the fallen branch. It was large, fallen from a huge oak nearby. Something about the tree branch was familiar. He cast his eyes around the area, trying to take in as much as he could despite the shadows. The scene was vaguely familiar. Perhaps he had crossed this path before along his journey of never-ending circles. A fallen tree branch. He turned around in a circle and saw the mist swelling from the mouth of a stone cave.
His eyes widened with terror. The cave was the beast’s lair. The beast that was hunting him. He heard a gurgling growl come from the blackness and froze in terror. His legs could not move. He stared at the darkness, heard a snuffling breath. His mind collapsed into gibbering fear.
“I knew we would succeed,” Paedrin said confidently, walking across the abandoned training yard of the Bhikhu temple. The sun was hot against his neck, but he enjoyed the feel of its burn. Memories, both joyful and bitter, played in his mind.
“Will you never stop bragging?” Hettie said from the shadows, cocking an eyebrow.
Paedrin gripped a long staff in his hands and began whirling it around in dizzying circles. He had always favored the staff in his training. He loved the feel of it, the heft of it, the way it would be made to do intricate maneuvers. He planted the butt of the staff into the cobblestones and spun around its length, coiling to the top like a serpent, one arm outstretched and held in a perfect pose.
For all of my life, I have quested for the answer regarding the secret race of Stonehollow. I can now state with authority that they do have a name. They were called the Moussion, after the house of Aristaios Moussion, the being known as Shirikant. It was his partaking of the fruit that gave his descendants the fireblood. Because he was the originator of the Plagues, his descendants inherited a natural immunity to it. It turns out that their blood was helpful in preventing the disease from spreading. There are no records of the genealogy of this race, but if I could trace Tyrus’s line, I am certain to find that he is a direct descendent of the man. I asked him how he felt about that possibility. As with everything regarding Tyrus Grove of Kenatos, he only smiled enigmatically and said, ‘We cannot choose our parents.’
I am grateful to have Tyrus as my ally. I consider him a personal friend and the man who rescued these forsaken lands from extinction.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Arch-Rike of Kenatos
XLVII
He could not remember his name.
Hunkering against a craggy oak tree, the man shivered with cold and weariness, trembling uncontrollably. Every snap of sound, every cracking twig, caused him to start. He was being hunted by a creature, a creature that came with the mist every night. It roared in menace, snuffling through the woods, seeking his blood. He could not remember why it hunted him. He could only flee until exhaustion caused him to collapse in the shattered remains of the woods. There was no north or south, no east or west—only a never-ending maze of oak trees and desiccated leaves. He had no weapons anymore. Part of his mind nagged that he should have two. Yet he had nothing, not even a water flask. He’d been forced to drink brackish water and eat disgusting mushrooms to stay alive. There was no game and no way to hunt it. There was no ending to the maze.
His throat was scratchy and parched. The only pond he had found was full of strange, puffy fish, which he found too loathsome to try to snare. The water was hideous and made him retch and gag. He touched his face, feeling the sores again. His face and arms were full of sores. His breathing quickened again, hearing the distant cry of some winged creature. Ticking sounds came from his left, startling him. He rose, brushing off the decaying leaves, and started walking once more.
The man’s cloak was in tatters and he clutched it close to his neck, trying in vain to remember anything about his past. How long had he been lost in the woods? He tried to walk in a straight line but kept getting turned around. A menacing breeze caressed his neck, making him shiver even more. The air was getting colder. He could see the mist coming out of his mouth.
No, it was happening again! Darkness was falling. Darkness brought the creature out hunting. It could smell him. Somehow, it knew his scent. He wandered through the groves, aimlessly, terrified.
He tripped over a fallen tree branch, sprawling flat on his face. The sticks and burs stabbed him, making him groan with pain as they poked his sores. He scrambled back to his feet, looking at the fallen branch. It was large, fallen from a huge oak nearby. Something about the tree branch was familiar. He cast his eyes around the area, trying to take in as much as he could despite the shadows. The scene was vaguely familiar. Perhaps he had crossed this path before along his journey of never-ending circles. A fallen tree branch. He turned around in a circle and saw the mist swelling from the mouth of a stone cave.
His eyes widened with terror. The cave was the beast’s lair. The beast that was hunting him. He heard a gurgling growl come from the blackness and froze in terror. His legs could not move. He stared at the darkness, heard a snuffling breath. His mind collapsed into gibbering fear.
“I knew we would succeed,” Paedrin said confidently, walking across the abandoned training yard of the Bhikhu temple. The sun was hot against his neck, but he enjoyed the feel of its burn. Memories, both joyful and bitter, played in his mind.
“Will you never stop bragging?” Hettie said from the shadows, cocking an eyebrow.
Paedrin gripped a long staff in his hands and began whirling it around in dizzying circles. He had always favored the staff in his training. He loved the feel of it, the heft of it, the way it would be made to do intricate maneuvers. He planted the butt of the staff into the cobblestones and spun around its length, coiling to the top like a serpent, one arm outstretched and held in a perfect pose.
