Mori: Written in Ashes

[Xarkly 12618]

MORI'QUESSIR EVENTLINE

WRITTEN IN ASHES

 

Spoiler

 

---

 

Atop an eroded tower, Razvien of Clan Torath stifled a sigh.

 

Hazed in a swirling blanket of descending snow, the ruined city falled Fenn spread out beneath the Mori Legate. He was told that Elves with skin as white as the moon once settled here, but Razvien was not sure if he believed it. When he had first come to the Surface, when he had first felt the kiss of the wind and the chill of the air, he had thought snow was the most incredulous thing; a soft, white rain that glazed the land in an arsenic white, that obscured dirt and grime and ugliness beneath it. 

 

No longer, though. How could the children of Malin ever settle here?  In the months since Razvien had commandeered the Legions of Clan Torath to secure their foothold in the north, the snow had come to represent his growing impatience and ill-temper, both of which were traits Razvien had always prided himself on not having. It is this unrelenting cold that has frayed my nerves. That is all, Razvien assured himself for the umpteenth time, but he knew he did not really believe it anymore. 

 

“ … consolidated in Alisgrad, and Legate Nekaas has fortified the forest. Seems he’s already repelled numerous attacks.” 

 

Razvien sucked in a breath of freezing air as he tuned back into Khazen, his Optio and favoured lieutenant, reading the report at his side. Focus, now. We are not done here yet. Never forget -- absolution through order. Whether it was because of the snow or the knot of frustration growing in his mind, Razvien’s days had all began to blur into one -- he woke in the blissful dark of the Fell Moon, and listened to the watch-captain’s report over a breakfast of mushroom broth; then, he and Khazen inspected the Mori Legion setting up camp in the city and clearing out the ruined buildings, before he observed the beast-tamers in the stables, watched the formation drills, and reviewed the rations. 

 

“So. We wait, still.” Razvien’s breath was marked by mist as he spoke. 

 

“Same as before, Legate,” Khazen echoed wistfully. Little seemed to phase the grizzled Optio, even when he returned from his mission in Haense with most of his unit slaughtered. Even now, the veteran officer - his black-laquered mail gleaming faintly in the darkness, the tassels on his heavy lance streaming in the wind - seemed anchored to place like a rock. Razvien had once thought himself like that - unflappable - but that impression had not survived the invasion of the Surface. From his wars at Sheiven, Zafris, and Yhend, he had never felt this … turbulence when he fought battles and killed enemies beneath the ground, in the Underdark. He did not know why he felt it now. 

 

“Very well.” Despite his best efforts, Razvien sighed. “We still await word from the Matriarch, then.” As he and Khazen began to descend carefully down the frost-glazed steps of the tower, Razvien just wished that word came soon. He had come to hate this place called Fenn. A true battle would soothe him -- it had to. 

 

Atop the tower, the northern wind’s howl had muted the sounds of the massive Torathi encampment in the abandoned city, and so as Razvien and Khazen descended the din of talk, distant drills, the hammer of smiths’, the creak of cart axels, and the flap of canvas all rolled over him. The streets of Fenn were shovelled and salted every morning, but Razvien still watched his step; several dozen Legionnaires had already had to be treated for broken bones for slipping on the ice, and one had even cracked his skull and died. There was no ice and snow in the Underdark -- this freezing phenomenon was all new to the Mori. 

 

Braziers and bonfires of Akkesh mushrooms - a fungus from the Underdark that burned hotly, but produced no light but for a thin cyan flame - burned wherever one could fit to ward off the biting northern cold. Frostbite had proved an even worse problem than slipping on the ice for his Legion -- over half his slaves had perished already. Beneath billowing Clan Torath banners, Legionnaires, many carrying Akkesh torches as they went about their duties, snapped to alert and saluted Razvien and Khazen as they passed, and Razvien acknowledged them with only a curt nod. 

 

As they approached his command pavilion - the buildings in Fenn were all too eroded to live in - tucked away in a sheltered section of the city, Razvien could sense something was amiss. The din of talking voices - normally dull and monotone - had an edge of surprise and commotion to it now. 

 

Khazen felt it, too. “Someone’s slipped on the damned ice again is my guess, Legate.” 

 

Razvien scowled, and gripped the sword sheathed at his side as if to draw some kind of comfort. “That would be just our luck. Let us see.” 

 

As Razvien marched across the salted flagstones towards his black-canvassed pavilion, two of his retinue turned away from the door of his tent at his approach. “Legate, I - he just walked in!” one of them - Cetzen - blurted. “We didn’t even see him arrive!” 

 

“Who just walked in?” Khazen barked, but Razvien only narrowed his eyes on the Torathi crest emblazoned on the tent’s doorway.

 

“Wait outside,” he muttered absently, and even Khazen eyed him in surprise as Razvien threw open the door flap and strode into the tent.

 

There, sat slouched at the foot of the Akkesh fire smouldering in the heart of the tent and with a steaming, ceramic cup in hand, was a Torathi officer, his black mail marked with the gilt of rank. His plumed helmet lay on the ground, exposing a scarred and red-eyed face framed with a long mane of silver hair. As Razvien entered, the figure spread his arms, splashing liquid over the rim of his cup, and beamed. “Razvien!” 

 

“Legate Sedda.” Razvien clenched his jaw. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“Well, I thought I’d make myself at home.” Sedda gestured around the tent with his cup. “We’re all brothers-in-arms, right? What’s mine is yours?” 

 

Razvien’s teeth creaked. “What are you doing in Fenn? I thought you were with the Matriarch in Norland.” Abruptly, a second thought struck him. “Did she send you here?” 

 

“Not exactly.” Sedda slurped from the cup noisily. “I just thought I’d come visit my old friend.” 

 

Razvien’s fingers switched on the hilt of his sword. Friend? If there was one person of Clan Torath Razvien despised most, it was Sedda. Unlike most Mori’Quessir, Clan Torath’s strength came from the collective; soldiers were drilled from a young age to work as a unit, and that necessitated strict discipline and order. Sedda had been no exception, until he had risen to the rank of Legate shortly after Razvien himself. That was when his … quirks had started to show, and they had only grown worse since coming to the surface. Razvien would have advised the Matriarch to reprimand him, but the very order he was sworn to prevented that. 

 

“Hm? You going to attack me?” Sedda asked dryly as he watched Razvien’s hand. “Well, I suppose I couldn’t blame you. Looks like all you’ve had to fight up here is the cold. Heh. I heard you lost one of your Hadd’ro, too. That true?” 

 

Easy. Calm yourself, Razvien. Absolution through order. He peeled his fingers off his hilt. “... We retrieved it. The Srow had taken it captive, but it we found it later in the supply tunnels.” 

 

“Ah, well, lucky you! Can’t say we’ve had it easy in Norland,” Sedda droned on as he sipped from the ceramic cup. “You should have seen the bloodshed at Alisgrad. The Srow didn’t go down without a fight.”

 

Razvien’s nose twitched at the scent from the cup. “Are you drinking my kiurelle? From my cup?” 

 

Sedda grinned broadly. “Why, yes, actually. It’s very good. You don't mind me serving myself, right?” He extended the cup. “Care for a sip -” 

 

In one fluid motion, Razvien back-handed the cup out of Sedda’s hand. The foamy green fungal brew splattered to the floor as the cup rolled across the floor of the tent. When Razvien spoke again, he did it with ice in his voice. “Tell me why you are here, Legate Sedda, or the next thing to roll will be your head.” 

 

Razvien Torath, Legate of the Tidal Legion

 

Spoiler

 

 

Sedda’s surprise was only momentary, before that smirk returned. “Empty threats will do neither of us any good, Legate Razvien. We both know you wouldn’t wipe your own waste without the Matriarch’s orders. But fine, fine,” he raised a forestalling  hand, with green kiurelle dripping down his fingers. “I came to ask you a question.” 

 

Razvien closed his eyes for a moment. Absolution through order. He exhaled long and hard through his nose, before he glared back at Sedda. He was right -- Razvien wouldn’t dare kill a fellow Legate, and the fact that Sedda knew that only stoked Razvien’s ire more. “What question?” he slowly eased himself down on the cushion on the other side of the blue fire, watching Sedda. 

 

“Have you figured out why we’re here?” 

 

“You’re a fool, Sedda.” Razvien pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re assembling the Legion here before the Matriarch gives the signal to -” 

 

“No, Razvien,” Sedda cut him off with surprising softness. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Have you figured out why we’re here … on the Surface?” 

 

Razvien was about to cool him a fool and worse, but he blinked when he saw the look in Sedda’s eyes. There was something … different about them. Something far more serious than Razvien had ever seen in the Mori. What happened to him in Norland? “ … It is our birthright,” he answered slowly, “to reclaim the Surface as our own, and the legacy that Zanunder was bereft of .” 

 

The faint light of the Akkesh flames danced on Sedda’s face. “But why?” 

 

“Hmph. You know why. We cannot live and grow in the Underdark forever. The Greatwyrms are eating away and collapsing the Underdark, bit by bit. The tunnel networks are collapsing, and monsters infest caverns where we used to farm like a kicked anthill. And that is only the outside threat - we scheme for resources, and the Clans compete and conspire for power. We'll tear each other apart before the Greatwyrms do.” 

 

Sedda nodded slowly. “So … coming to the Surface will fix all that?” 

 

“Yes,” Razvien answered firmly. “Once we vanquish and enslave the Srow, there will be land aplenty for each Clan to live in harmony, safe from the Greatwyrms, and - ... and safe from each other. That is our birthright.” 

 

The look on Sedda’s face now enraged Razvien more than his smugness, his arrogance, or his antagonism ever did, for it was a look of pity. “Razvien,” he cooed softly, “do you know what I saw at Norland? I did not see a race of debased savages, incapable of unity and living in squalor and begging for our enlightenment … I did not see the legacy of Zanunder restored, and I did not see the salvation of the Mori’Quessir.” He leaned forward, the cyan light flickering on his face. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you want to know what I did see, among the corpses of my dead Legionnaires?” 

 

Razvien watched Sedda very carefully, and gave the slightest of nods. 

 

“I saw our fate,” the other Mori answered. “We scheme and fight for power below ground in the Underdark, even with the Greatwyrms at our throats, and we would scheme and fight for power above ground on the Surface. Each of the Great Clans would claim a fraction of this land, but it’s only a matter of time before greed puts us at our own throats. You know this, Razvien.” Now, it was Sedda’s turn to sigh into the fire. “That is Zanunder’s true legacy … the fate of the Mori’Quessir. We’re not invading to save ourselves - we’re invading to delay our race cutting each other to pieces.”

 

For a long moment, there was silence but for the faint crackle of the fire and the flap of the canvas walls in the wind. “Is that what you really believe, Sedda?” 

 

At last, Sedda leaned back. “It is. I saw it in the ashes of Norland, plain as the moon. Do you think I’m wrong, Razvien?” 

 

“I do.” Order through absolution. I cannot forget. 

 

“Come, now. Think about it for yourself, for once.” A few loose blue cinders drafted up from the fire between Razvien and Sedda. “If you think I am wrong, then you know I speak of open insubordination. Now you are well within your rights to kill me for questioning the Matriarch.” 

 

Razvien only stared at him through the dim blue glow. 

 

“Go ahead.” As he spoke, Sedda exhibited the unfaltering calm Razvien had once treasured in himself. He bowed his head, and brushed away his mane of white hair to expose his neck for beheading. “If I am wrong, then kill me, Legate Razvien. I will not resist.” 

 

Razvien tried to think - tried to formulate the words in his head - but it was if his mind had become a whirlpool, and he could not latch on to anything. The whistle of the land, the crackle of the flames, Sedda’s tauntingly calm eyes …

 

He was not sure how long he sat there in silence, or how long Sedda waited. Eventually, the other Legate rose leisurely, and licked the kiurelle off his fingers before he picked up his helmet. As he moved towards the doorway, he lay a hand on Razvien’s shoulder. When he spoke, his old demeanour - chiding and mischievous - was back. “Well, this has been fun, Razvien, but I should return to Norland before I’m missed.”

 

Razvien found himself unable to look away from the faint flames of the Akkesh. Why can’t I …? 

 

The cold sweeped in as Sedda lifted the door flap. “I’ll be waiting in Norland,” he called back, “for when you make up your mind.” 

 

As the door flap closed and left Razvien alone, he sat alone by the fire. He sat there past his noontime inspection, and after his dinner duties. He sat there long into the night, until the blue flame had almost died. 

 

He sat there, and he thought of what Sedda had seen in the ashes.

[Aesopian 1125]

Hmm, says Ti'gobser.

[Gloonkey 147]

As this goes on, Sarrin writes his report to the War Office regarding the evacuation of Atrus. It was only a matter of time.

 

Only a matter of time.

[Seuss 491]

Carolus Colborn paced about his lab under Vorenburg, his book and quill in hand as the stench of decaying animal filled the room. On the counter nearby was his successful testing of the Burial Fungi. But after so long, he has come to witness the blooming of the cystal fungi flowers. He continued his studying for many years, but alongside side, his mind was wracked with planning for the future siege. 

 

He paced and paced about as he mumbled to himself. "There is much to be done, and we must be swift. What are they even doing when they are not attacking our nations?"

[ThatFunkyBunch 2066]

As in times of yore. It would be themselves that proved their greatest threat. For the first fall came only after the priests attempted to seize control from their matriarch. Allowing Ker rthoths to break their chains and lead a bloody and violent uprising to disperse the Mori'Quessir. 

 

Spoiler

This was a lovely read. I adore it. 

 

[PlutoPhobia 57]

          In the land of Ironguard, does Rùmil flick his hand whom held a quill. His gaze stuck to a book, while the noise of incoming people stormed into the tavern for a simple taste of booze. However, far does Rùmil's mind wander; So much far that not even the simple screams coming about would be noticed.

          His quill then withdrew back towards the book, as he began to write. Write all that which included the Mori'Quessir; All that came to his mind about them, that is. Whether to lead in another battle or a scout. Either would've been preferable as either would suit as a great distraction to stop the mind from wandering to the past once more.

Edited April 27, 2023 by PlutoPhobia