Children of Terra

~The following day~ ~In this new land~ ~By the running creek~ ~Pruflas and Metile~ T'was both a good sleep and bad. For starters, any rest to the weary is great relief. It's precisely this that the memory of better sleep is so much more aggravating.       At least Pruflas got some things sorted out. One, he dispelled the aquae mote he left all night going. Perhaps a large part for his migraine. Two; he realized the most likely scenario for how the pair ended up in nowhere land: the veil was rent by many factors.       All of the known Archdemons were in Limbo as one; their armies; the Duke and his armies; and finally the scions of Heaven at the end. All combined -- given what Pruflas already knew -- into enough percolation to shake the veil about and scatter any crossings.       He pondered his assassin bands scattered who-knows-where; but such thinking was triaged. He didn't know who-knows-where. With a waking slap to himself, the duke sat up, surveying.       His sweet Metile was already up, washing her face in the creek nearby. The duke smiled to himself as he got up, dispelling the wards with a casual wrist flick.       She looked up then, remarking: "You know, if someone didn't know you were there, they'd think you just appeared." Gods, her smile was so radiant . . .       Pruflas simply shrugged and stretched his achy body, breathing in for a long day ahead. "You ready, Mettie?"       "Almost. Can you boil the water? We don't need it . . . but I have a feeling this land is replenishing to us."       "Hmm. Let's see . . . " He walked over, coaxing a bubble of water up between his hands. Fire magic roiled around the ball, steaming it, and minute ashes wafting down on occasion past his furrowed face. After a minute or two, he bifurcated the ball, floating one to Metile.       They each drank from the water, and Pruflas couldn't deny: it was refreshing! So rich in background magia. Mettie let out a small sigh on imbibing. Pruflas giggled, commenting: "Damn, I'll have to make some water-skin, eh?"       "Please, my duke." She finally stretched and readied for the march ahead. "Shall we?" ~And so they walked~ ~Along the creek bank~ Another day and night. The orientation of geography suggested the creek -- now river as it widened -- bent around and back again; like a bowl on a map. Without compass orientation they had no clue of north or otherwise.       Metile's outlook was best, Pruflas decided. Focus on what we can control, all else in time. The river continued, range to the right as landmark, for another half-day's time; until finally, boredom was leavened. The unmistakable sight of a settlement ahead!       The duke exasperated; "Fucking finally! Mettie, civilization!" He gestured ahead, where a stone and wood bridge could be made out down-the-ways, a handful more leagues. She laughed at his outburst, but simply shored her strength.       A second wind was at their backs for the final leg, with wagons and people seen as the pair drew close. This was a city sure. It was wood-walled on what looked a delta island, the river forking around both sides. Fairly large for a low-tech society; Pruflas could see little in the way of sophisticated masonry or cobble-work. It was mostly wood, thatch, and stony-grassed roofing. The manner of dress was also a sign of consternation. The clothes were patchwork and people gaunt. A land that showed hardship in every moment.       Pruflas and Metile were within 90 paces of the roadway when some guard-looking fellows interceded their path. Once within good view, the guards stiffened and looked to each other, bearing their spears -- and unusual scythes, like a spear with an axe on the end. They got no closer than 10 paces, calling out.       "Stój! Zgłoś swój biznes!" Oh, fuck -- Pruflas thought to himself -- great.       He raised his hands, not yet wanting to chance language. Figuring this one out would be an issue.       The nearest guard rattled his spear. "Kim jesteś, wiedźminem aen seidhe? Mów!"       Damn it all! No gives! Pruflas decided to speak, "Do you understand this?" He raised his hands higher for emphasis as he spoke, continuing. "Peace. No harm."       One of the guards looked to his right, speaking over his shoulder: "Kurwa! Te aen seidhe myślą, że mogą po prostu wejść, nie znając języka potocznego! Dlatego ich nienawidzę! Zabijmy ich i wrzućmy ich ciała do rzeki dla utopców."       The other replied, "To wyraźnie magowie, nie noszą żadnej broni. Chcesz być pierwszy?"       Pruflas, ever the observer, noted a word. Kurwa. Isn't that a Souobenoi word? Ptolemy, you might have saved my ass . . . He decided to chance the gambit, speaking, "Kurwa! Mój język jest słaby, wybacz mi."       The first guard to have spoken sputtered at the duke's attempt. "Yes. That was dogs' shit. Your business, elf-witcher! Why do all of you insist on these games? (muttering) . . . To think even the Aen Seidhe would partake of that sorcery! Things must be shit."       It took Pruflas a moment to work through the mental translation before replying, "We were forced to flee in the mountains, my companion doesn't speak Common either. No payment other than our abilities."       One of the other guards narrowed his eyes. "Yes, you witchers and your abilities. Why not show a demonstration? Surely a witcher can prove his skill at any time."       Pruflas decided concealment was the better part of diplomacy, and made a modest show of small fireworks and stone dance about himself. He looked to the riverbank, and fired stone bullets at a boulder hard enough to cloud and chip from their vantage point.       He looked then to Metile, apprising her. "They want a show of skill, Mettie. To prove we are something called 'witchers.' Don't injure them, but make clear your prowess."       She nodded, undoing her dagger clasp with a smooth and deliberate motion. The guards tensed, and she blitzed forth, clanging the dagger on the nearest spear shaft, running the blade along it in one fluid motion. As the guard yelped, she stopped the dagger a hair breadth away from plunging it in his chest. All in two heartbeat's time.       The first guard began laughing as he clapped the sweating man on the back. They visibly relaxed as each looked to the other. The first spoke, "Very good, hex-folk. Any fool can claim a witchman. Clearly you two are real enough. Not that the eyes and ears were a giveaway . . . Speak to the ealdorman for coin work; monsters abound these days." With that, they turned back to their stations at the stone bridge entering the town.       Metile looked at the duke. He placated, "They speak a far north dialect. One unusual to see in Limbo, and it never ceases to amaze me how ubiquitous swear words are. I'll teach you in downtime. For now, the guards want us to speak to the town chieftain about presumably monster slaying."       "Monster slaying, my duke? Like out of stories the council would speak on occasion?"       He began walking and talking, weaving through the dingy dirt paths in the city. Washerwomen beating wet clothes, loose animals bustling about, and kids running through the streets with sticks made this scene look like something Pruflas only heard about from legionaries in Asphodel.       He elaborated, "Yes, I have a feeling we might be in a place even the Grecians would consider exotic. Good news is that the harder life tends to be, the more direct the people as a result. We should see about lodging with the ealdorman, what the price would be."       The ealdorman's house was presumably the one with an actual fence around it; albeit a knee high affair. In front of the unremarkable house a young lad stopped the pair, wooden sword in his hand. "What's this, then? Aen seidhe? No . . . cat's eyes. You're witchers . . . " He looked at the two back and forth.       Pruflas stepped forward, "Yes, lad. We're here to speak to the ealdorman. You can guess why."       The young man gaped as the pair passed, the faint mumbling of ' -ever guess what jus- ' cut off as Pruflas knocked on the wooden door. A gruff voice bid entry. The ealdorman was hunched over a fire pit in the center of the room, his clothes loose on his wiry frame. He had a cap on his head that hugged down past his ears.       When he saw the two, he let out an awed gasp, and made to rise before Pruflas waved his hand in placation. The chief spoke, "Oh, what a fortune! Witch-folk! We were at wit's end. We have a drowner problem, you see. So bad it keeps us from fishing the river, and without that, we lose the greatest source of food. I was about to journey to Drakenborg and appeal for soldiers' help. Before you walked through the door . . . "       Pruflas nodded. "We have an unusual request, ealdorman. We need lodging as we were chased from the mountains. If we agree to manage this drowner problem, and others as they arise, will you give us parcel?"       The ealdorman wrung his hands over the fire before answering. "Let us discuss further, after you bring us as many drowner ears as you can. A bit gamey, but I can stomach two problems solved at once." ~8 May, After Resurrection 998~ ~Roots Planted~ ~Ghelibol, on the river Nimnar~ ~Pruflas and Metile~ It was late March when Pruflas and Metile arrived to this land; Sphera Mundi as scholars would call it. Human scholars. Particular. It was assuredly not the Terra the pair were used to and from, with them masquerading as witchers, or vatt'ghern; killing the various monsters new. It made for a time, and the town of Ghelibol on the river Nimnar where they ended up was happy to host 2 of the famed monster slayers. If only.       Pruflas spent time teaching Metile the Glagolitic script, other times gathering information about the world. They were within the Northern Realms in the year 998 after the Resurrection. A particular sink of the Duke's attention was the Conjunction of the Spheres; a cataclysm that happened around 230 years before human arrival. Not a human world. There were a lot of disappearances in history Pruflas knew of, but none around that time on Terra.       Something to follow up later.       Monsters unfamiliar to Pruflas became the norm. He slaughtered drowners, nekkers -- the creatures of the mountain -- rotfiends, ghouls. A lot of corpse-eaters and defilers. It became easy to see why progress was slow: this land was downright brutal.       After the routine of the land settled in, Pruflas decided to indulge his partner's wish. It felt a bit cheap on him as incubi had two quirks: an endless font of fluid, and the lack of a refractory period. Essentially, it meant being a quick shot didn't matter, not when he could paint with the fucking thing. The house smelt like spit, sweat, and rank cum for weeks.       Alas, he had his own sire on the way, so he went off to take care of monster requests alone more and more. The calendar humans used was nearly identical to the Julian calendar, which further fueled Pruflas' suspicion. Could these truly be humans spirited from Terra? Despite the scholarly questing, the duke's thoughts never strayed far from his Metile. Given the gestation time, they would be expecting around February of the following year.       He spent the days gathering knowledge and sharing with Metile what he could, finally elated at the future and what it promised. ~17 December 998~ ~Heavy snowed Ghelibol~ ~Little house of the once-Duke~ ~Pruflas~ Metile had become glowing in the months since that day. Pruflas spent increasing time just basking in the magia around her; immersing himself in the pleasant wafts of her faint miasma. What an inviting land to demons. The moon here was a massive font of magia, every full moon a blessing to the aether-sensitive. It did mean he had to patrol much of those nights stamping out hyperactive beasts, but all the more alive he felt in the silver's blessings.       It was on such a night as he walked in the thick snow, boots tramping the foamy stuff in satisfying crunches -- did a voice call to him. A soft, gentle voice of a child that spoke words Pruflas nearly found his heart stopping at.       "Eldest brother, you seem well."       Pruflas whirled, hands already bough-full with magia. He looked at two . . . children? Both looked to be almost completely human, save the older one with angelic white wings folded behind him. The cherub held a much younger boy, clasped hand in hand. If it weren't for Pruflas' discerning eye and memory, he would have thought the two a boy and his guardian angel. "V - Vassago? Seir? How?"       Vassago -- the winged -- replied, "I always knew where you were, brother. I simply hadn't the means. It just so happens brother Seir -- does."       Seir, despite being too young to speak, looked at Pruflas with an impossible amount of sadness in those little eyes. It filled the duke with dread.       "Why, then? Why did you come to me? I have no desire to go back, no intention to. Why does Seir look at me so?!"       Vassago shook that little cherub head. "I am sorry, duke. We can only play for so long. Even now we risk being captured. We came to warn you while we can. The doom of Lucifer will never let you go."       Pruflas didn't know whether to step back or step forward to attack the two. "You - you didn't . . . "       A tear fell from Seir's eye. Vassago spoke, "The oracles of Ipes, along with Orobas and Stolas would have found you, Duke. We'd have warned you sooner but the eyes of Dis would have followed after."       Pruflas didn't need to hear any more. They made their point. He rushed through the night snow, back to Ghelibol. Back to Mettie.       His heart thumped so fiercely he thought he would faint right then. His thoughts were a mile a minute. Fuck! Why now, why this night, why? Why? Please just hang on Mettie, just hang on . . .       The duke bounded across the snow dunes, charging along the ice-frozen river. He breathed, focusing as much magia as he could in his lungs, his legs. Faster. Move faster! Why did he neglect a naturalis teleport? How could he be so fucking careless! What was it about this land that made him lax? Why this night, when he would be out? Fuck! Were they watching? How long?       The duke charged over the quiet bridge, the night watch waking at his abrupt pass. Into the walls he went, to the house at the northernmost end of the town. Why was it so quiet?       He burst through the door, shattering it as he slip in, lips curled in a snarl. Empty. Glyphs broken. Where? Why did she not raise an alarm? Who . . . Gaap. Teleportation. Oh no, please no no. Pruflas focused his eyesight. The teleportation had a weakness he never disclosed to that toad: it left a faint scar in the aether-weave. Someone with sufficient perception could see it, follow it. Like Pruflas. He found the scar right where he feared; over the bed where Metile must have been moments ago. It was still warm.       Pruflas had to calm himself a breath before scanning for direction. Gaap was not a long range teleporter. It must have been Seir that did the cross. Which means . . . he had ordinal direction. Gaap took Metile North-northwest. Straight through the walls of Ghelibol. Can't be far.       He leaped through the bedroom window and used naturalis to part the wooden spike barricades of Ghelibol's wall, along the direct route of Gaap's tear in the aether. He ran, following it in the silver night, snow whipping his cheeks and ears at the speed. ~Too late~ ~On a quiet night~ ~Like any other~ ~The exiled duke~ He ran and ran, over the frozen river, up the embankment, into winter-bare trees. It was there, in a clearing; he saw her. The full moon high cast shadows around her, but the scene was quiet.       She lay in a puddle -- oh my gods, no -- he ran to her, sprinting and caressing her cheek. It was so cold. "Mettie? Mettie . . . come on, don't . . . not like this." He focused magia into her, but she leaked like a sieve. Blood was around her, soaked her gown through. He could feel her life slipping. Her skin was already blood-pale, clammy. He felt a tremble. He knelt over her head, touching foreheads. Why couldn't he cry? He could feel his eyes wide open and knew he would never forget this moment.       Her eyes were unfocused, and he could feel her effort in this. What was she looking at? He rubbed his forehead against hers, not willing to let go. It was in this haunting glade, silver light illuminating the clearing in two tone -- white, red -- that her final word could just be heard. " - . . . orr-y." The final syllable carried itself in her shaken voice and he felt the ebb of her warm, soft miasma slip past him and away. He could feel the exact moment it blended into the background aether; when he knew all that was left was memories. A future gone.       He knew the voices would haunt him, and it took everything to stay with her just this last moment more. Her body grew colder, colder in his hands and still he tried forcing magia back in her. What was she looking at? He repositioned to cradle her head, rocking. Why won't tears come? What was wrong with him? No! The voices were threatening. It took everything to not ruin this last moment.       He sat with her so long the moon began to dim, the shadows lengthening in the clearing. Every small movement of his cracked dried blood. Her blood. He felt empty.       Pruflas finally got up after a long time, making sure her head was laid in the soft pillow of snow. He closed her eyes with a hand, and knelt a moment before turning to see if she was looking at her memories or the world.       It was then he saw it: the moon rung about the view o'er that horizon, a lone tree in between. A small, diminutive figure. Red. Pruflas' pulse quickened, and blood flushed his face. His breathing quickened. That small, weak figure was impaled on a jagged branch, through that little chest. A cord of flesh jutted from its belly and wrung about the neck. Pruflas was breathing through his mouth. It was oxygen-deprived blue-black.       Only when Pruflas looked into that eye -- the same color as Mettie's -- did he scream in rage. He screamed until his throat gave.       He would kill them. All of them. Every fucking last one. Even if it took a thousand years to get back to Terra.