Morgan Whitetail
Devotion ran in her blood, in fact her grandpappy was the very first Priest of the Church of the Soaring Dove, and her life had been spent in a caravan, spreading the Word. But Morgan's destiny would not follow the easy, rutted road of her ancestors, and now she finds herself alone in the world and armored only with her faith...
Devout Historian, Part One
Devout Historian, Part Two
North It Is
Forgiveness
Bug Wranglin'
Puddin'
Devout Historian, Part One
The stick of sharpened lead had been fitted into a grip made of common wood. It was a cheap alternative to quill and ink - though she carried those as well - and it was on the brightly enameled handle she chewed now. A thoughtful expression crossed amiable, almost cherubic, features and again she put pencil to parchment.
Day 12, Nuut'anar o Que'lafa in the glorious year 1002 o Our Father.
This is the day I, His most humblest daughter, will begin to set forth the history and coda o the Church of the Soaring Dove. It seems no one has ever bothered before, but perhaps my Sisters and Brothers have been busy praying and not writing. But the road before Us is long and the seasons have short days for travel and long nights.
I don't reckon just where is the most rightest place to commence. I suppose I will begin with the truest love story o Daisy Mettlefoot and Abner Becklebranch, a tale what included the first days of the Church o the Soaring Dove.
Now Daisy Mettlefoot was one o the most beautifulest ladies in all the lands. A portrait o her hangs in this here caravan, right next to that o Abner. Her family was all what remained of a damned unlucky caravan. Time and time again they had been robbed and attacked and were hanging on by a thread. Somehow they had made it through and found theyselves in a place called Kneesakah.
It were a right foreign place, this Kneesakah, and I hope to see it with mine own humble eyes one day soon. It were full o the littlest tallfolk the hinfolk o the caravan had ever seen, all wearing loose and lovely silks not so different from ours. They had brown and black hair and brown eyes, just like theirs cept they done slanted most queerly and theys eyelids are shaped funny. The Mettlefoot caravan felt right at home mongst these little tallfolk, what called theyselves the Yacoo. So they stayed on, hoping to meet up with a nother caravan o hinfolk, I conjure, cuz all hinfolk reckon the truth o safety in numbers.
As luck would have it, though I prefer to believe it were His work, a second caravan did show up in Kneesakah not more than a year later. This caravan was bursting with hinfolk, and in it was a passing handsome man with not a lick of talent for the music what he so adored. His name was Abner, as you might have reckoned. He fancied himself a great bard, but if truth were known, he plucked a mediocre lute, sang like a dying tomcat, and recited his own poetry which was fair abouts the worst stuff any drunken poet ever put to parchment.
Abner and Daisy took to spending many a day and night in the company o each other. The stories told nowadays bout their romance make it as pure and sweet as fresh snow on your tongue. Course, the stories this most humblest o His daughters heard ain't near so dewy white.
I ought not dare to cast shadow over the tale o the first Brother and Sister o the Church o the Soaring Dove. But it weren't as bad as all that, and I reckon that Our Father gave us the parts for making love so that we would do so. Maybe not as frequent and noisy as the stories bout Daisy and Abner say, but that ain't either here nor there.
They fell in love as young folk are like to, and long before the covenant of marriage was set round them, Daisy and Abner spent their nights abed and their days hand-in-hand. And, as things go when the joining of man and woman twixt the sheets occurs, it weren't long fore Daisy started to get a bit queasy come morn. Round about then, her father insisted on a proper wedding and therein began the problems.
See, as it were, the Mettlefoot clan paid their respects to Lady Luck, Vesha the Fortunate - not that it had ever done them much good, I reckon. Afterall, their caravan was beset with all manner o bad things and ill tidings. And Abner's caravan, well it didn't pay much mind to any o the Gods as it were, saying only what prayers it needed as events come and go.
You might figure, as the Brecklebranch caravan didn't much worry o the Gods, and the Mettlefoot clan did, that the choice o deity to invoke over the union would be ease as skinning a hare. Yet here came the bickering and arguing that near tore part the new formed caravans fore they ever had the chance to take to road again. The Mettlefoot hinfolk believed (even though they was out voted real damn quick, given their small numbers and the huge ones of the Brecklebranches) that Vesha was the only God what could bless the pair truly. Still, the only deity what the Brecklebranches could agree on for a wedding was Ariel. Some call her the Mother o Hinfolk, but theys few enough and not so vocal in fact.
So a month passed quicker than spit and the swelling o Daisy's belly was rounded just enough what a few old woman began to take note. It was roundabout then what Daisy and Abner settled the matter themselves.
I think that bit will have to wait til tomorrow's eve, my fingers are cramped and my candle's gone low.
The Most Humblest Daughter o Our Father,
Morgan Whitetail
With a little chuckle, she cuddled down in her bedroll, pulling blankets tight around her in the chilly nighttime air. Her soft breath extinguished the candle and sleep came quickly.
Devout Historian, Part Two
Night was falling deep around her as she took to writing again the very next evening. The soft scribbling of lead on parchment accompanied the music of the crickets and frogs as the caravan bedded down near a mellow, lazy river.
Day 13, Lenndaer o Que'lafa in the glorious year 1002 o Our Father.
I begin again this eve and I will tell the beginning o the Church, just as it were. As his kinfolk were arguing over Gods and Goddesses they ain't but rarely prayed to atall, Abner hisself had been spending many an hour with his lady exploring the layout o Kneesakah. Come as they had upon a church, though to hear tale o the place, there are many churches and temples for all the aspects therein, and in they crept to listen to the worship.
The littlest tallfolk there needn't call on all the dozens of Gods and such what hear the prayers o the other tallfolk. They sent theys prayings and wishes and the like to but one, the one they call Yokey. Now Abner didn't speak but a lick o the tongue of the Yacoo, but Daisy was a might better and twixt the two they managed to get the gist o the praying and singing. The temple were bigger than any either had seen fore, and so many people packed in to just that one o the many what scattered round the city, it was obvious to Abner and Daisy that Yokey was a true God.
And so He is. The Yacoo call him the Father o their people, but the truth o it is, that Yokey is Our Father too. He done made the Yacoo, and they be, but generations ago, kinfolk to we hinfolk. So in our reckoning, He is just as much Our Father as theirs.
Abner realized, I reckon, in those days o worship and those nights o lust, that he weren't near cut out for bardery. It didn't take long atall fore he round up the courage and asked the priests to let him join they Order so he might bring the Word o Yokey to all hinfolk.
I wager they laughed at him real good and stout, for as history goes, Abner never did join up with the Yacoo order and soon as he married hisself and Daisy under the all-seeing brown-eye of Yokey, they packed up them caravans and set back out to the road.
It didn't take long for Abner and Daisy, the first converts to the Church o the Soaring Dove, to make believers out o the remaining folk in the caravan. And so they went, travelling as hinfolk oft do, selling wares, and music and acting as mummers (that bit was the Mettlefolk way). What made this new caravan different was the presence of the holyfolk o Yokey. Everywhere they went, they made an effort to convert hinfolk - and anyone else who wished - to belief in Yokey.
They told fables and myths all about Yokey and how He molded the hinfolk in His own image (only smaller) and how the Yacoo were their brothers (only bigger). Abner told people about the wicked Piejew, Yokey's brother. Piejew and his enormous, black destier and with its flaming mane and evil red eyes. They told all the stories where Yokey and Piejew fought for the souls o the couragous kinfolk; how Yokey's cousin Nahcow learned the hinfolk to talk and write and sing and dance and all the other stuff they knew and loved.
I reckon these stories, like most, are mainly just stories. But He ain't no made-up tale like the Bogeyman. I know this cuz I, the most humblest daughter of Our Father, am a Priestess too. Sharing His Word around for all the hinfolk I meet. When I pray, Yokey listens and He fills me with His love.
So I share that love.
Abner and Daisy took a new family name when they married there neath the pink-blossom tree there in Kneesakah. I think it may be called sacoora, but don't you be quoting me on that bit. Truth be known, Abner and Daisy became the Patriark and Matriark o the new hin House what was known as Whitetail, in honor o the Dove which is His symbol.
Now Abner and Daisy they had fifteen rugrats, including the first what was named Morgallie Whitetail. And each o them had three or more, the first born o Morgallie being Abnacious Whitetail, a handsome and dashing man no doubt. Abnacious, he married the beautiful lady Perriwinkle Rattlinbones, and they, long with a few o his cousins (more Whitetails, that is!) started up a new caravan so as more folk cross the land could hear the tales o Yokey and find His embrace for all time.
It just so happens, that I am the truebred daughter o Abnacious and Perriwinkle Whitetail, so named Morgan after my grandmam, Morgallie, who was the first born o that lovely pair what first started up the Chruch o the Soaring Dove.
We are fair many now, least three caravans with more than two score hinfolk each, travelling roundabouts the land, spreading His Word as we like. That's not to include the folk what formed our first stable compound out there in the plains on the ragged edge of Yacoo territory. A village called Lonesome Dove where they wrangle riding dogs and even cattle. They got lots of farmland and every so often, a caravan will start up or head back there to resupply or change out its folk.
Daisy and Abner, they spent every day o their lives on the caravan trail, til he couldn't near walk to keep up and she was half blind. That was when they settled the village there, in rough land, to be sure. But good land, and rich land, and all the home us wayward hinfolk need. They be the hearth keepers, we be the shepherds.
And that there is the story what tells the origins o the Church o the Soaring Dove.
The Most Humblest Daughter o Our Father,
Morgan Whitetail
Morgan Whitetail stretched out on her back, hands behind her head, and stared up at the stars. She was on her way 'home' such as it was. Not once had she seen the rolling hills and fertile fields of Lonesome Dove, but she was excited for it. Her Mam would be there, and her Fa too, both of them had taken to roost a few years back, when Mam caught sick after birthing the youngest of her siblings. They'd hopped a non-believing caravan, mixed races with tallfolk and a dwarf and a pair of gem-toting gnomes, and headed back to the plains, leaving Morgan and her eldest siblings to fend for themselves and be the holy heart of the caravan.
She was the firstborn, and a priestess in her own right. Her little brother Dabnick, fancied himself a warrior and studied the unarmed martial combat stylings common to Yacoo houses of worship. After him came the twins, Nellie and Shellie, two showed not only the look of the Mettlefoot blood, but the talents as well. They were four of forty or so hinfolk on the caravan, and they camped together most nights, the twins giggling and singing, Dabnick practicing his footwork or swinging fists at the empty air.
That's how it went most nights, but tonight was different. The twins complained of the smell of her cheap candles and all the smoke in the tent. Dabnick whined for male companionship and someone to spar with. All three bickered about what was worse, the incessant scratching of her makeshift pencil on parchment, or the croaking of frogs and buzzing of bugs down here by the water - which was where she always chose to set up camp; close but not directly next to the wagons.
So this evening, she let them stay with the hinfolk, dancing and singing around the campfires, and she set off on foot, with none but old Gus, her mount, and of course, her writing gears.
With her tale finished for the night and the moon hanging low in the sky, Morgan Whitetail dozed off to the gentle music of toads and crickets and the babbling stream. Her dreams were white and fluffy and marred only by the scary appearance of Piejew and his monstrous steed there at the end.
When she awoke, it was well past dawn, and the sun was a fiery ball on the horizon. The skies were red as fresh spilled blood and cloudless. She frowned, not hearing even the chirping of birds as she gathered his things and made her way back to the campsite.
The caravans were gone, blessedly so, for what remained what horrible to behold. A dozen corpses, some of the dogs, and one of the milk cows, littered the campsite. They had left in haste, that was apparent, leaving behind clothes and tools and things of that sort.
She wasn't sure what to make of the footprints; big horses, she supposed, and tallfolk upon them. They left a handaxe buried in the spine of ol' Ollie Eldertoe, his beautiful waistlength beard turned from snowy white to crusty brown-red as the blood around him cooled and darkened.
None were her siblings, of that she was grateful, but it took her many hours to dig a hole large enough to hold the bodies of tweleve friends, cousins, and neighbors. Little Laddie Ginblossom was the youngest of the dead, a girl of only eight or so, who'd spent her whole life trailing after Morgan like a lap-dog. She wanted nothing more than to grow up and be a holy woman just like her idol.
Now she was dead.
Morgan did not feel the tears that warmed her cheeks as she picked through the belongings, taking what she could carry (or sell). It was near nightfall when she mounted up on Gus, armored in only her prayers, and set forth. There was a whole world to see, a whole world to spread His Word to, and time enough to see Kneesakah and Lonesome Dove, once she'd found her siblings.
North It Is
The raven-haired halfling sighed wretchedly as she slid from the back of her mount. The scruffy, long-haired mastiff with his soulful blue eyes and paws as wide as a camel's feet drew to a stop. His tongue lolled from his mouth, exhausted and thirsty. She poured a spot of water into a dented tin pan, and let him drink his fill. Turning to lean her back against him, she wiped her brow with the back of one dusty arm and closed her eyes.
"Its an awful long road to walk alone, I reckon," she patted his rump. "Didn't near spect to go so far and pick up neither hide nor hare o the caravan. Must've been movin' like Piejew hisself was on they tail."
Gus' only response was a snort as he buried his nose in the already dry pan, seeking out just one last drop to sate his thirst.
"Mighty sorry about that, big fella," Morgan stroked his head affectionately. She took a long drink from the canteen and then upended it into his dish. It wasn't much, but at least he seemed to breathe easier now. "Ain't much left o what I bought last village we saw, and I reckon that there was nigh on two weeks ago now. Who ever thought this ol' world was so damned big I ask you."
The mastiff rubbed his lumbering head against her and she smiled. He was a good one, ol' Gus. Never a lick of trouble from the time he was a pup. Gus'd been her first training mount, and she'd ridden him every chance she got from the time she was learnt to saddle a dog. But if she was coming up real rapid-like on twenny-two, like as not - Gus was on his last legs.
"The tallfolk roads are long, ol' fella. I betcha didn't near spect you'd be walking them without the rest o the pack in your twilight, ain't that right?" She moved to face him, holding up that big scruffy head in both of her hands. "If I could carry you on my back, Gus, don't you doubt for a instant I wouldn't lift you up right here and now. But you must weigh nigh on fifteen stone and strong as I am, even a prayer from Yokey won't let me lift you, I wager."
Gus just stared back at her and for a moment, she imagined he really did understand every word. There was a flash of true, deep sadness in those big, pale eyes.
"Tarnation, Gus. You can't keep on like this, your hip's all swollen with the angry-joint syndrome and your hairs starting to molt like a chicken in the plucking room at Harristown. You remember that place? Where them gnomes had made up a machine what steamed the feathers right out the poor things? Poooookey Yokey, now that was a sight."
He didn't remember, of course, she chuckled sadly. Even if he'd been in there with her, somedays she didn't think he remembered his own name, let lone all the tricks and calls he'd been learnt as a pup.
"You been a good mount, Gus, and a good companion too. But I conjure its nigh on time for us to separate ways. You'll be stronger without my gear weighing you down and I'll move faster on my own two feet than you can go just now."
She continued to speak to him, patting and stroking his dusty fur as she unstrapped her pack and blankets and weaponry and all manner of knick-knackery from the massive dog. He sniffed around her curiously as she packed and repacked what things she could carry on her person, and at long last, lay down in the shade of a rock to watch her work.
"Didn't figure on the plains being just so dusty this time o year, Gus. Dry as a desert here, and the winds are hotter'n Piejew's foul breath. I reckon this weather here is why there ain't been a settlement in two weeks."
Gus just yawned, and lay his head upon his paws.
"Think maybe I been headed the wrong way all this time? Its been what, six weeks or so since the attack. Figured on catching up to them right quick, but that ain't rightly happened." Morgan frowned thoughtfully. "I reckon I should o purchased me a map back there in Harristown, or that village called Raago. Or least asked for some directions."
She scuffed her foot in the dirt, and looked up at the sun to get her bearings. South, she turned to look, should lead into the mountains and I can follow the river all the way down to Lonesome Dove, there on the deep fork. Or I can skirt the foothills til Dreg Oghma and take a boat down to see Kneesakah myself fore I go back to the Dove.
Morgan turned north. Else I can go back this way, climb on outta the dustbowl here and make my way up to Anuvia and the Velsh Coast. Like as not, I can catch a caravan somewhere up here, and there are plenty of hinfolk up here in the plains. My kin'll come through eventually and I can hop aboard.
She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. Which way?
Suddenly Gus raised his head and began barking. He drew himself up on all four shakey legs and bounded forward. Morgan squinted, trying to see what had gotten the old dog so excited. There in the distance was a handful of outriders, silver buckles glistening in the afternoon light.
"Hellloooo!!!" One of them called, rising up in his saddle to wave at her. Morgan smiled, though caution kept her hand near the mace riding her hip, and nodded.
North it is, then.
Forgiveness
"Morning to ya, little 'un," the big man chuckled and patted her head.
She hated that, and ground her teeth. She hated him. No, she thought, you don't hate him. Nor anyone roundabouts, Yokey don't set me out here to spread His love so as I can hate people. That's Piejew's breath on my neck. Still, I wish that tubby bastard would nigh on leave me be. Reckon he's called me little one more times than-
"Morgan."
The voice interrupted her internal diatribe and she blinked. "Wha?"
A tall human with hair like a crown of fire slid snake-like into the booth with her, his frame bending gracefully. He clasped his hands together, laying them on the table. With his drooping head and veil of hanging hair, he appeared almost... holy.
Holy. Well ain't that a lark. Closest he come to holy is sitting by me, and I don't conjure as I'm much a fluence on this here fellow.
"Good Morning, Priestess." He began again, with a reverent bowing of his head, so sedate and respectful.
"What do you want, Errol? I don't figure on sitting here all day jawing with the likes o you. Make your peace and get, if it pleases."
Errol Flintheart raised his gaze to meet hers; tawny tiger eyes smoldering behind long, black lashes. They glittered like gold as the corner of his lip turned up, a mocking smile down at her.
"You do wrong me too much, Mistress Whitetail. Here am I, a humble servant come to break his fast with yourself and speak of the days doings or other pleasant topics. Surely," his voice was poisoned molasses, smooth and silky and innocuous with a venomous tinge that made her blood run cold. "Surely, you can grant me that honor?"
She forced a smile and pushed the flagon of fresh-squeezed juice toward him. Civility was difficult when all she wanted to do was claw those amber eyes right out of his head and smash them against a conveniant rock. It didn't escape her notice, as he reached to pour himself a cup, that his nails were painted black with a red band at the top. He drank slowly, those smoldering yellow eyes upon her in a manner most disconcerting.
"Eat an egg or slice o the fine black bread they serve hereabouts, and I reckon your fast been broken quite nicely, Errol."
The corners of his lips quivered again, the barest of a smile, and he nodded, slowly taking a slice of the thick, hearty bread from her plate. "But Priestess, that was only half of my humble request. Shall we now speak of the day's doings? Else, another pleasant and holy topic?"
Morgan batted her lashes and nodded, her teeth still grit. "Course we can share a few words, Errol, reckon you won't leave til you say your peace. And you ain't come for His blessing, I wager, so what brings you to darken my table this morning?"
That slimey smile crossed his lovely features, curling up to reveal perfect white teeth with canines filed to a distinct point that rendered an otherwise handsome man nothing more than disturbing and off-putting. With one hand, he took one of hers, pressing those enameled nails into her palm with what for a normal person would be an affectionate squeeze. When he did it, it felt a warning. His other idly drew a small, folded bit of parchment from a hidden pocket of his black silk shirt.
"So tense, Mistress Whitetail, does not your precious Father grant you the prayer you most fervantly wish for?"
"Course He does," she snatched her hand away. "What do you want, Errol? What's that in your hand?"
"I think you protest too much, beautiful little Priestess. I believe your Father refuses the one boon you desire most and cannot voice. I see your true heart, Priestess, I watch your heart fill with rage and fury and I see it seething with the need for vengeance. We have all seen it from the moment we first stumbled upon you there in the plains."
Morgan pulled both her hands off the table, knuckling the cheaply wrought booth beneath her. She should have expected him to make his move here, in this dim, dingy Inn. Two weeks on the road with Errol and his entourage and this was the first one they'd deemed worthy of their patronage. A black-shuttered building at a minor crossroads with no other patrons and a half-dozen women draped in black and red at the base of the stairs, just waiting to take a weary fellow upstairs.
"I think we've jawed enough this morning Errol. If you'll excuse me just, I'll be on my merry."
He grabbed her arm, his strike like a desert cobra, and wrenched her palm open, placing the slip of parchment there. Then he closed her fist around it and released her. That sickening smile returned to his handsome face and Morgan felt bile rising in her belly at the very sight of him.
"Read that, Mistress Whitetail, before you descend with your gear. It wouldn't do to leave anything behind; the harlots will claim it and what little you've left on your own would be forfeit to them." A pointed look from those golden eyes were all the warning she needed. Right near all she owned was upstairs, but her lodging and her pony, the food in her belly and the shiny new flask to carry water as they traveled - all of that she held on the grace of Errol and his men.
"Yokey preserve," she mumbled to him and hurried cross the common room as fast as her diminutive legs would propel her. Morgan slipped past the lazy whores, who ignored her, sensing no conquest or payment from the young hin woman.
It ain't as if he ain't got all the damn keys anyway, you great ninny, she sniped at herself as she locked the chamber door behind her. This place was theirs, it reeked of their rituals and the coppery scent of blood was never more than a misplaced breeze from her nostrils. She shuddered to think what they'd done in this lonely Inn, what they'd manipulated others into doing.
Still, curiousity was the biggest downfall of many hinfolk and she was no different. Morgan unfolded the little note, scribbled as it was in an uneven reddish brown ink.
Pooookey Yokey, is that blood?
Shaking her head so as not to dwell on the thought, Morgan laid eyes on the three most chilling words in all the world. Blood surged in her veins, turning to liquid fire as she read, her fingers gripped the page.
It was us.
In her mind she saw the dozen or so corpses left in the dirt; the kinfolk she'd been forced to bury after the attack on her caravan. She imagined the terrified faces of her siblings as the wagons bounced away over the uneven ground, scattering like leaves in the brisk autumn wind. She saw Gus, her faithful old mount, with his throat slit stiffening as the chilled hand of Death gripped him. Must've been bandits in the night, they had said, and pointed to a few missing baubles as proof. But it was not bandits, and she was a fool to have let them cozen her so. Gus' murder had only been part of his game; one last nudge to send her flying over the edge and into the embrace of their black, bloody God.
It was us.
Morgan tried to concentrate, calling to mind every prayer she knew, but instead of the benevolent love she had so long preached about - all she felt inside was malice and anger. It could have been her own blood they spilled that night, it could have been her sisters or her brother who lay dead there on the ground. And it would have been, if they'd been able. All she saw was red as she gathered her things quickly - just hers, anything tainted by Errol and his brigands was left behind.
With her pack on her back, Morgan knotted together the bedsheets and the lovely cotton cloak they had lent her to keep the dust from her eyes. The spell of protection was a simple one; a blessing from Yokey that rendered her invisible to all but the wisest, or luckiest, on the material plane. She cast it around herself quickly and then used the wet, makeshift rope to escape the Inn. She dangled only a moment, then descended from the window, her hands and clothes soiled with a thick, vicscious liquid by the time she alighted on the ground.
Silent as a mouse and well-shielded by His protection, she barred the hidden back entrance - by which they had first entered the Inn, and then the broad, black front doors as well. The windows were few and shutters already closed, so she considered them inconsequential.
It was us.
Her teeth ground together as she circled back to her window with its dripping rope and open shutters. There were spells she knew, that would incinerate the building and everyone inside, but even as the hunger for vengeance burned in her belly, she could not bring herself to ask Yokey for the power to take it.
But a tindertwig and kerosene would suffice, Morgan observed and unceremoniously struck the twig. It burst into a warm, comforting little flame and she hesitated, vision clearing for just a moment.
It was us.
Anger filled her again and she touched the twig to the kerosene soaked cloak, watching as the brilliant orange flames licked quickly up the makeshift rope, devouring it with a bottomless hunger. The Inn was old and its untended boards dry. They caught flame in the blink of an eye and in a heartbeat or two the entire building was as some gigantic elemental from the plane of fire.
Screams touched her ears as the wicked folk inside tried to escape and were consumed by the heat and smoke. She shouldered her bag, ready to leave, but foolishly cast one last look up to the window she had escaped from.
An inferno burned there, but amongst the writhing flames was a serenely pale face smiling down at her with those tawny tiger eyes. The Priest smiled his horrible smile down at her, untouched by the flames and obviously prepared for her folly.
He mouthed something down at her and she stubbornly refused to recognize the words, no doubt a chuckle of triumph. Morgan blinked away her angry tears and turned her back on the engulfed Inn, pausing at the crossroads.
Yokey forgive me, but I am a right disgrace. Reject the path o evil, He says, and what do I do? Zactly the wrong thing. I'm sorry Yokey, I truly truly am. I reckon that black priest played me from the very first.
The road continued North, deeper into Anuvia and the Velsh Coast, and it trailed down to the south, coiling around the mountains and eventually leading her home. Again she closed her eyes, trying to reconcile herself to a direction and to a fate.
"Morgan."
She lifted her head, certain she had heard her name called softly. All she saw before her, however, was a single white feather, falling gently through the breeze. When she lifted her hand to catch it, a holy symbol from the Father, it skittered away on invisible currents. She lurched after it, desperate for redemption, and found herself pulled north.
North it is, then.
Bug Wranglin'
Never did much like underground places, Morgan muttered to herself, feeling her way down the passage. Puddin', the name she had given to all of the various companions Yokey granted her, was a gentle, holy light wafting melodically behind her, but even its illumination failed to completely dispell her unease. Silly old man, so worked up over a bunch o stupid bugs. I reckon he ain't balancing a full wheelbarrel, like Unca Tibbius - he got a few bats in his proverbial belfrey.
She stopped and she squinted, suddenly noting a small but rather majestic figure in the passage way before her. Must be the reason I ain't seen any o those big bugs down here, she thought, then recognition struck like a bolt from the heavens and a grin cracked her nervous face.
"Nick? Is that you?"
There was no immediate response and she circled closer, "I reckon it is you, fella. Why so quiet?"
The hinfolk male shook himself and lifted the visor on his helm, his smile as bright as the afternoon sun on the prairie. "Hey! Sorry about tha' Peaches. Your beauty caught me off guard an' rendered me speechless."
She felt the blush creep up her neck and made a face at him, "Nick, you're more fuller o sweetness than a maple tree at Highsap-tide."
"Well, if I 'ave any sweetness in me, its cuz you bring it out in me," he chuckled. "Are yah well? Yah took off rather quick last time and I didnt 'ave a chance ta give yah a proper good bye."
They began to walk side-by-side down the dim corrider with Puddin' hovering around on alert for danger of any sort.
Morgan looked sidelong at him and winked. "I were right bored by all their blathering. Ain't getting nowhere, I reckon. And you can give me a proper goodbye later, two, if you like, to make up for the other."
"Well yah ran off with just a general good bye to tha crowd an no special word o' good night for me. Broke my 'eart it did."
Before she could reply, Puddin' gave a little shrill cry and burst forward around the corner, only to be beset by a dozen of the hin-sized larvae that lurked in the darkness, awaiting their maturity to come forth as murderous defenders of the Hive's sanctity. Normally, she wouldn't bother seeking out trouble such as this, but old Farmer Gus reminded her of her Unca - and shared a name with her beloved, departed riding dog. Never seen so damn many o these littlers, I reckon, she cursed inwardly, swinging her mace to crush them even as Nick began his knifedance around them, stabbing and slashing like a graceful dancer - only with blood.
"Poooookey Yokey," she gasped,"Nick, I thought you'd cleared out the way behind us!"
He crept forward, peeking around the corner. "I did. You see anythin'?"
"Dunno...looks clear to me."
Together they took a few tentative steps around the corner, boots covered in blobs of green bug ichor. She opened her mouth to crack wise when the entire cavern began to shake. Behind them came the distinctive crash of rock caving in upon itself and a blast of dusty air to seal the deal. The rocking stopped but a strange, eerie vibration lingered, like a multitude of distant feet pounding the bedrock.
She tilted her head, listening intently and frowned as a bizzarre clicking, humming noise slipped into her ear. "There ain't humming birds in the underground, Nick. What if we're tra-"
Squealing in horror and surprise, she brought her mace down upon the armored thorax, burning hole into its innards and searing them with the holy darkfire of Yokey. Nick hopped over its corpse, neatly dispatching half a dozen others in his beautiful Seven Flying Knives maneuver - one she could never hope to duplicate in a million years.
"Think maybe they tunneled in from somewhere else?" he asked as they began creeping up the hallway again, Puddin' trailing along silently.
Morgan despised the panic she heard building in her voice as she replied, "Nick, what if t'were a cave-in and we're trapped?"
"There was a cave in Peaches, but there 'as ta be a way out."
That same ominous clicking followed them as they made their way into a lower channel, the tunnels shaking again as they reached a hollowed-out cavern. Huge, hungry mandibles writhed beneath twitching antennae and enormous, slimy larvae crept toward them. It was an army, vast and angry, and its presence was so that the very walls and floor trembled.
Closing her eyes, Morgan chanted to the Father, begging for his aid in escaping the hive. "Yokey my Father, you are so mighty and I your humblest daughter do be! Grant me the strength to dig outta this cave and kill a dumb bug or three!"
Nick was the picture of cool as the huge insects pushed in from either direction. They had no escape but to fight their way through and though Puddin' was eager, Morgan just wished for fresh, topside air and some cool grass beneath her feet.
The army was nearly on top of them, hissing and clicking, when Nick glanced her way.
"'ells is tha' some kind o' talking?"
"The clicking? If it is, I don't conjure I speak much o 'bug'."
He chuckled at her and she wondered at his impervious calm; her own palms were clammy and she felt cold sweat trickle down her spine.
"There's awful much o them.. You reckon we should make a flee the other way? Get outta their path?"
"'ells!" he cried, slashing at one daring bug that darted into his reach. "Lets try ta catch one and keep 'em as mounts!"
"I ain't riding no damned BUG Nick!" She shouted indignantly, "And they're thicker'n theives down here!"
In seconds the army swarmed the trio and it was all they could do to keep the tide pushed back. Nick hopped up onto a pile of corpses to fight newcomers, catcalling and howling the whole time, as if he truly enjoyed the thrill of battle. Puddin' seemed excited too, blasting little needles of holy energy at the larvae to cause them to burst like popped balloons, spilling streaming green innards across the hallway. She slipped and slid on the oozing bug guts, fighting as she could and trying to ignore the claustrophobia that gripped her belly with its icy fingers.
"Click click!" Nick imitated the bugs as he fought. "I said Click CLICK! Back off!"
"What's making them all so crazy Nick? It ain't bug mating season is it?"
Hysterical laughter shook her a moment and she giggled as she yanked her mace out of the propodeum of one bug, looking to her next target. She found none living and bent double, breathing heavily.
"Maybe we'll just climb over the bodies and try down that hall. I think it might get higher that a-way."
He nodded and climbed the steaming pile, reaching down to help her up as gallantly as one might help a lady over a puddle in some fancy-schmancy town. The thought made her giggle again as they crawled carefully across ant corpses, searching the walls and ceiling for a way out. Each step down the corridor set her more ill at ease and she opened her mouth to complain about such when Nick stopped dead in his tracks. She bumped into him from behind and nearly dropped her mace at the sight before them.
"'oly 'ells do yah see tha?" Nick pointed with a kukri, then lifted his hands to his forehead to make those curved blades flail like antennae. "Click click click!"
"Don't you agitate that thing, Nick Savage, don't you DARE!"
The 'thing' was a gigantic insect, tall as five hin standing on each other's shoulders, so wide it seemed to take up the whole tunnel as it dined. She wrinkled her nose in distaste while the monsterbug took its sweet time, using its feelers to lift crispy larvae into its mouth and then chomping noisily on the fire-cooked things.
"Do yah think tha's wot tha ants were runnin' from?" He whispered to her, watching with boyish fascination.
"I'd be running I were a bug, yeah."
"Click click click," he wriggled his kukris again. "Maybe we oughta try to circle back the other way?"
Morgan shuddered. "I reckon its a cannibal bug, Nick, we best be on our merry."
He paused thoughtfully. "Well normally I'd agree wit yah about bein on our merry but think bout this...If tha farmer is 'avin problems wit tha ants 'ere imagine wot kind o problem 'e's gonna 'ave with tha' thing."
The mention of Farmer Gus strengthened her resolve and she gripped her mace tighter, ready to fight and was about to say so, when Nick continued.
"But then again I imagine as soon as tha' thing gets out o' the earth every 'ero and tha guards o' Littlebridge will be on it."
She was slammed against the wall when the entire hive began to quake again and her teeth rattled as she tried to speak. "Well, they might, I reckon, but we're here now. We best take it out now... fore the whole cave collapses! Better to die by bug than smothered, my Grandpappy would've said."
For all the fear she felt, the battle with the monsterbug was over in a few heartbeats. Breathing easier now, Morgan crept up the hallway, feeling around for a hidden hole or crack that might lead them out. No drafts assailed them, no openings were visible. Discouraged, she stormed into a broad, open chamber without sending Puddin' to scout and immediately regretted it when three more of the monsterbugs loomed into view. They were distracted at first, devouring dozens of charred larvae like it were the finest delicacy known to man. That changed rapidly and the trio was thrust again into battle, fighting both the ants who defended their young and their queen, and the monsterbugs who appeared to be there for the sole purpose of dining on infantmeat.
Nick was in his element, using his kukri like a climbing pick to shimmy up the legs of a dead monsterbug only to leap onto the back of the next with acrobatic-like stunts and slam his weapons into its head repeatedly. Covered head-to-toe in ichor, he still whooped and laughed as the battle raged on.
When the last insect in the chamber was dead, ooze pouring from its wounds, Morgan collapsed to the floor in an exhausted, goo-covered heap of hinflesh.
"We ain't never getting outta here alive..."
Nick nodded, bent double a few paces away as he tried to catch his breath. "I know."
She chuckled but there was no mirth in the sound. "Well that ain't no way to reassure a Lady, Nick Savage." Climbing to her feet, Morgan turned her eyes to the ceiling again. "...They all had to get in here some how."
"Sure it was Peaches. it got yah moving didnt it?"Nick lifted the enormous pickaxe that littered the chamber and hefted it over his shoulder. "Just in case we need it."
Together, they crept up the passages, passing a few charred and mostly eaten out larvae corpses, but nothing living. Still no exit manifested and the chilly hands of doubt and fear tickled her belly again. I reckon dying down here just may be my new biggest fear! She thought, gripping her new mace, with its golden accents and lovely green marbled handle. Eventually, the cavern grew familiar and it appeared that they had circled nearly back to the steep incline from which they'd descended. There'll be a way out up there, there has to! I knew we ought not o come down here. What idiot thought o going down to climb up anyway?!
Nick threw out his arm, barring her from stumbling forward as she was caught up in her own thoughts. He placed his forefinger to his lips to shush her and then nodded his chin forward. Morgan's eyes followed his gaze and she scowled. Another one?
It advanced ponderously, for the cave was narrow here, and Nick began shouting at it.
"Halt! Heel! Down boy!" He cried, all the while, ducking and bobbing around its angry swiping forelegs.
"I wish one of us were a druid like," Morgan lamented, wedging herself against the far wall to watch Nick's vain attempts to speak to the monsterbug.
"Back!" He shouted, not really listening to her. To the astonishment of both, the monsterbug did exactly that - creeping back a pace or two and peering down at them with six beady eyes.
"Look, Nick. We ain't found hide nor hair of a tunnel out down here, and that feller stands twixt us and the topside. I conjure it'd do us best to kill it and be gone."
"Did yah see tha'?"
She nodded.
A strange dance occured between Nick and the monsterbug, as he tried to communicate and it hobbled and bobbed in response to his motions.
"'ey this is interesting dont yah think?"
"Its a dancing bug-eatin' bug... its... weird."
He scoffed,"We might be able ta ride this thing outta 'ere!"
"Alright, you gonna try to mount it then?"
Nick lifted his chin proudly. "I dunno, maybe I will! Where's that elven rope I got?" He dropped his pack from his shoulder and riffled around in it, seeking a long, pale rope made with elvish ingenuity. When he found it, he gave her a cocky grin and began to tie a really big circle in his rope.
"You be careful, Nick Savage, else I'll lay a beatin' on you just see if I don't."
Morgan chewed her lower lip, watching him and then the monsterbug as it just sat there placidly, studying them.
"Yah said you're a wrangler right?"
"Yeah, but for riding dogs and cattle. I ain't never wrangled no big bug."
The monsterbug clicked and twitched as they conversated, growing agitated.
"Do yah think yah can get this 'ere loop 'round its uhh 'ead and neck?"
"Ain't met the dog I can't wrangle, so I reckon I can lasso your big bug, Nick." She nodded, taking the rope. It felt odd in her hands after all this time, and she adjusted her grip for the lighter weight of the elven rope. With a whoop, she twirled the large loop and let it fly. It struck true and she yanked, tightening it around the head of the monsterbug.
"Niii- iiii-iiiick!" she found herself screaming as the monsterbug reared up, dragging her from the cavern floor. Yanking and digging her heels in, she grunted, trying to control the angry beast.
"Down! Down down click click click," Nick yelled, grabbing for the rope to help her pull.
They clung in a battle of wills for a few moments as the monsterbug bucked like a bull, then, as it seemed to tire, she set her feet into the ground.
"You best get on now while its quiet!"
Nodding, Nick leapt onto a nearby rock, then a second and a third before throwing himself onto the monsterbug's thorax like a swashbuckling pirate of legend.
"Yahooooo!" He hollered, riding the angry bug with a gleeful grin. "C'mon Peaches, we're ridin' outta here!"
"No, I reckon YOU are riding outta here, cuz I ain't riding no BUG!" She spat, tossing him the rope. The best wrangler of her generation, it was beneath her dignity to climb aboard some wild bug, and Morgan was mindful of that. "I'll follow behind! I got my dignity to think of, and whatnot."
"'ells Morgan, It's a sight ta see up 'ere." He sounded amazed and breathless, ducking his head to avoid being brained against the ceiling.
"I don't rightly CARE!!! I dno't wanna die in this here cavern!" She hopped up and down anxiously, "I hear more coming Nick, and I reckon they'll keep coming if we don't get outta here!"
Miraculously, the monsterbug accepted direction from the makeshift bridle - else it just felt the time was right - and began to burrow itself out. A matter of minutes was all it took before they stood again on the surface and Morgan threw herself into the grass, kissing it and thanking Yokey for deliverance.
Nick shimmied off its back and collected his delicate elven rope. Then he swatted the gigantic bug on his hindquarters and yelled, "Go on, git now!"
He struck a proud pose on the top of the crumbling hill as the bug shuffled back down the hole. Bending down to look at her, sprawled as she was on the grass, Nick pushed a bit of sweat-dampened hair from her eyes.
"Poooookey Yokey... I ain't rightly sure why them bugs was all a'piggledy, but I ain't going back down to find out." Morgan sighed, then smiled up at him. "You was magnificent, Nick Savage, riding that big ol' bug."
"I was, wasn't I?"
She couldn't help but grin and sat up, groaning at the state of her armor and clothes. "I reckon its time for me to take a trip upstairs and bathe this bug goop off."
"I agree," Nick nodded, then winked coyly. "Need someone to scrub your back?"
That tingly blush crept up her neck again and she smiled back. "I reckon I'll manage alone this time, Nick Savage, but don't you dare stop asking."
Puddin'
The young female stretched her arms high above her head, fingers-laced, palms facing up. A pop sounded and another as she pushed her head far to the left, then the right. Rolling her shoulders and flopping her arms out, she hopped up and down a second like prize-fighter before a match. She made a raspberry with her mouth, warming up lips and tongue. You can do this Morgan, stop your pussy-footin' around and just do it! Progress been going along so quick out here on the road, I reckon its only right you're nervous - but there ain't a more devout Priestess o the Father round. Have faith in yourself, she ordered herself, falling forward with limp arms to touch her toes, then placing hands to hips and twisting at the waist.
"I'm ready." She told herself outloud, throwing her right arm over her head as she bent her torso far to the left. "I can do this."
One last shake-out of her arms and the young priestess reached over, grabbing her pale green robes from the end of the bed. The Inn room was perhaps not the most ideal place to invoke her deity, calling forth fifth circle spells for the very first time, but it would have to suffice. An itinerant cleric, she had no home or altar or church here on the road to perform in. So here she knelt, at an overturned washbasin with incense burning on either side of it and a thick green blanket shrouding the mirror. Hundreds upon thousands of tallfolk and other folk had walked on these carpets, slept in this bed, used this very basin for Spirits only knew what. By Piejew's breath, she thought, exasperated at herself for all these distracting doubts, Yokey's blessing is everywhere and what do you care anyways, if other people tromped in and outta this room. Weren't it just last night you nearly gave that Nick Savage a tumble up here? Pooookey Yokey...that man...
"Stop it!" Morgan growled, shaking herself. There would be plenty of time later to consider all her jumbled up feelings for him and to berate herself over what could've been but didn't happen, and whether or not she was glad they'd put the kibosh on it.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan lifted her arms to the sky and began to chant a spell of summoning. It was a simple spell, and one that changed little as it flowed through the various echelons of spell casting. Yokey's choice of guardians was sometimes peculiar, but he had never failed to send her a companion whose skills were a boon as she traveled.
Holy power surged through her fingers and the portal to Puddin's plane opened before her. In the distance, beyond blinding white light, she caught glimpses of verdant rolling hills and gently roaring seas; scenery of surpassing beauty and tranquility. Particles of light shimmered and she felt momentarily giddy with excitement - not only would she soon have a new incarnation of Puddin' but she had at last mastered the fifth circle and that was a feat few in the church could claim.
She frowned, watching as her new guardian formed from a mist of glowing white. First there were feet, a pair of steel-booted legs. They rose up, strongly muscled thighs like marble pillars before her, and crested into a narrow-waisted torso with broad, human shoulders and thick, corded arms. The guardian shook his head, long silvery hair spilling down his back like a river of silk. He threw out his arms and a pair of ivory wings burst forth, flapping once, powerfully to lift him a foot or so into the air, then gently he landed again. His eyes were pure as jade, his complexion as smooth and pale as new milk with a opalescent tingue that evidenced his holy heritage.
Morgan swallowed thickly, craning her neck up to meet his steady, intent gaze.
"I reckon I ain't gonna be callin' you Puddin'.... "