Ahrmio
Strings in the Black Mist
I
- Questions and old
stories -
The hinges of the
massive ash wood door creaked as usual, when a new customer entered to the Silver Eel.
Crossing the
threshold of the tavern, announced by the domineering clicking of heels beating
against the floor, the newcomer was harassed by a swarm of indiscreet glances.
The refreshing scent of a rare stout was dominated by the pungent aroma of
herrings marinated in wine, a recipe typical of the island, starring in almost
all the dishes of the diners. She licked her red lips, which deformed in a
grimace, mixed with impatience and disgust; her long black hair, tied back in a
long, thick tail, swaying sinuously, as she proceeded strong towards a secluded
area of the tavern.
An old man was
sitting alone at a table, drenched in beer, surrounded by a dozen young sailors
who were leaping agitated and shouting excitedly “It's your turn!” to a member of their group. Spurred on by his
companions, a one-eared beanpole walked forward, displaying courage and
confidence. Among the calloused fingers, he clutched a crude throwing-knife
made of iron; in front of him, the target: a blue, spotted gecko, which was
about a finger long, was climbing a solid wooden beam.
The young sailor
threw the knife, which stuck just off the animal’s tail. There was a chorus of
disappointment, while another sailor came forward. Faltered and confused by
alcohol, he threw his knife in a hurry, because the gecko had started running
desperately toward salvation. The reptile was looking for protection among the
rafters, and avoided without much difficulty the knife threw by the drunken
sailor.
“You really
suck!” mocked them the old captain, calling them landlubbers and sons of
sharks with scabies, with amused tone. His voice was hoarse and dry.
Probably his vocal cords had been consumed over the years, by dint of giving
orders trying to overpower the sound of wind and waves. His eyes were deep-set;
the thin cheeks and cheekbones, from which scraggly gray beard tufts departed, were
very prominent. Over the elder face, a bald head looked like a skull, covered by
a thin layer of flesh and skin.
Many sailors
began to snort, disappointed by their own capabilities, but suddenly a silver
dart pierced the blue gecko, which died after a last, shrill yelp of pain.
Everyone turned, surprised to see that the deadly dart was thrown by the beautiful
woman who entered before, using a small mechanical crossbow tied on the right
forearm. On her back, she carried a second crossbow, much larger and more
threatening.
“I’m here to
talk to the Fishtoryteller” she announced.
Then the captain
replied with a nod, inviting the woman to sit at his table.
She agreed,
throwing a burlap bag that threw up dozens of gold, silver and bronze coins.
“I have
questions” she said, accompanying the clink of coins with her determined voice.
“You won the
game. This demacian gold is not necessary. You can ask me whatever you want,
huntress” continued the old man, pocketing some silver coins anyway, and then he
put the bag near to its owner.
“How do you know
who I am?”
Interminable
moments of silence followed. As an experienced storyteller, the captain had
learned over the years that long breaks are the best way to create tension and
keep the audience in suspense. Before his habit could result rude, he answered
the question.
“A skin white
like the moon, hair and clothes dark like the night. You're a creature of
darkness, not dissimilar from the monsters who fear you, to whom you give death
with your silver weapons. No one here in Bilgewater would waste silver as you
hunters do.”
“Very interesting” said Vayne, curtly, “Why do
not tell me what's going on in these waters? I’m here because I want to know
where the ghosts and apparitions, which usually appear during the Harrowing,
are gathering.”
“You know, I'm
not a magician. Nor a soothsayer” pointed out the old captain, after a tired laugh,
“I’m an avid reader and an observer of the world. I can tell from which
direction the animals run away, which screams travel within the wind, and I can
show you the same island that I have already spoken to all hunters who came
looking for me before you.”
It seemed that
the speech was over, but the Fishtoryteller still had a lot to say. Although
Vayne was not interested in hearing delirious fantasies about Bilgewater or the
Shadow Isles, he promised that it would be worth it. Even all the sailors, who
had continued to rumble unabated until then, came to listen to the words of the
old captain. The tall one-eared man handed him a long cigar, already lighten
up, then dense clouds of white smoke accompanied the torrent of words that
began to flow from his lips.
The story was
about a king of ancient times, wise, powerful, strong and generous, whose
actions condemned his entire kingdom for eternity, hiding its glory behind thick
malignant fog. Only a few of his descendants survived after the fall of the
kingdom, but remained bound to those ruined places, in which they would no
longer be able to live peacefully. The heirs of the king had daughters, who had
daughters and grandchildren themselves. For centuries, the blood of that dynasty
itself rebelled against the wickedness of the fallen king, and only daughters
were born. No one can say whether this happened by chance or by fate, but it’s
said that only the first male heir would reap the legacy of his ancestor.
Humid swamps,
cursed by time and actions committed over them, waiting for the return of a
worthy king. But what fate has advocated for him, by the demons now corrupted
by the mist?
This is a story
yet to be written. Whose narrators are whispering, hidden in darkness.
II
- The song of the King -
Only a ferryman
offered himself to accompany Vayne to the external archipelago of the Shadow
Isles. To convince him, the huntress had to offer him all the money she had left.
The old Fishtoryteller
was right: fishes, insects and birds, everything was moving as far away as
possible from one of the islands. Even during the most terrifying of the past
Harrowing, no one had ever seen such a great amount of Black Mist concentrated
in a single area. The earth was completely flooded; it seemed to travel the
snowy slopes of the Freljord, where the snow almost touches the knees.
At first, it was
quite difficult to orient oneself. The Black Mist completely covered the marsh
where Vayne was, making it nearly impossible to move without encountering
overhanging branches or huge puddles. After many hours marching, something
finally broke the monotony of that damp and ghostly land. A corpse, perhaps one
of the many Bilgewater’s lost fishermen, who sailed too close to the Shadow Isles.
The withered body, devoured by evil spirits which haunt within the mist, was knelt
in an absolute bow, his head bowed upon the ground.
All bodies that Vayne
found in the following hours had the same position: prostrate on the ground and
pointed towards the same direction, a promontory in the western area of the
islet. On the cliff top stood a two-story house, built in wood and bricks, overhanging
the sea. The central part of the roof had collapsed into ruin, but the debris
had assumed the circular shape of a sharp-cornered rose window, which recalled the
architecture of the cathedrals that kingdoms used to build centuries ago.
The ruined house
could be reached by a single road. Along it the grass was dry and the ground
dead. The trunks of the trees, scarred by gashes similar to sinister smiles,
were inclined toward the dilapidated structure. Like them, dead animals now
rigid and embalmed bodies bowed to exaggeration, were honoring whatever it was
behind the half destroyed walls.
A lightning lit
up the light purple sky, turned grey by the embrace of the clouds that mingled
with the Black Mist, creating a sinister vortex which was constantly moving.
Around Vayne there was no longer any sign of life. The wind stopped blowing on
the dead, silent bodies, the waves no longer crashed against the cliff. The
vortex in the sky was the only thing that kept moving, spinning slowly, as
gears inside of a music box. And, perhaps with its perpetual motion, it
reproduced a faint sound, accompanied by a distant
echo:
“Living undead, dead breathing souls,
celebrate the heir, who finally grew,
lay down your heads in absolute bows,
thus King will have mercy upon you.
The Song of the King must be sang anew.
Herald of Black Mist and gloom,
who will bring the crack of doom,
who will lead this world to fall,
as darkest flower for him we bloom,
to serve without any mercy at all.”
Despite that
eerie hymn echoing, Vayne entered inside the house without hesitation. She had
already faced many horrors in her life; some embalmed body and a gloomy song would
not have made her desist. Before the hand of the huntress touched the knob of
the door, it swung open, soundlessly. The narrow hallway was lit by a few
candles, which emitted a faint blue-green light. From the wall, it hung a
picture, badly painted with water colors, depicting a quiet and ordinary
fishing scene. On the entire ceiling was lying, for many meters, a fishing net,
in which there were trapped dozens of orange little fishes embalmed.
Footsteps.
Someone behind. The dim light projected on the wall the shadow of a man, with
an arm raised and a knife in his hand. Too slow. Before the blade could begin
its deadly descent, a silver dart pierced in the chest of the attacker who,
without a sound, he fell lifeless to the ground. Turning back, Vayne was
extremely surprised that her aggressor had a second hole in his chest, much
bigger than the one she had inflicted to him: the heart had been removed, and
he had become a dummy puppet, animated by the evil forces of the Black Mist.
Before she could
catch his breath, the huntress’ attention was drawn by a second scream.
“Help! Mom, stop!”
Vayne walked
down the corridor with great caution. She had not gone to that island to save
lives, after all, but for wipe them. She entered the room on the left, crossed
another small room, and then the next one. Suddenly she noticed a second shadow
on the wall, in front of her. She looked out and saw a woman, who was
repeatedly stabbing a body completely hidden under a black cloth. Without
further ado, Vayne loaded the crossbow and struck the woman in the face, turning
off forever the blue light that shone in her eyes and which was animating her
madness.
The knife had
been stuck in the folds of the pitch colored cloth. The night huntress did not
listened to her instincts, which was screaming to run away, and reached to find
out what was hidden under the blanket. What followed, happened in a matter of
seconds.
III
- Blood will tell -
A strong hand
grabbed Vayne’s right forearm, shattering her crossbow; then it hardly threw the
weapon against a room’s wall. The wooden planks were showing their cracks
impact. Before she hit the ground, the creature charged a second time. Its
limbs, made out of wood as the rest of its body, were controlled by almost
invisible threads, which hissing slipped away from the ceiling beams, emitting
short, sharp whistles while cutting through the wood, causing an endless
sawdust shower.
The puppet
leaped on Vayne with all its bulk. It smashed through the wall of the room and of
the next one, without allowing the huntress to catch up her breath. The fight
ended in the main hallway, where the puppet disarmed Vayne of the second crossbow,
on her back, and imprisoned her in the enormous fishing net hanging from the
ceiling. Then there was a further collapse, side-effect of the battle that had
ravaged the ground floor: the planks that made up the upper floor collapsed,
making slides for the rubbles which already weighed on the ruined house.
The wave of dust
that followed forced Vayne to close her eyes. The noise was deafening, but
ceased almost immediately. She opened her eyes cautiously. It was all very
confusing. Pieces of furniture destroyed, books burned, even a pair of
mummified bodies had fallen next to her legs. She shook her head, trying to
eliminate the annoying whistle that still echoed in her ears. Looking at the
sky, she noticed of being right under the vortex generated by the Black Mist, which
were still singing its mysterious prophecy.
Then she looked
down. She noted that, from the second floor, where the floor was still
partially intact, a figure sitting on a crudely carved throne watching her.
Before she could identify it, the wooden puppet’ fingers grabbed the back of Vayne’s
head and slammed it violently against the floor, causing a wound on her forehead.
She almost fainted. Only the rough notes of a voice which began to speak to
her, prevented her consciousness from slipping into oblivion.
“How dare you direct
your unworthy glance upon our lofty person?! Not to mention your rebellious
acts, which have hampered our enjoyment. Time to pay the fee came, miserable.”
“And what kind
of monster are you?” Vayne asked, coughing.
In response, the
puppet grabbed her again. For three times it slammed her forehead against the
floor, enlarging the wound. Then it lifted her face, reduced to a mask of
blood, to the elder seated on the throne. He was covered with a large crumpled mantle,
made from dark canvas bags with purple arched curves, culminating in a large
hood that covered his face below his nostrils. From two circular holes, it
flowed the light of his irises. Green, the left; green and blue the right,
inflamed by the same cerulean fire that spewed out from the mouth every time he
moved his dry, cracked lips.
The gaunt right
arm, wrapped in a consumed bandage, was raised to the shoulder’s height. The
open palm of the hand was facing the vortex of Black Mist, and to his fingers
were bound threads that went up to heaven. Thin as a hair, extremely tense,
were lost in the infinite mystery of the clouds, and fell to the puppet joints,
to control it.
“Your
blasphemous insolence exceeded the limit! We’ve spoken to you, despite you've not
sang the song of the King, and what we get are insults and scorn? Rejoice,
pathetic human, because will be our hand which will put an end to your agony!”
As soon as the
old man stopped screaming, a spear infused of the power of the Black Mist hit
his puppet, throwing it away from Vayne. From a portal, opened within the mist,
the Lady of Vengeance came out, corrupted as well by time and by hate, wearing an
armor pierced by the signs of betrayal she had suffered. The long fingers of
Kalista were tight around her black spear
and Vayne’s great crossbow. She freed the woman from the net in which she was
trapped, then threw both weapons on the ground, in front of her, giving her
time to make a choice.
Kalista’s eyes,
bright as blue will-o’-the-wisp in the night, were staring at the angry man
sitting on the throne.
“We, the real
Ahrmio, remember you, slave. You're back to disappoint our blood, as you already
did in the past?”
Before Kalista
could answer, Vayne had grabbed the black spear and had stuck it in her own
breast. She knew the consequences, but she also knew that otherwise she would
not have enough strength to fight. She felt the dark power that had always
fought flowing inside her, restoring her forces.
“We are legion.
For immemorial time we cultivated our hatred, and today we will have our
revenge!”.
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