When first she came to the Shroud years ago, it made Delial uneasy. Even with the Conjurer's blessing, she could not help but feel as though there were a presence mere ilms above her shoulders, waiting to press around her throat the moment her guard was let down. The stories of the wood and the things that lorded over it did little to ease her worries. Not once did Delial ever think she was anything but an intruder, and she was sure she stank of the blood spilled by Ala Mhigans who had come before her.
Not that she was innocent, of course: Marcineux was left for the birds and the boars. Sometimes, she thought she could smell him. Sometimes, she thought she might choke.
Her every step was as loud as a gunshot, muted as they were in the soft ground beneath. If the birds remained they did not sing, nor did they flit or flutter. It was as quiet save for the steady trudge of boots ill-suited for travel through the forest. Surely it was the Wolf they feared, especially now that he was loosed from his bed of chains. She wondered if he hunted them like he had hunted men. She wondered if they would be sporting at all.
She did not know where she walked. Somewhere to her left was a thin stream that snaked through the underbrush, and somewhere behind her waited the Wolf. Her things had been gathered, what little there was: a bag bounced against her thigh as she walked and the butt of her staff (no, no, not hers) left tiny craters in the the earth, breadcrumbs in negative that may or may not remain should Delial decide to turn herself around. The thought of it did not concern her for she did not think of it at all. Every dozen yalms or so, she paused and raised her head a little higher to listen hard before she inevitably decided to continue. The shadows continued to crawl, chasing away the shifting sun.
It was as silent as silent could be when Delial was finally satisfied. The canopy was low and thick and the wind touched not a single leaf. Somehow it felt cold, though not quite as cold as the staff in her hand. It was too still. It was just still enough. With a nod, she began to work.
Moving stiffly, she cleared away loose roots and stones to open up a circle of raw earth just wider than the span of her arms. She planted the staff outside its perimeter, dropped her bag beside it, and with soft words and a softer gesture called forth a pair of witch-lights small and faint enough to barely cast their pale gold glow across the circle. She sat herself in its center, tugging and folding her legs beneath her. Then, gently, she set each light down: one at her right hand and one at her left.
The little lizard girl seemed so proud of herself when she made her offer. It was just some little trinket, Delial convinced herself, a pretty trinket bearing false promise. That the girl knew her name was not important; that the girl knew her weakness was just a lucky guess. Even after she waved her hands and her cards, it was the word that stuck with her, one final festering sting. “Powerless,†Sarangerel said and knew she hit her mark, just as it was meant to.
It sat in her possession ever since with hardly a thought given to why and how it was in her hands. Then Roen asked after it, posing warnings of untrustworthy scaled men and schemes. Then the Sergeant summoned them and plead for their aid. Then the Wolf spoke of power to be bestowed. Delial could feel where it burned cold in her pockets, and she could feel the hole where it occupied her thoughts.
She reached out to draw a knife from her pack and sliced neatly across the face of a palm, not so much as flinching as the steel cut through her skin. With practiced delicacy, she dabbed her thumb in the rising blood and marked once, twice across her cheeks, and then three times over her dead eye. A wary part of her thought, for a moment, that the stone was not quite as cold as before when she drew it out of her pockets. A foolish part thought she felt it throb when she laid it over her bloodied palm. Yet another worried of the trees she caught sight of in the corner of her eye when she cradled her hands together and bowed her head: of how they seemed to bow with her, looming so close and so low that they might smother her where she sat.
She ignored them all. She shut into herself, grasping for threads of aether and whispered to the black stone in her hands.
Later, after the lights were long gone and her blood had gone dry, when the staff that was the witch’s legacy glimmered in her hands and her heels dug cracked grooves in the drying earth beneath, did Delial know that it finally whispered back.
Not that she was innocent, of course: Marcineux was left for the birds and the boars. Sometimes, she thought she could smell him. Sometimes, she thought she might choke.
Her every step was as loud as a gunshot, muted as they were in the soft ground beneath. If the birds remained they did not sing, nor did they flit or flutter. It was as quiet save for the steady trudge of boots ill-suited for travel through the forest. Surely it was the Wolf they feared, especially now that he was loosed from his bed of chains. She wondered if he hunted them like he had hunted men. She wondered if they would be sporting at all.
She did not know where she walked. Somewhere to her left was a thin stream that snaked through the underbrush, and somewhere behind her waited the Wolf. Her things had been gathered, what little there was: a bag bounced against her thigh as she walked and the butt of her staff (no, no, not hers) left tiny craters in the the earth, breadcrumbs in negative that may or may not remain should Delial decide to turn herself around. The thought of it did not concern her for she did not think of it at all. Every dozen yalms or so, she paused and raised her head a little higher to listen hard before she inevitably decided to continue. The shadows continued to crawl, chasing away the shifting sun.
It was as silent as silent could be when Delial was finally satisfied. The canopy was low and thick and the wind touched not a single leaf. Somehow it felt cold, though not quite as cold as the staff in her hand. It was too still. It was just still enough. With a nod, she began to work.
Moving stiffly, she cleared away loose roots and stones to open up a circle of raw earth just wider than the span of her arms. She planted the staff outside its perimeter, dropped her bag beside it, and with soft words and a softer gesture called forth a pair of witch-lights small and faint enough to barely cast their pale gold glow across the circle. She sat herself in its center, tugging and folding her legs beneath her. Then, gently, she set each light down: one at her right hand and one at her left.
The little lizard girl seemed so proud of herself when she made her offer. It was just some little trinket, Delial convinced herself, a pretty trinket bearing false promise. That the girl knew her name was not important; that the girl knew her weakness was just a lucky guess. Even after she waved her hands and her cards, it was the word that stuck with her, one final festering sting. “Powerless,†Sarangerel said and knew she hit her mark, just as it was meant to.
It sat in her possession ever since with hardly a thought given to why and how it was in her hands. Then Roen asked after it, posing warnings of untrustworthy scaled men and schemes. Then the Sergeant summoned them and plead for their aid. Then the Wolf spoke of power to be bestowed. Delial could feel where it burned cold in her pockets, and she could feel the hole where it occupied her thoughts.
She reached out to draw a knife from her pack and sliced neatly across the face of a palm, not so much as flinching as the steel cut through her skin. With practiced delicacy, she dabbed her thumb in the rising blood and marked once, twice across her cheeks, and then three times over her dead eye. A wary part of her thought, for a moment, that the stone was not quite as cold as before when she drew it out of her pockets. A foolish part thought she felt it throb when she laid it over her bloodied palm. Yet another worried of the trees she caught sight of in the corner of her eye when she cradled her hands together and bowed her head: of how they seemed to bow with her, looming so close and so low that they might smother her where she sat.
She ignored them all. She shut into herself, grasping for threads of aether and whispered to the black stone in her hands.
Later, after the lights were long gone and her blood had gone dry, when the staff that was the witch’s legacy glimmered in her hands and her heels dug cracked grooves in the drying earth beneath, did Delial know that it finally whispered back.
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