LUCIUS II
Lucius
missed the laughter. He was happy they had not run afoul of another centipede
but a week of tromping down the damp tunnels had dulled everyone’s spirit.
Lucius was not entirely unaccustomed to low morale. A warlock, especially a
tiefling warlock, furthermore a tiefling warlock with a lot of enemies and
machinations against their respective lives, had to develop a sense of humor
about the unfortunate and the macabre. He had treaded many fine lines between
mania and depression in his journeys through the insane studies of long-dead
and long-damned scholars. His heart, mind and soul had been chipped away by
beings and substances of every foreseeable dimension. He had suffered in the
fiery maw of the Nine Hells, walked past vaults of burning souls and witnessed the
inventiveness of a pit fiend’s punishments. He even had to entertain demons for
tea. He had taught himself to look back at the long and ever twisting road of
his life with a laugh. It came with the territory. Yet, Lucius could find
little amusement in the weariness of his new comrades.
After
a week, they all showed small quirks in their demeanor and actions. Lucius
heard Lora Faine mumble to herself in a disjointed scramble of elven. Aramil
would wander off from the camp fire at night and not return for several hours.
He always came back looking intense but without any idea what he was intense
about. Their guide, Ryjac kept assuring them with ever more fervency that she
knew where they were headed but was not sure how long it would be, “But it
surely will not be too many days longer.” The last one to show any signs of
cracking, was Sir Nadarr, Lucius reckoning he was too stupid to show
conventional signs of fear, the paladin just seemed to grow more and more
boisterous and loud. The one thing they all shared was being dreadfully tired.
Lucius was just dreadfully bored.
“Shouldn’t
be too much longer,” Ryjac called over her shoulder.
“Wonderful.
Shall we be expecting to arrive in minutes? Or months?” Aramil snapped at her.
“Days,”
Ryjac answered.
“It’s
raining again.”Nadarr said with a deep rumble in his throat.
Lucius
rolled his eyes, his magic flame turning a warm auburn color, as he heard
Nadarr announce the weather for the hundredth time. He was not sure how
proficient the dragonborn paladin was in predicting the weather and he neither
cared. These announcements did little
but annoy Lucius. After all, what use was it to them to know it was raining
miles above? Lucius took a breath and his light turned a soft orange color,
“Does any one of you know any good stories? I have grown sick of the narration
of our progress and the weather?”
“I
might.” Lora Faine said, from behind Lucius.
“Is
it about a talking animal or a princess?” Aramil asked, “Cuz I have never been
fond of those kinds of stories.”
“I
like those kindsof stories,” Nadarr called from the back, “Do you have a story
like that my fair lady?”
“I hear tell
that half-elves are the best story tellers,” Lucius replied, “but I suppose
since our half-elf is too busy being a big grump, we will have to make do with
the lovely voice of a fair elven maiden.”
“Well, I am not
so sure about whether you would like one of my stories,” Lora Faine muttered.
“Please, m’lady.
I am sure whatever forgotten lore or epic tale you have would be more than
enough to sate our attentions for a few moments?” Nadarr entreated her.
“Well, alright,”
She took a breath for a moment, Lucius noting that everyone’s walking seemed to
slow down just a little, as Ryjac and Aramil slowed their pace to be closer and
better able to hear Lora Faine.
“It’s a bit of a
scary story. The story begins in the pine forests between Nohdaria and the
Fedlands. There was a humble abode in the woods home to the widow of a huntsman
and her seven nearly identical daughters. To help tell them apart when they
walked out into the snow to perform chores and work their little farm she had
named them all after colors and given them a cloak that matched their name.
Though so alike, the girls were all very different in their personalities, and
often bickered and fought. The best behaved of them was the smallest of the
girls. A responsible but sweet child, they called her Little Violet.
Little Violet
was a little thing and, at the age of ten, stood head and shoulder shorter than
the other girls. Yet, she acted like an adult, doing more than her part and
never quarrelling with her siblings. She cut the wood, looked after the chicken
and took the most important job- taking food and the like to their elderly
grandmother who lived across the river. She was as tough and unbending as a
White Pine.
One day, her
mother met a man traveling through their woods. He was a huntsman. He too was a
widow and cared for his son, a red haired boy, named Sparrow. The Huntsman and
Sparrow were invited to their home. The girls had never met any man besides
their late father and were excited to greet them. Little Violet did not like
the way the Huntsman looked at her mother or how ill-mannered they were. They
did not take off their boots at the door and had tracked snow into the house.
She hated wet floors.
At supper that
night, the Huntsman told stories of their travel. They had been to the Fedlands
and the Feywild. They had hunted displacer beasts and ridden unicorns. The
other sisters kept asking questions about the various pieces of fur he wore,
the bones and bits on a necklace around his neck and the weapons he carried.
The Huntsman noticed Little Violet wasn’t amused by his stories and asked her
if she had a question. She looked him over and then asked about the sprig of
mistletoe on his hat and the other one pinned to his jacket.
The Huntsman
grew grim as he then told Little Violet that it was a special protection
against a demon from the North. The demon was called the Garrül.”
“I haven’t heard
of that demon?” Lucious interrupted, but paused, and laughed apologetically,
“Sorry, please go on.”
“Um, right, as I
was saying the Garrül,” Lora Faine
took special care to over pronounce the word, “is a special and terrifying
monster of the Feywild. It resembles a great black wolf-like creature with a
huge mouth filled with yellow teeth and a foul breath but the eyes of a human.
The Huntsman continued, Little Violet glaring up at him suspiciously, and told
them about the Garrül. The Garrül was never human and cannot make other humans
into werewolves. It is a demon from a long dead world and time. It eats humans.
It can turn into anyone it’s ever eaten, so it can hide its form, and gobble up
unsuspecting victims. The scariest part of it all is it can copy its victims
right down to their clothing and memories. The Garrül could take the form of
anyone. Once you have seen a Garrül, you are marked for death, and it will hunt
you down. It is immortal, cunning and cruel. The only thing that can kill it is
mistletoe.
The girls all
seemed a bit frightened by the tale but Little Violet just rolled her eyes. She
left the table and went out to check on the chickens. She heard someone walking
out to the chicken coop but it was not who she expected. It was red-headed Sparrow,
the Huntsman’s son. He told her that he did not believe his father’s story
either. His father told him the Garrül had eaten his mother but he was sure
that his father had just created the boogeyman of a creature to scare him into
obeying his word. Every time he disobeyed his father or ran off, his father
told him that the Garrül would get him. He had never seen anything like his
father described. Little Violet just ignored him and went about her business.
Weeks past and
the father-son duo kept visiting the widow and her seven daughters. The Huntsman
brought them his quarry and Little Violet’s mother gave them a place to stay.
It became obvious that Little Violet’s mother and the Huntsman were in love.
She hated it. Even more, she hated how Sparrow kept pestering her. He would
follow her around, bring her presents like feathers and flowers, and ask her
questions.
When winter came
and they had not heard from their grandmother, in weeks, Little Violet
volunteered to go visit her and brought along a basket of dried foods and other
supplies. As she walked out in the woods in her violet cloak, the Huntsman and
Sparrow insisted on tagging along, at least for a while. They claimed to be
going across the river, as well, to do some hunting for elk and followed her as
she made her way into the woods. She nearly dropped her basket when crossing
the river, but Sparrow caught it and put a bundle of herbs in the basket. He
explained that they should help her grandmother if she is cold. She smirked
when she saw the mistletoe. Soon after crossing the river, she bid them a
polite but firm good bye and insisted on visiting her grandmother alone.
When she got to
the cabin, she knocked on the door, and heard no response. She knocked harder
and heard a rasp of a voice asking her to come inside. She opened the door and
saw that her grandmother was in bed, blankets up to her neck, and only a dim
fire in the fireplace. She called out, ‘Granny, are you alright?’
‘Yes my dear,
please come closer,’ her grandmother called her in, ‘I have a little bit of a
cold.’
Little Violet closed
the door behind her and took off her boots. She then took off her socks, wet
from the river and wiggled her toes. She walked closer and stood in front of
the fire for a moment.
‘Little Violet,
come here child.’ Her grandmother called again, ‘I wish for you to see me.’
Little Violet
came closer to the bed and wrinkled her nose, ‘Granny, are you okay? I smell
something strange,’ She could smell the foul stench from the fire place.
‘That’s
nothing dear.’ Her grandmother explained, ‘Now come here and give Granny a
hug.’
Little
Violet walked closer and stopped. Her feet had just stepped in something wet
and warm. She looked down and lifted her foot.‘What
is it, dear?’ Her grandmother asked.
‘Blood.’
Violet answered as she saw the floor was covered in the red stuff. She looked
up as she heard a tearing sound as her grandmother got out of bed, ‘Granny?’
Her
grandmother laughed and smiled. Little Violet’s Grandmother’s mouth seeming to
grow, red around her lips, as she chuckled at a joke that Violet hadn’t heard.
Violet held her basket in front of her and backed up to the wall, ‘Granny
w-what red lips you have?’
‘The
better to kiss you with my child.’
Violet
looked at her grandmother and down to her hands which were at the end of long
arms she didn’t recognize, ‘Granny what big arms your have?”
‘The
better to hold you with my child.’
Violet
let out a little scream, ‘Grandmother, your teeth!’ As the old woman’s jaw
unhinged and her mouth was filled with big yellow fangs.
‘THE
BETTER TO GOBBLE YOU UP!’ Her grandmother’s leapt at her and Violet
struck her with the basket. The old woman recoiled and howled, melting, and
taking the form of a wolf.
‘You!
What was that!?’ The creature hissed as a big red gash slowly healed on its
snout, Violet looked down and saw the herbs poking through the basket.
‘Mistletoe!’She
tossed the basket at the monster and ran for the door. She made it out and
slammed the door behind her. She heard the beast howl and crash through the
door. She ran, screaming for help, wordlessly, mindless, terrified. She ran.
She ran through
the trees and over hills. She heard the monster stop running and someone
grabbed her arm. She screamed and tried to jerk away. She looked and saw it was
the Huntsman, ‘Child? What is wrong?’
Little Violet
tried to tell him what happened when they heard a voice. It was a woman’s
voice, Northern, and fair. Sparrow let out a little noise from behind his
father and as they all looked they saw a beautiful woman with Sparrow’s red
hair.
‘DEMON!’ The
Huntsman cried out in pain, ‘Children run!’ He ran at the woman as it shifted
into a great black beast and they tumble over the hill. Little Violet grabbed
Sparrow’s arm and ran. They heard a blood curdling scream and Sparrow tried to
run back but she ignored him. She kept running, pulling him along, until he
stopped her and pulled her into a bush. It was covered in mistletoe.
They lay under
the bush for a day. Sparrow wanted to go look for his father and so they left
the bush. If the monster had found them, it would have made its presence known,
they assumed. Little Violet led them back to the cabin where, to their horror,
they found near the hill from before, blood on the ground. The Garrül beast had
gotten the Huntsman. Sparrow and Little Violet looked about and saw wolf tracks
turning into boot tracks going in the opposite direction from the cabin.
‘Your family!’
Sparrow and Little Violet ran. They ran over hills, through forest and over the
river. They followed its tracks. They ran harder and faster than they had ever
ran. It wasn’t fast enough. When they got Little Violet’s cabin, there in the
snow, were the tattered remains of five cloaks. A red cloak, an orange cloak, a
yellow cloak, a green cloak, a blue cloak, and a pink cloak lay in the snow,
covered in blood.
They heard
laughter; the laughter of six little girls and their mother. They looked up and
there standing in the doorway was the Garrül. It had grown fat from its feast.
It mocked them with its laughter, as it dabbed its lips with a red cloak. It
then said one word, ‘Run.’
And they did.
For years they ran. Little Violet and Sparrow grew to depend on each other as
they had no choice. Like Sparrow and his Father, they could never be out of the
sight of each other, because if they did the beast could kill one of them and
use the form to get the other. Whether it was from fear or desperation, the
others kept moving, and made a partnership to survive and kill the beast.
Sparrow taught her everything he knew and she taught him everything she knew.
They eventually fell in love and swore to marry each other once the Garrül was
dead and they had avenged their families.
Years later, as
they walked through the forest, a blizzard had begun to swell the snow in the
air. They had no seen the beast for over a year but they still feared it. They
knew it wanted to find them as much as they wanted to find it. A Garrül cannot
cease a hunt once it has begun. It can prolong it but one day it must end its
prey’s life and gobble it up.
The blizzard got
worse and as the winds struck them over and over, they held onto each other.
Yet, as a large gust struck them, and they tossed through the snow, Little
Violet lost her Sparrow for the first time in years. She searched for him,
shouting his name, but to no avail. Shivering, frozen to the bone, she stumbled
her way into the mouth of a cave and made her way into the back. She made a
makeshift fire and warmed herself by it. Her violet cloak had gotten knocked
away in the snow, along with her bundle of mistletoe she kept in it at all times.
She only had one sprig left.
In the morning,
she heard something at the mouth of the cave and got up. She searched for her
crossbow but found it too had been lost in the snow. Cautiously, she crept
toward the mouth of the cave with her sprig of mistletoe. She saw a figure
standing in the mouth of the cave, looking out. It was Sparrow.
She nearly ran
forward as he turned around, ‘Violet,’ He cried, ‘I thought I’d never see you
again.’
She stared at
him, searching for anything suspicious, she had no weapons.
‘What’s wrong
sweetheart?’ He asked, stepping forward and grinning, ‘It’s me! I promise.’
‘Where is your
mistletoe?’ She asked, hiding hers behind her back, as Sparrow stood there
without a single spring on any of his clothes.
‘I lost them in
the snow.’ He explained, ‘Now give me a kiss.’
She warmed her
hands with her mouth and walked forward, taking his hands and kissing him.
Sparrow let out
a scream and recoiled in agony. He grabbed at his throat, as he melted and took
the form of the Garrül. It hissed and sputtered, as black blood spilled from
its mouth and eyes, ‘You! What have you done!?’
Little Violet
didn’t say a word. She had just pushed her last piece of mistletoe into its mouth when they kissed. She watched the beast melt into a puddle of black
nothing. It cursed her with the voices of everyone it had ever consumed. She
just watched it, not saying a word or shedding a single tear. The little girl
in the little violet cloak had gotten her revenge. Little Violet left the cave
and never ran, ever again. The end.”
Nadarr clapped, “That
was a wonderful story, m’lady.”
“Chilling,”
Lucius added, with approval, “Though it needed some more gore.” Lucius could tell
the others approved though neither Aramil nor Ryjac said anything. He heard
Ryjac come to a halt up ahead. Aramil stopped as well and gave them the signal
to halt. Lucius dimmed his light which had turned a bright violet. He looked up
ahead, peering through the dark, as Ryjac came back into sight with a little
smile,
“We’re here.”
********
