Mist and Wanderers

Chapter 1 ends Tomorrow!

[PREVIOUS]

[FIRST]

Sori knocks four times upon Bii’s door, deliberately.  On her back, she carries the woman, whose helmet has been turned to cover her face and prop up her neck.  At her sides, her family stands with Bii’s children.

Slowly, Bii’s door opens.

Content warning: graphic violence, blood, eye trauma.

Caius and Vel stand side by side, their spears forming a wall between them.  Nothing passes between them as they watch the air dance above the residential area.  They breathe together, even their breaths passing stiffly through their lips.  Vel shifts first, his hand flexing as he grips his spear’s shaft.  They do not meet each other’s eyes––refuse to, perhaps.  The air is cold around them, harsh enough to raise their skin and hair.  Vel’s jaw creaks as it works, and he represses a chatter of his teeth.  His eyes dart down to the empty space in front of him, then to Caius’ stony, impassive face.  He turns to Caius and opens his mouth to speak.

She can hear the sound of men breathing through her right ear.  She cocks her head to the side to listen to them, counts each varied breath to take inventory of who among the carnage at her feet still lives.

And she sinks down to her feet.  Her hand shakes as she raises it up to her face to stare at it and she feels her empty stomach churn with a disgust that tastes of bile, copper, and iron.  She rubs her fingers together and holds her breath before dropping her hand and sighing.  The night’s cold makes her shiver, but she doesn’t move––refuses to, as she catches her breath.

A hateful taste lingers in Sori’s mouth as she drags herself from the medical bay and to the women’s dormitories down the way, towards the back of the compound.  The adrenaline is not allowed to flush from her system.  Cries of outrage can be heard from the administrator’s building yards away, and the smell of fresh smoke fills the air around them.  She cocks her good ear to the sound of men’s voices calling for help, the sound of the fire bell ringing, and forces herself to walk faster.

Content warning: blood, violence, and death.

Uakea and Taizen nod to Daesun as they bank in opposite directions, darting away to other parts of the compound.  Daesun takes a breath and draws on his speed.

“Go, go, go, go!” 

Molwen waves his hands frantically and he draws on his reserves of speed to bound away. His twin stands and backs up with him, taking steps to rush into the covered hall.  A small fire sparks to life at the base of the compound’s administration building—home to the administrators and their records. 

And the entire thing is made of wood.

Content warning: depictions of violence, blood.

She can hear the mists from the inside of her room. 

“They say that Kohu ghosts are always made of the living, not the dead.”

Living Ghosts part 2

The six dead and single scholar gather beneath the breeding compound walls, huddling for warmth in the cold, though none need to. The taste of ash still sits hot in their mouths.

Faking death requires a certain kind of flair. Six funeral pyres for six scams in a matter of months gave them time and space to collect heat to last them the winter, and provided them the cover the deceased are owed. Magic meant to keep life’s balance made for surprisingly good illusory material.

The six dead and single scholar gather beneath the breeding compound walls, huddling for warmth in the cold, though none need to. The taste of ash still sits hot in their mouths.

Faking death requires a certain kind of flair. Six funeral pyres for six scams in a matter of months gave them time and space to collect heat to last them the winter, and provided them the cover the deceased are owed. Magic meant to keep life’s balance made for surprisingly good illusory material.

The night is dark as the deepest depths of the ocean, the mists dancing and curling through the unseeable clouds hanging above the mountain’s snow-faced peaks.  A thick haze of vapor and ash surrounds the spires of earth circling the city of Sylfal, obscuring everything save the faint flicker of the few torches lit in the streets.  The fields and shops are silent, except for the quiet pad of guards’ feet as they patrol the quiet cobblestone streets. It smells of ice and cold, and of the fading smoke of funerary pyres still waiting for the winter wind to blow them east, out to sea. The air tastes of ash––the heavy, dry taste of mourning for those people politely called Kohumae, now hidden away in their longhouses.

Curfew called hours ago.  All that remains are the soldiers and the snow.