Great Hunt - Wasting Miasma: Under the Shadow

     Mead was a ghost town by the time Wanderer arrived.
     At a certain point he’d come across the road and decided to sacrifice stealthiness in favor of speed, and there’d been nobody to object to his presence as he ran; nobody to challenge him at the bridge he’d avoided when they’d first come this way, nobody to notice the sound of his hooves against the paving stones as he walked warily into the village’s outermost streets.
     Nothing but silence, and thick mist, and the undeniable feeling that he was being watched.
     Where have they all gone?
     The town had been packed not so long ago. Evidence of the throngs of tourney-goers was everywhere, in the gaily decorated stalls that lined the streets and the litter and dust underfoot; now, it was all abandoned. There were doors left yawning wide as he moved deeper into town, where people had left in such a panic there’d been no time to think about locking up behind.
     It was only as he started to reach the town’s center that he started to find bodies.
     It took him a moment to realize that the dark shapes that littered the ground were other hooved, and when he did he froze, ears flattening in alarm and horror. After a moment though…
     Adrenaline pounding through his veins, ready to leap away at any moment, he made his way to a dark-fleeced ewe that lay nearby with bright ribbons twined through her fleece and trailing limp across the ground… and let out his breath with an audible sigh of relief when he realized that the sheep’s flanks were gently rising and falling. The deer straightened up.
     Thank Grace, they’re alive.
     For now, Cirrus murmured. He’d been hanging onto Wanderer’s shoulder strap most of the way to Mead, and now he was flattened warily against the deer’s side. Sleeping?
     Magical sleep, maybe. I don’t see wounds. There were no signs of bloodshed here. The air was strange and heavy–dry where it should have been wet with fog–but it was missing that metallic tang in the wake of violence. Wanderer cautiously nudged the sleeping ewe with one outstretched hoof; they shifted, sighed, but didn’t stir. Be wary.
     YOU be wary. I don’t like this.
     Neither do I.
     He looked from side to side, but with the mist so thick it wasn’t as though there was much to see; even with his eyes, so well-suited to piercing the dark, couldn’t see more than twenty paces before everything faded into swirling white. And… he lifted his lip without meaning to, showing his fangs.
     Are those… eyeballs?
     Eyeballs? Cirrus sounded pathetically hopeful, muted though his voice was.
     In the mist. It’s almost as though it’s made of tiny… Well, that’s unsettling.
     Illusion, the crow said disgustedly. Worthless. Bad.
     It’s certainly not good. Wanderer hesitated for a moment. I need to be able to see better. I’m taking this hood off.
     Good idea.
     In its own way, it was a relief getting to unwind the draping cloth from around his head. He’d become so accustomed to its weight in the weeks since they left the jungle’s comfortable shade that the feel of air ruffling through his fur seemed almost unfamiliar; the deer shook his head, ears flapping, and then looked around.
     Stay awake, bird.
     No fear.
     As Wanderer started onwards, his familiar hopped off of his back and took to the air with wingbeats that sounded oddly muffled in the silence.
     Don’t stray too far. It’ll be too easy to lose one another in the mist. There was a caw of agreement somewhere ahead of him, echoing through the streets though he’d already lost track of the bird in the gloom.
     He made his way across the central square, winding his way around sleeping bodies and the upturned ruin of what had assuredly been a thriving market only hours before. The sound of falling water from a fountain echoed through the air as the only sound in the silence, covering up the sound of his hoofbeats on stone. As he went, Wanderer could feel his hide prickling with anticipation.
     Somewhere in all this, a corrupted mage lay in wait.
     And he didn’t know what to expect, or if he was the only waking soul in all of this patrons-cursed fog.
     And then, as though summoned by his very thoughts, something moved ahead of him.
     He felt it as much as saw it, saw the fog rippling towards him as it pushed ahead of whatever was coming his way; something felt wrong in the air, twisted and warped and repulsive in a way that grated on his nerves like it had the one time he’d been unlucky enough to encounter this kind of corruption before.
     Wanderer, get away!
     Running would make too much noise on these stone streets, and he recoiled back from the feeling of what was coming towards him. Certain that he had only a split second to decide, the deer sprang to the side into a thin alleyway that bordered the main street. It was restrictively narrow, so much so that Wanderer struggled to turn and crouch low behind the upturned stall he’d just vaulted over; the tines of his antlers scraped jarringly against boards that spanned the alley overhead where the buildings on either side had been joined together by some sort of covered promenade. He crouched low, feeling the cold wetness of mud and gutter water soaking his belly fur.
     A tiny space, and a wretched hole to be hiding in, but he hadn’t survived in the wilds for more seasons than he could recall without knowing how to sense when a larger predator was about.
     Looking out from his cramped refuge, he watched in disgusted fear as the thing passed him by.
     It seemed too silent for something so large. Ebon-dark legbones stretched up almost beyond his field of vision, the lowermost points of enormous ribs just barely visible in the mist above; it walked slow, fluid as though walking in water, a ghost ship passing in the night and trailing ribbons of eye-infested fog. Larger eyes drifted alongside it constantly in motion, as jerky and erratic as the horror’s motions were languid, and as Wanderer watched their roaming gaze trained on him…
     …but for just a moment, and then they swept over him and passed him by. As he stayed perfectly still, ears flattened and fangs bared, barely daring to breathe, the thing walked onward and vanished into the mist once more.
     It was many long minutes before he let himself move once more, and the first thing that he left out was a disgusted retching snarl because every instinct in him rebelled against everything that creature had been.
     Corrupted.
     If Ravenous’s wake had been bad, being so close to a corrupted mage had been a thousand times worse. It was like watching the world warp in violent rejection to something so wrong, so unnatural, so vile.
     He was afraid. He was angry. How something like that could exist– how the universe itself could allow something like that to exist–
     Wanderer, his familiar said worriedly, and he steadied himself against the disgust that burned cold inside him.
     I’m safe. Are you?
     Yes. It’s gone… out towards the edge of town. Wanderer, I found someone who isn’t asleep!
     What?! Where? Show me.
     It took a moment to steady his legs, but as soon as he did he managed to pick his way back over the tangle of cloth of the fallen tent and back out into the open again. The feeling of the beast’s passing was still tangible, a clinging and corrosive wrongness in the air, but the mage steeled himself against it and put it out of his mind.
     Which way, Cirrus?
     Further this way. The crow came swooping abruptly out of the fog, just long enough to be visible before pivoting and disappearing again in the intended direction. To Wanderer’s surprise, he wasn’t alone; there was another bird with him, smaller, sleeker and frantically beating its narrower wings to keep up. Surprised, Wanderer broke into a half-run after them.
     Three streets over, following in the wake of both birds, he came across a mage just barely keeping their feet.
     Whoever they were, they were a deer, but unlike anything he had ever seen before. Brilliant golds and jewel tones, feathers layered thick across their neck and shoulders and trailing the ground behind them. Wide azure wings were drooping on the cobblestones, seemingly helping to steady them where they stood… but even as Wanderer watched the stranger wavered, legs splayed wide and unsteady beneath them and head hanging low. Brilliant blue eyes blinked rapidly, out of focus and glazed.
     “Stay awake!”
     It might have been the safer decision to hold back and get a measure of the other mage before making his presence known, but he could tell they were on the brink of sleep. And if they fell asleep, who was to say that they’d ever awaken again?
     Even at the sound of another voice, they seemed to barely register his approach. “What? Who….”
     “It doesn’t matter. Stay awake. You can’t let yourself sleep now.”
     “S’not… real… I’m not…” The deer’s head was drooping, and Wanderer snarled in frustration. That black bird he’d seen before swooped in from the side and fluttered alongside the mage’s head, chirping frantically.
     Wake up, Ramman! You can’t fall asleep again!
     “Wake up!” Desperate, Wanderer pushed out with his magic, with fear; there was resistance, resistance like he’d never felt before, but finally he saw those blue eyes widen just a touch.
     “What?”
     “You have to stay awake!”
     If magic was what it would take, he’d use it… and he had used it before like this, hadn’t he? This wasn’t something to lose control over. Just a touch of fear to sharpen the instincts of others, to drive animals to frenzy, he knew how to use it; focusing, he shaped his power into a goading lash and drove hard against the resistance that seemed to encircle the other deer.
     “Wake up!”
     Wake up!!
     “WAKE UP!” The words were almost a roar, and finally it seemed as though he was getting through. The brilliantly-colored mage was breathing hard, eyes wide now. Those wings weren’t drooping anymore but tensed half-spread and protectively arched over him; his ears were pressed flat against his skull, and finally he looked up, straightened up, legs tense and muscles bunched tight.
     Unfortunately for Wanderer, it was only a moment later that a blast of raw power knocked him halfway across the street.
     Somewhere overhead he heard an outraged scream from Cirrus, and the black bird that must be the mage’s familiar swooped between them, screeching frantically.
     No, Ramman, no!
     It was nice that someone was speaking in his defense, since Wanderer was working hard enough on just staying upright after having the wind very thoroughly knocked out of him. He coughed, trying to catch his breath, and then planted his feet with horns lowered in case the mage–Ramman–meant to have another go at it. His magic coiled back around him, in readiness in case he was in for a fight.
     Thankfully, a following blow never came… which was for the best because there had been a lot of raw power behind the first, and Wanderer knew full well that he was lucky if the most he’d escaped with was some bruised ribs. Looking up, he saw Ramman looking back at him with equally wary eyes, huge wings spread and flapping at the air.
     “I’m not– I’m not your enemy,” he managed to wheeze out.
     “What’s happening,” the other mage demanded. “Tourney was goin’ fine, and then this… this–” He tossed his antlers violently. “What happened to me? I thought I… that I was…”
     You were asleep, Ramman, the black bird said quietly. It had perched on one of the branching tines of Ramman’s antlers; looking at it more closely, Wanderer recognized that it was a rainbird, an unexpected reminder of home. You were sleeping and wouldn’t wake. I went to find help.
     He was managing to get his breath back, at least. “A mage corrupted here. Somewhere. The fog came with it, and everyone’s fallen into sleep.”
     “Except you?” Ramman was looking at him with suspicion in those blue eyes; eyes that seemed ill-practiced in that suspicious scowl. “If the fog put us all t’sleep…Why are you awake?”
     He had a point, and one that Wanderer hadn’t taken much time to consider. He’d been so quick to make his way into the depths of the fog, not knowing what to expect but dismissing it as nothing more than something conjured to cloak the corrupted mage’s movements, that he hadn’t thought about the fact that the spell-sleep might be tied into it. And it was clear enough that the fog was still heavy and stinking with the stain of corruption, filled with drifting phantom eyes.
     Why was he still awake?
     “I wasn’t here when it happened. We–my familiar and I–we spotted it from a distance.”
     “And you ran towards a monster?”
     There was a trace of ozone in the air, sharp and metallic against the strange smell of the fog, and Ramman’s blue eyes–still half-glazed with sleep–were just a little too bright.
     If your mage hurts my mage again I’ll peck his eyes out, Cirrus said sharply somewhere above, and when Ramman’s head jerked upwards so sharply that his familiar nearly fell off its perch Wanderer realized with a start that the other mage must be able to understand more than just his rainbird familiar.
     Which was good motivation to try and explain before his own familiar got them in a fight.
     He met the other deer’s eyes, all too aware that having taken off his hood left all the… peculiarities… of his appearance plain to see. “I’ve only come to do what I can to help. Corrupted mages are a danger to us all.”
     There was a long tense pause, but in the end Ramman sighed, and the sparks that were beginning to play around his anglers faded away. “Aye, that’s fair enough” For the first time, he looked around, causing his familiar to dip and sway precariously where it perched. “Only we’re awake, you said?”
     “Only us that I’ve found.” Wincing as he walked back over from where he’d been blasted, the mage indicated the direction of the Tourney grounds. “I came through the town and didn’t see anyone. If anyone’s escaped it, maybe the Tourney?...”
     “The Tourney…” Ramman looked pensive. Haunted. “I… remember. Remember running, and then…” He shuddered. “This must have been where I started dreaming.”
     “Dreaming?”
     “Like I was a ghost. Like I never was.” He shuddered. “Best wake anyone we can.”

*       *       *

     They crossed the town at a quick trot, ears pricked and heads constantly turning to check for danger in spite of Cirrus flying watchfully overhead and the little rainbird, Ramman's familiar, darting through the mist alongside them. Fickle Fortune must have smiled on them, because there was no sign of the corrupted mage… or at least, no sign beyond those ever-present flickers in the mist hinting at watchful eyes tracking their every move.
     He was so aware of it being out there though, a constant scratch at the edge of his senses. More than once Wanderer caught himself shying away from an eddy in the mist down a sidestreet, a half-imagined glimpse of ebon bones. He brought himself back under control so quickly that his momentary lapses went unnoticed, but he was aware of it.
     It bothered him more than he could say.
     He’d always felt secure in his ability to survive and to flourish unaided. In the wilds, he’d needed nothing more than his own muscle and fangs and magic; those things, always reliable, had served him well for as long as he could remember. But against something like this? What could he do?
     What good was fear against a mindless behemoth composed of naught but malice and power?
     What good was fear when he couldn’t even truly push himself without the risk of losing control… and in the face of something like that, where losing control would quickly leave him dead or worse?
     He looked at Ramman from the corner of his eye, evaluating the other mage. Though there were still shadows under his eyes that spoke to something more than weariness, his gait was steady and he seemed fully alert now with all traces of spell-sleep gone. Not a bad ally to have by his side for the moment, and the blast of power Ramman had thrown at him had been no small thing; even coming out of a daze, surely only at a fraction of his full focused strength, Wanderer knew he was lucky it had struck him only glancingly. And more than that, he felt trustworthy. There’d been a straightforwardness to their first tentative exchange that reminded him of speaking with Rathma, that Order mage.
     A straightforwardness, and acceptance of the prospect of working together, that he hadn’t expected to have extended to a wild mage like him.
     When they'd first been on the road, before ever reaching the tourney, he'd spoken to Cirrus about how they needed pack to survive beyond the jungle. And here, more than ever, those words rang deadly true.
     If the beast could be brought down, there'd be time to think about 'after'. For now, he wasn't going to turn down a powerful mage at his side.
     Eventually they crossed over the border where Mead's paved streets turned into the downtrodden grass of the meadows, and still they hadn't come across another waking soul. Bodies were everywhere, and he hoped that they were still only sleeping; everything here had been packed so much more tightly, and the place was a ruin of collapsed tents and piles of hooved who lay tangled in the mist.
     He could smell smoke, and as they walked onwards found the smoldering remains of more than a few tents that must have collapsed with coal-filled braziers still inside. It was a blessing that the flames hadn't spread in the heavy fog–magical as it was, it didn't have the damp that would otherwise have stifled the fire–but he knew that Grace hadn't smiled on everyone.
     He saw Ramman's ears go flat. The other deer might not know what that thick, sour smell was from experience, but his instincts were warning him all the same.
     "Patrons save us all."
     Wanderer didn't disagree. Out of curiosity, he let a delicate thread of magic spool out towards the closest sleeping mage, a sunset-colored horse still gangly with the vestiges of youth who was slumped half-tangled in a collapsed tent. There was nothing there, no senses for his fear to pick at; he might have been able to affect Ramman while half-awake, but while asleep they were out of reach entirely.
     At his side, he heard the other mage make a soft distressed whickering noise.
     "What's that… there's something in the air. Do you feel it?"
     Wanderer's head whipped around, and it took a moment to realize what Ramman was sensing.
     "Ah. It's nothing. I tried to wake one of them."
     "That was your magic?" The feathers on Ramman's neck were raised in alarm, giving him the look of a feathery halo. His wings were half-flared. "Why does it feel like that?"
     "It just does." He looked aside, sighed. "And it’s no help. I can't reach them."
     To the other mage's credit, Wanderer could see him trying to settle his nerves in spite of his instinctive reaction to a brush of fear. It was a good sign for their potential for working together. Shaking his head as though to shake off the last traces of nervousness, Ramman looked up with a frown. "It's this damned fog. It can't be helping." He planted his feet in the trampled grass underfoot. "I'm getting rid of some of it. Better'n doing naught."
     Before Wanderer had a chance to ask how exactly he planned to do that, the other mage tensed his muscles and leapt straight up into the air. Wings streaked with brilliant colors swept down and sent papers and rubbish flying; Wanderer, for his part, had to duck sharply out of the way to avoid being knocked aside. Ramman's leap had taken him easily above the height of the tents, wings beating hard to keep him aloft, and then…
     The air tightened, a taut bowstring stretched to the breaking point, and he could suddenly smell that hot metallic tang in the air again. Realization hit a moment before the lightning.
     Cirrus, get down!!
     Brilliant blue blazed through the fog, spiderwebbing out in every direction from the lightningrod that Ramman had become, and thunder roared in its wake. There was a crackling in the air, a sound like pinecones in a fire but multiplied a thousand times over in miniature. Popping. Rupturing. Maybe some of those eyeballs hadn't been so illusory after all.
     He might have been able to think about it harder if he wasn't currently dropping to his knees in pain because his eyes were in agony.
     Thankfully he'd clenched them shut the moment he realized what was about to happen, but the split second of light he had seen had been more than enough to leave the darkness behind his eyelids a shattered mosaic of brilliance. There was a distressed caw from somewhere nearby, and then a familiar weight dropped onto his shoulders and a beak was anxiously grooming his neck feathers.
     Wanderer? Wanderer??
     I'm alright, he managed.
     I am going to PECK that mage!
     Somewhere nearby he heard the sound of a much larger body dropping to the ground, and he could smell ozone.
     "Blast, are you alright? I–" There was a furious hissing sound from somewhere just behind Wanderer's ear, and he heard the other mage come to a halt. "–it's Wanderer, aye? I don't even properly know your name. Are you hurt?"
     "Didn't look away in time."
     Idiot!
     The genuine remorse in Ramman's voice was apparent enough. “Ah, dammit all, I should have warned you. It wasn’t my intent.”
     He heard the other deer step closer, and then a sudden wave of soothing warmth washed over him. It was only for a moment–and then there was more angry hissing from Cirrus, and Ramman yelped and backed up a few paces–but it was enough to wipe away the battered feelings in his ribs and dampen the lancing pain in his head to only a dull ache. Cracking one eye open just a sliver, Wanderer saw Ramman looking at him in concern through a haze of brightness.
     “Did that help any?”
     Healing. A magical talent that he'd oft-envied–it would have served him well in the wilds, when he'd had to home his ability to fight to a fine edge because he couldn't run the risk of wounds that would fester and rot in the jungle heat–but one he'd never been lucky enough to possess himself. It was another reminder of why it might be so important to have allies here, if he set aside that it was the unpredictability of having allies that had left him needing healing in the first place.
     “So you’re a healer too?” He closed his eyes again. It might only be the aftereffects of the lightning, but he was still half-blind, healing or not.
     “Only after a fashion. Not much practice, like anything else. Just enough to–” The other mage cut off abruptly. “Wait! Do you hear that?”
     Wanderer did hear. His ears were still ringing from that crack of thunder, but not enough to drown out the sound of movement, of voices calling out from somewhere not too far away. And sound, any sound, meant someone who was awake to make it. But while he felt like he’d had the chance to get a read on Ramman and trusted the other deer not to turn on him, he wasn’t sure he could say the same for a whole host of others. Not all at once, with everyone on edge.
     “Other mages. You should go to them. Try and get organized.”
     “They can come to us!” He smelled the air charging with lightning, making his hair stand on end. “I’ll send up a signal–”
     “No! I’m useless until I can see properly again. Hiding is the best thing for me right now, and you may need to move.” Wanderer tossed his head vaguely in the direction of the nearest voices. “I’ll catch up with you when I can. Cirrus will help me find you.”
     I can keep him safe better anyways, the bird remarked grumpily.
     There was a long pause. “Are you sure?”
     “Yes. Go. Start getting organized before that thing comes back. See if you can find a way to drive it away from Mead and the Tourney; there’s no sense fighting it here with so many sleepers on the field. I’ll catch up.”
     “Aye… I’ll see you, then.”
     Wanderer nodded, and heard hoofbeats racing away across the grass.
     He would catch up. Eventually. But he wasn’t ready to be boxed in by that many other mages just yet, not when it would be easy enough to fall on the wrong side of the line between ally and enemy.
     Besides… Opening his eyes again, the mage swore hotly. He might have played up how long he thought they might take to clear, but he really couldn’t see very well, and his head was still pounding.
     A beak preened anxiously through his feathers.
     Don’t worry, bird.
     I hope a monster steps on him.
     Cirrus! The bird grumbled in his ear, thoroughly unrepentant. He was strong. We both felt it. If he’d truly meant me harm, I’d have a lot more to worry about than a bit of sunblind and an aching head.
     So what do we do now?
     It shouldn’t take my eyes long to recover. Keep watch on those other mages, and keep an eye out for the Corrupted coming back this way.
     At least he was good for clearing some fog. Fine.
     Wings flapped loudly, and he could feel the wind of Cirrus’s takeoff swirl around him. As for himself…
     It took a few minutes to make some semblance of a shelter, squinting through half-blinded eyes and feeling his way along as best he could; there was a mostly-collapsed tent nearby, a table propping the tentpole up at a drunken angle and leaving a pocket of space beneath heavy, concealing folds of canvas. It was big enough for him to duck into and curl up so that his nose and ears could keep watch for anyone or anything coming his way. Safe enough, for now.
     Getting his vision back took longer than expected, and even the calls of other mages faded into the background; they had to be moving away then, towards the town and the great beast that lurked somewhere among its streets. It was so hard to simply sit and wait patiently; but every time he tried opening his eyes, the world was still swimming in blooms and smears of colored light. The smoke in the air didn’t help, stinging and making his eyes water even beneath closed lids.
     It had been such a long day, and he’d run for miles, and the last traces of adrenaline had drained from his body and left him feeling leaden and tired. Leaning his head on the grass so that his antlers would stop catching on the underside of the table, Wanderer tried to be patient…
     …and slipped unknowing into sleep.