Great Hunt - Wasting Miasma: Dreamless Sleep

     Wanderer awoke to the sobering knowledge that he was awake, and hadn’t been just a moment before.
     The realization was like a dash of icy water to the face, and he bolted upright and out from the shelter he’d made for himself to stand bristling in the cool night air. The sun had set, at some point, and the fog was as thick as ever. It swirled around him in slow eddies, dragging at his legs in a way that felt too hungry, too eager. And his stomach was roaring with hunger.
     How long had he been asleep?
     More importantly, what had happened while he was asleep… and what had happened to him?
     Cirrus, he called, and was relieved when he heard a reply just overhead.
     Good. You’re awake.
     He turned his head to see that the crow was perched a few feet above him, balanced atop the precariously leaning tentpole that had formed the backbone of his shelter. Cirrus didn’t look particularly pleased–feathers fluffed against the cold and damp, shoulders hunched–but he also didn’t look particularly alarmed, and that went a long way to ease the mage’s mind. The crow hopped down with a flap of wings and took up his familiar spot on Wanderer’s shoulderstrap.
     How long was I asleep? What happened, did I…
     You slept. A few hours, maybe? It’s a bit past sundown. There was a rustling as he shook out his feathers. The other mages are doing nothing exciting.
     How many are there?
     Not many. A score? Maybe.
     Not many at all, especially when measured against the enormous shape that he had seen in the mist. Wanderer shook his head uncomfortably, still trying to clear the last traces of sleep from his mind.
     Nothing happened to me while I was asleep? Nothing at all?
     No.
     I didn’t… dream? He thought back to what Ramman had said when struggling against sleep, his unsettled muttering about not being himself.
     You don’t dream, Wanderer, his familiar responded. You never have.
     He didn’t dream?
     It wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about. He knew what dreams were, and that they were something that visited the sleeping mind at night; flights of fancy or sleep-conjured recollections, visions granted by Destiny to the heroes of fawn’s tales. And he also knew that not everyone recalled their dreams, and he’d always assumed that a simple, tiring life in the wilds was more than enough to leave him sleeping too deep and hard for his mind to need nightly entertainment.
     On the infrequent occasions when his path crossed with other hooved, there’d always been more pressing matters at hand. Short, to the point, transactional. He’d never had the chance to compare himself to others and find a disturbing absence.
     He didn’t dream? Ever?
     As always, survival came first. Not dreaming served him for now, and he could think about the implications if they survived the next few days.
     Twisting his head to scent the night air, Wanderer shuddered as the smells of burning and lingering corruption washed over him anew. It was almost enough to quell the gnawing feeling in his belly... almost.Where did you spot other mages?
     Towards Mead. The monster’s settled there.
     It’s made a den. Picking his way through the tangle of wreckage and half-fallen tents, he couldn’t help but recognize how thoroughly the Tourney had collapsed; what hadn’t been disrupted by the Corrupted outright must have been brought down in the initial panic before the fog had the chance to spread. Speaking of… Has the fog spread further?
     Not so far.
     That’s good. It must be tied to the beast.
     The thunder mage’s magic didn’t clear it for long.
     No, he sighed, that would be too easy. But if it stays put, it gives others time to get clear.
     Too late for those here.
     We know that Ramman managed to fight free of it, at least. Most here are mages– maybe they can shake the sleep, given enough time.
     Maybe. Maybe we kill it, instead.
     He bared his fangs. Maybe that too.
     Somewhere in the distance, the mist lit up in a blaze of light that left the rooftops of Mead standing out in stark silhouette through the fog; he heard the odd, muffled concussion of a fireball collapsing in on itself. Overhead, thunder growled through the clouds.
     I thought they’d given up, Cirrus muttered.
     What?
     Magic does nothing. It’s bones. Can’t burn bones. Can’t shock bones. Not even with magic.
     Wanderer came to an abrupt stop. Nothing’s hurting it?
     They stopped trying a while ago.
     Truth be told, he hadn’t thought much about what now seemed obvious. A creature of bones and malice, no flesh to tear or sear or freeze… and armored in corruption, surely, the force that animated it in the first place. If it came down to magical attacks–or mundane attacks–against magical defenses, a corrupted mage had reserves of ill-begotten power that dwarfed any single opponent.
     How would they kill a being made of little more than pure magic?
     He’d been heading towards Mead, a path chosen on impulse more than any sort of well-considered plan. By all rights, the best place to be was as far from the Corrupted as possible, but the same urge that had brought him here in the first place still drove him; now, though, it was hard to avoid the fact that he had no reason to be here.
     His magic was always half of a whole, a tool meant to work in tandem with his teeth. What good was it here? What good was he here? He hadn’t survived this long by not knowing when to run. That was the whole reason he and his familiar were here in the first place, and not comfortably back at home in the Sunless Jungle.
     Thankfully, he was given a momentary reprieve from his dilemma due to the fact that ten feet of tangled wreckage next to him abruptly disappeared.
     It was just for a moment, just out of the corner of his eye, but the unexpected movement was sudden enough for him to shy away and send Cirrus leaping into the air with a startled cry of alarm. Bracing his feet under him, Wanderer lowered his head just enough to put the sharp tines of his antlers between him and any potential danger. Nothing looked out of the ordinary–but that whole collapsed tent had been gone, he knew it had–but he could feel it; something different, something off.
     The mist was swirling straight through the pile of canvas.
     It took a moment to figure out what he was seeing and why it looked so wrong. Everywhere else, the magical fog was carried on the air currents; flowing like water, spiraling off in languid eddies when it was deflected away by a solid object. But over where he’d seen that strange flicker, it carried on through and disappeared right into the folds of tangled canvas. Stepping closer, wary, Wanderer scented the air.
     Fur, sweat, crushed flowers and a thin edge of fear.
     And then the collapsed tent vanished again, and there was another hooved staring back at him.
     Another mage, surely; even if the whole tourney hadn’t been full of Ivras’s most promising magic-users, the stranger’s bright colors and overarching wings left little room for doubt. As their eyes locked in a moment of mutual recognition, he hunched his wings a little more protectively. It wasn’t enough for Wanderer to notice that he was curled around a sleeping gold-furred cow.
     “Get away,” the other hooved hissed.
     There wasn’t much venom in it, but rather a bone-deep weariness. Even as Wanderer watched, he could see the mage’s head sway beneath the weight of his impressive set of horns; his eyelids were wavering between open and shut despite the threat in his eyes.
     “You’re falling asleep. You need to get up.”
     “That’s none of your business. Clear off.” A long, furred tail stirred restlessly in the grass; plumes of dark hair not quite hiding what looked like a stinger.
     Somewhere overhead, Cirrus let out an angry croak of warning.
      Part of him reached for magic by instinct. He was already tired himself, already on edge, and it was the reaction that came as naturally as breathing; that tail was dangerous, but his magic could still it as surely as it could freeze those muscles in place. Even if it was only a moment’s delay, he would only need a moment to close the distance and bury his teeth in–
     Hunger roared in his stomach, and ironically enough it was that same growl that made him realize the magic starting to leak free and reign it in.
     There were bigger enemies here. And this other mage wasn’t an enemy, not yet. Not at all, if he could help it.
     He could see the fear in those dark eyes, and knew it wasn’t fear of him. Knew it had everything to do with that peacefully sleeping tangle of golden fur that the mage curled defensively around.
     “You’re no good to help her if you fall under the same magic as everyone else.”
     The mage’s eyes flicked instinctively to the cow sleeping at his side, and Wanderer knew his guess had been right. “The same magic she’s under.” For a moment he bent his head, nosing gently at the tufts of silken hair between her ears, before looking back up with a touch less hostility in his eyes. “Fair enough, but you keep your distance from us both.”
     Wanderer watched impassively as the antelope hauled himself to his feet, legs shaky beneath him from too long seated. Wings that were as much leathery membrane as they were silky fur spread wide and flexed; there were viciously hooked claws tipping each vane, grasping at the air before being folded tight to the mage’s back, and Wanderer was sure to make a mental note of it in case things did come to blows between them.
     “So who are you, anyhow? What’s got you traipsing around a battlefield in search of lost causes?” There was still plenty of suspicion in the other mage’s voice, and Wanderer couldn’t blame him given the circumstances.
     “I’m just another mage stuck in the fog, same as you.”
     That hooked tail waved dangerously. “You’ll have to understand if I need a little more than that.”
     It was a perfectly reasonable reaction, but he still felt his lips pull back just enough to show a hint of fang; not the wisest move, considering things were already tense enough, but the challenge pricked at him nonetheless. “My name’s Wanderer. Beyond that, there’s not much more to tell.”
     “And why is it that you’re awake?”
     “I could ask the same of you,” he responded flatly. “The spell hasn’t caught everyone. And with a corrupted mage about I’d think you can understand the incentive to make sure those who are awake stay that way.”
     There was a long pause, and then that threatening tail lowered a little. “That’s fair said. I… I don’t know much of what’s happened. Those explosions off towards Mead… there are other mages still awake, then? They’re fighting the beast?”
     “To little enough effect, but yes.”
     “Fortune hold them, then.” The other mage shuddered. “I saw that… thing pass by in the fog, when it all started. What little I saw was enough to know that hiding was the best I could do for Elene.” At his feet, the sleeping cow shifted as though responding to the sound of her name. The mage looked down sharply, hope in his eyes quickly fading to disappointment when he realized she was still very much asleep. “I need to get her away from here, if nothing else. Anything to help break her out of this spell.”
     “You can see this fog for miles. Get her out, and help will be coming if it isn’t already here.”
     “Her family will be here the moment they hear of this, I’m sure.”
     “Then that’ll be your best hope.”
     The other mage’s mouth twisted into a bitter grin. “Yes, I’m certain they’ll think so too.” He looked back at Wanderer, and there was a long pause before he begrudgingly asked, “Can you help me to lift her?”
     It took both of them working in tandem to shift Elene onto a length of salvaged tentcloth, despite the fact that she was relatively dainty for a cow; it wasn’t easy to coordinate a hooved mage’s natural knack for telekinesis when they couldn’t really see what the other was doing, and it took several minutes figuring out how to best combine their efforts. By the time they’d moved her, antelope and deer were both panting from the exertion.
     She seemed very small in sleep, peaceful but so very vulnerable in the face of the disaster all around. Wanderer watched as the mage bent down to gently nose one of the cow’s neat braids away from her face.
     “Elene, was it?”
     “Lady Elene Guinevenn of Skystead. I’m her betrothed.”
     A noble… meaning that this other mage was almost certainly a noble too. “And who are you?.”
     “Yorro Mithwyr.”
     That name he recognized, or at least the family name. Even in the ramshackle villages on the edges of the Sunless Jungle, the Mithwyrs were mentioned now and again; a certain reputation for procurement meant that they were always ready to deal in the rare and questionably sourced things found on the fringes of civilized Ivras, and he’d met a hunter or two who’d mentioned selling to them.
     Where this Yorro fell in the family’s lineage he couldn’t be sure, but as far as nobles went he was a lot more comfortable with a Mithwyr than any other option. Wanderer dipped his antlers respectfully; not a bow, but enough to acknowledge the difference in status between them. Nobility might not mean much to him, or most of those who lived in the deep wilds, but it couldn’t hurt.
     To his surprise, the antelope nodded back. “You have our gratitude–mine and Elene’s both–for your aid. I didn’t expect anyone to come for us.”
     “I haven’t done much.”
     “It’s more help than I thought to find in the fog.”
     Surprised–and if he was honest with himself, mildly unsettled–by the gratitude from someone who didn’t seem inclined to give it easily, Wanderer turned away to scent the breeze. It was hard to get much of a sense of anything under the unsettling scent of corruption in the air, but there was just a hint of something cleaner. Not so far away.
     Cirrus? How close are we to open air?
     There was a wordless noise of consideration, somewhere above them. Close. To your right– not far. A moment later, the crow added, Hunters out there too. Watching and waiting.
     Hunters? But of course, with a mage corrupted in such a spectacularly visible way. Witchfinders?
     Yes. Be careful, Wanderer.
     He turned back to Yorro. “It’s not far to the edge of the Corrupted’s influence. My familiar says the Archon’s own are out there, though they’re keeping their distance.”
     “Witchfinders?” To Wanderer’s surprise, the other mage spit on the ground. “Miriam’s ilk would be as eager to study her like a pinned butterfly as they would be to help her.”
     “You don’t think her family would intervene?”
     “I’m sure they’ll do what’s convenient to them. The Guinevenns are powerful, but Elene’s been more a chessboard token than a daughter to them. So long as there’s no outright harm to her, I doubt they’d risk souring ties with Namarast.”
     Wanderer's ears flattened at the frank assessment, so readily stated. "Ah."
     "I don't know where we'll go. I just need to get her away from here, somehow."
     "If you’re meaning to go, you won't have a better chance than now while it's still dark. Every Witchfinder in Ivras will be on the edge of this fog in the next few days."
     "That's true enough." The look in Yorro's eyes was one of tired resignation. "I'll make it through somehow, for her sake."
     Wanderer nodded. After a moment's pause, he stepped forward to stand alongside the tangle of cloth and sleeping cow on the trampled grass. A brush of will was enough to open the saddlebags he carried and bring a knife drifting out from within. He had to dance back a step when the sight of the blade had Yorro flaring his wings and bringing that scorpion tail whipping up in threat.
     "Peace! I'm just cutting the cloth."
     "What? Why?"
     "So I can help." He brought the knife down, cutting a couple of long slices in the edge of the tent fabric. Tying the trailing ends around his shoulders took a bit of effort, but he managed well enough… and then looked at where the antelope was looking at him with a clear blend of incredulous suspicion. "Come on."
     "You've already helped us enough. And I can smell the wild on you well enough to know you don’t want to cross paths with Witchfinders either; this is no concern of yours, so why put yourself at risk?"
     "Because you'll need all your strength once you clear the fog. I'm only going so far." Turning back in the direction he'd scented fresh air, Wanderer tossed his head impatiently and bared his fangs emphatically. " You’re right that I don't have much love for the Witchfinders either. If I can help keep someone out from under their hooves, so much the better."
     The words drew a bitter chuckle from Yorro, and at last the other mage stepped forward and wrapped the slit ends of the fabric around himself to match Wanderer. "Spite, eh?"
     "Something like that."
     "Now that's a motive I can believe in."
     They threw themselves forward, straining against the cloth harness, and after a moment it all began to move; slow, at first, but easier as the fabric dampened from the dew-slicked grass and slid easier. It wasn't fast, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was motion. More than they could have ever managed with telekinesis alone, and if Elene was disturbed by the slide over uneven ground it didn't show in her peaceful slumber.
     It didn't take long until the fog began to thin, and they were peering out into the night beyond. It also didn't take long before Wanderer spotted shapes moving up on the crest of the hill.
     "Three of them."
     "I can't see a Fortune-cursed thing. Where?"
     The deer blinked in confusion… and then remembered that not everyone shared his knack for seeing clearly at night. Yorro must have been half-blind this entire time, which made it all the more remarkable he'd gotten through this without getting attacked.
     "They're on the ridgeline, keeping their distance. Too far to notice us just yet."
     "That suits me well enough, then. I couldn't drag Elene over that hill even with your help." The antelope turned his head to the right, eyes straining against the darkness. "Do you see any this way?"
     "No. The river's that way, and low ground. If you can make it to the bluffs by the river, you should be able to stay out of their sight and get clear."
     "Staying out of their sight has never been a problem." There was a strange rustling against his fur, and Wanderer looked down to see the makeshift harness falling away from his chest. He looked back up to Yorro… only to see him flicker out of sight, leaving only empty mist where he'd been only a moment before. The mage, the swathe of cloth, Elene's sleeping form; they were all gone, with only an abruptly ending trail of flattened grass to indicate they'd come this way at all.
     It was unsettling to see someone disappear so completely. In the gloom, in the mist and lingering corruption, it was as though Yorro and Elene had never been; ghosts in the fog, shadows in the night. He could feel the feathers at the nape of his neck prickle, a shiver run down his spine. Formidable magic, to be sure, and a talent he was profoundly grateful he hadn’t found himself facing in battle.
     "Good luck, Mithwyr," he said quietly, and then nearly jumped out of his fur when the other mage's voice came out of the empty air right next to him.
     "Fortune favors the bold, as the saying goes." For just a second, Yorro flickered back into view and gave him a nod before vanishing again. "I won't forget you helped us. I owe you a debt, should our paths cross again… and if you make it through this with your hide intact."
     His voice was receding, and if Wanderer listened carefully he could hear the soft whisper of cloth dragging over grass.
     By the time he spoke, he truly wasn't sure if there was anyone there to hear the words.
     "I plan on it."
     We should PLAN on LEAVING.
     As if to prove Cirrus's acidic tone right, there was a dull boom of distant explosions from the mist to their left. Wanderer's head whipped around on instinct; on the ridgeline above them, he saw at least one silhouetted watcher rear in alarm before taking off at a gallop in the direction of the disturbance.
     His own advice to Yorro echoed in his head. The more time passed, the more opportunity Namarast would have to recall its far-flung Witchfinders; the circle around them would only grow tighter by the day. Behind him lay the stink of death and corruption, a desperate tangle of Order and renegade mages alike, and a monster he didn't have a hope of hurting. Ahead lay the clean night air and freedom.
     There was no reason whatsoever to turn and walk back into that mist.
     There was a noisy clatter of wings, and Cirrus landed neatly on his back. What are you waiting for?
     We're… not leaving. Not yet.
     What– Wanderer!
     He wanted to go. Wanted to be out, be free to run and leave this whole mess behind him. But the mages he'd met here… Yorro and Ramman had both treated him with more decency than he'd expected. Somewhere in this mist, Rathma had given him the benefit of the doubt despite knowing he was a wild mage. And there were other wild mages here among the sleepers, he was sure of it. What would happen to them, with Witchfinders all around and a monster walking the mists?
     And there, at the heart of it all, the monster. The Corrupted. His feathers bristled just at the thought of it. He'd lived his whole life following a simple understanding of power as it ruled the Sunless Jungle; the strong hunted, and the weak ran before the hunters. He'd always respected that most ancient of laws. Had always strive to be the predator, not the prey, but he'd understood where to bow his head and concede.
     He hadn't liked it, but he'd run when the Witchfinders began to delve into his territory. He'd understood that one mage couldn't stand against Namarast.
     But this was something he couldn't bring himself to yield to.
     It was wrong.
     And he knew, he knew, that the other mages felt it too.
     We're going to find pack, Cirrus, he said grimly, and we're going to kill that thing.
     Ignoring the incredulous squawk from over his shoulder, Wanderer took one last, long look at the clear night sky before him, and then turned and walked back into the mist.