Time to go

Days, weeks, an unknown time... The sun rose, fell, the cold darkness crept in its wake, dew dampened the grass and dried up at its return. His eyes ached, the light a sharp blade each dawn yet bringing welcomed warmth.

Yorro squinted once more as dawn spread across the distant foggy grass. A caravan of carts and mages dotting his view, their presence marred the usually pleasing sight. There was no telling how long he'd been in the dream of the monster, since felled. His mind whispered how he wasn't here, yet he was. This was reality. A coldness, unsated hunger, burning pain.

The guards who spat at him, the rattling chains, the warmth and cold of those around him, the hard bars making his back ache, all real. He was in a cage, rattling around like a pig packed for market, other mages shoulder to shoulder, suffocating any space he wished for. Their captors were Order, mage hunters, picking up any stray soul left sleeping near Mead, taking the lot somewhere for something unknown. 

Yorro had no idea where they were now, but the forests and swamps turned to thick forests. Of all things he was certain it was nowhere near Faline, nor Namarast, the giant tree long since missing from the horizon. He'd swallow, feeling the dry ache in his throat, there would be no request for water, no answers to where they were going. Only dread. 

Another mage weakly whispered for water as a masked guard passed, his request met with the dull hilt of the blade and a silence from the man. Any others whimpering or making noise did so in turn, eyes watery and tired. Yorro watched from the corner of his eye as the masked guard went on, a soft laugh at the misfortune of the captives. He wondered where Elene was.. then he slept. Dreams were nicer now, yet none graced him. 

---

Some time later Yorro stirred as the weight to his left lifted, his right arm ached and burned horridly from the fragments of the Scourge, but that pain remained with the weight.  A faint rattling drew his ears to listen, the chains looping wrists of captives pulled tight in the same breath. His arms were jerked to the left, the sharp pain of his wound rousing him from his lucid state. 

With damp eyes he blinked towards the noise and movement, the slick bloody faces of the others mirroring his own, to the darkness swirling with a  bright magenta center, framing a shape he knew too well.

“-Father.” He managed to croak, his left arm grabbed harshly and his body dragged from the cart like a hesitant child. Those attached to him followed unwillingly, becoming a pile of sore bodies in the mud.

The ground was hardly felt, his legs dragged through the muck of the road and away from the prison and strangers  he'd known for many days. Some of them rose wearily, slipping from their chains and into the night.

“Stupid boy.” He'd hear his father scold quietly, hardly a whisper. He was lifted, carried about the waist and underarm like a sack of grain. Some distance he was sure, his eyes unable to focus on the grass that moved like a blur to his unfocused gaze.. 

Next Yorro knew, he felt a hard surface against his back, lumpy and gnarled, perhaps a tree, it brought the same ache as the bars. He didn't turn to look, sitting limp with his head dropped low. A calloused hand gripped his right shoulder, his father clicking his tongue as his fingers moved to his son’s mud-caked cheek. 

Yorro expected the sting of a strike, a reminder of his mistakes, to be scolded further, yet his father's hand merely cradled his face, lifting his eyes from worshiping the ground. He met Kerrigan's eyes with hesitation, and while his father's own  were not kind, they held no malice. 

“Stop crying, boy.” He'd hear his father say, an order he was sure of, yet Yorro couldn't tell what was blood, sweat or tears anymore. 

“Elene-” he'd start, a tone more wavering than he'd like. Unable to finish his words lest the dryness of his throat catch up. 

“She's fine, back at the manor. Pull yourself together.” 

He had a job for his broken and sad son, if only the other would stop weeping like a forlorn widow. Perhaps it was the newest creature to grace Ivras. Near as they were to its path. 

“Yorro.” Harsh and stern, his hand held still to his son's damp cheek, fingers curling into the wet dark hair of the younger Mythwyr. “Listen, boy, you are not in some dream, enough.”

A shudder wracked Yorro, cold and fearful, where were they, how did father find him? He was safe now, yet the dread remaned. Without a thought, Yorro leaned his face into the warmth of his father's jacket, now muddied with grime, instinctively trying to reach for what was familiar, something of comfort. Normally he would be pushed away, yet for some reason his father permitted the small sympathy of embrace. This stayed for some time before he'd the wits to sit up, his eyes still aching, but as the sun spread its warm orange glow through the trees, there were no hunters. It was just him and Kerrigan. He'd hold back a sob of joy, rubbing his eyes with his leaded left arm. 

“I'm sorry,” Yorro whispered, not checking if his father acknowledged, avoiding any look of displeasure all the same. “ How did you find me?”

“It's not hard to find a large group.” His father explained no more, he likely had someone do the grunt work for him, as he always did. Perhaps the ghosts of the Mythwyr. Numerous and widespread.

“Now that you've had your second encounter.. why not take what you learned and make yourself useful.”

Yorro didn't understand, he spoke a confused “What?”, feeling stupid all the same. If he'd seen through the last creature he'd not have been in an unsheltered prison cart, abused for weeks and beaten like chattel.  How could he make himself useful, when he'd failed so miserably at what he should have known. It was an illusion, he was an illusionist, yet his magic fell useless when it was needed. He had simply survived like a coward, while others dealt with the monsters. 

“There is another Corrupted, near here. A hideous bird skulled creature with black tentacles wreathing its wretched shape. You can go get some of its parts. It'll be dead soon.” Kerrigan said this with a clear confidence, his eyes scanning behind his son and to the trees. 

“Keep in mind, this one makes mages alike sorrowful. It is a fake emotion, don't let it drag you into the mire of despair.” His hand still held to the chilled skin at Yorro’s neck, he realized now, though he didn't retract it. 

“Does it affect you?” Yorro would hazard, his voice cracking, he found a skin of water pressed into his left hand without a word. 

“It affects all. It is fake. Can you stand?” 

There was only a feeling of insecurity as the young man looked at his shivering legs. “I will..” he'd take the water to his mouth, downing it all before the empty skin was taken as quickly as it was given. Kerrigan's hand shifted from his neck to under his right arm. Yorro winced, and his father hefted him to his feet.

“Stand for a minute, your legs  are asleep.” 

Yorro did so, merely by the strength of his father keeping him upright. His knees ached the most, not nearly as badly as his right arm, his legs from his keen to his feet prickled uncomfortably as feeling returned. They remained heavy like lead, aching, but he felt he could move them after a few minutes and some toe curling.

“I think I can walk-” The mage took a step away from Kerrigan, finding his weight unsupported when his legs protested. He expected to find his face full of fresh mud, yet he was held by his shirt, soon pulled back upright. Walking alone wouldn't work, and with a grumble of acquiesce his father would move to his left side, hefting the grime covered arm of his son over his shoulder. 

“There is an inn near here. You will bathe off this filth, rest, then gather the monster's parts. Some of those meteors, anything you can carry free.” Yorro would glance his way, finding the man's eyes lingered at his temple and brow, where he had scarred his son. Kerrigan would  turn his attention forward then, not speaking a word of his thoughts. Yorro could tell he was pushing away some sort of emotion as his face fell stern and his words returned with a sharp familiar tone. “Do you understand me, boy?”

“Yes, sir. Gather monster parts..meteors..”

“Good. There will be servants to assist you tomorrow. I expect you to return home with haste this time.”

“Yes, sir.” He'd walk then, mindlessly, his eyes back to the mud and damp earth, thinking of anything to keep going. Only a few more steps, then a few more, repeated. In time his vision showed bricks, a few shallow steps, and the red mat bearing “welcome”. A pleasant voice accompanied their entrance, and he'd lift his eyes to perceive the room and its new voice..

It was a small inn, in just about nowhere, with a homely woman wearing a red headscarf. She held a straw broom, and with a smile would gesture up the stairs. There were no questions on whatever poor state Yorro was in, merely a smile at him, his muck, then his father. He'd been essentially dragged up the stairs then,  to a room three doors down and on the right. 

The room itself looked cozy from what brief a glance he had, and the space was warming his chilled bones, yet he was soon sequestered into the cramped bathroom, set in the tub like a filthy dog. 

Kerrigan would look him over once more, pulling off his own soil and blood coated jacket, hanging it off the door. It was a fine jacket once, now horribly stained with what Yorro suspected was days old blood and whatever else, mud aside.. He was glad he couldn't feel his face aside from a slight stinging cold that told him it was there. 

Then he'd set to plucking off his own coverings, slow and hesitant as stirring brought back all manner of soreness. His father saw this, initially waiting, relenting irritably when Yorro was too slow for his patience. He'd toss everything into a pile and start the water. 

“Wash your face.” He'd remind, leaving Yorro then. 

---

He'd soaked for some time, slept for some more, careless of the water he could drown in.  Perhaps merely dozing thanks to  the warmth of the bath and a shelter from the wind. When Yorro had come to, he'd found fresh clothes on a chair near the tub, several towels and some bandages. He didn’t want to put the latter on, thinking of whatever poor state his injured arm was in currently, from weeks of neglect.

The water has cooled, yet while submerged, he didn't feel the chill of the air. Trepidly he'd climb out, gathering a towel to cover himself and inspecting the clothing. It was traveling wear, more comfortable than a noble's usual fine clothes, less flashy as well. The sleeves were loose, but made of a soft fabric. He appreciated the simple practicality of it, turning only when a few sharp knocks drew his attention. 

“Yes?” He'd ask quietly, watching the shadow on the floor beyond.

“I'm coming in.” It was still his father, which surprised him more than he’d have thought, not replacing his presence immediately with that of a servant. True to his word, he'd appear in the room with a cup of tea in hand and hardly caring whether his son would welcome him or not. 

“Your arm needs redressing. Sit.” He motioned to the chair as Yorro lifted the clothes and took its place, setting it all atop his lap. There was no disagreement, only compliance. He glanced then at his right arm, still thankfully wrapped in the bandages from weeks ago, hiding what he feared to look at. The slight pink from the dreams had turned brown and the bandages discolored. There was hope it was of muck and not infection, less he soon lose it. He wasn’t prepared for that, as inevitable as it could possibly be.

“Here.” The cup of tea was held in reach, taken after a moment of registering his fathers word, “Drink it.”
 It was a black tea, a hint of honey and something else with a bitter dryness. Despite the dissonance, the drink soothed the ache in his throat, and Yorro felt his vision spin barely a moment later.

“That will help with the pain. It will help you rest.” It was drugged. He'd not ask with what, near anything accessible by his family, merely letting the foggy feeling take over as his father set about removing the soiled bandages. With what appeared like a blink of the eye, he'd look back to his arm, expecting an infected mess. Instead it was neatly dressed, bandages white and pristine.

“Oh-” Yorro sounded surprised, “that was fast.” He'd laugh, nothing particularly funny and barely cognizant of the passage of time. There was a muddled response by his father and without comprehension, Yorro returned to the mindless state of existence, blissfully unaware of any ailments or pain. Welcomed greedily by the young merchant as the drink took effect.

---

Morning came with a soft light and the distant crowing of a rooster. Yorro reluctantly cracked his eyes open to look about the room. He was alone now, and with a heavy sign in place of a yawn, he'd sit up. His body ached still, but rest and whatever drug was in that tea seemed to help. He suspected its effects were spent and wearing, now being the time to get to what work he could do before he was debilitated once again. 

Father seemed gone for good, a note at the table beside him, sealed with the family crest. He cracked it open, glossing over the contents.

It was a reminder of the task for the most part, likely in part to his father doubting whether he would remember or had even listened the prior day, though the ending remark had him rereading several times. He'd start it once more when the creak of floorboards drew his attention away, interrupting whatever swelling he felt in his chest. There was no time for that.

Not one, but two Mythwyr Ghosts stood in the room, halfway between the bed and the doorway to the hall. The door not so much as whining or clicking when the pair had entered, only a stray floorboard giving the shorter one away. If they were assassins Yorro would have been felled. He'd looked visibly ribbed by that fact, though both men  would then bow to the youngest son respectfully.

“Sur, time ta go. Beastie is moving.” The short man droned, holding his bow. The other paired with him seemed impassive, someone Yorro knew better than the other. Tall, done with everything, a blond haired and blue eyed man as pale as an actual ghost, his Ghostie. He'd not seen him since the ship and the scourge, but he felt elated. Hiding a smile he'd fold up the note for later rereading, tucking it into the pocket of clothes he didn't remember putting on in the first place. Boots were nearby and with a bit of a grimace he'd rise and stuff them off, turning to face the duo once he was suited. 

“Lead the way.” Yorro fully expected a dreadful long walk, but upon departure from the inn, two horses were tied. The short man climbed atop a bay mare, loaded to the brim with saddlebags and weapons. Ghostie then gestured to a mellow gray, offering his hands as a boost up. In two hops Yorro was in the saddle, stretching his legs some before he hooked his feet into the stirrups. Ghost effortlessly climbed up behind him, taking the reins. 

“Ride ahead.” The taller man ordered. With a nod the short ghost was on his way and with a clear click of Ghost’s tongue, so too was the gray. Fortunately, Ghostie wasn't a complete bastard, keeping the mare to a slow even walk as they headed into the forests. It spared Yorro a deal of discomfort, as well as some time to speak at leisure. 

“How long was I gone?”

“Weeks. Dunno if ya noticed, but monsters hav been cropping up like weeds near every month.. nearly.” The man would keep his attention in their surroundings, much more than Yorro would. He also didn’t have an exact time from each Corrupted appearance, but it seemed frequent enough that his estimate was accurate.

“What do you know about this one?”

“Some woman falling to despair, if you haven't cried already might be time when we get closer. I won't tell.” His words held a wry humor, yet the man was also one Yorro knew he could trust even with an emotional break. He’d not take that offer though, he’d surely wept enough in the last few weeks.

Yorro would frown. “What does that mean?”

“The Lass makes ya real sad, reaaaal sad.” Ghost would crack a faint smile like he’d told a funny joke, before the effort was too much and he'd let his look of disdain take its place. It wasn’t funny anyhow.  

“The Night Cursed Crone, what folks are calling her, brings loneliness, a crushing sadness and existential dread for any fool who encroaches. Neat sky tentacles though.” He'd chuckle once, before letting out a heavy sigh. She was a frightening creature to perceive, her countenance reminding him too well of his time under the Mythwyr Manor with Kerrigan.

“We aren't actually getting that close again, though. Plenty to pick up behind her. Sparkly green sky rocks.”

“Oh..” Yorro was unsure how to respond, but he'd hoped that sky rocks were good enough to bring back. His father had mentioned meteors briefly.

“Don't worry Yorro, bud. Your hellish father finds sky rocks acceptable. He was a little upset, in the sad way, when we went near the monster lady before, so I think he's revisiting his despicable past actions. He hugged you after all. I thought that was very out of character, but my eyes weren't lying.”

“You were there?” Yorro didn't know whether to be embarrassed or fortunate. Neither were really necessary, but should his father’s intentions not have been kind, perhaps Ghost would have found a way to interrupt.

“Who do you think tracked down the mage hunters and your pretty lady, hmm?” Ghost looked smug, he found that sort of thing easy. Finding Yorro beaten to a pulp and in a poor state was not taken kindly, so he took a bit of time to free other prisoners and cause the hunters some headaches. Kerrigan actually did the brunt of the work from there, him and his nasty shadow creatures. Plucking people out of thin air and dragging them to whatever hell he deigned appropriate for their transgressions.

Then Ghost stood by, keeping guard as the head of the family dragged out near all the prisoners himself, searching feverishly for his blood. Elene was found earlier in the search, sorted with some other higher class women, in a better shape than Yorro but visibly shaken. Kerrigan sent her through a portal with another of the servants without a word, to be safe back home. From that point the older man was possessed, searching until the last cart to find Yorro. He'd seen that evil bastard's look of relief, then proceeded to pretend he didn't. It wasn't anything but the Crows' magic giving him a momentary conscience, but it worked in Yorro’s favor nonetheless. .

“How are you feeling today? Your arm?” Ghost would ask, halting any questions from the younger man.

“..Better than I was. It hurts, but not so badly now.”

“That would be the weeds taking effect.” A wise forest hag had given him a strange horrid smelling bundle for two gold and a dried lizard, shooing him away without explanation once the bag was in his hand. He liked her demeanor, returning to the inn and thus bequeathed the mystery plants to Kerrigan to prepare.

---

The two had started upon the trail of the crone, signs of the monster's attack becoming more visible, with uprooted trees, singed ground, signs of conflict. Shiny stones dotted the ground and pockmarks where others were buried underground, rivulets of steam betraying their resting places further. Amongst the destruction were more Ghosts, shovels and picks in hand to excavate what meteors they could. Yorro watched as another group carted off an oily black tentacle, writing like it was alive and with a venomous green shine. He grimaced. 

He was glad this was as close as they would go. 

“I hope she falls soon, may she rest.” Despite being a monster he held some pity for the Corrupted. They were once people, and it was entirely unknown whether they felt or remembered anything.

“Aye.” Ghostie chimed, turning his gaze towards the direction of the skirmish. He could hear her shrieks even now, despite being well out of range. Once before was enough to keep her in his mind and she'd haunt him for some time more. 

---

WC 3605