Blancslieth: Prologue to The Demise of Mourndream

Maffe

The thunder and the wind were playing games now, one rising when the other fell and then both sinking into bottomless rumbles of abomination. And then the thunder would rise again, shaking the mountain itself as a fleeting blow of colorless light split the sky above, and the wind would clamber to race the sound to the very heavens. The whispers tied all of the rumblings, howls, and screeches together as one raucous, foreboding melody of desolation.

Durven was just rousing himself out of his paralysis and deciding to retreat a ways down the mountainside to consider what his next move should be, but all at once the chanting whispers stopped. Durven's eyes were cold from having stared unblinkingly into the icy wind, but he took no notice as they flickered to the far end of the cobbled area. Two neon red fires had shuddered to life within two iron braziers mounted on the cliff's face, at the shoulders of a jagged, looming black doorway that Durven had failed to notice before. Even as he watched, he realized that the entire circle of Witch-folk was surrounded by skeletal, black pillars upon which were situated these braziers, which now pair by pair were lighting with ruby colored flame. The bloody light illuminated the haggard, wilted forms of the inhabitants of Jovandur, which now were still, statuelike, black cloaks flapping in the wind as their incorporeal bodies shifted in and out of existence. Durven ducked low in the event that one of them should be watching the lights as they found their way to his side of the cobblestones, but they appeared to be preoccupied.

A figure was emerging from the shadowy tunnel's mouth, erect and contrasting with the other demons' postures. The thing strode with a swagger, and yet at the same time was displaying a terrifying aura of confident grace. As it emerged into the braziers' light, which seemed to be dominating that from above, Durven could see that it looked to be a man, slightly less transparent and mistlike than the others. He too was draped in black robes that rippled in the gusting wind from the northwest, but unlike those adorning the outer edge of the cobbled area, he wore splashes of crimson on his person. His robes were hemmed with rubies that sparkled dangerously in the darkening light, and a single sash of red split his clothing from shoulder to hip. Upon his brow he wore a similarly colored turban that wound around his murky head, and below it there gleamed two silver-lighted eyes. Durven felt his heart chill at the sight of them, and though there was no indication that the thing had a nose, a singular gleaming scar shattered the calm stillness of the face, twisting into a kind of grotesque smile.

Durven's attention remained riveted upon the figure as he approached Maffe's inanimate form, though he desperately wished that he could bring himself to turn and fling himself hurtling down the hill. Gravel grumbled beneath his weight as he involuntarily let out a half-moan of barbaric terror, but the wind whisked the sound away before it could be heard. He feared for Maffe, of course, and what might become of him in the hands of the Witch-folk, but he primarily feared for himself; his obligation to his friend, however, and perhaps if he looked deep enough inside his quaking heart he would find his sense of duty to determine what the Witch King might be planning, prevented him from fleeing just yet.

The crimson-clad man stopped in front of Maffe, and though the semi-transparency of its face disregarded any attempt at orthodox expression, Durven thought that the demon's gaze seemed slightly softer than would be judged appropriate. The dwarf seemed diminutive standing before it, and the effect was only strengthened when Maffe lowered his head in a bow. After a moment in which nothing stirred save the dry brush in which Durven found solace, the creature's silver mouth opened and it uttered something that Durven could not understand, though its voice was saccharine even through its masculine hints. It folded its hands behind its back and began pacing around Maffe, who raised his head.

When the dwarf spoke, it was in his own gruff tone of voice, but the words were not his own. Durven's breath caught. "You forget, my lord Sallmunik, this dwarf speaks not the tongue of our people. Forgive me, my lord, of his inability." Maffe lowered his head as if in shame, and the crimson demon, Sallmunik, faltered for a fleeting moment in his stride.