mcblademouse
Zane looked at the desk in front of him in resignation. It was covered in papers that had far too many numbers for his liking, and he sighed as he slouched down in his chair.

His gaze traveled over to the letter he had written for Nero, and felt a bit of trepidation run through him. He had told the young man that should anything happen to him, or should they go to war, that he needed to get everyone from Zane's network out. He had also told Nero that should he die, that he'd be in charge of keeping the network up with Azule.

Zane shook his head as he opened the door to the hall. He called to one of the servants walking past, and asked them to bring his letter to Azule, who'd ensure it made it to Nero safely when he returned.

Turning back to the office, he grimaced. He didn't know how, but it seemed like the paperwork had grown in the time he had turned his back. He sighed as he walked over to the desk, and began to read and sign more of the papers.

An unknown amount of time had passed, but all Zane knew was that it was late. The moonlight passed through the door to the terrace, and there was a slight chill to the room. He stood softly, and moved to the door, before he began to make his way to the wine cellar. He took two bottles, and grimaced as the implications of what he was doing hit him. One of the things he signed today was the inventory of their wines, and he was messing with the inventory before the paperwork went out. 

Why that had to be paperwork for him, he had no clue, but he signed it anyway.

He just shook his head as he walked out of the cellar. Returning to his office, he took the cork out of one of the bottles. The wine felt warm as it slid down his throat, and he sighed as he felt it begin to settle in his stomach. He hadn't eaten much today, and he was hoping to get drunk fast.

The wine served to remind him of the rest of the Astorian court, and how they were all off doing their own things on Hogcock this year. Getting married, trying to revive their dead son, or just dead. Zane smiled a little at that. Of all of them, Angelica was probably the only one who was truly happy right now, and Zane knew she deserved it. Even if he gave the woman shit, she was one of the few that he could speak freely to, and he appreciated that about her.

He lost track of how much of the wine he drank, so when he went to take a drink and came up empty, he was surprised. He uncorked the second bottle, and made his way to the terrace. The chill of the night sky hit hard, and he felt a bit of clarity return to him. He stared down at the wine bottle in his hand and sighed, taking a long drink from the new bottle.

He raised himself onto the railing of the terrace, his eyes focusing on the moon above him. All he could do was raise the bottle to his lips again, thoughts of a simpler time in his mind.

It wouldn't be until the next morning, after passing out at his desk, would he wake up with a new bottle of wine next to him, and have no clue where it came from. The only thing he could guess was Yaggm giving him what he needed to get through the upcoming times.
rekkan3750
What lies in the heart of a drifter without a cause?

How many lives burden the guilty soul of a man, slayer of men?

The path of death is carved in blood, slayer of many more.

"Hrrrmmm..." A voice lingered in the darkness. Its tone was deep, deeper still than the utter depths of the ocean. Its tone was rough, rougher still than the jagged rocks welcoming bitter sailor. It was a rumble from an ancient being, older still than the first fires of mankind. "I remember you from ages ago. You were a child, restless and bold. Your family birthed many a noble. Nice and strong, valor be double. Its sad fate, to be betrayed. Its sole offspring, destined to lose its way." Rhymes echoed through hollow walls, walls that surrounded and cast black pits into dark brown eyes. Glares of death, undeath and curses bewitching, they all swept Rekkan off the ground. "Kindred boy, strange daemos of zoi." Its repeated words hammered the drums of the listener's ears, pounding brain with deafening blows. "Lost, never forgotten. Seed sullied before it was begotten." It was red what saw through him, then orange, then yellow; finally, white blossomed through the listener, turning darkness to brightness, black blindness to illuminated ignorance. Incandescent lights flickered and made the eyes widen. Catatonic, the listener heard, but he didn't listen. "Awaken from slumber most untrue. Today you are lucky, today you are born anew." A loud snap of leathery fingers echoed through the abyss. They made eyes flutter and pupils dilate. Irises revealed a glint of red, fashioned from one of nine hells, hellish nine turned into one. Then, silence.

Old visions, old faces. The tribe's shamanka danced to the tune of flutes and drums. Spirits moved around her in growing and shrinking spirals. Fires cast like large tendrils that reached to the skies. They clawed at the atmosphere, deprived it of oxygen. They fed and consumed the air, they made breathing a task, a duty. Not a right. She could see what others could never perceive. She could see beyond the threads and cut strings if she needed to. With magic scissors, index and middle fingers, she stared intently at the little boy. Snap after snap, she cut every rope until none was alive. The shamanka could see how the gods weaved patterns of misery. She could see how her kin would fall to the taint of betrayal. Cursed was a lineage long living and powerful, to be destroyed by the cycles of change that loomed from the horizon. He was special for her, he was a little boy. He was *Her* Little boy. One of many of the chief, of the khan, but hers alone, single in the midst of many from other wives, other concubines. Loved so that she could not bear that the destiny she faced was the same he would tread on. The shamanka asked for forgiveness. She wept. Her soft features were complemented with almond eyes of black, bottomless pits of dreams and nightmares, from before and after.

The boy did not understand. He could only feel loss. Lack of orientation and focus. No control over his navigation. Then the fires consumed him. His body was turned to charred black and crumbled into white ash. Its fragments swirled and then winds blew to scatter the remains through the arid plains. The shamanka vanished, swallowed inward by a spiral of magic. Eyes sprouted from each ash and gazed down. A plethora of orbs bulged to the sight of a nemesis, thundering gallops that encircled the tribe and put it to arrow, to fire and to sword, in that order. Death rained, chaos erupted, death claimed dozens to hundreds. The Batsaikhan were a strong and ancient tribe. No more since that night. No more, for all of them but a single one died. A survivor that cheated death fated to happen. A little boy without a life, without threads of destiny to call his own. Black crept into the glares of the ashen eyes, fading image to the void. Returned to the fold of dread, the listener feared no good nor evil, no right nor wrong. "Saved and cursed. Faded and nursed. A torn page, empty shell of rage. A question for thee, to know how far you see."

"Have you been a good boy?"

The eyes of reality opened to gaze in surprise at a crooked being. Horns twisted and spear edged arose from inside the bed, through the blanket that covered the listener. Full body emerged coated in darkness with only a pair of red orbs peering at Rekkan. Lips of shadow black stretched to reveal sharp fangs of dirty yellow and chunks of meat stuck between them. They flashed a haughty grin, akin to the smirk the warrior crafted as trademark. Not in that moment. He was serious and his eyes consumed in worry. It was not fear gnawed at him. It was a heightened sense of things. But his eyes failed him, they were drawn shut. Forced to do so by the energy that wrapped around him, by the strange visit he received like many others that experienced strange sightings or worse. There was no true interest in him but to test his own wisdom, there was nothing in him that mattered besides an entertaining evening. But his inner body reacted and his spirit swelled, much like the heart that pumped stronger and faster to renew blood flux. A race to the control of the core was set in motion, quick to be resolved by a human hand under demon invasion. The first to touch his own core flashed a smirk of haughtiness like the grin displayed against him. He snapped and rose his right hand, the tattoo of a spiral cut by three lines seemingly alive. It turned as the lines merged into a thicker layer of black ink, just as the sword sprouted from flames that came from around it. They cut down the monster, the fiend, the demon, but only for a time. It materialized swiftly a solid extra foot away from the range of the blade, smiling as it was smirked at. The answer came from within and, inside, it remained. Back into the darkness, the listener became the speaker. The speaker replied.

"I am a boy no longer. Nightmares aren't real."

He wished for the monster to be gone, but it prevailed against his will. It would not go without a proper answer, it stated so without hesitation. Or was it with a hint of persuasion? 

"Have you been a good boy?"

The world of black imploded on his face, burning the wound on Rekkan's chest. He woke up without understanding the words muttered from his own lips, only to find Vryskaa's Gift lying on the chair to his left. It was where Marsila was sitting on earlier. Didn't he lose it in the battle with the odd Frankenstein? His left brow arched in response. Skeptical, he moved his left hand towards the hunting dagger and grabbed it with rugged digits. His muscles stretched with little effort, less so than when he first arrived at the village. His hand guided the dagger above his head to inspect the intricate runic spirals, designed one on top of another, clock and counterclockwise. It was a bittersweet memory to remember, countless battles and endless ruts; an equal fighter, a rival and a true friend. His thought pattern was broken by the arrival of the old woman into the room. They were alone.

"I ushered your friends to the village square. Tonight is an important night all over the divided realms." She explained. "You seem lost in this, you are not from here." The man nodded. He knew little of the customs of Marin. "Our village gathers around a large bonfire every year. We chant and dance together, pray for our children and make wishes as we leap over the flames." A tradition not very different from the shamanka's call to the spirits, one more common and not at all like the dance through which his mother severed his spiritual threads many years ago. "Some say we purify our children and ourselves through the leap we say to be of faith. We protect our spirits in the eve of Hogcock."

"Hogcock...?" Rekkan looked at the blade of the Gift and squinted his eyes. The burn on his chest chilled with a cold breeze striking underneath the bandages. He felt lighter and cooler. His body responded to a subconscious call and the aimless wanderer raised his frame from the bed. He was dressed in simple pants and his torso was covered in bandages. A voice bellowed inside of his mind in synch with the sharp mutter of the old lady. "Yaggm!"

Rekkan woke up in a cold sweat. He looked around the dimly lit room to find nothing but looming darkness. On the chair to his left, where Marsila was sitting, he found Vryskaa's Gift, the hunting dagger with spiral carvings on the hilt and blade. He rose from the bed with renewed vigor and blinked faster than the norm, still processing much of his minds tricks. Was it his mind? He noticed he was naked. A thorough search revealed some pants on a dresser. The swordsman put them on and strapped the dagger on the right flank of his waist. He stepped on the cold wooden planks and felt the same cold chill under the bandages wrapped around his chest. He looked down at his broad chest and cocked his head to the right. Then, he straightened himself, shook his head and walked out of the bedroom. Across the hallway was the old woman sitting on a chair. She looked at Rekkan and smiled at him. "I think your friends are outside enjoying the festivities. Why don't you join them?" Friends. The warrior nodded at the woman with a stoic face, which she laughed softly at. "Before you say it, I'm the one that should thank you. The house has certainly been lively with your arrival. I missed this." Her laugh weathered into a smile, as soft as was her laugh. "Crack a smile for them tonight." Rekkan nodded and etched a crude smile he etched into a more natural and subtle smirk. He turned to the door and opened it, his full back facing the old woman.

"Merry Hogcock, Rekkan. You were a good boy this year."

The warrior's brows furrowed and he snapped a turn of his head back, only to find the chair empty. He couldn't help but feel dumbfounded and then, somehow, conformed with the strange chain of events. The man walked out of the house as he sighted his friends and the old lady together by the large bonfire. A bard was singing and making the evening merry. The local tavern placed some tables out with mead and smoked meat for the festivities. There was cheering and laughing, dancing and toasting for another lively Hogcock.

Rekkan joined his friends and brought a mug to the center of the circle. Priscilla, Bran, Eotum, the old lady he didn't know the name of and, last but never least, Marsila. He shared a glance with everyone through the toast and then took a swig.

"Merry Hogcock everyone." He kept the episode with Yaggm for himself. Something inside of him told him that each individual had their own experience, intimate and weird in its unique way. Later on, when he heard that Yaggm would snatch evil doers into a sack, he promised himself that he'd be a good boy for the following years, even if that was more of a jest than anything.

Way up in the sky, above the frigid clouds and close to the burning cold stars, a large, horned demon carried a stuffed and shifting sack, flying off into the horizon.
udbv_1
```Dear Grand Duchess Anya,

 Merry Hogcock to you too. Things have been going well here in Terrsol, but of course it is not without problems. No matter how well things are there are always other conflicts. I hope for another break in our schedules like the lucky one both of us had on my visit to Zahrada.

 My home will always be open to you and yours,

Best Wishes,
Queen Charity Lane```

Charity knew 'Queen' was likely a more appropriate title for Anya, but she also knew that the woman more liked the title of 'Grand Duchess'.