“I told you not to call me that,” Sorrows said.
“Don’t trust the elf,” the Seph said. Strained, quiet.
Sorrows staggered back, left the sword stuck in the orc’s body. Time slowed, his limbs grew heavy. The second orc shouted, but the sound was muted, distant. An eternity away. Don’t trust the elf, Sorrows thought, then the night turned to chaos.
A dying Seph is a thing of true horror. Seph struggle with the complexity of the human mouth. Thus, at times, the lines of power which show the planar being’s tenuous hold on a physical creature are revealed. A grasshopper mouth. Tendrils of flesh separate and flail and the sight, from a human perspective, is unsettling. Wounds can cause a similar effect, though a Seph can re-knit the flesh around minor injuries. But serious wounds create complexity in the structure of the host creature. More lines of power disrupted. More tendrils of flesh left twisting in the air. And the bigger the wound, the greater the complexity. A mortal wound, such as a sword passing through the heart? Horror.
Sorrows stood in a daze as threads of pale, gray flesh whipped through the air, slipping free from beneath loose leather armor. A frenzy of movement and stench with the skeletal husk of an orc at its center. The body dropped to its knees, then fell forward onto its face. Its flesh slithered through the grass, scattering in all directions. Mindless. Like a chicken after the axe falls. The grass rustled as the flesh spread for long seconds while the Seph left the body. Then the grass stilled, and the night grew quiet. The stench of decay filled the air. The second orc vomited. Sorrows approached him and grabbed a fistful of his armor. He pulled the orc to face him.
“The Seph haunt this village,” Sorrows said. “Take your friend and get the hells out of here.”
The orc shuffled sideways, eyes flicking from Sorrows to the big orc to the mess of bones and sinew laying in the moonlight. He touched the white beads braided into his hair. He wouldn’t return. He would convince the big orc to stay away. He would convince his tribe to stay away. He heaved the big orc onto his shoulders and started walking. Sorrows watched him for a moment before taking his amulet and thinking a quick command. Sleep. The silhouettes worked backward, winking into hovering pinpricks of light and returning to the Grimstone.
“I might thank you.”
Sorrows turned to the owner, who stood in the doorway.
“You might.”
“Suppose I’ll clean up those bones in the morning. That’s my part in all of this, right?”
Sorrows said nothing.
The owner shifted. “This village isn’t really haunted by the Seph. Is it?”
“No. Just me.”
“You’re haunted by the Seph, or the tavern is haunted by you?”
“Take your pick.”
The owner flashed a grin, but it wasn’t a night for levity. He cleared his throat. Turned back to the tavern. Called over his shoulder.
“Gods be with you.”
But humans only had one god. And it had died long ago. Sorrows said nothing, picked up his cloak and bow, and walked into the village. He thought about the Seph, the Grimstone, and the danger of lingering in one place for too long. He moved like a ghost through the empty streets, silently brooding on the past. He approached the edge of the forest and stepped out of the moonlight into darkness, then stopped and turned to see the half-born woman from the tavern appear in an alley. She craned her head, studying the forest. Searching. Her gaze passed over Sorrows without stopping. She turned and walked away. He turned and felt suddenly restless. An arrow on the string.
Chapter 3
THE EVONWOOD IS a sliver of forest west of Breaker’s Rapids, in a region known by most as Gods’ Folly, about three days’ travel south by foot from Huvda to the north. Early on a fall morning, the sun is still hidden behind the mountains, and the air is damp and cold. The smell of frost drifts beneath a hardwood patchwork of brown oak, crimson maple, and orange-gold birch and ash. The forest paths are quiet but wide and well-packed. They were established long ago for supply runs to the Edge. The war has moved further north since.
Now, abandoned elf waypoints and dwarf hollows offer plenty of places to stop, rest. The journey to the Evonwood can be one of reflective contemplation or pragmatic haste. Sorrows fell somewhere in between, moving with great, distracted strides and stopping only to piss or pluck leaves. He woke early. He made camp late. He drank sparingly from a flask of dwarf whiskey. He ate sparingly from a store of dried meat and hard bread. He indulged in speculation. The Seph-orc confused him, and he wasn’t used to being confused. It bothered him. He knew things. A great many things. And while he didn’t profess to know everything, he enjoyed knowing the things he knew. So, five days after the night at the tavern he found himself dripping water onto the floor of an elf waypoint, bow in hand, with more questions than answers.
The waypoint was clean because it was elf-made, and elves would sweep the dirt from snow if it would tolerate a brush. The tavern in Huvda had better suited his taste. Probably because goblins better suited his taste. Probably because goblins better suited everyone’s taste. Rain streaked the windows. The afternoon was gray, and the clouds let little light in, but lamps fueled by magic burned endlessly. Sorrows threw a boot at a tapestry of some elf Forestwalker, leaving a muddy smudge on an
