Moranin of the Dark Lady

“Please don’t leave me!” The girl’s grip on her arm tightened like a spider’s web, desperate voice edging toward panic. “Please! Please…”

“It’s alright, you’ll be safe here.” She gently but firmly peeled the pale, clinging fingers from her sleeve and held the girl’s hands between her gloves. Her face was in the shadow of her hood, but her voice was compassionate and strong. “Stay at the campsite, don’t light the fire. I’ll be back before dawn.” 

“They’ll come for me! They’ll find me…” Tears began to flow again down the girl’s puffy, stained cheeks. “Please! Please, I don’t want to be alone!”

“It won’t be long. I’ll only go to Lullin long enough to get the information I need, then I’ll come right back here. You’ll be fine as long as you stay hidden.” She gestured toward the canvas shelter she’d hastily constructed in the hollow at the base of a huge fallen tree, and she drew the gray woolen blanket up around the girl’s shoulders. It caught in the girl’s collar of tattered raven feathers, standing them up in a crude imitation of a noble’s pleated ruff. She’d found the girl wandering alone in the woods at the edge of the marsh, clothed in the tattered raiment of a Raven Queen acolyte. It had taken several hours and most of her provisions to get the girl to start talking about what had happened to her, how she’d been out gathering herbs when she’d seen the plume of black smoke and returned to find her temple engulfed in flames, and she’d taken off running into the marsh. How the girl had survived in the wilds was a mystery, a gift or curse from the girl’s patron deity perhaps. 

She drew away from the girl, turning her back as the girl gripped the blanket like a lifeline and the sobs started again, but she was satisfied that the girl wouldn’t wander. Mounting her horse, she started toward the misty, dark dome that had engulfed the town. 

The screaming started moments after sunset. She spurred the gelding into a wild charge into the unnatural fog, but she was forced to slow almost immediately as the deep dark closed around them. The horse stumbled and faltered, unable to see his own footing. The screams gave way to the shouts and clatter of a desperate battle, and finding a hitching post on the outskirts of town, she tied the horse to continue on foot. She crept between the wattle and daub buildings, a long dagger in hand, and despite her keen eyes, she was able to see only a dozen or so feet in front of her. A few times, she heard footsteps approaching and saw a swirling disturbance in the mist, but the figures were still too far off to make out.

The sounds of fighting grew louder as she approached the town center and then abruptly ended. It clearly hadn’t taken long to subdue the resistance to whatever evil had taken hold here. She waited, motionless for a slow breath, listening. Womens’ voices and a clink of armor, heavy booted footfalls, muffled shouts and a distant peal of laughter broke the silence, followed by a sickening wet thud. There was no way of knowing how close or far those voices were, as the unearthly calm settled in around her again, stilled by the dense, unnatural mist.

Starting forward again, she stepped out from between two shops onto a cobbled road with a grassy park on the far side, perhaps the town square. And then she began to find the bodies. Crumpled gray figures resolved into lifeless corpses of every race, many armored and armed as if for battle, but there was no longer any organization to their lines. She crept forward, arm across her face to muffle the overwhelming scent of blood and eyes quickly scanning the dead. 

The individuals became harder to recognize, a chaotic mess of limbs and gore. What could have done this? she wondered, forcing herself to continue forward even as the fear and disgust threatened to overwhelm her. But then she saw it, a hint of royal purple nearly saturated with still-spreading crimson. She hurried toward the figure, noting its small but stocky stature. The dwarf’s entire abdomen was emptied into the street, and his over-large hammer was still in his hand, several yards away. But the stalagmite symbol embossed onto his leather armor was still recognizablerecognizeable, dull gold in the dim. A Gren!

As she continued looking around, she found more Gren dwarves among the dead, their bodies mostly ripped apart by whatever horror had been unleashed here. But none of them fit the description she had been given. So close… Where is she??

As she continued the search, points of light began to appear in the air, resolving into the lit windows of a large manorhouse, silent and foreboding. In the courtyard, a long table was laid out with weapons of every type and description, and she curiously approached. Swords, hammers, axes, daggers… even a pair of glaives of dwarven make. She lifted a strung bow, inspecting the graceful arch of its short limbs.

A sudden, shrieking howl cut through the fog, echoing off the buildings. It was an impossible sound, unnatural and feral. And it seemed to be getting closer.

Unnerved, she looped the bow across her body and grabbed a glaive, spinning around and swinging it in a slow arc as she watched the mist for signs of movement. The ash curled around the tip of the weapon, but nothing emerged from the darkness. Behind her, the manor’s door stood ajar, the cheerful light from its still-lit candles illuminating the interior. She glanced inside, and her eyes lit upon a purple-clad figure coated thickly in blood, throat sliced open by a sharp implement but otherwise intact. This one will have to do.

She hastily drew the dead woman out the door and wrapped her cloak around the lifeless body, tucking the weapons in with her. She half carried, half dragged the corpse toward the outskirts of town, listening and watching all the while for any signs of followers. But nothing else broke through the fog, no more sounds but her own light footfalls and the sliding scrape of the corpse’s boots across the cobbles. Perhaps it was just the fear giving her strength, but the body seemed lighter than she expected for a dwarf.

She moved as fast as she dared, retracing her own steps between the buildings. Her horse snorted and stamped as she appeared out of the fog, and he nervously shied as she heaved the lifeless body onto his back. Another preternatural shriek pierced the air, and she leapt astride, her heels barely touched the gelding’s sides before he wheeled and galloped wildly out of town.

They arrived back at the encampment, her sides heaving as hard as the foaming gelding’s, and her legs shook as she dropped to the ground, reflexively tugging at her hood. The girl tentatively emerged from the dark shelter, her smile of relief quickly giving way to disgust and horror.

“Oh, Goddess!” the girl exclaimed, shrinking back from the sight of the bloody remains. “Who is that? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, pulling the corpse unceremoniously to the ground. “But she’s a Gren, and she has information I need. Resurrect her.”

“What?! No! I can’t do that!” The acolyte hugged herself, huddling into the woolen blanket, eyes closed tightly as she shook her head. Her voice pitched higher, laced with panic. “I just want to go home!”

“You can’t go home, girl. Lullin is lost. There are monstrous things at work there.” She wiped the blood from her hands onto the dead woman’s cloak, pulling out the bow and glaive and setting them against a tree. Then she tethered the horse and loosened his girth, and walked over to begin lighting the campfire she had set before she left for Lullin. Working deftly with flint and steel, she quickly had flames dancing in the dry kindling. The girl stood motionless the entire time, eyes darting from the dead woman to her seeming benefactor in much the same way a caged animal might eye its captor. 

“Well?” she asked, wincing as she pulled off her gore-stained boots.

“What?” the girl asked hoarsely, swimming up from her reverie. 

“I told you to revive her.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“That’s a lie. You’re a Morrigan priestess. It’s what you do.”

“I’m not!” the girl whimpered, starting to cry again. “I’m only an acolyte. I can’t do it by myself!”

“You can. You must.” She took a long, deep breath, gazing into the fire, and lowered her hood. The flames lit her pale eyes like polished silver, while the black markings on her face and long eartips swallowed the light. She fixed the girl with an unblinking stare and waited as the acolyte visibly processed what she was seeing. A dark elf, with the symbol of the Dark Lady upon her brow. Likely no one from Lullin had ever seen one of her kind; likely they had built rumors into myths about the travelers of the Hidden Paths. And likely this girl would be terrified. Good.

“You will do this, child,” she stated, firmly but compassionately. “You will revive her, I will ask her a few questions, and then I will be on my way. But as is custom for your temple, I offer you a service in exchange. I will give you this map,” she said, pulling a piece of parchment from the pouch at her waist, “as well as food and water, and my horse, so that you can go wherever you will. Another town, another life… or another temple, as you see fit. Once you resurrect her, your life is your own. But if you do not try, your life is forfeit unto me, and as your priestesses say, there are worse things than death.”

A long silence stretched between them, and she could see the panic rising in the girl’s eyes. But a slow resolve seemed to be building too. Perhaps it was the promise of freedom to travel wherever she wished. Perhaps the girl was communing with the dead Gren. It didn’t matter. The acolyte would do as the elf had asked, she could see the moment the girl made her decision.

“I…” The girl’s mouth was dry and cottony. She swallowed and licked her lips before speaking again. “I will try. But I’ve never done it before, not by myself. I might not be able to.”

“Whatever you need, you’ll have it.”

“If… what if the Great Queen asks for a blood sacrifice?”

“You’ll make it.”

“Okay… um.” The girl began to look around, taking inventory. For the first time, her grip on the woolen blanket loosened as she set to her task. The elf turned back to the fire, stoking it to a quick, smokeless blaze, then began preparing a simple stew from dried meat and root vegetables out of her saddle bags. By the time the food was ready to eat, the acolyte had made her preparations.

“I think I’m ready,” the girl said finally, placing a raven’s feather on the ground above the dead Gren’s head. She had cleaned the body as best as she could, and the woman’s pale face seemed peaceful, wreathed by her candy-studded braid, hands folded across her chest.

“What do you need me to do?” The elf lifted the small pot from the fire with the handle of her spoon and set it aside to cool. 

“Sit there.” The acolyte motioned toward the ground at the dead woman’s feet. “Do you have a knife?” 

“Yes. Here.” The elf drew out her long, wicked-looking dagger and offered it hilt-first to the acolyte. The girl seemed fearful as she took the blade, but her hands were steady. She settled into a kneeling posture at the Gren’s head, knees brushing against the dark feather, and the elf followed suit at the corpse’s feet. 

The girl began to chant, invoking the name of the Morrigan, swaying with her arms extended as if buffeted by a rising thermal. The elf lost track of time as the ritual progressed, and she closed her eyes when her circlet began to feel heavy on her brow. Her skin prickled with the crawling-spider feeling of gathering magic. Heat began to build, her ears filled with a roaring sound, and she was sure the campfire had leapt to the trees around them, that the forest was burning, but she couldn’t open her eyes, she had to open her eyes…

The acolyte finished her enchantment with a shout, and the elf’s eyes snapped open in time to see the girl lift the blade to her wrist. Blood sprayed forcefully out over the dead woman, showering her head to toe in crimson droplets. But the flow was immediately staunched, and the girl looked down in surprise. The blade that had just cut her to the bone was clean, and the wound was healed in a perfect, pale scar. The blood that had sprayed over the corpse melted away, leaving her clean and perfectly healed as well. A shuddering breath lifted the dead woman’s chest as life returned to her.

The Gren opened her eyes.

It took a moment for the Gren to get her bearings, leaping to her feet and throwing a pebble at what might have been a shadow of the enemies in her mind. But then her expression changed as she seemed to remember at least some of the events that had recently transpired.

“Oh gods. MOUSSE!" She exclaimed, then addressed the girl. "They're vampires! We didn't.. Where are they? Tres Le-..." She paused, hand on her throat. "What happened?" 

"I was hoping you could tell me,” the elf said darkly, sitting forward in a ready stance, her hand itching for the dagger the acolyte still held. Her words got the Gren’s attention, and her appearance held it.

"Who are you?" she blurted out, then seemed to recalibrate, shaking her head and putting on a grateful smile. "I'm sorry. That was incredibly rude. I'm Pop-” A pause as she swallowed. What was that? the elf wondered, but then she continued brightly and the elf bit back her words as she waited for the Gren to find herself. Coming back from the dead was no mean feat after all, and it took some time to readjust afterward. “I’m Poprock Gren. And who might you be? I suppose I have you both to thank for bringing me back? I am truly grateful."

The elf waved off the thanks and dodged the question, opting instead to cut to the chase. 

"What happened to Mousse Gren? Where is she?" 

The smile slid off Poprock's face. 

"Mousse is dead. The vampires invited us into their manor and she was the first one…”

The elf's eyes narrowed.

“They made an example out of her. Tore into her throat right in front of me. I tried to save her and attacked the Countess, but she escaped.”

The elf cursed under her breath and rose, stalking over to the fire and kicking at the dirt around its perimeter. I could have had her! This could all be over if I hadn't been so impatient. Maybe I could go back... maybe... 

“... Someone could have come in and healed her while I was out, but if you found me like that... I doubt it." 

The elf remembered the screams in the dark, the maniacal laughter, and the smell of blood strong enough to fill the entire town. She was lucky to have brought out one Gren; even the Dark Lady's benediction wouldn't be enough to save her from her foolishness a second time. 

"She was always kind to me,” Poprock continued. “I really did try."

The elf glanced down at the little pot of stew, still steaming hot. The ritual had felt like an eternity; her trip to Lullin felt so distant. But the little pot told her otherwise.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said bitterly, and started dishing out pottage onto strips of birch bark. She handed the first to the acolyte, who still seemed to be in a state of shock.

"What about the elf child?" Her voice threatened to break as she asked, but she somehow kept control. "Where is the boy who traveled with Mousse?"

"Acorn? Oh gods. Acorn. Has anyone told him?” The elf winced at the casual butchering of the child’s elven name, but Poprock didn’t seem to notice, continuing to chatter as she worked through feelings and memories made distant by the veil of death. 

“... I never knew where they lived. Mango would know. Or Struessel. Or Brulee.... Most of them were in Lullin. Mango was in the Manor with me.” Poprock gave her a searching, desperate look. “Do you think…? Did you see anyone else there? Did anyone escape? They must have, right?"

The elf dished up another scoop of stew for Poprock and one for herself, forcing herself to eat a few bites before replying. She'd heard the names Struessel and Brulee in connection with the leadership of Clan Gren, and she wondered if any of the ruined corpses she'd seen in the town matched their descriptions. Mango was new to her though, and she hadn't gotten a good enough look inside the manor to know if his was one of the bodies. Damn it, if only I'd stayed a minute longer... "I'm sorry. If your clansfolk were in Lullin, they're most likely dead. I saw no survivors."

Poprock took the stew, crestfallen. "Surely someone... Wait." She turns to the acolyte who still hasn't said a word. "You brought me back. You could bring the rest back too right? The Grens could pay for it. We could go find them and-"

The acolyte looked fearful, pale and drained of strength. She avoided Poprock’s gaze, staring instead into her makeshift bowl. 

"You could try," the elf muttered, "but you were probably the least... damaged of the dwarves I saw. You'd be hard pressed to get their bodies out of the town. Plus, those monsters are still stalking the streets of Lullin."

"Oh. They're still there. Of course. But you got me out. You went all the way to the Manor and found me. What were you doing there? Why risk all of those things?” Poprock gave her a searching look, and her brow creased. When she continued, her voice was slightly darker. “You asked about Mousse. Did you know her?"

"Mousse Gren..." The elf spat, no longer hiding the vitriol she felt. She threw the remains of her meal onto the fire, causing it to spit angrily. In a few quick strides, she closed the distance between herself and the mute acolyte, snatching her dagger back and tucking it into her belt before turning back to Poprock. "Mousse Gren murdered my husband and stole my son. I would kill her myself if she weren't dead already. You've been helpful, Poprock, but know this... if you or any of your clan stand between me and the boy you call 'Acorn,' I will destroy what little remains of you."

"She... What?!" Poprock rose from her place on the ground, soup still in hand. The elf’s threat seemed to roll off of her, but the insult to her friend obviously upset her, and she voiced her objections. Mousse must have been a great actress. "What happened to make you so sure?"

"You might have known her now, but you didn't know her then. When I left home, she'd just arrived in town. And when I returned, everyone I knew was dead." The elf began gathering her belongings into a bundled pack, then headed for the canvas shelter. She turned her back to the others, choking back tears as she was flooded by memories of returning home to find the wood elves’ settlement burned to the ground, their ancient oaks still smoldering in the ruins. The pain was still as raw as it had been that day. "At least, I thought they were all dead. Turns out, Mousse had made off with the only other survivor. I didn't even find out my boy was alive for years afterward. And I've been hunting Mousse Gren ever since."

Birds were beginning to chirp tentatively in the upper canopy, hearkening the coming dawn. The elf could see the nearly imperceptible lightening of the sky, the highlights growing sharper on leaves and stones. She focused on what she could see so she didn’t have to remember… 

"... more likely to me that she saved the boy and escaped..." Poprock’s words brought her back to the present, and she turned her silver glare sharply on the Gren.

"The hell she did." The elf wrenched the guy ropes free from the canvas and gathered up her bedding. Spreading it all out on the ground, she rolled it into a neat bedroll. "It doesn't matter now anyway. If you don't know where my son is, I'm going to find someone else who does."

"Alright. I need to find anyone here who can be saved first. Or at least see for myself that no one is left. Maybe someone will know where he is. Then I will look for the boy too. I owe it to Mousse to make sure her son is safe. She saved my life once. I wish to live up to that.” Poprock seemed genuine in this, if foolhardy. But more power to her, if she chose to try to bring more corpses out of Lullin. 

The elf crossed to the horse and began removing items from the saddle bags, stowing them in her pack. She was careful to leave the food and waterskin, as she'd promised.

“What may I call you should I find him first?” Poprock asked. “How would I find you?"

 "You can send a message for me through the Vell Traders,” she answered as she untied her bow, quiver, and a long linen-wrapped bundle from the back of her saddle. “My name is Moranin."

Poprock tried out the name, and it sounded like sugar candy rolling off her tongue. Sickeningly sweet. “Where will you go next?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out where those people are you mentioned - Struessel, Brulee, and Mango, right? I'm going to find out where they are, and I'm going to find out what they know." She strapped the last of her supplies to her pack and swung it onto her shoulders, letting it settle for a moment, then adjusted the straps. 

"Best of luck to you,” Poprock said, then added a little too brightly, “You might try some of the mines far south of here. Last I heard there were some problems going on with production. Streussel would have gone down there to address the issue. He's the hands-on type."

Moranin nodded curtly. She had her suspicions about what Poprock was saying, but she kept it to herself. A little reconnaissance would quickly decide her best path. She wasn't daunted by the prospect of a long trek, and the loss of her horse would only be a minor inconvenience. The Hidden Paths were no place for a horse anyway. 

"Take care, Priestess,” she said, pulling out the map she'd promised to the girl and pressing it into her hand. Then leaning close to the girl, she whispered, “You have more power than you know. Use it if you need it.” She straightened, pulling up her hood once more to shade her eyes from the lightening dawn.

“And thank you, Poprock. I won't forget what you've said here today." Striding past her, Moranin snatched up the dwarven glaive and, using it as a walking stick, silently disappeared through the trees.