6 - 2 [Magus] Morrigain: Nightmares Reveal the Chains that Bind The Lone Sparrow II - 1st of Evening Star, Year 1125 A.E.

Barry woke up in an unfamiliar room, exhaling in turbid breath, his heart beating like a skald’s drum. His head thrummed, the blood pounding painfully against the confines of his skull and his thoughts a stormy sea.

A single word stuck around his head as he got his bearings straight.

Ikaros.

The word brought forth the feeling of being scolded by one’s better. To heed not to either hubris or complacency, lest the newfound powers he beheld bring him to drown in his ignorance or melt in the fires of his own inadequacy.

The Lone Sparrow shook his head to dispel the phantom tongue-lashing, bringing his awareness to his immediate vicinity and body. The last thing he needed now was to be reproached by his own soul.

Barry had a towel around his waist, endowing his lower half some decency, and bandages binding his chest.

He had skin. Actual, flesh and bones, blood and all. And though he had tried to feel his face with nonexistent hands, he knew that he’d probably still have his old features in all of their mundane luster.

His body lay atop of a rag covered table. Supposedly a mediker or healer’s abode, what with all the metal tools around the room and a bucket of bloody water on the floor.

These tools belong in a torturer’s chamber, not a leiggan’s, thought Barry with a wry smile he so often hid behind in times of crisis.

His good humor was perhaps the only thing that had saved him from the insanity of the past days. It was to spit in the face of fear and death, and dance with them all the same, for such feelings would never be free from his bones.

Mortus liked the challenge, after all. A little bit of spittle to the face was nothing to the Divine Incarnation of Death.

The walls of the room were wrought of stone, a window laying at his feet. The slightly rusted, iron-barred window hinted at the outside of the building, what with its arching stonework found often in temples of the Sevenfold Faith.

Barry was thankful for the open shutters as the morning sunlight warmed his calves and feet. Wooden carvings of the Pantheon of the Seven and their gilded reliquary were intersped throughout the room, paintings wrought onto the walls themselves. The statuettes were roughly the size of a Kedweni span; the length of a man’s elbow to his wrist.

Strangely enough, not all gods were covered in gold but instead other metals of much less monetary value. The irony was not lost on the Lone Sparrow.

What Barry recognized as the Heavenly Bride Elaria was skinned in copper, a veil barely giving Her any decency, a single breast left bare. An eerily familiar purple-amaranth fruit was held in Her Divine Hand, the sight eliciting a mental murmur from Barry.

Doomlust; the Fruit of Knowledge.

Sky-Father Dyeus was cowled in robes of tin while All-Father Oriath His Heavenly Brother was armored in simple iron with a spear and shield standing at attention. Mortus, the last and most often reviled of the Three Brothers, stood hidden behind a thick veil of tarnished lead, the cowled robes the color of gritty bone turned to stone.

The meanings behind the various metals that corresponded to each of the Seven was lost to Barry. Perhaps only two or three of the gildings made any sort of sense to his limited knowledge on the Divine.

Copper for a goddess was queer, what with its use as the lowest denomination of Kedweni crown. A full five copper pennies was the price for a single loaf of bread, at least south of the Ydden river.

Maybe it was due to the reddish hue of the metal, scarlet and amaranth being common colors for Her temples.

Tin was a quaint little metal. Too bright and white to be iron, yet still too pauper and coarse to be silver. Barry had to learn the differences between metals given he’d had sell the leftover loot taken from his bandit kills. Tin was mostly used for merchant heirlooms such as decorative dirks and the gilding of hair-comb hilts.

Why the Heavenly Judge would take such a middle-brow metal was a mystery to Barry. Perhaps it was His association with merchants? Many a barterer and caravan passenger would pray to Dyeus to give them wisdom and make coin flow as rain in the monsoon month of Storm’s Breath.

Lead was quite strange as metals went, what with its rarity in all but the magicking arts of alchemists and the weighing of coin. Barry only knew that certain illegal druggae, specifically liquors like the Turchian black wine known as khaouah, were heavily saturated in it.

Khaouah was sickly sweet and lilting like it had been drowned in honey. It smelled of blood and tasted like syrup from the Akaen Isles. All due to the shavings of lead and other substances mixed therein.

The eld metal was known to bring about insanity and then subsequent and premature death to long term imbibers. A frequent occurrence to sellswords given most veterans had their share of memories best left buried in potent druggae and drink.

What wouldn’t I give for something strong right about now.

The thought was a dangerous one, Barry knew, but he felt oh so numb to it all. A slippery slope that would lead to the Pale River more often than not.

For all of his uncertainty on what linked the gildings to the gods, Barry had a single surety:

Lead was bound to the Doom God by the inexorable weight of death.

He remembered their names then, of those that died with steel in hand and liquor in their veins.

Their minds high in the clouds, flying on the wings of druggae and held aloft by the winds of bloodrush.

Each one a thick and heavy tombstone in his thoughts, weighing him down bit by bit.

Like leaden weights.

Rodrick—Roddy.

Yggritte—Yggy.

Ethelden—Etty.

The Lone Sparrow stared into the depths of nothing in particular, his thoughts nothing at all. Slowly, but surely, his attention was whisked away and led astray, being brought back to his surroundings.

Candles and incense made the room smoky and Barry’s throat dry. Though the strong smells slightly overcame his senses, he was glad for their presence. For without them, it would otherwise reek of impending death. The subtle odors of rotten and dried blood and bile mixed with the incense to make a sickly sweet smell that seemed to burrow into his nostrils and skin.

Barry let out a cough as the smoke dried his throat and watered his eyes. He was surprised when his chest didn’t hurt. He tried lifting a hand towards his chest to inspect the bandages, but it was done in vain.

He had no arms.

Barry looked down at his stumps. They were cauterized yet there was nary a pain. He moved his shoulders and found that they were in perfect condition if that could be said of an armless cripple.

Oh how he hated the word that he himself conjured. Cripple. It left a bad taste in his mouth, bitter like kaveh; the acerbic drink that brought a man vigor and compunction, black as night and tasting like leftover ash and sin most foul.

How the nine-damned liquor was not outlawed as warlockery, Barry did not know. The druggae was quite useful for long watches in the night, though it was not all too common given it was imported from the Near and Middle Easts, from Vitae and Cyros respectively.

Barry shook his head, dispelling the remembrance on the lessons afforded to him by Stregor. He could dwell on that and the corresponding grief later once all else was sorted out.

His right shoulder ended abruptly with a tiny little nub while his left arm was cut just below his bicep before it met the elbow. Their appearance was rough and uneven, bringing about a distinct sense of wrongness not unlike the dysphoria Barry experienced in the realm of his soul.

I belong more innae travelling troupe—as a freak, Barry spat the word with no small amount of self-loathing—rather than a mercenary proper.

Even me name’s not helpin’ in that matter.

The Lone Sparrow shook his head, dispelling the dark thoughts. It would do him no good to dwell and let his mind fester. He was hail, though not whole, in the flesh. And Awoken in soul and spirit.

He had magicking; power supernatural. It was an apt name, Barry reckoned, given that with magick he could bend the laws of the natural and waking world.

And he did just that.

Barry grasped at the knowledge he gained in his dreams. It was fleeting, but instead of unravelling into nothingness, it coalesced into the hands of his will. He could not recall the knowledge into conscious words, but could still wield them, their presence a solid weight at the back of his head—along with other things, best left forgotten.

A cloak of starry night came into being on the shoulders of his Awoken spirit, invisible to mortal sight.

A blanket of pure-wrought ethos—authority made manifest—damp and heavy with the tincture of noesis—knowledge beyond mortal ken.

Form, he said and so it was done.

He felt something deep inside himself, in the marrow of his bones and core of his core, deplete and become thinner.

With the sorcerous mandatum came a fatigue deep in his soul, bringing his spirit down like a leaden weight.

A price paid in full, Barry dryling remarked. All things had their price, even magick had to give way to balance in some form or another.

Threads of shadow poured out from his stumps, coalescing into semblances of arms and hands. They were blurry and insubstantial to the sight, more smoke-stuff than solid material.

Still wary and frightened from his time inside his soul, Barry touched his face with hands of shadow, confirming that he still had a nose and eyes. And ears, he couldn’t forget those, now could he? The daft buggers were the size of a bloody hare’s.

Barry tugged at his spirit-limbs, willing them to merge with his Inner Shadow, his incorporeal body. The spirit-made-physical manifestations unraveled into streams of dark smoke, burrowing into his stumps and back into his being of substance insubstantial.

Good. I can still make and unmake ‘em at will.

Barry resummoned his shadow limbs, checking his bandaged chest. It felt normal. There was no pain or soreness, but… He felt weak. It was as if his spirit was being sucked from him in drops, the bandaged area being more strongly affected than the rest of his body.

He felt a bit out of breath yet what that meant, Barry did not know. The comet with the hue of fresh blood came unbidden to his thoughts.

What’s it all mean?

He shook his head, knowing that he would get no answers here. Even if he did draw on his sorcery to attempt to divine whatever meaning lay hidden behind the Veil. Calling upon his soul was instinctual rather than a conscious decision; unreliable, too.

He’d probably be thrown down another series of feverish visions, no different than a druggae addict spirited-away by some draught or another.

The train of thought brought forth the remembrance of Rodrick’s shivers after he’d tasted a particularly bad batch of scarlet resin.

Barry attempted to kill the memory the moment it came to the fore, smothering it in the cradle.

Images, the sight of Roddy scared and lost, came unbidden nevertheless, muffled crying of an unwanted bairn that they were.

Now was not the time. And with no small amount of force, Barry banished the images to the dark corners of his mind.

A hollow and tense smile made way onto his face.

Daylight’s a’ wastin’, Barry said to himself inside his thoughts. Gotta find someone and get me some actual clothes. Can’t rightly stay with me prick flappin’ in the breeze, now cannae?

Barry got down from the stained-rag-covered table, clutching the towel at his waist with limbs of spirit.

He tripped with the thick cloth wrapped around his pelvis, falling head-first to the stoney floor.

Shadowy essence coiled around his form, lightening his descent and depositing him on the ground like a wayward feather. The smoky spirit burrowed back to whence it came, dissipating no different than fog under Solaria at Her Height.

In the brief instant that he fell, Barry felt himself latch onto the Tide; the sea of spirits. His Inner Shadow but a sail to unseen winds and his body a vessel sailing through the Tide’s intangible waters.

The magicking was surprising in that he did not bring it about with conscious will but instead through instinct. His spirit simply secreted the shadow-stuff, not unlike sweat really, though much less gross.

Barry felt a weird little familiarity with the conjuring of the shadow-mist, that he had done so before. Yet, he could not rightly find the corresponding memory—everything after the battle was hazy like Cyroshi vapor.

“That’s useful.” Said Barry in a sarcastic tone as he picked himself up and adjusted the towel back into place, a little awe otherwise shining through his voice. “Might come in handy, should I need to jump out a window in the dead of night.”

Barry heard a slight chuckle as he stood up, voice coarse like crackling mountain stone. His head swerved to the origin of the sound, turning with the agility of a serpent.

His face lit up in slight embarrassment when he realized he wasn’t alone.

It burned bright red when he realized there was a woman in the same room as he. With him clothesless, just a towel around his family jewels.

The priestess of the Heavenly Crone, Mahna, who had saved him was standing at the doorway. He hadn’t realized she was there, observing him not much different than an owl sighting a particularly plump mouse.

Though, after alighting his sight on her and remembering his past visions and of what he was, Barry thought that it was the reverse. The presence at the back of his head—the blade coated in honey—weighed more heavily now that he gave it thought.

Barry dispelled the dark ruminations and focused upon his savior that stood crooked in front of him.

Her white robes had a dark-blue tree etched onto its front. Her sleeves were spacious and baggy as the rest of her attire, hiding her hands from sight. She walked with a small cane, cleric’s bells wrapped around the tar-covered stick. Little gemstones were bound to the tar, forming constellations with lines of silver wire.

The starlings woven with lines of argent called to him, a nagging little tug at his awareness like trying to remember a dream.

The tied bells chimed melodically as the priestess approached Barry. Her posture was crooked, making her much shorter than she actually was. The sight brought forth the likeness of an old oak, twisted and bent back unto itself from the weight of age.

Her spine’s so curved you could tie a string on either end and call it a bow.

The priestess had ashen hair with strands of white. Her face turned into a happy rictus of wrinkles when Barry looked up at her green eyes; the same color as his own with cracks of crow’s feet.

For all her age and sage, those eyes of hers were lively and alight with the fire of youth. And much amusement.

“Apologies, for I did not adequately announce my presence. You were just having too much fun with your magicking, and I couldn’t bear to part you with your diversion.” Said the priestess amicably, her ancient voice both balm and poison as it grated against Barry’s ears like gravel yet was alight a hint of liveliness and jest all the same.

The Maiden of the Crone brought forward a hand in a casual invitation for a shake, all the while baring the members she had hidden away before in those long sleeves of hers. The priestesses’ nails were long as claws, painted black with tar in the same manner as her cane and ensconced with gemstones linked together with silver wire.

Barry felt no small amount of hunger, greed, and desire when he set his eyes upon those stones. They thrummed and pulsed with the essence he wanted for, the need a fire in his bones and lightning in his teeth.

What was once a nagging tug became a potent pull, straining against the edges of his scruples.

“My lumen’s Emilia, but I insist you call me Emi.” Said the priestess, drawing Barry’s attention back to her eyes and not the twinkling stars bound to her mitts.

“What’s your name lad?” Her voice reminded Barry of his gram. A voice he could hear a smile in even with his eyes closed.

She’s not frightened of me arms and hands? Very well, if she can berate that fire-flinging swit of a priest, she’s not gonna be scared of me.

Barry shook her hand lightly with his limbs wrought of spirit. He did so with the delicate and worrying presence of a person handling a newborn chick.

And with the anticipation of a fox finding itself among a chicken coop.

Barry reigned in his spirit, willing it to keep to itself no different than scolding a pup for running after livestock. Yet for all his self-imposed spiritual discipline, not all were beholden such as he.

Barry felt a slight yet queer reaction from the handshake. The air around him tightened in apprehension as a worm of spirit tried in vain to burrow into his Inner Shadow.

Not all dark places made good dens for critters. Especially so when a great beast already lay in the depths of a dwelling.

His hand turned into smoke, smoothly retracting from the priestess’s own and then reforming at his side. His spirit had retreated with the same likeness as a cat annoyed by an intrusive and yapping kit.

Barry could swear he saw a hint of mischief in the crone’s eyes.

“Com’ on, lad.” Said Emilia the priestess, her voice the innocent tone of someone who had just stolen from the larder. “I told ye my name. It would be a lack of manners to leave a lady unanswered.”

“Oh, sorry. The name’s Barry. Just Barry.”

At the mention of his name, Emilia, the priestess, had a look of sheer incredulity. Like a deer caught in the lamplights of a carriage in the dead of night, or of a hare having heard the breaking of branch, her eyes were wide in surprise.

Her jaw went from agape and hanging low to smiling like a jester proper, a cacophony of laughter erupting from her frail form. Her back contorted much in the throes of belly-aching howls that ensued.

“Gods above.” Said Emilia, breath ragged like a man drowned. “Sorry, lad. It’s just that-” She guffawed once more, wheezing as she tried to reign her wits back into their proper place.

After calming down enough she continued “Sorry, I didn’t expect your name to be so… ordinary? It’s just so down to earth for the man who devoured holy flame with arms of shadow.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed ever so much as his heart thrummed a notch faster.

“Anyhows,” Emilia continued without any sort of over hostility, “your condition is stable.” She had been shuffling closer and closer still to Barry throughout the conversation. And when she arrived but a step away, the priestess tapped his bandaged chest with a claw of hers.

The base of his spirit strained at its fetters. An eld houndling bound just behind the confines of his navel, frothing at the mouth and hungry for the stars.

“We healed you the best we could,” continued Emilia, hers a demeanor like that of a sheep entering a wolf den without knowing it.

“Be cautious. Your spirit and magicking in general will be weakened until enough time has passed for you to heal properly.”

“What do you mean?” Barry asked as the stars were hidden once more under her voluminous robes. “Not that I’m not thankful—thank you for saving my life.” He added the last part with no small amount of hurried worry as he saw Emilia’s eyes narrow in displeasure.

“I’m just a wee bit curious, why would my magicking be weaker?”

The priestess’ eyes widened a notch as the rictus of her brow was set with inquisition. Emilia favored Barry with a little scrutinizing hum, letting her thoughts marinate before she answered.

“You really were telling the truth about being recently Awakened, weren’t you?” Said Emilia, her lips creaking into an anticipatory smile, like a beast finding a bairnling without its mother.

She continued, a little suspicious, a little happy. A little hungry.

“Or you’re just a really good liar, fork-tongued and all. Nevertheless, I am oathbound to my patron goddess, Her tenets of imparting knowledge upon the unenlightened adamant.”

Emilia narrowed her eyes, a claw at her chin as she rummaged through the cobwebbed and dusty library that was her ken, her knowledge.

“There are a lot of different flavors of magicking that essentially achieve the same end. Think of them as blades of myriad form and make, hailing from different kingdoms and realms. Though their shapes may change depending on their origin, they are all still a blade.

“They are all still magick.

“The kind of healing magick, the one that me and mine used to save your life, involves making flesh out of spirit.

“We take from your own essence—mana, the substance of spirit—and mold it into a simulacrum of soma. Mana is divine clay, afterall, it can be made into any shape as long as one has the ken, the knowing, to do so.

“All there is to do after the procedure is to wait, as the construct is slowly but surely replaced by real flesh.

“It’ll leave a scar and will have some amount of drain on your reserves of spirit, but that can fixed with a bit of alchemicking. If it were your heart instead of yer lungs and ribs though…

“The after effects would have been much more dire.”

The priestess set her sights on Barry, letting him simmer in the heat of her gaze. She awaited for a response, looking for any glint of previous knowledge in his eyes.

“Uh-huh?” Barry answered with all the confidence of a student that had not studied for their exams. He nodded with a confused expression on his face, trying and failing to convince Emilia that he knew of what she lectured on about.

“Heavenly Crone, you really don’t know anything about magick, do you?”

Barry let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping a notch. He barely understand half of the priestess’ words.

“No, not really no.” He admitted.

“Good.” Emilia said, her self-pleased voice almost a cackle, the gravely sound like the falling of mountain stone.

“Good?” Asked Barry, bemused.

“Yes, it means I get to have a new pupil for the first time in two decades. I need someone to mop up the floors, me back’s just not what it used to be.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Emilia daggered back, her tone sharp, the tip of her eyes like a blade at his throat.

“Oh,” Said Barry, quick to fill the silence.

“I thank ye for the opportunity. It would help tremendously to understand all that’s happenin’ to me—these past days have not been kind. I would never get admission into the Academy, so thank you.

“When do we begin?”

That brought a happy grin on the priestess’ wrinkly face. Yet she said nothing as she turned and slithered to the doorway, the voluminous robes hiding her feet and masking her gait such so that it appeared she floated like a snake on the surface of a pond. The door was a heavy thing of steelbound wood, thick as a man’s wrist.

“Com’on, laddie.” She said. “Sola’s Grace’s a wastin’ and we need to get you some clothing proper. Can’t rightly leave ye with yer willy flappin’ in the cold winter breeze, now can we?

“Maiden acolytes see a man with only a towel around his waist and no britches, they’ll keel over, unmarried maidens that they all are.”