Black Words

 Playing with fire is bad for those who burn themselves. For the rest of us, it is a very great pleasure. 

Wildling Reach


 * The marsh is surrounded by forest, hemmed in by the sweep of massive blue-needed giants and the narrow tamaracks dripping with bare branches and crowned with new green needles that thread between those larger trunks. The tamaracks crowd right down to the water's edge in most places and trail their hanging branches into the plant-shrouded surface. A narrow muddy track punctuates the curtain of hanging foliage, looping around the marsh once in a hummocky, squishy passageway.


 * From shore the marsh is a strange sight indeed, a wilderness of twisted trees and swordlike upthrusting leaves that slice from swampy water covered in slime and small wildweed. In the very center, where dry ground no longer breaks upwards through the surface of that muck, there is a cluster of carefully crafted wooden houses supported by thick peeled tree-trunks. Woven skiffs and rowboats butt up against the house, moored on ropes to the wooden platforms that float beneath each one. Narrow boardwalks connect the center platforms with the pathway near the rim, though they are little more than planks and bear a grown man's weight perilously.


 * Wildling Reach is a dangerous place, rumoured to be home to shadowed creatures and more practically to bushdragons, snaplizards, and mud bears. The community of Freelanders that lives here on what they can hunt, trap, and fish from the forest cluster together out of reach of any danger that these hardy folk cannot kill. More than the slight tax that they pay to House Zahir this is the payment they give: knowledge of which places are safe to hunt in, and which might likely wound a rival in a grevious encounter with the wildlife.

''It would seem that Taran's horse is not alone as the bard himself makes his way to retrieve it. Stood next to the horse, clad in a robe of shifting shadow with face covered by a twisting mask of the same fel conjuration, a man akin to the one previously encountered in the Wildling Reach Tavern can be found.''

Taran - arms quite full, and shoulders laden with lute and backpack, eyes the evident mage with polite interest. "Light's greetings," he says pleasantly. "I thank you for not stealing my horse; tis rather a problem to acquire a good one." Moving, yes, to place his load in the wagon the horse in question is attached to.

''"I don't know who you are, Freelander," the man clad in shadows states, annoyance playing upon his voice, "But you chose a bad day to interfere with the Cult." His own voice is quite obviously one that belongs to a Freelander, tinged as it is with a hint of an Eastwatchian accent. He also sounds stressed. The shadowblade that he conjures into his right hand is more evidence of that fact.''

The sound of commotion eminates from within Wildling Reach.

Taran raises both eyebrows. "You don't know who I am, good master?" he asks. "Clearly, either I have not performed in Eastwatch much of late, or you are absolutely forbidden from going out and in any way enjoying your life, in which case you have my deepest sympathies. As to cults - why, I've never been against them. Quite popular these days, I'm hearing." While he doesn't turn away from the mage at the sound of noise, his head does tilt a bit to hear it better. The shadow blade is regarded with a pained expression, and the cloak-wrapped bundle set at his feet. "...Clearly, this is not going to be a very good day."

''The commotion seems to give the Cultist pause for thought, too; for while one cannot see his face, the tilt of his head clearly indicates him to be distracted. Which may present an opening for the first move in this particular dance.''

Tendrils of smoke begin to rise from the location of the Wildling Reach Tavern.

Taran is not about to look a gift fire in the mouth. Murmuring, "Light forgive me for the sacrilege, don't-you-dare-damage-my-precious-Lute-or-I-will-hound-you-through-OBLIVION," the bard takes the neck of his Lute in both hands, swinging it in a hard, overhead chop with the fat wooden body of it aimed squarely for the mage's skull.

''It would seem that dance has begun. The Lute arcs down, but not accurately enough to strike the mage square on the head. Still, the strike is enough to cause the cultist a lapse in concentration, which in turn causes the Shadowblade to unsummon itself; the act of attempting to maintain a Shadow Mask, Shadow Robe, *and* Shadow Blade evidently quite taxing indeed.'' ''The shifting maelstrom of shadow around the cultist flares as the cultist himself turns back towards the bard. "You would DARE stike a follower of Xil'varath? You'll pay for that, Imperial." Cupping his right hand into a claw, the Mage lunges at Taran.''

Taran catches the mage's clawed hand in his own, letting the Lute drop to hang by its strap. "I am *not* going to pick *your brains* out of *my strings*," he growls, throwing a punch of his own. "Let me *go*."

''It looks like the cultist doesn't have a say in the matter; Taran's capture of his hand already had him off balance, and that following punch strikes true, catching the cultist in the side of the head and sending him to the ground. It's enough of a blow to utterly throw the cultist's concentration off, and the shadow-conjured robe and mask soon dissipate to show the man behind the cultist as nothing more than the simple Freelander he was born as.''

'''Calls of "Fire!" sound from within the village behind the two.'''

Taran growls a little, low in his throat. "I should help with that," he says, studying the cultist's face - memorizing it. "I think...I will have to pass." He takes the Lute's neck in his hands, the blue of his eyes icy. "And don't think I'm forgiving you for it." He swings it again, aiming to connect that lute to the mage's skull - and maybe, break that skull open.

*CRACK* ''The Fat Lute connects with the Cultist's head with a sharp chord that sings of pain and suffering; not that the Lute seems to mind. Indeed, if there's any evidence of the connection it can't be found upon the lute itself - the instrument looking as flawless as the day it was forged.'' The mage's head, however, is an entirely different story and - dead or unconscious - it's unlikely that he's going anywhere for quite a while.

Taran shivers a bit at the Lute's chord of pain, murmuring, "Sorry, I'm sorry," as if the instrument might hear or forgive. Gathering up the cloak-wrapped bundle, he shoves it quickly into his horse's wagon, dragging pots and seedlings over it to conceal it. Only when he's satisfied that it would take a search to find the bundle does he pause. He looks from the fallen mage, to the haze of smoke, clearly conflicted. "...Light preserve the fool," he sighs. "A bard first and last." He checks the fallen mage - if he's breathing, he's going to get dragged along across Ablaze's pommel. If not, then rolled off the side of the road, and Taran returns to the village square.

For sake of closure, the side of the road it is.

Wildling Reach


 * ''Navigating the village is a careful affair, best done by rowboat for those unsure of foot. Narrow planks range high over the swamp, set from the doorway of one house to another; each stilted home has a trapdoor also, which descends by way of a ladder to a floating platform below each home as well. Many boats are clustered around, both wooden rowboats and the high-riding woven

marshboats unique to these folk.''


 * The houses are set in a random cluster above the deepest part of the centralmost pond of this marshy area. Safe as can be from any swamp- or forest-dwellers they stand on their tall tree trunks over deep water, a cluster of shops settled atop a common platform in the center. Made of smoothed boards chinked with mud and shingled with wood, they gracefully gray with age under a cover of marsh moss.

'''The situation in Wildling Reach is one of expected pandemonium. The Wildling Reach Tavern is fully engulfed in flame, surrounding by various citizens of the village who appear to be waiting for it to collapse into the marsh below. Black cinders fall like autumn leaves across the expanse of the region, while searing heat makes looking at the ruined establishment for more than a few moments somewhat difficult.'''

From Ablaze's saddle, Taran rides in, watching for attack, but somewhat in awe of the extent of the blaze. "Light preserve us," he murmurs - then, louder, "What has happened here?" he calls. "Can aught be done to douse that?" Indeed, the bard is eyeballing the well - but also the intensity of the fire, and the likelihood of it spreading.

"Some friends turned up." States a familiar regal purr from aside Taran's horse, face and features hidden beneath the hood of the black leather cloak he wears. The longsword is no where to be seen, which most likely means it's another thing that the cloak hides.

"That shadow mask is new, as is the robe, and I thought I'd seen everything the Shadow had to offer. I guess not. As for the tavern, the stilts will eventually collapse, and the marsh will douse the flames. Light willing, the Watch will label it as arson and our first guest will take the blame, rather than every other mage in Fastheld by proxy of fear and mistrust."

From Ablaze's saddle, "...You were not caught within, then," Taran replies quietly, without looking from the fire. "One of his friends found me...found my horse, anyway. I shall be all afternoon cleaning my Lute." He takes a deep breath, twitching knees against Ablaze's ribs. "Nothing to be done here, then...I'd better be about business. I could not go until I saw; tis probably my five minutes for the day all taken, but I could not do otherwise. The horse-watcher will meet the marsh soone enough."

"More like ten," the ranger replies, mirth implied upon his voice, even if not seen upon his features. "I think you just used tomorrow's allocation there, Songbird. Unless you're aiming to use up your allocation for the rest of the week, now might be a good time to leave."

From Ablaze's saddle, Taran laughs, shaking his head. "I did *warn* thee," he replies, amused and formal, turning his horse to the road. "Light keep thee." And there's quite the clatter, as horse and wagon take off at a very respectable clip.

''Return to Season 5 (2007)