Trylstrian's Parting Gift.

The ashes came as fog. Wisps grey and trembling with the currents of long, narrow halls stuffed with the heat of bodies and stale, windowless air; snaking close contours to moving legs and dirty boots hefting the heavy weight of servants cringing at the supposed smoke. A man carried pails of water to pour into the tower ducts that provided the castle's waterworks until the strange, twisted wisps found nostrils. Curses to the furnace workers were short lived when the ash strangled the air from hard-pressed lungs. Throat muscles seized and quivered as his body repelled the foreign invader to no avail.
Two oak pails dropped to the floor as the initial convulsions gave way to seizure, wrenching his back until his spine snapped at the small of his back. Grey-white froth foamed on the corner of pale lips as the body fell. Arms, fingers, feet, ears, and lips twitched spasmodically until the wrenching sounds coalesced to a strange, strangled sigh that robbed the last thought from his grey matter - wondering still what those furnace workers were burning.
A lone guardsman kept his watch out of the slit of a balistraria, lamenting the heat to his back which violated the confines of his moist mail. The spring air outside was cool and inviting, but the density of the stone that surrounded him treacherously socked in the humidity that clung to the walls, making things slick to the touch and footsteps occasionally dangerous in places where saw dust was scraped away from the floor.
His watch was nearly ended, though. Soon he would pluck the spear from where it leaned and return to the barracks, where stew would wait for his stomach and a feather-filled, fluffed pillow for the back of his skull. A small smile graced his big bearded face as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Yet soon, of course, he would also be dead.
The ash was satisfied with those two kills, it seemed, for it relinquished the bodies for lesser things to find them. Soon enough, rats would crawl from poorly blocked cracks in the stone to nibble upon the carrion, feasting on fingers to ensure survival inches below the malevolent haze that fluttered overhead. The slight current emerging from the balistraria tried to repel the invading particles, but were no match for that preternatural movement until the tide halted at a fork in the halls. There was a strange twitch as though the wind had snatched it to the side and then set it back in place, and then there was stillness.
-
Trylstrian was not amused. It was difficult enough to perform the task from afar and blind from his skrying eye, under time constraints made complicated by the constant fear that the royal convoy might move away from the memorized location without warning. Worse still that he would soon be forced to set his comforting lair aside once the range was too great. But to be forced to take directions from this mewling woman was enough to send him into a fury.
He took his hand from the makeshift terminal and steadied it, bones reconfiguring with awful grace as he whirled himself around. Her writhing irritated him. Quiet scrapes upon dirt and stone mixed with the soft tempo of water dripping from stalactites. Her very breath was a jarring experience. Trylstrian’s fingers burned white-hot sulfur into cold veins, resisting the loud urge to simply bury the girl in inferno. His teeth threatened to shatter with the tension of grinding.
“Where?”
Her squirms increased with the sound, complicated by the bolts that pinned her waist to the wall. Moans escaped from parched, cracked lips as her eyes receded into the confines of her lids, rolling sickeningly into the skull. His temper nearly boiled over a second time as his bare, dirty feet shuffled the dust and kicked it into a fine powder which haunted his steps.
“Where?”
The girl could not respond. Her fingers twitched as they grasped at the smooth, rounded ends of the bolts and feet kicked in desperation. She was trying to formulate sentient thought, but the task became difficult with the coldness in her hips, the seeping chill that threatened death and kept her alive in the same breath.
It was all too much for him. The magician could not simply steal her from herself, for he was full to the brim. And yet he could not simply do away with her, for it would result in a poorly placed specimen. So he curbed his enthusiasm for sadism and brought himself into a crouch in front of her. A disarming smile graced his lips as he touched one of the bolts with a sore index finger.
“Tell me where to go.”
In the end, it was a surge of latent electricity that assisted her. It was a small shock, enough to numb the senses and overload the nerve endings at once. Her limbs shook and flexed with the impulses, her throat gurgled froth gone yellow with bile and saliva.
“Tell me.”
She told him.
-
The ash found its home in that callous king's study, heedless of form or shape which might impede its progress. A short hesitation shivered the cloud before, in the end, it sprayed onto the wall, sandblasting at the surface and crushing an impression into the stone. A silhouette formed there, blackened and smelling of the fire that had burned it; the shape of a girl, whom once had golden hair.

Ale and sweat. That was the very atmosphere of barracks as guards on their sparetime finding vigor from barrels and relief from chatter and boasting with brothers-in-arms. Simple games and occassional armwrestle took place as armor-clad men waited for their turns. Despite the recent events the morale was strong among them. It had to be, since weak willed minds weren't fit to guard the castle.
Thomas, The only royal guard who had foreign roots, was in middle of armwrestling against a comrade nearly of his size. It started out as even match, but as time passed, more the arm of Eicheim leaned towards victory 'till his opponent's fist hit the table. Some cheered, some let sounds of disappointment. Coins always ran in their contests to make them even more thrilling to everyone. Some of the guards were already asleep, accustomed to the lively sounds of their fellow men through experiences. One guard sat in corner, writing a letter to his dearest through variety of words. The guardhouse housed variety of men of different minds and ideals banded together to keep the castle safe, or atleast create an illusion of safety.

All this was interrupted by a single guard who raised his mouth from ale to state a sudden thought, "Hey, Where's Dante?". These words halted few men, one being Thomas. Dante was considered as most devoted guard to his tasks. He was always on time. Be it onduty or offduty. It wasn't just him to stay that long on his watch which should be over right now. Thomas shrugged off his alerted mind and tossed a response, "Heck, Might be snoozin' off. The 'chief' has overworked him like a frick'n slavedriver lately. I'll go boot him 'wake." With those words, the redhaired brute stood up and made a gesture to his armwrestling opponent. "We havta go on a patrol soon, so guess we'll start early and walk slow."
The two went out the room, making a slow progress towards the very balistraria where Dante was supposed to be. Thomas and his comrade kept tossing stories of wenches and mockbattles back and forth. Some of them were just creations of imagination, some were truth, but most of them were mix of both.
Once on the balistraria, they saw Dante laying face down. This made them both chuckle amused.
"The mighty have fallen!", joked Thomas' comrade and Thomas proceeded to nudge the fallen guard with his boot. No, Dante didn't wake up. Thomas shook his head, getting a weird feeling. Still, he wanted to believe that gut-feeling was just unnecessary paranoia as he planted his boot on Dante's side and shoved hard and good, enough to wake everyone up. Thomas repeated it several times before realizing that the ol' good Dante might have crossed the line. The redhaired brute crouched down to roll Dante's corpse on its back. The empty lifeless eyes was a clear sign of Tom's feeling being accurate once again. He turned to look over his comrade, keeping his calm as he states
"Get the 'chief' here. Don't make any ruckus. We have one frick'n serious trouble here.", Thomas has made his call to not sound an alarm. To his judgement it was better to report a death of guardsman silently to the captain of guard instead of alarming the whole damned castle and raise panic.

The guard nodded and hurried his way to report the findings while Thomas searched the corpse for any clues what might've killed the guard. Eventually finding no signs of blades or maces killing the man. If it were blades and maces, Thomas would be more relieved to know that whoever killed Dante was nothing but a mindless backstabber. The lack of wounds or bruises made him suspect poisons while deep inside him, his imagination creates delusions of something much more terrifying tools.

Of all the stupid, lazy little, shit fer brains....

"Osanna!"

Mouth breathing, useless....

"Osanna!"

"What no'?!"

The washer woman, Thelma, looked somewhat taken aback at the tall, toothsome, servant's outburst. She sucked in a breath, her ruddy cheeks pushing nearly into the area of purple. "Don't you take that tone with me m'girl!" She scolded, though lord knew she was far too afraid of the self-proclaimed ruler of a kingdom of dirty dishes, unlaunderd tunics, and hollow eyed serfs. The beast's arms crossed and her expression assumed it's usual look of thinly veiled contempt. "Aye," The patronising tone seemed to smooth old Thelma's ruffled feathers. "We've no water down in th' laundry 'an sommat smells burnin'!" As if she didn't know. There wasn't any water in the kitchens either. Honestly, what was so hard about carrying a few buckets of water up to the tower? The servants set to the task had long ago drifted back down, complaining of ash from the furnaces and all had returned. Except for one. The exact one who was supposed to be turning the spit right now.
Barnaby, was the only one strong enough to keep the heavy beast a'turning until dinner. She felt a headache forming at the base of her neck. One more thing. Just one more thing and... A calloused hand plunged into a wide, seemingly never ending apron pocket and a peppermint candy was popped between the beast'sclenched, steel jaws where she ground it, furiously. " Ye'll have yer water in an hour, soon as th' ash clears," She, was going to skin that man. Skin him, tan his hide, and wear it as winter boots. Thelma, who now looked more than a shade nervous, bobbed her head like an old biddy, and bussled off, muttering about 'respect' and 'things to do,' and the beast, set off on the war path, the smell of peppermint trailing behind her.


"Last I seen him 'ee was goin' up th' north tower stair," The maid, coughed, holding her apron over her nose and mouth. The windows were open, letting the fresh spring air in, but the burnt smell, remained and little white false snowflakes blew about the narrow hall way in a destructive parody of the rough Nharati winter. She remembered that smell, all too well, she remberd that smell. The beast herself couldn't help but cough, even through the thick fabric of her kerchief, it came. "'An yer sure about this?" The maid, shrunk. Annie, had never relay been a brave one and Osanna's towering presence and bad reputation didn't exactly help. "Aye!" The girl shifted from foot to foot, eager to be out of the hall and away from the beast. She squared her shoulders, squinting down at the timid girl and proceeded farther down the hall until she felt the cold draft of the stair well. Ahh, but there was something colder still. She froze at the door, smacking against it's frame in the breeze, left ajar no doubt by the others....Barnaby, at least, would have had the common sense to shut it. "Oh no...." She didn't think, she ran, bare feet slapping the cold stone, up, up up the tower steps, round and around and....Her feet hit the water, pooled on the second story landing, the bucket, lieing on it's side, now empty. Empty, like the vessel of a man. She didn't have to touch him to know he was dead. The foam, gathered at the corners of his mouth like a mad dog, the lifeless drape of his body over the stone floor and the last, spark of panic in his glassy, brown eyes. Like a dead cow....And not a mark on him. Her feet, carried her to his side of their own accord, knees folding, woodenly, beneath her. "Oh child o'th brightly burning, tiller o'feilds 'an keeper o'th holds o'men," She breathed, long fingers drifting to thoes stareing eyes. "Walk yeh t'th vallys o'the green, t'lie in th' arms o'yer shepard 'an t'sit at th' throne o'he who's chariot carries th' light t'all th' world," With that, she closed the man's eyes from his last horror. "Sleep in peace, brother,"

It wasn't the first time Osanna had seen death....and it wouldn't be the last. It was time, to go find Christoph, for it wasn't the stairs who'd killed Barnaby.