The cultist shoved past Daisy as he scrambled for the exit. She fell hard against the stony alter, cracking her head against the golden idol before coming to a rest on the bizarre mosaic floor. It wasn’t until the chamber had emptied of the fanatics before I noticed that Daisy wasn’t moving. There was a trickle of blood running from the back of her head along a groove in the mosaic. As I watched, it began to rush towards a small, black stone at the center of the design. The stone began to glow green when the blood touched it.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
The first sign of habitation was a fluffy column of black smoke ascending from the copse of trees. Those who knew where to look, or searched carefully, could find the twisting path between tightly-packed pines to the interior. The hut protected by the woody path was large and of sturdy construction, better than most of the buildings that composed the villages that dotted the mountainside. Behind the cabin were several rows of wooden frames of various shapes and sizes. Various bits of biota were stretched out, hung out, or otherwise suspended to cure in the crisp air and bright sun.
Monday, June 27, 2016
The Tartakar was a large man, covered in strange, swirling tattoos. They appeared to shift and transform as he moved: animals turning from one to another, the constellations across his back changing the sky from winter to summer.
“They say those men of the plains have a strange magic,” my companion said to me. “It’s those tattoos,” he continued. “They let them travel as a ghost does, leaving no prints, and creating no more movement in the grass than waving of the wind.”
The man looked over at us. My companion fell silent and stared intently into his warm ale.