Sameska rubbed her forehead with both hands, weary of contemplating her disjointed memories. She'd replayed them a thousand times, over and over, and still Savras's mystery eluded her. She would be cautious at the gathering, revealing only enough to make her followers aware of what might occur, not send them screaming into battle against an unknown foe. She must remind them that the soul of prophecy is patience, though little of it soothed her growing anxiety. Flickering remnants of a greater power, the true voice of her god, brushed against her cheek or warmed the air during the past day. No words could be heard in those moments; no message of clarity came, nor even further confusion. It brought only the uncanny feeling that something was missing, some vital element was wrong and out of joint. Below, she could see Dreslya descending the gate excitedly and the Loethe sisters reuniting in the field outside the gates. She narrowed her eyes at their reunion and happiness, then walked away, suddenly angry and needing something to distract her labored thoughts.
The slim blade carved smoothly the winding symbols of magic into her skin. Morgynn squeezed her eyes shut. She relished the pain, infusing her emotions into the magic. Her blood sang at the blade's touch, rushing up through the broken skin to gracefully caress its pointed tip before withdrawing into the channels of spidery wounds.
She bit her lip as waves of heat rolled through her body. Focusing hard to keep the ancient dagger moving, to complete the runic scars on her arm, she savored each moment of arcane creation. She did not bleed as she cut, for the bleeding was unnecessary. She did not bleed because she willed it. She was a blood magus, and each drop of her life was power. Her pulse alone could kill. During the scarring, her mind always returned to the tundra of Narfell, where she had first tasted power. That homeland was where she had once lived and died. The memories came unbidden, burned in her mind to play themselves out each time she put blade to flesh. When the blood became stirred, so did the past stir. Morgynn had learned much in her seven years with the Creel tribe. Taken at the age of five from her mother, the Creel had spared her life on the word of Yarrish, their war wizard, who sensed power in the young girl. She had always felt the strange tinglings of magic, but had not known what they were or what to call them. She was born with the gift, a sorceress, and Yarrish had envied her connection to the Weave. He taught her what he knew, how to channel the energy into spells, how to shape it to do her bidding. From the rest of the tribe, who tolerated her presence, she learned to be cruel and to take what she wanted when she could. Yarrish had looked upon her with new eyes the day she had killed a man, an outlander, and stolen his horse. For one so young to have summoned a killing flame and to mount her prize without a second thought, she showed that she had accepted the ways of the Creel fully and without regret. Then her mother, Kaeless Sedras, leader of the Sedras tribe, had come to reclaim her. Kaeless led her people at dawn on a charge into the camp of the Creel. Yarrish had concealed Morgynn from enemy eyes during trade meets and tribal councils, protective of the girl he now considered his own daughter and legacy in the world. It had been Haargrath, son of the chieftain, who had informed Kaeless of her daughter's whereabouts in fear of the girl's power and quiet ambition. Through force of arms and godly magic, the Sedras tribe was successful in recapturing the screaming Morgynn and bearing her away from the life she had grown to know. The Sedras typically held lands far away from the Creel territory, and Morgynn was quickly lost to her adoptive tribe, held captive by an enemy, a mother she barely knew or remembered. Years passed and Morgynn learned to function within the Sedras tribe, even calling Kaeless "Mother," but she never truly lost her identity as a Creel.
Under the tutelage of a wizard in the tribe, Morgynn learned more about her magic, surpassing the skills of her peers by leaps and bounds. They envied her power and spread rumors behind her back, calling her a Creel witch. Morgynn always heard them and enjoyed their hatred of her, casting withering stares at them and baring her teeth when no one was looking. Once a year, the tribe would attend the Bildoobaris, a trade meet and occasion for the tribal leaders to converse and settle disputes. Kaeless had forbidden Morgynn to attend for many years after rescuing her, as the Creel would also be in attendance. Eventually, seeking to gain her daughter's trust, Kaeless allowed Morgynn to participate. Morgynn had grown into a beautiful young woman by then, and was well aware of her effect on men. She was learning to use that knowledge to her advantage, much to her mother's glowering disapproval. At those trade meets, Morgynn had first begun to learn more of the world beyond the tundra. There she had met Zhamiel, an aging priest of Gargauth and an outsider from the Great Dale to the south. She had never taken to the worship of Lathander, like the rest of the Sedras, and found no interest in Zhamiel's talk of Gargauth, but she'd felt a kinship that day as he wove tales of older times and armies of demons. She learned of the Nar Empire and its war against Raumathar, learned the histories of the ruins that dotted the cold plains of her homeland. Zhamiel told her of the magic as well, hidden treasures lost, buried beneath stone and time. Ruins in Narfell were numerous and easy to find but were approached only by the brave or the greedy. Morgynn and a few acolytes of Zhamiel set out to find the Well of Goorgian, an open pit in the ruins of a nameless city. Goorgian was once a Nar wizard who, it was rumored, had worshiped Gargauth and built the first true temple in Gargauth's name.
He and his followers became known as the Order of Twilight. Zhamiel promised Morgynn that powerful secrets lay hidden in Goorgian's grave, a crater where he'd been destroyed by his own foolishness. She'd left the Bildoobaris unannounced, knowing her mother would search for her, but Morgynn had no intention of returning to the Sedras or even the Creel. Her time walking in the paths of others was over. Her group eventually found the edge of the pit where Goorgian had consumed his own life in dreams of power. Morgynn stared deep into that darkness and began to dream herself. For the first time, Morgynn imagined power, real power. She had no idea that the next three years would pass so quickly or that her mother would not only give up on her only daughter but would also seek to end her life. With her ritual complete, the memories faded along with the pain that lessened to a dull ache in her forearm. Traced with the letters and secret language of her magic, she admired her skin for a moment, studying her work and feeling more confident with her scars restored. She sighed, shrugging off the haze of the pain-induced trance, and surveyed her surroundings. The walls inside the lone tower of Jhareat were piled high with bones, shoved from the floors to clear them. Dusty skulls and fleshless limbs adorned each room in the narrow tower, its long-forgotten defenders well beyond caring about being conquered.
Their weapons and armor lay rusting and tattered amid the bones.
Through a small arched window, lightning flashed and powerful winds roared. She could almost hear the chanting Gargauthans below, weaving the storm spell into the base of the tower. She found that she enjoyed the storms more as she'd traveled farther south. Their warmth was a welcome change from the chilling gales that blew across the tundra in Narfell. The more she beheld them, the more it seemed her thick blood demanded them. Lost in the chaos of thunder and roaring tornadoes, her memories were but a nagging whisper, where her blood was a raging tempest. She peered through the darkness of the low-hanging clouds, across the fields of ruined walls and jutting bits of rubble, to the edge of the forest. She whispered a quick spell and her eyes became as sharp as an eagle's, focusing the forest with amazing clarity. After a few moments, she found what she'd been looking for, what she'd sensed coming closer. A massive, coal-black mastiff stared back at her, its muscles rippling as it prowled through the trees. She smiled at his savage beauty, his brute strength and stealth as he negotiated the shadows of the ruined clearing at a full run. Khaemil was shadurakul, a breed of shapeshifter called from the realm of Avernus in the Nine Hells. Though released from his initial bond of servitude, Khaemil had bound himself to Morgynn willingly, remaining at her side ever since and considered a blessing by the Gargauthans. Morgynn stopped short of calling him a blessing. She'd tasted one of Gargauth's favors already.