Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Mother Speaks

by kubasik

  "I thought you knew." He touched his fingertips to his chest.

  I shook my head.

  His head sank down, his shoulders folded forward. "I ... I sometimes ... I sometimes don't make sense to people." With that, he turned and walked away, his body a trophy of a broken spirit.

  "J'role ...” I said, but he kept walking. I did not pursue him. I had no idea what I might say.

  Hours passed. The dark jungles below seemed even darker; dangerous pools full of ink waiting to be used to write a tale of mutilation, betrayal, and death.

  I waited and waited for some impulse to inspire me to rise and go back to the village. But it never came. Matters of the human heart seemed so hopeless. I remember thinking that night, "And if I rescue my boys, will they be dead from sword or disease in another year's time?" What was the point, I wondered, when nothing seemed to work out?

  17

  Life in the crystal raider village carried on, with all of us doing the usual tasks. There is no point in listing the details of the work—not that it was tedious, for in the midst of it I was fully engaged and somewhat happy. Work has always been a relief for me.

  I will note only this then: that J'role performed his stories with the same intensity each night, but it was only during these performances, and when playing with children, that he seemed truly alive. At all other times he seemed drained of energy, as if a slow disease had begun to consume him.

  At no time did he approach me. For my part, I remained silent as well. What were we to talk about? It seemed that the only matter left at hand was the dissolution of our marriage, and though my mind said to destroy my bond with him, another part of me refused. The same part of me that had kept me always waiting for him, I suppose.

  Two weeks passed.

  Some trolls had gone off on an expedition into the caves of Twilight Peaks and had returned with sacks full of crystals. I was dividing the stones by size and shape—a task the trolls thought I could handle well enough—when a cry came from one of the trolls posted on a cliff above the village. These lookouts served the primary purpose of keeping an eye out for neighboring crystal raiders who might attack the Stoneclaw village.

  But in recent days hopes were running high that they would soon spot Vrograth and the fleet returning.

  The trolls suddenly stopped work, whatever the task at hand, and stood about. They began speaking quickly in trollic, the noise passing throughout the village like birds flying in formation. Then an abrupt stillness as the trolls all looked west, their heavy hands held up to shield their eyes from the light of the setting sun. The amber light of early evening turned their still forms into stones carved into the shape of people.

  I too stood still, staring in the same direction as the trolls. Within moments I saw a line drifting in the sky, though I quickly realized the shape of the line was a trick o f my eye.

  In reality it was a series of dots floating near one another. I felt a presence beside me, and turned to see Krattack. I didn't know whether it was an illusion or really him, but I'd decided a few days earlier it didn't really matter.

  "It didn't go well," he said. The wind picked up a few strands of his gray hair and moved them about from side to side over his barren scalp. He wore his ragged blue magician's robe covered with the pattern of jungle vines.

  He sounded upset and this surprised me. Did he mean not enough ships were lost to fulfill his plans? Or did he feel loss for the lost ships? I looked; back out across the sky and saw between five and ten ships. "I can't tell how many ..."

  "There are only nine ships. Six lost. I have no idea how many sailors and warriors."

  "How many ships did you expect to be lost?"

  "Six. It's still a sad day, whether I guessed correctly or not. The men and women who died have families here. There will be so much sadness." His voice trailed off. His wry distance from the unpleasant realities of political machinations seemed to have vanished, and he was in the middle of pain now.

  As the ships sailed closer I could see he was right— nine ships total. The trolls began craning their necks, looking for the rest of the fleet. A soft murmur began, and they turned to one another with questions; no answers could be found.

  The ships sailed closer, and cries of excitement rose from the deep throats of the trolls as they recognized the flags or the patterns of the sails on some of the ships and realized that their fathers or mothers or sons or daughters or brothers or sisters had most likely survived, for their ships still sailed. Their muscles relaxed, and their stone like vigil ended. But around these many other trolls remained still. Some simply lowered their heads, and I saw them moving their lips, most likely asking Garlen to give them comfort in this time of their despair. Others slipped to their knees, as if a presentiment they'd been holding for the last two weeks had finally been confirmed.

  Those who found in themselves the ability to rejoice—or at least retain optimism—set about gathering herbs and ointments and other medications for wounds. Others began feeding fires and preparing stew and roasted goat for the returning warriors.

  When the ships reached the mountain, they floated down gently upon the massive ledge that formed the heart of the village, one after another, lining up next to each other. Then screams filled the air—terror and remorse, wailing into the darkening sky—as the fears about death became reality. The sounds traveled up to the early evening stars, the pinpoints of light were cold and unresponsive. The trolls raised their arms upward, and beat their chests and cried and cried.

  Happy trolls dragged loved ones off the drakkars. These trolls embraced each other fiercely, whirling around one another in a cluster if the family was large.

  However, I noticed that it was only the adults who exchanged these outbursts of emotion and physical energy. The children held themselves in several lines formed fifty feet or so back from the area where the ships docked.

  Their small, stocky bodies—small for a troll, some only five feet high—remained almost impassive, yet I saw them straining, wishing to be with the adults. On their faces smiles formed with hesitation, as if afraid that by revealing happiness they would be breaking the taboo that limited a crystal raider child's emotional expression (which, indeed, they would). Other faces were very still, and I saw chins trembling and eyes filling at the edge with tears.

  None of the trolls gathered around the drakkars, neither adults nor older children, took notice of the youngsters. Even my companions from the Theran ship seemed far more caught up in the dramatic outpouring of despair and exuberance at the center of the village. And I was not much better, for though I noticed the children, I did not act.

  J'role, however, was different.

  Your father has always been different.

  He stepped up behind a young girl, her body perfectly still, one hand covering her eyes so as not to reveal her pain. Her body was thick; she wore a red jerkin with bits of fur sewn in around the neck. I would not have thought much of it, but I knew that among the troll children, such an outfit was worthy of pride.

  J'role touched her shoulders. As if he had cast a spell around her, her shoulders began to heave up and down, faster and faster, until she abruptly spun around and embraced his legs and hugged herself to him.

  Then, more magic. Without looking at him directly, those children in pain began walking toward J'role and the girl. He knelt down and stretched his arms out wide, and the children gathered around him. J'role tried to embrace them all, a lightning rod for pain.

  Soon they clustered around each other, a mob of despair, their big bodies several layers thick, sobbing and shaking.

  My throat tightened for it was such an unfortunate sight, yet so beautiful. Horror and beauty balanced so perfectly in tableau.

  These thoughts were interrupted, however, by the scream offered up by Vrograth to the clan—to Twilight Peaks, and to the stars.

  "We will have our vengeance!" he cried. "The invaders will know our pain!"

  18

  Bonfires burned, massiv
e and towering, shifting pillars of heat that turned and twisted, mimicking the frenetic bodies of the trolls as they danced around them. Five fires in all, built from large tree trunks gathered several hundred feet down the mountain and carried back up in the drakkars. The trunks, leaning against each other, shaped like large cones pointing to the sky, contained the bodies of those dead the crystal raiders had been able to bring back.

  Vrograth's fleet had attacked the floating castle and its escort of two stone ships. He hadn't considered the discipline of the Theran soldiers. Hadn't considered the fire cannons that could rip apart a drakkar if they scored a solid hit. Hadn't considered the thick stone hulls that could smash into a drakkar even as the trolls tried to board the Theran ships.

  The dead were many, and most of the corpses did not come back. The loss of the bodies was especially grievous to the trolls. Krattack explained that the crystal raider custom demanded that the dead be burned in the funeral pyres at their village. So many trolls lost in mid air, their bodies left ruined and broken on the ground far below, was a tragedy.

  So those corpses that were brought back were burned, fifteen in all, and the air ran thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. My eyes teared from the acrid and overwhelming smoke that swept out from the flames, even though I stood a good distance away from the ceremony, as did all of us who were not part of the clan.

  The children were involved now, in their own, removed way, and formed a large ring around the fires and their parents. Their circle moved, all in one direction, and the children stomped their feet and raised their hands and cried out to the sky. The motion was rhythmic and controlled, but the cries formed an undulating, ghastly tone. I thought of the villages located far below, buried under the canopy of jungle leaves along the base of Twilight Peaks. Could they hear the strange wailing that flowed down the cliffs of the Stoneclaw village? Did they wonder what strange monster had arrived in our world, and were they now barring the doors of their huts, sending their children to bed with strained words of comfort? Or did they know of the trolls, and realize that such cries floating down through the night meant some of their number had died? But even if they knew this, would they know that the ceremony was for more than grief? Would they know that the Stoneclaws were whipping themselves into a frenzy for battle?

  The children formed a sparse ring around the adults. The adults, hundreds of them, wore nothing but crystal armor. Those who did not own such armor wore nothing. It was, Krattack explained, a time of war, and for the crystal raiders, a time of war meant that nothing else mattered, not even clothes on your back.

  Krattack was within the ring of the children, and he, with all the hundreds of adults, moved around the funeral pyres. They too stomped their feet and shook their hands and cried out in anguish at the sky. But on occasion, Krattack stopped and began a slow dance, with careful gestures and sudden, abrupt slices through the air with his arms. As he did this dance, those around him would notice him, and one by one, they would follow him. Only those in Krattack's immediate area could see what he was doing, and only those around him followed. So the mass of the village was wild and loud and screaming and in a small pocket there was stillness, led by Krattack. Then the old troll, his naked flesh gray with age, but his muscles still thick and powerful, would suddenly shout up at the sky. Then his followers would do the same and all of them would once again be stomping and shouting.

  The energy created by the trolls was palpable, and though I had never seen it before in a group, I knew what was happening. They were calling upon one of the Passions to infuse their souls with energy. Specifically Thystonius, the ideal of conflict. Krattack, I realized, was a questor of the Passion, something I would not have guessed.

  We all call upon the Passions, in one way or another, throughout our lives. Sometimes purposefully, sometimes not. A man who lusts after a woman he sees in a market is full of the Passion of Astendar, whether he meant to call Astendar to him or not. Sometimes we do it on purpose. The same man who perfumes his body with the scent of flowers to draw a woman to him is purposefully calling upon Astendar, for he is focusing his body and his thoughts to being attractive.

  And there are the questors, those who commit themselves to the ideals of one Passion.

  They live imbalanced lives, for they know conflict, or creativity, or greed, or domination too well, at the expense of the other passions that make up a whole person. But they are rewarded for this imbalance, for the Passions bless their devotees with powers—much like magical powers, but only for the purpose of bringing physical manifestation of their ideals to earth.

  Bat never before had I seen a mass of people all working in concert for such a goal. All thoughts and efforts of physical exertion were turned to the matter of conflict. Soon the trolls began slamming into one another, sending each other reeling throughout the giant circle formed by the children. The cries grew louder, the thrashing more and more pronounced.

  The frenetic dance thrilled me, called to me, though now, looking back, I do not know why. My small, human body could not have lasted long in the orgy of fury. Yet such was the intensity that I longed to be a part of it, as if I might be able to draw in the energy and sustain myself through the violence.

  And so I passed through the circle formed by the children. I cannot tell you what actually caused the final decision. At the very least it was a chance for dramatic, physical action, and after weeks of waiting, I was ready to do something.

  But this explanation sounds too rational, and I do not think my intellect was working as it usually does. The sounds and cries and random motion of the mob, combined with the finely crafted ritual dance of Krattack, took possession of a different part of my thoughts.

  I maneuvered my way between two troll children as they danced. They seemed both awake and asleep. Entering the circle proved a jolt to my senses, and for just a moment the heat from the fires seemed ready to scorch my flesh from my bones. The circle of children had somehow trapped the heat and kept it from dissipating into the night air.

  I became dizzy, for all points of reference vanished against the constant motion of the trolls, who rushed to and fro, stomping their feet and slamming into one another.

  A warrior crashed into me. His breastplate of red crystal—now blood black in the firelight of the pyres— cracked against my head and sent me to the ground. Dozens of massive troll feet rushed through my vision, and I rolled over onto my back. The pain in my head was sharp, as if a long edge of glass had been cut through my skull. My tongue, oddly, felt thick.

  A hand grabbed me by the wrist, large and strong, and dragged me up to my feet.

  Krattack stared at me. Suddenly I felt safer. Better. Several trolls stood clustered around us. J'role stood there as well, though I do not know how he got so deep into the circle without my being aware of it. I hadn't seen him for some time. His eyes were large black circles. I don't think he recognized me.

  My own sensibilities were disintegrating. The fall had just fled my memory, and I once again eased into the delight of being in the dangerous mass of trolls. The intense heat of the circle seemed quite comfortable now, almost like a fever not accompanied by illness.

  Krattack, J'role, and several other trolls were involved in the slow dance I had seen Krattack perform earlier. At that moment I knew two things. First, that if I did Krattack's dance, I would be enriched with the Passion of Thystonius. Second, I very much wanted that to happen. I did not know how I knew those things, but I longed to be stronger, to be able to throw myself into combat unscathed. Not for reasons of self preservation, but because I simply wanted to push myself to limits of physical endurance I had never experienced before. All these desires rushed into my head. They were not my desires. Or rather, they were the desires of a part of me, the part of me that was Thystonius.

  I glanced at J'role.

  A thought ...

  Pain. I wanted to feel intense pain and survive. I wanted to walk away with the memory of agony burned into my thoughts. J'role
had done this. I knew it suddenly. The secret from his past he had never shared. Agony.

  He had once been mute. He walked into the ruins of Parlainth and came out again with his voice. He never told me what had happened in there.

  Pain. Something dug deep into his emotional flesh, a silver hook, its tip cold and sharp. It had dug into his emotional flesh and ripped something out. The scars had toughened him.

  Sometimes I hated him so much, but part of that was envy.

  I danced.

  I followed Krattack's lead, moving my right arm slowly, first before my face, and then behind my back. A simple movement. Yet in the strange surroundings of the dance I felt the muscles in a way I never had before. Krattack then raised one leg, like a bird about to take flight. The small group clustered around him did the same, as did I, and again my muscle—my bones—felt clear to me.

  The screams continued around me. Grunts and groans and hasty motion and the red glare of the massive flames; the residue of burnt flesh swirling in the air, and I could taste it now, bitter on my tongue, and that taste of death inspired new sensations of life. My entire body shook, not as if from a fever, but as if the ground—the mountain— shook, and its earth shaking vibrations traveled up my flesh, gripped my heart tight, and jostled it firmly, shaking out the useless and keeping only the core of life.