West Marches - Home

West Marches - Home

Ceridwen pushes open the heavy oaken doors. Were they ever so heavy before? The rust on the hinges squeals, and the mildewed rugs and must of rain and fungus mixes with a strange nostalgic feeling. She can almost see Petyr, he bounces ahead of her, stumbles on a wrinkle in the carpets. But he’s not there.

Behind her, Oadira, Quiz and Veles step in, taking in the grand foyer.

Age has worn this patch of manor. The section of night sky is visible through the broken roof, and beneath their feet, vine and moss have begun to creep their way up. And they have enrobed the bodies of the fallen from that fell night long ago.

Ceridwen steps on the skull of one of the butchers, there is a dry leaf-like crunch. The corpse, long since turned to bone, crumbles beneath the papery weight of its own chainmail armor. She continues to step forward, unmindful.



“Sedriks?” Calls Oadira.

There is no answer, the bard walks further in. They shrug, and slowly begin poking around.

The days have not been kind to the manor. Sun and rain, small animals and carrion have come to rest in the corners here and there. Dirt and dried leaves have crept their way in through broken glass.

A massive glass case has scattered its contents across the great hall, trinkets and baubles, rusting and tarnished have become homes for spiders. The glass gives no sound beneath the Bard’s boots, as she takes in this place that was once hers.

Breathe.

To her right, the smell of pork pies that Binnie would make near lunchtime. The memory fades and vanishes.

On her left, the clatter of toy swords as her brothers playfight up and down the parlour, deftly dodging swing and jeer, beneath the watchful eyes of the armsmaster.

And above her.

Her mother. She was always seated at the grand entrance way. A rounding balcony lit beneath a beautiful iron skylight. Her ornate cello, propped up against its stand. And her voice. Her beautiful soprano singing voice. Her voice silently rings out, like a bell, whirling through Ceridwen’s memories. Her mother sang and played, and played, and sang, in a shaft of noon-day sun.

On ghostly feet, the daughter ascends the grand staircase.

The memory fades, and vanishes.

Her mother is not there.

The oaken stool overturned.

The music stand lays face down. Years have eroded the sheets of music to tatters. The cello is on its face, and a woodsman’s axe has silenced it forever.

Mero, her erstwhile guardian is pinned against the balustrade. Or his body is. A hail of crossbow bolts have punched his skeleton through and affixed it to the woodwork. His tattered waist sash unmistakable, the remains crumbling in ghastly repose.

She steps past.

“Sedriks?” Calls Oadira again, faltering. “We’ll just...wait down here?”

There is no answer.

Deft fingers ghost where shattered pedestals once stood, adorned with artwork of ancestors. Perhaps once, this place had been looted, in the early days after the sacking. Perhaps it had given shelter to vagrants and bandits, or village children with their games from prying eyes.

She steps past.

There are two dead men here, probably peasants, but impossible to tell, another body crushed beneath them into a tangled disarray of bones. A shattered knife tells the tale.

She steps past again, and into her parents’ chambers. The sight is lonely, and still. In the half darkness, a body clutches a child’s on the bed, run through with spears left in the now decaying feather bedding.

She closes her eyes, and steels her will.

For a long time, Ceridwen can see behind her closed eyelids. She can breathe the smell of torches, and hear the shrieks and yells of maids and guards. She sees her mother push her hand over Petyr’s eyes as a spear crashes into her side. She hears the scream of her brother and the choked gurgle.

She smells blood, and sweat, and hate.

“Witch” they murmur, shrill and grasping. “Heretic!” And the words become cacophonous. They run her older sister, Brighit, through, the heavy longsword blade of an Inquisitor. She tries to cry, but blood stains her silken dress.

The room whirls, Ceridwen’s heart beats faster, and faster, and the smell of violence suffuses her.

She falls to her knees.

And history falls away into the shadowed bedroom.

But before her, is one last horror.

Her infant brother, or what remains of him.

Oadira, Veles and Quiz pick through the strange manor, slowly righting furniture, dusting rubble away, and peering into cupboards and bookshelves when they are startled. A shriek pierces the silence of the estate. A hundred birds alight, rats flee and even the vines and trees recoil in shock. The shriek becomes a wail, sonorous and dissonant all at once. It is a hammer blow, a wrenching, living thing.

They drop the things they are holding, hands go to hilts and weapons are drawn as they race up the stairs and round the hallway corners.

And find their friend.

Ceridwen clutches a tiny tangled skeleton, swaddled in stained linen. Her shoulders wrack with ugly sobs, and heavy silver tears roll down her cheeks.

Lumps in throats, they approach and try to offer comfort, but she is inconsolate.

Even the plants, and the dust, coil around at her feet to whisper soothingly.

But in her heart, something has broken.

Never, ever, to be restored.