Harbinger's Tale

Savatiri held the burning ember of the tinder-twig to the bowl of the mahogany burl pipe, and puffed on it slowly, her eyes fixed on the dried aromatics within.  She leaned back against the headboard, the sheets casually tossed over her waist and covering little more than that.  Mercurial panted softly, still recovering from the woman’s near brutal lovemaking.

As the bluish cloud erupted from the pipe and Savatiri’s mouth the delicate bard rolled over, looking up at the muscular, scarred woman.  Her grey eyes traced the lines of scars and curves of muscle slowly, as if memorizing the handsome woman for a poem or a ley.  The dark eyes of the warrior flicked to the harbinger, and the thin eyebrows rose.  “Your hair’s a mess, girl.”  The bard smiled and slid over to lie against Savatiri’s thigh, looking up at her as she smoked.

“I may survive it,” she murmured softly, pulling the sheets up to cover her clean white breasts.  Savatiri continued to smoke, and ran her calloused fingers with surprising gentleness over the girl’s ears.  An expression of confusion washed over her features and she more firmly turned Mercurial’s head to the side.  Mercurial tolerated the movement, bemused.

“Your ears,” Savatiri said.  “They’re not entirely human.”

The bard’s smile slipped a little.  “No, not entirely,” she admitted.

“I thought you were a little tight.  How old are you?”

Mercurial hesitated a long moment, remembering.


Mercurial Whim-of-Glory was born in the Enclave, which was as close to the word ‘city’ as the elvenkind ever came.  Her mother had weathered childbirth well enough, though it had been long and terribly painful.  Her father, of course, was no where to be found.  This meant little enough to the elves; the crèche where all the children grew would be as accepting and open to the half-breed as it was to those who had been sired in more traditional manners than she had been.

Her growth was unprecedented compared to her peers however; those few children sharing the crèche with her, though older by far, did not remain larger for long.  Their more willowy builds did not compare to the grossly fat half-human among them, and as the fat melted away, the muscle that replaced it gave her a more masculine appearance than any of the male elflings.  She was quickly delivered to a second, older crèche, and she began learning the ways of her kind.

Free spirited and not given to the task of child-rearing with the utter and complete devotion required by humans, the elvenkind came and went in a constant, slow flow of gentle and loving watchers and teachers.  By far the hardest thing to cope with was the half-human’s tendency to doze off, particularly during the leys and stories of history and heritage.  What she did hear she retained far more deeply than her siblings; once again she rapidly outstripped her crèche siblings in the studies that were meant be a beginning of the elvenkind’s slow rise to knowledge and learning.

Thrust forward into the third crèche of her life, the children she became friends with were both older than her and far more fragile in build.  As they learned the bow and the blade, she quickly became their equals, despite her shorter time learning.  It was also at this time she began to have strange feelings and odd sensations, many centering about her companions, beautiful and delicate elven children of both genders.

Her mother quickly divined what was occurring; she began taking Mercurial on long, quiet walks, telling her about her other heritage and its power and flaws.  The teaching of her child became intimate; it had to, because she was the only one who could be expected to deal with the burgeoning adolescent’s new-found desires and lusts.  She was not condemned for it; such liaisons were not unheard of or even uncommon among the sylvan folk, though the relative youth of the half-human gave Mercurial’s mother a small loss of face among her community.  Ordinarily those of the crèche would have managed the mutual explorations of life and love, but Mercurial was two crèche-spans ahead of her current crèche in her development.

The half-human continued to grow at a rate that boggled the older members of her crèche, and it was not long before she joined the community as a whole, setting aside childish teaching for the more in-depth absorption of learning and knowledge that a young elf would have managed to begin after a mere century of growth.  She learned easily and quickly, though she was often forced to abandon longer teachings to dream among the boughs and nests of the trees the Enclave called home.  It amused her teachers and mentors, and they often accepted her back again and again, long after a human’s patience would have worn to nothing.

Soon the f’dervou came to her, and she expressed her desire to learn more about the world as it was, rather than as it appeared to be among the quiet bowers and warm glades of the deeper forest.  Given gifts she went forth into the world, armed with knowledge surpassing most mortals and the skill to call forth the regretful quietude her quick, torrential childhood had left her with and inflict it upon others with haunting melody and heartbreaking voice.

Her first forays into the world of mortal man were silent and careful, the hamlets and thorps of the human empire poor and less than receptive to outsiders.  Her long lessons and intense teachings had left her armed with the knowledge of the human condition, but the squalor and brutality of the truth it brought pain to her innocent heart.  Mercurial found herself wandering further and further from her home deeper and deeper into the heart of human civilization.

And what civilization it was!  The first townships were more welcoming to her, and she quickly made herself useful to those inns and taverns she deigned to stay in; her songs brought both joy and sadness, and she was able to quickly learn from those few minstrels and bards she met on her journey.  While many of them had greater lore than she, her own teachings had given her a wider variety of knowledge and skill than any human could have learned at the hands of a single mentor.

It was not until she reached the great capital of the province that she understood what the words ‘city’ and ‘throngs’ actually entailed.  Not quite the innocent she had been – for she had enjoyed the pleasures of the fair maids and occasional wench who expressed an interest on occasion and been subjected to the human propensity for theft and cruelty – she was far more wary than she might have been if she’d entered the city rather than taking the years-long journey through all of the human lands.  Armed and armored, she walked the streets awestruck and astounded.  The slow, quiet life of the elves and the hard toil of the peasantry were nothing compared to the frenetic pace and intense competition of life here.

Mercurial took much longer to accept that the rules and laws of the society she had plunged herself into were not so carefree and understanding as her previous life among the elves had been.  Even after several incidents concerning annoyed folk whom she’d worked into her music after unpleasant encounters and the occasional misappropriation of wares left seemingly untended, she could charm and inveigle her way out of most of the city watch’s attentions and lectures.  This was often at the cost of hot, decidedly uncomfortable fumbling and moist noises in alleys and in the watch-houses.

Her games and escapades did not remain unnoticed for very long.  Bribery and corruption on a scale Mercurial could scarcely imagine soon brought her to the attention of others whom began to covet her unusual talents and wide array of interesting skills.  And when the word came from the great Maw that she should be brought under the guiding, gentle hand of the Silent Guild, it was not long before she was scooped up like a mouse in the claws of a hawk...


Mercurial blinked her eyes blearily, the distorted colors and fuzzy, muffled sounds causing her head to throb heavily.  She pushed golden locks of her own hair from her eyes, and looked up at the stonework ceiling.  She was certain she hadn’t had that much to drink; it usually took three times as much to leave her in this sort of agony.  Her fingers and toes tingled and she slowly pushed herself up.

Loud, boisterous voices drifted from a distant room and the decidedly off key jangle of some plunker with an untuned lute gave her the impression she was still in the tavern she’d been playing at the previous night.  Or day – she couldn’t tell what time it was, for the only light source was a sooty, low burning lamp.  She rose unsteadily, wincing as her nether regions complained about the guard she’d been forced to accommodate after the misappropriation of some small but valuable wares from the local apothecary.  Those were gone now; she felt for her wizard’s pouch and found it too missing.  The familiar, comforting weight of her delicate chain mail was there, but her thinblade was missing.

A quick exploration of her immediate surrounding did not hearten her.  It was a cell, though there was no door; she had been laid on a fairly clean straw mat, and as she brushed bits of it from her hair she saw the place was at one time a storage room of some sort.  The old stoneware looked to be from one of the older buildings; she was definitely underground, for thin leaks of water made long slimy trials from the tops of the walls, though not the more carefully constructed ceiling.

She rolled over and got to her hands and feet, her head protesting at the movement.  She felt faintly nauseous and it only took her a moment’s though to realize she’d been drugged, and quite heavily.  She slowly got to her feet, the chain shirt impeding her little, elven-make as it was; her leather bracers felt loose and she made a quick study of her own person.  The lock picks under her left bracer and the deadly stiletto under her right were both gone.  Her boot-knife and belt pouches were all missing as well.  The leather and carnelian amulet about her neck was still there; she was glad she’d had the presence of mind to enchant it with the aura of deception she’d discovered among the scrolls in the old hedge-wizard’s home.

Staggering a little Mercurial wandered out of the cell and into the hallway.  There were several other cells, some with crates and barrels, others with moaning, writhing figures engaged in acts of lust, and others with silently grim men poring over trinkets and charms.  She actually paused at one where two boys were stripping a dead man of his clothing.  They stopped and glared at her; one giggled and stuck his thumb between fore and middle fingers, a rude gesture or a sign of some sort she was unfamiliar with.  The other told her to beat it quite rudely, and she did.

When Mercurial walked out of the hall into the cellar, she shuddered at the too-bright bonfire in the center of the chamber, and wished the idiot musician would stop tormenting her with his noise.  Someone else apparently felt the same, for a crash of wood and startled yell later, accompanied by the twang of broken strings brought an end to the lute playing.  A number of uncouth, unpleasant men and women of varying races, builds and demeanors inhabited the chamber, and were engaged in as many activities as one might expect in a tavern – and more.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to jerk away as a calloused hand grabbed at her arm.  Darting into the light, she saw the lovely elf whom had bought her the last drink she could easily recall was dancing, a vibrant whirling dance, jewelry and gems flashing.  Mercurial’s heart sank as she recognized her rings on the woman’s hand and the elven woman noted her attention.  She laughed and danced all the more vivaciously to the onlookers’ shouts and catcalls, several clapping to give her a beat.  Mercurial didn’t try to escape the heavy hand this time as it closed about her upper arm.

“Come along, ye...th’ Maw wishet to see ye.”  Glancing up at the craggy countenance of the human thug, Mercurial sighed.  She’d undoubtedly fallen in with a bad of thieves and cutthroats; yet she still had her armor, so it could not be entirely to the worse.  She allowed the man to guide her around the room, and her captor received several jeers and insults, along with several offers for her company for the night.  He ignored them gesturing furiously at one, and he seemed not to notice as Mercurial filched his knife from him and slipped it under her tabard.

She was brought into a half darkened room where several dirty and unkempt girls of varying ages – all with a dead, glazed look of despair in their eyes – lounged about.  Several men were smoking from a hookah, their clothing richer and their jewels displayed quite openly for a place such as this.  A large half-orc, fat, hirsute, and thickly tusked, lounged in a huge hardwood chair with a high back.  His clothing was simple and basic, and relatively clean, except for the holes along one sides where the rib of the wearer would be settled.

“So, this be our wee poacher, hn?” he said in a slow, thick drawl.  “Give her th’ mage’s pouch, and her leathers.  Keep th’ stikers; she c’n have them back later.”  He leaned forward and brought a large, oblong bucket up to his flabby lips, pouring a goodly amount of wine into his mouth without spilling.

The man turned her forcibly to the side and pushed her at a low table where her pouches and purse were, along with her picks and various other personal items remained.  No weapons, she noted, but she had the human’s blade.  “G’wan,” her captor said, unhappily.  She was shoved into the table and there was soft laughter and an amused chuckle from among the smokers. The half-orc watched her with yellow eyes as she tied and fastened her pouches and seemingly worthless trinkets.

She jumped as a firm pinch on her unprotected derriere gave her a start.  She whirled, looking down at a rather stout but not unhandsome gnomish lady.  She was twirling the dagger she’d filched from her captor who swore and grabbed at his belt.  The gnome had reached up under her armor to give her the pinch and she blushed furiously.  “Now, dearie, don’t you be angry at Mother.  You’ll do just fine if you listen to your betters, sweetie.”  The woman straightened her apron and picked up a tray of...well, things, and set it on a cask behind the half-orc.

“I am the Grondy, li’l snippet, and you’d best t’ mind me.  Mudder here is your taskmaster, and sh’d be tellin’ you where you’d be goin’ and what you’d be doing for now on.”  The half-orc leaned forward, his belly sagging over his thighs and his huge hands clasped together.  He wore and assortment of rings, and her gaze wandered up his heavily scarred arms.  “What’s your name, snippet, so as the Maw can know what t’ call you?”

“Mercurial,” she murmured softly, and a sharp swat across the back of her calves elicited a yelp.  She glanced reproachfully at the gnome, who held a rod of flexible wood, which she bent slightly in both hands as she smiled up at the half-human girl.  “Mercurial,” she said more firmly, fighting the urge to rub her stinging calves.

“Mercy, then,” said the half-orc.  He leaned back and twiddled his thumbs slowly.  She wasn’t fooled – Mercurial looked him in the eyes, watching him carefully.  “Well, Mercy, you’ve got a likely look t’ you, and I t’ink you’d be suited for special tasks.”

A heavy, bass voice emerged from the shadows behind the Grondy, and hearing it sent chills down the girl’s spine.  “She’s got the looks of a human girl no older than her tweens.  Use her for that.”

The half-prc glanced over her shoulde,r half turning in his seat to look back at the pild of heavy blankets and garbage behind him.  “Beggin’ your pard’n sirrah, but sh’d look an elf with them ears.”

Mercurial glanced down at Mother, who grinned wickedly up at her, watching her like a hawk.  Regretfully, she abandoned the idea of flight; she wouldn’t make it out of the room if she tried, she was sure.  She turned back and tried to pierce the shadows and determine who or what was hidden in them.

“Hold her.”  The words were immediately followed by the heavy and smelly grasp of arm about her neck and one behind her head.  She immediately began to struggle as the man who had brought her here put her in a tight headlock.

“Struggle all y’ wan’, y’ slitch; I’ve nary been beat by a gel y’ size!”  The man who had brought her here kept her efficiently and thoroughly held, ignoring the digging of her nails into his arm.  Several of the men smoking the hookah sat back, as though to enjoy a show.  The Grondy leaned to one side, and the plate of flower petals, mushrooms, bits of cloth, eggs, and mutton rose up behind him, supported by nothing.  As the shadows behind the half-orc moved, Mercurial felt her muscles tighten, her heart race and her bladder loosen.  She resisted the urge to let go, but it was hard; she managed better than many men did when faced with the Maw.

A skull like visage well over five feet across floated out f the darkness, and the huge eyes before her blinked slowly, massive lids obscuring the obscenely beautiful iris of deep sea green and the slit pupil longer than her arm.  The lower jaw unhinged, swinging back rather than lowering as the Maw poured the plateful of oddments into its mouth.  One of the eyes on its head gleamed a brilliant blue-white as it stared at the plate; others twitched and curled, the bone colored chitin moving with eerie, alien fluidity as the joints shifted to and fro.

The eye tyrant gazed at her as it slowly chewed it’s ‘meal’, several of its eyes turning upon her and others keeping attentively on the others nearby.  One continued to gaze at the back of the Grondy’s head, though he seemed inured to its persistence.  “The Grondy speaks true, elflings.  You cannot appear to be a very young human female with your ears so swept.”  Mercurial’s eyes widened and she shrieked, her gaze fixing on the massive half-orc, though he made no move to draw a knife.

Her head was jerked to the side and Mercurial felt a distinct pop in her neck, and she winced.  Then agony flooded her being as one of the most sensitive parts of her body – one her mother had tenderly licked and kissed – was bathed in raw, intimate agony.  A thin beam of yellow light had erupted from one of the stalked eyes, the beholder’s great eye remaining closed as it seared a faintly curving line along the top of the girl’s ear.  She gasped for breath under the intense pain, tearing deep gouges into the arms of the man who held her fast.  She struggled but could barely move, even as the eye tyrant burned the tip of her ear away.  “Next one.”

She screamed again, sobbing in agony as she was twisted bodily by the thug, who grunted with the effort.  The agony returned, just as intense despite having suffered through it once already.  The tyrant said something in the thick, rumbling tongue of dragons.  “You will obey girl, for if not, I’ll perform this on much more tender parts of your body.”  The half-orc gazed at her sympathetically, but there was no mercy there; he clearly understood what she’d been told, though the others murmured amongst themselves as the beholder carved Mercurial’s ears.

Finally the deed was done and the man dropped her, rubbing his arms and swearing profusely.  Mother walked over and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder; Mercurial jerked away, her head throbbing with the intensity of her pain.  The gnome grabbed her arm and pulled her slightly and hummed.  “These will need stitching or gum to look proper, but it’s a right enough job.”

The Grondy leaned forward again.  “Do as told, Mercy, and you’ll be amply reward’d.  Turn your back on us, an’ there’d be no place as’d be safe for you.”  He gestured with his chin and the girl was hauled up, while Mother looked at the Maw.

“Let her recover; put her in with the other doxies.  Let them tell her the truth of it all.  Give her the weapons.  No more than three days, before she’s working.”

Mother nodded and swatted the human thug on the rear with her rod.  “Well, carry her, you big oaf!”  The man grumbled but obeyed, lifting the girl easily, though she cringed at his touch.  The scent of his blood was as intense as the scent of her pain and fear, and she could hear the rumbling voice of the eye tyrant in her head as he spoke to the Grondy.  “Give her to oldman Slagaras.  He’s been after us for a young girl for a while.  Have her collect a few books from him...”

She shuddered, her induction into the Silent Guild marking her forever as a victim...until she could craft a revenge so awesome the city would ring with tales of it. Her heart boiled and she felt the presence of her guardian spirits bubble and ooze through her mind, her prayers to Ygorl and his terrible brethren silent and desperate.

After all, she had time...


“Old enough to enjoy it when you are rough, Savvy,” she murmured with a smile, rolling over and resting her head on her arms.  “You can think of me as youthful or as old as you like.”

Savatiri laughed softly and ran a hand through the girl’s soft golden hair, letting it spill over her rounded ears.  “That’s my girl,” she murmured affectionately.  “Never a straight answer when asked.”