Ep.5 The Blight Queen

A Tale Of Doon

Vanweath saw fire, smelled smoke, heard the cries and came awake screaming as her last conscious memories flooded forth with the sensation of cold steel piercing her body. She sat up, the images and sensations clear in her mind, covering her vision like a cloud rolling all around her. Like a nightmare it gripped her and yet her freshly awoken senses told her she wasn't where she thought she was, that a calm and a peace surrounded her, and in her presence were others looking on with an out of scene indifference. Vanweath covered her face with her hands to hide from the terror, and though her memories continued through the darkness, the disunion between body and mind helped tell her something was amiss.

“Am I dreaming?” She heard her own worried, crackling voice stammer.

“You’re awake,” A woman’s voice, strangely familiar yet Vanweath knew not who it belonged to. She felt hands gently cup her arms and flinched, but finding no violence, relented to their presence. “Just breathe, give yourself a moment, the visions will pass.”

Vanweath clung to those words for dear life, trusted in the voice who offered them, and breathed just to tell herself they were true. With each draw the moments dragged on and the terror soaked visions slowly began to fade. Soon, covering her eyes became the only source of the memories' life and opening her eyes held the power to finally dispel them.

“Thank, The Lady.” Vanweath breathed, her throat dry, her voice a crackle.

“It was by no work of Luck that you’re alive, my girl. You can thank Ms. Styles for that..”

Vanweath’s gaze fell upon the man, an aging human, mature in years and overly dignified in dress. He appeared as a character from an echelon of refined society beyond the old, simple ways of Vanweath and her thin line of Djuani. Yet she resented the suggestion she was deserving of a lesser title, albeit that of a mere girl, and held no love for the deflection of The Lady’s praise. Sparing a fool her tongue, Vanweath’s gaze followed the man’s gesture to regard the woman, a pretty, fair skinned, blonde haired human dressed as some sort of practical journeywoman. Vanweath had no idea what to make of her other than she had been skilled enough to tend to her grievous wounds, if the man was to be believed.

“I am Scholl Blackhand, this is Ms. Julia Styles. You are in the care of the Coterie of the Blackscale. You are alive for a simple purpose, to tell us what happened to your homestead.”

Vanweath winced at that, the memory still stark in her mind, the images burned upon her retina when she blinked her eyes. She felt a dreadful unease and rubbed an irritation in her eye, and that without the pain of sorrow at the loss of her fellow kin.

“Curse the gods why don’t you, Scholl!” Julia burst incredulously and turned an unimpressed gaze upon the man. He returned a blank, unremarked stare. “Compassion? A drop wouldn't hurt, you know.” Julia returned to Vanweath, “You’ll have to excuse him, he struggles with his humanity.” Julia explained with sudden overabundant sympathy. “You must be in shock, how is your head?” The blonde woman questioned with an appraising eye.

Vanweath felt a slight ache in her head, the lesser of a host of troubles she was managing in that moment. The pain through her chest and in her back seemed worse, the wound she’d received apparently still healing. She had no idea how much time had passed, but an exceptionally long life filled with trouble and woe made these concerns more momentary afflictions. Her physical wounds would bare scars, her familiar losses would forever bite deep, but those few Djuani still upon Theon all knew theirs was a fading light, as it had been for generations. Vanweath met their gaze and, narrowing her eyes, gave her response.

“What would you ask of me?”

(Continue to Ep.6)

(Episode Directory)

Support me on Patreon or follow me on Minds for updates.

(Please like, leave a comment, and remind!)