The white carriage swung lazy beneath the Sun, kicking up dust so dry it burned the lungs. In it’s harness, two hounds the size of horses pulled on, every feature long and pronounced by the short coats they wore. One the shade of red gold, the other a pale silver. Large pointed ears, long slim tails, a triangle of eyes on both, sockets empty with the depths of night skies in them. In a low light, one could see that darkness within swim with galactic lights, clusters of tiny pinpricks. Souls of the people they’d killed and devoured whole.
Or so the story went. They pulled tirelessly and made no sound, even when they hunted, and they always came back to the slightest whisper of whom had been bestowed the right to speak. Since this morning, that had been Myyr.
There had been men in chains at the harbour as they’d stepped off Auroch’s Boon, coming in from Altalusia, an immediate introduction to how nothing on this side of Ilica had changed. It was the same kinds of people put in line, but the numbers were greater and with it, the noise had grown desperate. Prayers died in mouths that had the want to but moan and weep, for no one was listening.
The gauntlet was closing. The modest party of Altalusians, mainly representatives of whomever held interests within the Magician’s Collective, were quick to scatter off the piers like so much sand into wind, or like Myyr fancied them — roaches. All to their own ends, away from beneath the burn of a bright light of day and the eyes that were bound to be everywhere. How many would return, when this was all done? Would they close the way out to whomever made it back to the ships to begin with?
Perhaps. On the voyage from White Port the overwhelming sentiment had been ‘perhaps not’. Time would tell whether that was idiotic optimism or foolhardy realism. Myyr themself was wholly inspired by vintage cynicism, for no matter the disaster, there was always business as usual going on right by any which one. And their business was, on paper, nothing but the most insignificant of the sort as far as empires were concerned.
Personal affairs. To view some items they were of the mind to purchase. Trade, if it came to it. That was all permitted, on paper. Untrusting of such things, they’d hired some hardy looking men with steel in hand and taste for gold to accompany the small caravan. They cast long shadows off their steeds on both sides, speaking and shouting to each other like old friends. On lambskin, in a carved box with pearl inlay and proofed with a seal, were their contracts and a list of names as to who to contact for pay, though reduced, should anything happen to whom had hired them. Basic courtesy, which had earned the Collective goodwill among select mercenary companies.
This was the procession’s second day on the road. The retinue traveled on the third and fourth wagon, all bright chatter once the heat let up towards the evening. The gorgon in charge of them all sat beside Myyr in the white carriage, petrified into thought as an expanse of white sand rolled on by. She appeared to be judging it through those red-tinted glasses of hers, which she made a point to adjust upon the scales of her nose whenever she was particularly miffed.
That was the only motion she’d made for the past couple hours, if one didn’t count the constant stir of the adders sprouting from her scalp. The hiss and coil added to the din, rattle of wheels and bearings and the creak of cushions. Chime of the rings she’d hung to decorate her temples. Myyr didn’t mind any of it, as in their time they’d experienced true, isolated silence, and nothing made the living feel more dead than that. Buried alive. Forgotten.
Soon they’d make camp. There was plenty time to catch up on work then.
Or so the story went. They pulled tirelessly and made no sound, even when they hunted, and they always came back to the slightest whisper of whom had been bestowed the right to speak. Since this morning, that had been Myyr.
There had been men in chains at the harbour as they’d stepped off Auroch’s Boon, coming in from Altalusia, an immediate introduction to how nothing on this side of Ilica had changed. It was the same kinds of people put in line, but the numbers were greater and with it, the noise had grown desperate. Prayers died in mouths that had the want to but moan and weep, for no one was listening.
The gauntlet was closing. The modest party of Altalusians, mainly representatives of whomever held interests within the Magician’s Collective, were quick to scatter off the piers like so much sand into wind, or like Myyr fancied them — roaches. All to their own ends, away from beneath the burn of a bright light of day and the eyes that were bound to be everywhere. How many would return, when this was all done? Would they close the way out to whomever made it back to the ships to begin with?
Perhaps. On the voyage from White Port the overwhelming sentiment had been ‘perhaps not’. Time would tell whether that was idiotic optimism or foolhardy realism. Myyr themself was wholly inspired by vintage cynicism, for no matter the disaster, there was always business as usual going on right by any which one. And their business was, on paper, nothing but the most insignificant of the sort as far as empires were concerned.
Personal affairs. To view some items they were of the mind to purchase. Trade, if it came to it. That was all permitted, on paper. Untrusting of such things, they’d hired some hardy looking men with steel in hand and taste for gold to accompany the small caravan. They cast long shadows off their steeds on both sides, speaking and shouting to each other like old friends. On lambskin, in a carved box with pearl inlay and proofed with a seal, were their contracts and a list of names as to who to contact for pay, though reduced, should anything happen to whom had hired them. Basic courtesy, which had earned the Collective goodwill among select mercenary companies.
This was the procession’s second day on the road. The retinue traveled on the third and fourth wagon, all bright chatter once the heat let up towards the evening. The gorgon in charge of them all sat beside Myyr in the white carriage, petrified into thought as an expanse of white sand rolled on by. She appeared to be judging it through those red-tinted glasses of hers, which she made a point to adjust upon the scales of her nose whenever she was particularly miffed.
That was the only motion she’d made for the past couple hours, if one didn’t count the constant stir of the adders sprouting from her scalp. The hiss and coil added to the din, rattle of wheels and bearings and the creak of cushions. Chime of the rings she’d hung to decorate her temples. Myyr didn’t mind any of it, as in their time they’d experienced true, isolated silence, and nothing made the living feel more dead than that. Buried alive. Forgotten.
Soon they’d make camp. There was plenty time to catch up on work then.
