Private The Harvest Hound

[Isambard Netherwisp]

Heather on the heath, wisps upon the wind. Moons within their cowls, pointillism of stars sparkling and speckling the clouds that did drag their heels, morose and easy in their drift. The freshness of river was supped by the nocturnal steed of black, a thinning thing allowed to cool. The wheel dipped circular did power small shack despite the hour. Turning, creaking. Lapping and dipping.

Within the failing wood of the cabin, aching from the years and absent craftsman, was a quill that did dip and scribe the matter of the days to come from fingers that scratched out report and complaint. A simple writing desk, a stove unlit. No candle did illuminate the growing gloom that did become more demanding. The stars and sheen of moons were enough to seering eyes. The drying ink clear to the writer as if it were day, for night was the aspect of life he did frame and dwell, dip from and dip into, time and time again.

From window crooked and boarded up in places, did a spark of freaking light of azure and indigos bob and weave, as if impatient for the final signature. The eyes fixed upon the word, that few in such low light could see dry.

To My Colleagues of the Entropic, Keepers of the Code and Binders of the Banished Books,

Imagine my surprise when the exiled theoretical I did posit some two centuries ago does stalk the land! Talk of glowing green tendrils from beast that skitters in the dark on heath and hill as it does devour the animated, the dark, the wandering dead made hateful, such talk did reach my ears. I hate that I did hear it from peasant who seemed thankful to have the odd undead be consumed by a, quote, “Helpful dog, awful strange dog, but less of those shamblers the better!”

I did not care to illuminate the farmer's mind with the proper fear, going on my way to draw up plans and charter the actions. Ignorance be their pastoral bliss. Our understanding demands our action. But before I go on to speak of the response, I must pay duty to my shock in your lapses.

Instead of being informed that there was a breach in the archives and such a creation in the land from my fellows in the Art, I hear from it's jump from theory to existence from farmer hands and copper tongued merchants! All in good humour and cheer about it, as if such arrival were a blessing! Lesser men might lose their nerve from such a crumbling route of communication and information between us of the entropics. Not I. I am sure an explanation shall be forthcoming.

Yet, I remind you of the facts.

You did not warn me of this breach. Shameful if you did not know of this theft. Insulting to us and our ways if you did - and refused to let me know. Loathsome either way. But in duty I shall attend the need, and trust that our bureaucracies that should by all rights strip honours from the resters on laurels shall act as protocol demands. This I do believe is within your power and within my faith to hold as forthcoming.

I need not remind you of the obligations we are bound untoward. Designs I did consider, and mayhap given time and focus by someone demented and driven, have realised what I did anticipate as possible. It does exist, all too real, all too hungry it seems. Despite the danger, despite the hazards in such quick response, I move to face it. I marshal those whom I can to aid. I write to you in duty and in faith, for you should be known in timely fashion.

I am unsure of the evolution of this hypothetical turned practical. It is of the Art, our Art, yet some talk of magitech emanations that do issue from within it's howls. So I have gathered from witness, unreliable yet sincerely reporting. From how such a beast does feed and prowl and howl, and feed from the fallen made moving, from rumour and report - it cannot be mistaken as anything other than what I did postulate as possible. It has been manifested. And it does consume.

The gnawing thought is thus. It harvests the energy of the animated. Stores and carries it, wellspring for another stream ahead of it. To what project beyond itself will it feed? To what handler holds the leash and wield the weave it does scythe from the fields of dead turned motionful? What is their goal? And how did they loot my work from the Banished Books? At the very least, I must delay, perhaps quell this hound if it is within my power. At most, the creator and holder of the leash must be confronted. Or render their efforts and designs moot.

I am owed an explanation, and inquiry, this is undeniable. But more important and immediate is that resources you have must be delivered, post haste. This you will oblige me in a timely manner. The need is great. The situation compels us all. Deliver me what is yours to send. Time is a factor to the solution.

I suspect such aid shall be too late, or perhaps compromised, logistics and trust be as they are. I request aid in whatever means is able. I know not what exact advances one armed with other possible thefts to the Banished Books, from exiled theoretics or worse, how such plundering might empower their ends.

Despite the fumbling grip on the keys of knowledge I did trust you with, I shall seal this lock anew, and sunder this demonstration. I only wish that my talents had not been buried. That ne're do wells haved freed it from the earth you sat upon, idle, that preparations might have been made. But regrets are for the dead. We living must act. We who know must with understanding must act with what strength is theirs to lend.

Enclosed are details of my plan and findings. My location, my travel, and my missives to the local agents sympathetic to the need you shall find enclosed. Pray I am successful. I pray to be bolstered by what is yours to send. Bid me well with all I might find to supply this dire circumstance with remedy. I do what I can with what I can. I only pray I find others of similar mind who can contend.

Our Art shall be maintained and safeguarded from itself. ​

Yours in duty true, and heart availing,

Necroseer Isambard Netherwisp​

The scratch of name, of duty performed. The letter left to dry, satisfaction as his own name became secure within the parchment. Netherwhisp allowed a greater dark to take his eyes, a rush of resting sensation that could only be indulged for a moment. To linger long within the night would encourage lapses within himself.

A humble bed seemed an all too luring trap, to take a single night to rest would amass failures. He wished it were not here at all. He stayed within his discomfort a moment, before peering at the window. He did not rise. Finger curled to unlatch the crooked pane, allowing that which was summoned to serve his will.

“Take this letter,” Netherwisp ground the words from soul, dry and refusing to indulge doubt in itself.

The wisp did flicker a moment.

Elven hands sealed the letter with stamp and pressed a necklace against the envelope, searing with cold and oracle lock. Further grips of triangular pendant pressing the weave into the word to be sent.

Satisfied, Netherwisp did hand it, gentle this time. He spoke again, softer, more accommodating to courtesy.

“Many thanks to all spirits for their favours, without your sparks to guide our sendings, we would be very much alone.”

The sparkle of weaving light gave a warming glow. A brief look of contentment and accord in Netherwisp, the letter lifted by the ghostly apparation, that did fold it within the spaces of the weave to be carried as light within it.

“Now...go. You'll not enjoy the feeling of being so close to this next comminique.”

Netherwisp rose from the desk and chair and the wisp that was much of will now, and did attend it's duty to the flight ahead of it. Eager to be away and fulfil it's calling, evasive to what Netherwisp did beckon into the visions of the gifted. No final look, it did zip away as dragonflies might.

The window remained open, the sky did creep the cloud and make shy the sparkling light. What hooded spheres of the celestial gazed as if accusing as the Necroseer made the next impulse by his power, hands raised to his temple. Pressing as if to forge a thought infernal, forging a coin of sin from liquid metals of his mind. His necklaces amassed and silvered did bristle, turning within themselves lending their strengths and furnishings what was theirs to give.

A rush within the weave, a ripple for those attuned to the ways of the necrotic. Outwards the wave that set momentum. That caused symptom within the senses, that made itself heard to those with ears to lend them.

To those that would be entrapped as audience due to the trappings of their talents, thus: A sound within the ear that resembled a shade of that Harvest Hound, a hungering predator with a stomach for the unliving. A sound within a dream, an intrusive thought that would knock against the door insistent to anyone of the Art and their obligations to the necrotic. Perhaps some hint depending on the angle of the attitude and the sophistication of the arcane wit as to what he had written upon. A message, cryptic, hidden in the patterns that would repeat once listened, detailing place, hinting at the nature, demanding to be met, knowing how to scream the of duty in the blood and brain.

A danger, to the north, deeper into country. Some small collection of miles away from humble shack did the ripple direct the eye. Those who would ride this omen to those eyes affixed would find a place known as Bramblestone, a place of obelisks and runestones, of thick fields of lavanders in agriculture hard fought for. A place of hermits and hamlets, of hobbling haunts and one Harvester Hound. Menhirs that the beast did prowl and circle, venturing far and sleekly to snuff those without life. All to slake the thirst of it's master for energies unknown to most, the rivers of death were as ouroboros.

So, the wave issued. Leaving Netherwisp in the cold and numbness he knew all too well and dearly.

Pause. And then, a sigh, a shudder. The deep subvocal message had been sent on the weave, and with it, Netherwisp did leave and seal the shack, his duty performed, and his plan awaiting his presence ahead of him.

The thinning horse was patted, given soft warning.

“Steady we go to Bramblestone. Only your hooves and eyes can carry me in time,”

The steady hooves found themselves despite the entrenching dark, the lithe dark steed having eyes as blessed to pitch as Isambard's own. This was not the ride of one with charging news. This was one that while hurried, knew that others must be given chance to join. That to rush to the Hound without delay might provide a feast all it's own, all too generous. Even now, it did breathe deep of the weave, detecting it's own upon those strange winds, and setting haunches about it's undead hunches.

The haunted were as the hunted.
The Harvest Hound set about to prowling.
The agents of the Weave of Death and Unlife did as they felt was their calling.
A howl theirs to hear before the bite and snarling.

@Walter Thornley​

 

[Walter Thornley]

Word reached him from one of the Huntsmen visiting with the family near Bramblestone. A happy word, initially - the recent funeral in the village of Conrad's second cousin didn't go so well. Then, the dog thing slinked past, and the haunt's terror stopped. No more clawing at doors and trying to get into windows and chimneys, no more freshly dug deep holes.

"Are you certain that the thing's not vampiric in nature?" the baron mused idly. He was already out of his seat, scribbling a short note of departure to Dolores while his other hand reached for the family ring on the desk, and, with a maneuver of fingers, shrugged it onto the index of his left hand.

"A voracious ghoul, from what the witnesses said, my lord."
"And the thing hunted it indiscriminately?"
"It attacked the ghoul on sight, dispatched it thoroughly, and left once the deed was done. The villagers did not find the parts." No uncomfortable pause. Walter liked that about Conrad. They were in this for too long for gruesome details to give pause to anyone involved.

A slow nod, thoughts coming together into a coherent plan. The baron straightened, glancing into the Huntsman's face, red from sunburn, broad and bearded, with dark eyes that always squinted sharply.

"Any word of the Head?"
"No, my lord. Last that the Head was seen, he and two others were preparing an offensive against the Emissaries of the Deep. The Hound is still near Roncilleau's, on the lookout for the Sightless."
"I see. Thank you, Conrad. You may take rest, I'll take Josephine and Percival with me."
"Do you reckon that the thing be dangerous?"

Walter walked to the corner of the study, pulled a dragon statuette that was not a statuette, and opened a compartment. Vials, small blades and contraptions, a Shroud-amplified hand crossbow that he could no longer use, and the longsword that he would use instead.

He plucked it out, alongside a vial of dark, brackish oil that smelled like rust and lilacs, and closed the bit of the wall with the stash. Conrad was still staring at him, intently enough for the meaning to be conveyed without having to break protocol and make anything that would sound dangerously close to a demand.
His family was there. Of course he cared.

"You are among the best trackers, and will catch up with us enroute."

*

"Do you think we should keep one eye open?"
"So long as your amulets absorbed it, we will deem the thought-weaver a potential secondary."

One of the drake horses balked slightly under the rider, elegant claws shifting weight against the forest dirt. The small folk didn't like the things for their lizard features and broad, strong-jawed muzzles. Fear of the unfamiliar would mix with one of the predator in someone else's grasp.

Then again, when not in harness, the beasts would glibly toy with larks mid-flight for a morning snack, and snap up small field mice from the grass. They could also crack an arm in half, and tear it off if they felt enough inclined. So long as one wished to get in the saddle, the training of the beast and understanding of the rider had to match. The perks of the tandem came immediately. Things ran smoothly off the roads, climbed cliffs and trees with minimal issue, leapt across chasms with enough claw to stick the landings, and swam decently well too. Their endurance, comparable with that of a horse on the finest specimen, allowed for running down prey regardless of its nature.
Beautiful beasts, Walter reckoned, though perhaps he was also biased, given the normal horses acclimated to him much slower.

Walter clicked the side of his tongue, mimicking the chirps the things made to lower alert, and saw the drake's three-pointed ears rotate to catch the direction of the sound. Adorable. Just like a big dog.

The overcast sky a small blessing - their overlook point wasn't blinding against the setting sun. Encroaching dusk brought a familiar weight onto the shoulders.

One by one, Conrad, Josephine and Percival all reached for their midnight lanterns. Round enchanted glass spheres in cages of green brass, the wisps inside were barely visible when dormant. A touch of Shroud, and miniscule threads turned into glimmers, like a ripple on water carrying moonlight, and finally bloomed into azure ghostly fireflies.

The light lingered on the Hunters' fingertips. Eyelids lowering, they brought hands to their faces, and gently touched their fingers beneath the brows. Hands lowered, eyes opened, a dim cerulean glow to them.

Walter remembered restoring that technique from when he was... Back when he could. Grandfather's handwriting was a torrential chicken scratch in every margin note and artificery draft he'd left behind, but it was legible.

"Your lantern, my lord," Conrad offered, drifting closer, his drake Seetang leaning slightly over rather than sidestepping, the dark green ropey mane having small bronze rings clipped through the strands. Conrad would add a dangling trinket for every hunt. Different one each time. "My lord?"
"Yes, yes..." The Thornley heir offered his lantern, glass reflected others' lights for another beat before Conrad gifted it a touch of the Shroud.

He felt the looks as he attached it back to his belt, and cleared the throat to call attention to the job. Geist shifted, silver scales darker for the summer season, now tinged a slight blue on the right.

"Huntsmen, scatter and search. Josie, Con - send a lantern mark to the skies once you spot the beast. Percy, keep your half-elf ears perked for the shroud whispers in the nearby settlements. May your blades and bolts be sharper than their fangs."
"We are the flame," an uneven unison responded.
And, just like that, all three were gone from his side.

*

He glanced around, shrub to hill to cliff to road - and noticed a figure making way into the area the scouts have just dispatched around. Another rider - that seemed to carry no lantern. Who comes skulking in the night unseen?

A subtle shift of heel, and Geist took off, paws digging up dirt as it clung to a steep incline, barrelled down in smooth serpentine leaps, tail trailing flourishes behind it. Walter's hand held the reigns aloft slightly to steer, the other hand rested across the body, fingertips affixed to the grip of the sword, ready to wrap around it with violent intent.

He gave the benefit of the doubt when he was within undoubted earshot, close enough for heavy taps of Geist's paws against grass and then the dirt of the road to be audible on approach.
Dark cloak, a faint blue lantern underneath, face open and grim as a storm front rolling in.

"You travel without a lantern in the night, in the wake of roaming undead. Name yourself, by order of the Hunt."

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

The lithe horse did slow and stop, reigns gently swayed back lazy to hint to stillness. The hooves silent against the ambigious ground, steady and unfettered by any hint of possible perturbement. An unhooded head of grey aloft in the gloom of dark did turn, upturned, eyes within taut shadows all their own giving quick flash to those that gave address. What grimness was in expression was worn equal by Isambard, who wore the leatherskin so pocked with signs of exposure to the strains of dipping so close to the Dark.

"Hunt, is it, that hail. Good," Isambard gave out scarce satisfaction in snapping mouth, his voice piercing what concealment of dark with his announcement. No turn of horse, but his voice did continue, hands easy upon the reigns from still steed that did not strain. It's behaviour as if eyes were blinkered, yet those dull equine eyes saw much and knew no fear having keeping place within the pitch regular and often.

"Netherwisp. Necroseer."

A gesture, a hand freeing itself of reign, slow and languid. His voice growing more comfortable with the presence, thinking on possible allies, no matter if they be patrol or receptive to his previous wave of news.

"This county be beset by malady, my presence I made direct to have affect. The roaming dead have no mind to trouble me as I tread."

As if compelled to give glamours their credit, the necklaces made their silver natures known, shimmering with powers trapped within the pressing. Faint hushed whispers of dreadful nothings, seething shadow blues that slipped out and back into the silver framework of their prisons. The blue flame of lantern drawn to give him some small freedom from his shadows seemed to shy and whip about at his weaving tailsmans made light demonstration.

Settling back, all things in calm of the dead of night, Netherwisp did continue. The next words more conversational, yet more expectations in it's smoothness. As if he held sway over things, as if his disappointment was worth avoiding.

"The Order does act in response I do take it? One that roams in particular. The Harvest Hound, yes?" Netherwisp did say, less a question and more an invitation to justify their presence with him, or an invitation to them to ask one who knew it by name further intel.

@Walter Thornley

 

[Walter Thornley]

A Necroseer? Fortuitous. But only the man's eyes spoke, sharpness dimming to alertness, irises haloed in indigo as he studied this Netherwisp and his horse. Geist's ear twitched to the silver trinkets, scales bristling slightly at the demonstration. It would take more to unseat Walter's bearing, however. A gloved hand passed in front of the lantern's disturbed flame - and it leveled. A shiver carried through the air, and then it was quiet.

His eyes stopped at the man's face, his own expression unmoving for a few moments. Was that, perhaps, authority?
Grandfather's notes mentioned the Necroseers, Walter recalled. He'd worked with one, a log time ago (longer than 'grandfather' has supposedly been alive, but semantics best left to family members), and while not being particularly pleasant in manner - they were sufficiently trustworthy when it came to knowledge.

That would ease his wariness, if slightly. Explain the thinning horse not balking from a drake running up at it from the dark. Explain the man who rode alone carry himself a certain way. Eyebrow quirked slightly at the mention of 'the order', then returned. The order - was given for Netherwisp to name himself, and so he did.

"We are here in response to sightings of a strange, dog-like creature that seems to have a hunger for the undead. The undead that have been on the rise in the region long past shuffling off the mortal coil as well as recently deceased," he noted, conversational as he settled. "You may call me Brother Briar. The creature will be investigated, same as its creator, and same as the source of some mind intrusion rolled across the area not too long ago."

His hand slipped off the grip of the sword, retook the reigns.
"You have a name for it? Most excellent. We would appreciate any knowledge you can share. My observations have gleaned plenty distortions at the lowest crest, particularly near settlements, which may mean the creator is still present and ensuring that his fiend is fed."

@Isambard Netherwisp

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

"Alarms that wake those slumbering to dangers be not invasions," Netherwisp did remark. He turned his head in analysis of the Brother who spoke to wished him to hand over keys to knowledge so readily. Who would paint his alarm with the same brush as this malady. Who wore the authority and some perception to the events unfolding, made request for himself to share knowledge, when that knowledge could undo him later despite himself.

"If your interpretation of a warning is to see it as a unwanted, I can only share this with you, Briar of the Brothers," a faint wisp of sarcasm to that title uttered. "This Harvest Hound hunts independent but has a master and long leash, and it does indeed have hunger, and feeds beyond itself. To save you from running your investigation too distracted from the malady, I give this freely. I released that rudimentary ripple of dread. To encourage the hooves to begin pursuit, to encourage those with wits to hear the intertwining weave and snap to attention. I see it had success."

Isambard's mount gave small whinny as if giving wheezy laugh. No pat from the Necroseer, no sign of discontent or approval.

"I can only share as much as I am able to one who shares himself in such fashion."

His head turned this way and that, eyes upon this Brother Briar. His nostrils flared as if drawing deep of something freshly decanted. Locked back squarely, words rolling out darkly sweet.

"Brother? You have the fragrance of one akin to my Arts. Rare a Brother who knows what gives rise to nightmares."

The necklaces shimmered in oil spill hue, runes that confused the eye and gave hint of necromantic power to those with eyes to see. His words rolled out with stern restraint, some hint of yielding and understanding, much hiding of the insult to his time and intelligence.

"I gave you honest address, in good faith. Try again, and I shall maintain my patience. I wish to aid the land from this creation. I have the knowledge and path you seek to make it possible. Make not hardships. Deceptions do not earn secrets from me. Are you of the School of Death," Netherwisp did say, less a question and more a chance to state profession.

@Walter Thornley

 

[Walter Thornley]

Alarms? The drake rider listened quietly.
Truth of the matter was - he could no longer receive such boon of a notice... and the other Huntsmen amulets reacted to an intricate and powerful wave of something trying to reach for their minds. Being hunters of things that preyed on glamors and magic compulsions, their discipline dictated shielding. So, they have.

"So you called for help, indiscriminately," the hunter mused, the corner of his mouth curling.
Are you not wary that the one holding the leash has heard your query, just as well?

The man did not have the scent of the road about him. A strange aura of sage and herbs, rather, a notion more than a scent.
"Indeed. One could muse, rarer still someone who knows a Necroseer's vocation. It must be your wit, however, to resolve your discontent. The name I carry has no worldly reason to ride in darkness on a nightmare hunt. Otherworldly, however..."

He swung his cloak over the back of the drake, to keep open his side, and reached for the dagger above the lantern. Pulled it out, gloved hand moving slowly as he grasped it by the blade, not by the grip - for viewing, as he presented the pommel to Isambard.

The pommel medallion had a fox prancing atop a crescent, a sweet briar flower resting on its back. The crest of the Thornley family, adopted first by Meinrad von Bremen. One that the Necroseer would be familiar with if ever had he met the prodigious ancestor. One that would be on the dagger for heir-to-be, and on the sigil ring for the one who took the heirdom, both in bonze.

The hand holding the dagger had no ring, but, it being the sword hand, it was no surprise.
The implication was clear. The Thornleys were still hunting in the shadows, whatever the rumours said, proof shining in the pale blue light of the midnight lantern before the blade was sheathed again.

"If you know this crest, master Netherwisp, you need no explanation for my name not spoken out loud. If you speak the truth, we share an enemy."

He blinked. Dim lights sparked at the pits of the pupils, and the halos shifted, sending glimmers down the iris to those lights as the wraith studied the intricate weave on Isambard's many trinkets. What purpose? What comprehension?

"I'm not a weaver any longer," he noted, right hand splaying with palm upside.
The folds of the thin glove fell deep. There was little flesh beneath the fabric. And yet, it did not emanate undeath.

"The name I gave you is the one I am known by among my fellow huntsmen - so as to not create unnecessary issues when acting outside my domain. My knowledge stems from my family's varied and diverse teachings in the nature and means of laying waste to things of darker nature - but we have never accentuated studies of necromancy in the broader sense. My great ancestor had met a Necroseer, and spoke highly of him, though not by name. To be blunt, we've gotten word of sightings from one of our own, who was visiting with family in the region. Accounting for the time spent travelling, the matter has escalated to a degree of urgency, and we would greatly appreciate it if you accompanied us in creating a strategy for capturing the thing's creator, just as well. The means I'd have to track such a person are... not ideal."

@Isambard Netherwisp

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

At this the Necroseer did move the steed away, so that he could be seen and see on better. The horse did obey, moving like floating leaves upon a languid pond. Netherwisp's face did scrutinise in quick movement of eyes, an internal debate, or perhaps recall. Perhaps digesting this news of then a bite on the matters, jaw clenching with click of incisors to incisors, settling into grounding molars these words so spoken in the dark.

"I called for attention to the threat. I have yours to the cause, Brother Briar. The land served better for it. And, by virtue of what you say, let the knowing go to those needing. The one who did set my theory into practice in form of hound that pounces on the dead, fuelling further dreads," the Necroseer did say, "did hear my calling, true. Let it rattle them, a prelude to my interrogations and retributions. But so did that Hound, and so voracious of anything to feed upon would digest what I did set ahead. I know it's singular fundamentals in thought and now in tread. Your means to track that beast are within my reins, hanging across my throat."

An air of command in the telling of the order of things, turning his steed to the direction that even now his assortment of silver pendants did urge him on.

"The strategy is this. Follow the trace that it did consume. Pin it, cowtow it. Percieve it's leash, it cannot stray too far from it's master's grip, follow it. If it is within our power, destroy the Hound we must, if not, disable it for now. I hear Magitech has been integrated, that therein may be key. Some short cuts made by this bastard that does command it."

A sneer, another bite of those teeth, as if hateful for such lack of committal to his research being truly complete.

"Then secure the renegade's head sharp to block having their location, once I know how that one did thrift and steal my research proposals. The tactics against the Hound depends on if we go ourselves alone, or if you have others to your beck and call. Much more is possible now I am not alone, yourself, or with others, we do attend stronger for our meeting. Does what I say so far seem agreeable? Conducive?"

 

[Walter Thornley]

"So you did call," Walter noticed, "but weave repelling intrusions to the mind does not tend to differentiate intent, chiefly so from strangers. You have our attention now." For better or for worse.
So thoroughly amusing, for all the wrong reasons.

"So, we are hunting something of your own design, that someone else managed to replicate," he echoed back the summary. "Of course we'll find it and we'll run it down, sooner or later. I'll find it should your method fail. My choice as to the method of engagement will then be very limited, however."
He'd already learned too well what happened when he delayed the Harvest. Last autumn... was not kind, and it took months to recover.

"And, in so many words, you want the creator alive to query how they did it, before you do what needs be done," Walter maintained. "If magitech is involved with its structure, this is of use to us - I'll only need to reach the integration nexus."

Quite bemused, but none too receptive to the authoritative tone. Neither of them held any domain here. One had the men and means, the other - knowledge that would diminish damage and casualties. The matter was urgent, and Walter had no slightest desire to bow supplicant - respect had to be earned. No intent to antagonize, either. So, he was conversational, and would seem somewhat at ease if not for the sharpness to the eyes that saw far too well in the dark, and the fact that he still sat comfortably, but straight-backed, as if at reception.

"The rest of my brethren are looking for it as we speak," he said, "On the roads in settlements, near graveyards - and off the roads. On our way here, we've heard about a couple abandoned buildings in the area from locals, forester huts and such. Might be unmarked graves as well. Unless roaming aimless, it would be where the undead can rise, after all, would it not? Someone is scouting the settlements for traces of Shroud weave, in early warning, too. Blue beacon to the skies would be the mark, master Netherwisp."

His eyes turned to the skies, the myriad of stars around the Rings reflecting in the moving glimmers.
"Let us assume that my men remain at range, and that I have the necessary... prowess for the melee. Unless you wager otherwise, I would prefer to keep a scholar like yourself out of the fray, as well. How does one fight this Hound?"

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

"With vigours, and what help that roams below, and beyond," Isambard breathed and faded his voice, settling into the a shudder of the spine that came unnaturally, yet habitual enough to be embraced easily. Like surrender to coma, it was soothing enough to those who knew a chance of rousing. Encouraged by the wave of unsettling that set hair sensitive to raising, he delved and gave permission to his soul to carry his vision from the seeing to the perceived across the pace of life after breath.

A gulf of place as his hands did twitch as those in fitful sleep, reigns still curled about as the digits did dance on an instrument that made no sound. His eyes turned completely to shadow, his steed dipped head shallow, as if giving rising currents of the spectral space to be about their gestures easier.

The ether and weave did filter itself as to provide ghostly pales to the swaying grass and crescendos of terrain to his position astral. A birds eye descent from cloud to land all things apparition given to their population on heath endless, for those not who regular dipped into such gusts of the soul might be carried straight down, to clawing hands and trappings of the tomb. Time was brief to see what must be sought.

Netherwisp did survey the battlefield of energies that did did mark themselves with wild banners of wailing and drumbeats of contortions of regret and seething did his work. Even as he was gliding ever down, down, to certain drowning beneath the deathly clawing, the mass mourning of themselves. Energy to the seeing, not to fighting direct that ineffable pull.

The saddle became hoist to his body, which did serve as bedrock to what was threatened to subsume within the crashing coursing. Serene he was not, more a host to nightmares endured in passing, faint crackles of sizzling as the necklaces did protect his frame from possession from those that saw a chance to return.

Quick descending, yet not straight down, a glide on the weave his to navigate and feel, eyes hunting. The spirits were about their business of their yearning and hauntings, yet their previous passage and current carriage was his to know. Affixing the eye on the scene that his invention did create, dragging himself by the will required to witness. Countless names that did not remember their monikers but carried the signature of their vitalty, hiding not their contempt for what peered them, seemingly mockingly. This realm of the dead was wilful and contemptuous here, citizens of the still dragged this way and that by Harvest Hount that howled as a constant tone, promising consumption, promising repurposed hauntings within it's bellow and belly. It did promise further agonies to those lied to about repose.

Netherwisp lost all luft within the languid pales of this soul translocation, yet his sought landmark as he peered at the distortions of the beast, did note those eyes fixed to his. Greens within the death white of astral night, feast awaiting within it's smile, it's haunches planted by obelisk stone, oblivious to sympathy, oblique to all aside it's hunger, recognising interloper yet baring grin of the grotesque to it's inventor.

Descending, Netherwisp did tear his eyes about it, to the geometrics that did surround it.

In this realm that bore resemblance to the world in distorted dimension and proportion, a realm he was being compelled by fate to crash upon, the rising menhirs, the cairns, the runes carved in memorial, the raised totems of stone that stood as thrones did become understood. Set in geometric shape, the stone towers did lord over hills, ancient and druidic, objects long left dormant and alone. They were returning ground of the Hound, and sat upon those stone spines in duplicate...

Glimpse of one who did peer as he did, sat upon those towers in multi positional conquering, drenched in sickly yellows, a flash of a fury upon their face, a patter of pains snapping through the ether from the one that did hold chains to the Harvest Hound itself, as if giving command by the wave of the constraints.

A flex upon that leash, in so moving, in so commanding, the beast did rise it's matted fur of dread tendrils with air set to choking, who howled, a sound of crushing disjunction akin to that of great oak vessel imploding beneath ocean, and howled, akin to the tectonic plates grinding their axes, and-

A blink. Relinquishing. Moments before astral landfall. Draggings of free fall time in denying his spirit to the keel haul of death oceans and it's vessels.

A turning of the eyes from shadow to returning to the living, the steed given kick spasmacally as Isambard returned with from his seering. The steed all to used to such a return to form.

A dry mouth Netherwisp was all too used to was negotiated with. No single bead of sweat upon his brow. Words as vision returned, as this change of venue to his soul trappings was akin to donning a cloak against a chill, akin to a turn of the hand in a card game, accepting of the stakes for losing and attaining without chagrin.

"The Crown of Menhirs. It, and what owns it for now, is there," Netherwisp said, voice two tone from need of coughing.

He gave growl to clear his voice. His hands tightening and releasing, letting blood and bone know he was home to himself. He was no stranger, no imposter.

"We fight as we can and we must. I will never shirk dangers in my dominion," Netherwisp said, wearing what he had just experienced and survived as a badge of honour, the horrors his home, the seer undaunted by prospect of facing that caused his invention to threaten in the land of the living and beyond.

The beyond endless for it to drag a soul upon.

@Walter Thornley

 

[Walter Thornley]

He waited, the drake fittig gait to the slightly smaller, thinning horse. The lights in Walter's eyes wandered over to it, then dimmed. No. He didn't want to know if the beast was undead or simply altered to not be afraid of predators. It didn't matter. If the necromancer was lying to him, he would be in for a nasty surprise if he tried to spring a trap.

And then, he waited some more. The grasses swayed around them, wind rolling down the hill and away, towards where they were going, as if the nature itself was pushing them closer to an abomination, a sore unwanted tumor1 on its flesh to be excised and cauterized so it might heal.

He watched, too. He saw more than he let on, of what has transpired just beyond the veil, before Isambard's eyes opened onve more, the scholar clearly winded from the exercise. And, once more, a non-involved response to his query was proffered. How would they fight it? Somehow, apparently.
Very well, then.

"I see that you are more of a scribe than a tactician, twice beating on means urgent but uncertain. But, I understand. Most beings of the shroud have so little in common between them that a common weakness may be shared only if a few similar ones exist."
Despite the biting words, he tried to be as pleasant about the inevitable conclusion as possible.
"Lead the way. Once there, I will unseal the lantern, so the rest may join us. Once we start... unless you have a preferred manner of battle to communicate, try at least not be an obstruction."
Whether it was the necroseer's land, Walter didn't question - he'd taken measure of the elf good enough not to need an answer. Netherwisp was there for the same reason they were, after all, but came alone and seemingly underprepared. An unexpected hunt was oft that way.
So long that they would not be tangling in each other's.

"Can you estimate if getting a look of its leash is a lengthy ritual?" came the last query. "I am pondering means to get it to stop without killing it outright, and there are options, depending."

 

[Isambard Netherwisp]

Netherwisp allowed the insults to his competency to generate their own spite as was his custom, a look of disgust concealed much in the dark shallows inherent in his face. This one could not detect he what he had just performed, witnessed. To comment he was more a scribe than tactician, that was no insult. But this talk of being an obstruction? Twin linked with following comment of stopping the beast instead of ending it, to what end, Netherwisp, to what damnable end?

This did harbour dark defiance within him to this authority. If nothing else, he would impress upon the moment each suppressed moment of outburst that he churned from now. All in stillness generated now within the seer, the disrespect delivered would be matched in his own competency.

He spoke low and rumbling, a legion of comments halted, a herald of his opinion given singular representation in the coldness. Eyes forward, necklaces shimmering in their low lights, speaking true to himself as he spoke on.

"You said yourself you do not weave. Lay waste to this dark, as you say you can. I remember that ancestor of yours, they too did ask me exactly my prowess so direct, and they gained the answers forthcoming for they themselves were in turn forthcoming with their understanding. We spoke on the weave, of the Art, of need, of answers. And in honour of that distant accord, and in the spirit of aiding this effort as they would want, I give your line of conversation this. My means of battle is of the Art. The tapestry of weaving death unravelled before it does wrap a body for the earth, to see calamities undone by gesture, to provide answer to the insults of the malpracticing malefactor. Directly I can stare down much, as your forefather saw personally."

A look, stern, head turned direct to this one. His words cold and factual, punching the silence with dread wisdoms.

"Clearly I say this. Death that feeds Death is the Harvest Hound. It's harvest are not yours to feed upon, you will not direct it's scythe. Not as you are. The magitech, perhaps, should it suit you, will serve you. Magitech knows not malice in it's blood. Clearly I ask this. Why would you ponder to not to kill that which grows famine? You spoke on laying waste to the Dark. If you are musing to grip upon the Hound's reins, to forestall it by command, to perhaps walk it as your pet, however briefly, to the drumbeat of your heart's desire," Netherwisp gave a disappointed sneer, and affixed his eyes as if giving way to a pressure that had been building within him.

His eyes with skull white flash at the pupils did reveal, as if a vortex was the true nature of the distant glimmering star. A pale tear within the window to the soul granted to the descendant of the Thornley, a vision of the realm he had seen and more. The overtone of death rattles in the cool whisper in his voice, death rattles he had been audience to in his scrying just before. Nothing akin to a threat, more a revealing of a child what did precede winter.

"An obstacle you'll become."

His eyes faded with such reflections of the ghosting white of the realm he had so recently descended within, no blink as if this were sleight of hand of the weave. Prowess his to hide and conceal as was Thornley's identity.

An upturning of the head, as if daring another insult to himself, or the mission ahead. A cock of the head to the open road, and without heel kick, the pace did gradual increase by his silent steed that understood it's master without direction.

"I pray there is no misunderstanding," the necroseer did say.

@Walter Thornley

 

[Walter Thornley]

Good gods.

Walter resisted the urge to sigh with his patience for this potentially dangerous magi running out.
Walter made his conclusions on the fact that Netherwisp did give a useful answer only once - after proposing he had any authority to question the Hunt, trying to assume command and give him orders, and straight up refusing to reveal any of the creature's known weaknesses as its alleged original designer, or tactics useful in fighting it - for example, a blunt-headed mountain linorm had a blind spot directly down the middle of its vision...

No. He'd done everything to establish cooperation, at this point. Can't be helped if the offered hand was bitten all the same.

None was proffered in that tenuous alliance, when Walter had offered men, assistance and joint action for them both to agree upon.
At this juncture, the necroseer seemed not too in need of cooperation, and rather too full of himself. A single prick at the elf's pride seemed to erupt a deluge of disappointed remarks bordering on threatening, no doubt more held behind the sneer.

Conclusions mounted, based on action rather than assumption.

Walter listened, patiently, for the words to go, and go, one phrase after another, enough for half a lecture in the making. His hand rested on the midnight lantern, then detached it, re-hooking it to the other side.

The man kept going, like a scolding teacher. And going. And going, probably assuming that Walter was receptive to a stranger who seemed to need help and yet was keen on antagonizing him.

Killing the thing was necessary for the internal balance... and his own field not bringing misfortune closer.
To survive meant to grow. The battle was worth it. But was it worth the other participant?
His abilities would likely be held in the same manner, full of accusations and barely held derision.
If not... worse.
Then again, what was one more accusation? His duty was more important.

And, before the last phrase dropped like some unrecognized judge's hammer, at the end of the second juncture, Walter raised his hand.
He seemed to measure the skull-like implication unsurprised - it would be strange if a necromancer of deep potency sported a fresh appearance. His strange eyes also seemed to peer right through the visage conjured. The hand in the air remained without a tremor.

It was his turn to offer two coppers to that horde of words. Unlike the man, he tried to be concise.
"I asked because if its weave is destroyed too fast - the leash you need to track its maker may dissipate - you could have asked as much before assuming by the mile." the tone was cold, and firm, words ringing steel in thin air. It was not pointed yet, however, merely setting things as direct as his approach and blade were going to be. "I asked you for weak spots in your own design, in turn, because I do not act alone. Lives, let alone cohesion, are of value. You are being tireless in your endeavors to antagonize me - please focus on the real enemy, instead. I'll meet you at the menhirs. That's all."

A heel kick, slight tap on the crest, and the drake hiss-clicked as it took off running, the rider steering it to the aforementioned spot in the locale and going off the road. Long reptilian tail swished, the thick ropes of mane entered an undulating rhythm alongside the gallop.

While he'd been listening earlier, he'd channeled indignant anger into calculation of the route. While the drakes were slower than a decent horse - roads weren't a requirement, and their legs were much sturdier to boot.
For a Thornley heir, emotions were a luxury. Unfortunately, his blood still ran mostly red, and definitely warm.