Into the Mists
No matter how many times Guy Greywulfe had been there, he could never shake that strange sensation. The horse beneath him plodded on nervously over damp grass and fallen leaves in the early hours before dawn. A heavy fog hung low in the valley, and mountains to the south loomed in the mist like the ghosts of disappointed ancestors, while obscured trees, their stark limbs naked of leaves reached into the air like the black, skinless, boney claws of tormented souls seeking escape from their own personal underworld. Yet, despite noting every step his horse took, the further he traveled into the valley, the further away he felt from Britannia, as if the very ground he tread was in a place unworldly and unknown.
A brisk, chilly wind blew past him, filling his ears with howling, but as it subsided he heard in the distance a soft, scraping sound, and smelled a foul, bloody odor. A few yards later, he beheld black smoke from the diminished embers of a dying campfire, and next to it an old man, his form barely visible. He sat upon a fallen log, hunched over the carcass of a slain deer, carving away with a crude knife to remove its hide. Surrounding him were the vague contours of stretched hides propped on poles and adorned with skulls and bones like some grotesque, macabre shrine to something primal and ancient. The horse would go no further, and so Greywulfe dismounted and took a seat on a nearby rock.
For a moment, the two sat silently, neither acknowledging the other. It was a question of how to say it that had pestered him the whole journey; not merely how to bear bad news, but news of failure. The best way, Guy had decided, was to be simple, and direct.
"Britain is lost."
The old man said nothing. He merely continued to butcher his deer.
"Her hold on Britain faltered, but by the hand of another. All of our efforts had little impact."
The old man pulled a portion of hide off of the carcass. Nervous, Guy spoke a little faster.
"My name is too new. My story and our propaganda was not convincing enough. My deeds were too f-"
"Was there controversy?" the gruff voice of the old man interrupted. Guy regained his composure.
"Considerable," he replied. The old man grunted in response, and continued with his work. They sat in silence for another minute.
His time spent in the woods had changed the old man considerably. His once heavy black robe had become worn and thin and ragged and torn in so many places that he wore it in an irregular way and crudely stitched. Long grey hair had grown unkempt and dark with dirt, the tips stained red, with a beard equally as wild, and a curious odor, like a pungent herb, followed him close behind. Appearing almost more animal than man, his worn skin was wrapped thinly over a starved face marked with stains of dirt and dried blood, all of it underlining darkened eyes wherein burned the fires of destruction.
"My lord," Guy went on to say,
"I have failed you." He removed himself from off the rock and knelt on one knee.
There was a sharp snap as the old man struggled with one of the limbs, and he spoke.
"Power has never come so easily, Lord Greywulfe. It starts with a single word, whispered, and never spoken again. The word flows through time itself until it becomes like a spectre without mind, body or form, a force of nature unto itself, haunting and subjugating man without his knowledge. Thou hast not failed. This, is only the beginning."
Greywulfe replied,
"I ask you for another chance. To be forgiven. To return to Britain and carry out my quest."
"Thou knowest well that thy fate is not for me to decide."
Greywulfe remained on one knee, staring at the ground.
"What would you have me do, my lord?"
"Return to Britain. If thou art no longer worthy, verily, thy journey shall be short-lived." Movements in the mist drew Greywulfe's attention, as the vague form of beasts stalked the two of them in the fog beyond.
"My lord," he began to say as he stood,
"Why Britain? Why Pandora?"
The old man seemed to struggle with peeling off a portion of the hide, and then ceased.
"Britain is the capital of Britannia and the seat of its power. Upon its hill, it stands as the hub of the kingdom. Upon its throne sits a usurper. This is not the first time we have tried to control Britain. Forsooth, it shall not be the last."
"You have tried to take Britain before, my lord?" Guy said curiously.
"In another age, aye. My mentor and I once tried, and failed. He was burned alive for his failure."
His eyes widening, Guy was startled by the revelation, imagining such a fate for himself.
"They burned him alive?"
The old man paused for a moment in contemplation.
"Nay. They hung him at the gallows. It was I that set him ablaze." He turned to look at Greywulfe, knitted brows over dark, baleful eyes.
"But that, Lord Greywulfe, is a tale for another time. As for Pandora..." he went back to butchering his deer,
"Well, she is an outlander. We all know the fate of outlanders."
Lord Greywulfe turned and mounted his horse. A few minutes later, he found himself clinging closely to the reigns as his horse dashed through forest fog at full gallop, while barking, snarling wolves chased at his heel.
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