Deep in the Himineldar Shel a storm throws sheets of ice and frigid rain across the highlands, covering the landscape in a veil of preternatural darkness. Nestled within the stone labyrinth, a sheltered hollow begets a faint glow; luminous cirri crawling aimlessly amongst the crags and barren terrain, seeking out new angles and surfaces to transform their multifarious luminescence. Muffled susurrations hover near the ingress and weave seamlessly into the deluge.
The remains of a night’s fire offer little to light the interior; deep shadows looming and clinging to every irregularity. A figure, impossibly small beneath the twisted straggle of crude quilting that blanket its person and surrounding earth, hunches by the weakening tinders. Small pliant object in hand, filthy calloused fingers prod and stroke the smooth curio.
A tenebrous voice born of hollow reverberations rides the air between a shaded corner and the subdued embers. “Is it cold?”
An absent reply. “It is always cold.” A sudden halt in the endless kneading and the lone figure cocks its head with momentary intrigue. “And when did you become concerned with my wellbeing, hmm? I didn’t realize that was part of our arrangement.” Meticulous palpation resumes.
“I am hungry.”
“Soon enough. My, you are impatient.”
“What you are intending… naught but destruction or enslavement will come of it.”
A crude bone-handled knife emerges from beneath the fabric mass. Fondling turns to carving. “Oh? I disagree. That is the destiny of sheep.” Flakes of soft opaque medium fall in a light shower, littering the floor with each stroke of the knife. “Besides, I have an edge. You have been there… felt Him… KNOW Him. I do not navigate the morass blindly.”
“Was compacting with the magician wise?”
“Must you always question me?”
“Compacting with the magician was not wise.”
Pitted black teeth are briefly bared from beneath tangled, cruft-laden facial hair, as the final shaping gestures of the knife subside. The figure gazes intently at the shadows beyond. “It was necessary. A seer is needed… as is a vessel. We have gone over this before, you and I.”
A swift rejoinder cuts through the air with a stentorian otherworldly resonance. “And he will turn on you. On us.”
“They all will.” The primitive blade returns to its cradle, nestled amongst the tatters as the figure begins to shift from his shingly settle. An odd giggle? “And it won’t matter.”
He persists through creaky joints and slowly rises with a final grunt. Dim light casting upon the sprawling misshapen coverlet to reveal grotesque stitchery: withered pates and wan stretched faces bound in an endless circuit of misery and shame. He gently places the newly formed wax doll atop his blanket of horrors.
“Is it time?”
The frail Gnome makes his way across the cavern, befouled loincloth dragging in scraps behind him. Small trembling hands reach deep within the gloom and secure the monstrous double axe The oily membrane coating the haft is unsettlingly warm and throbs ever so lightly as his grip tightens. “Yes. Let’s feed you.”
A cacophony of terrible scraping rises in a ghastly symphony as the chitinous blades rake along the graveled floor. Miasmic sanguine tendrils creep from weapon’s head, flicking this way and that to tase the damp air. The howl of wind and downpour overtakes all sound.
It is cold outside.
“And then we have a meeting to attend.”
“Yes Master.”
