Chương 8: VIII. Mortis Visio

Spring 5, 1380 The long grass crumpled underneath my boots, scaring off two Mourning Doves and a Cardinal. A Red-Winged Blackbird hopped to the branch near me. I had to move slowly; those things were aggressive and would peck relentlessly if they thought I was a threat. I opened my backpack and pulled out my journal, and my trusty quill. I vastly preferred arthropods, annelids, mollusks – except for myriapods, they just have too many legs. Birds on the other hand are more of a hobby that Pa had.

He could distinguish a crow and raven from hearing their caws, or a Blue Grosbeak from an Indigo Bunting just from its beak size. The blackbird chirped, jumping on its branch towards me. It was just a fat ball of black, with, of course, the tip of its wings being red. I spun the quill against my fingers as it watched me. Its nest was probably nearby, but I never bothered to unlock [Ornithology] since I figured I'd do it with – I wiped my eyes, and began to block out the basic shapes.

An organic sausage for the main body, attached to a circle and triangle for the head and tail respectively. I didn't have much else to do when I was growing up, and the texts the [Scribes] had made were filled with beautiful drawings on the margins. Then, drawing from life. Flowers, vegetables – never corn, of course – fruits, and sometimes people. The best books had those pretty ornaments in the margins, and birds were a common choice.

But so was a dragon, and I don't think I've ever seen any of those in real life. The blackbird rested between a rather pretty Wolf Spider and a small trail of ants I had found earlier. I returned the journal to my satchel, and moved deeper into the woodlot. If I were lucky, I'd find a beehive. Bees were the cutest thing ever, but I couldn't start my own Apiary without getting to [Bug Catcher] 5… and the rare beetle I was looking for was in Lyrelle Forest. Long grass cracked.

The sprouting heads swayed and bent over. I bit my lip and ducked, keeping my head to the ground. Though, most predators used scent? There were rocks on the ground… The Woodlot's biggest threat was Old Scar, a [Wolf] that roamed between my woodlot and some of the neighbors. A pale white rabbit hopped out, chewing on leafy greens. Its beady black eyes stared at me, and I reached for my jour— It had been three hours. I barely got into the woodlot, and my brand new journal was already filled with sketches.

It was either here or Lyrelle Forest, and Lyrelle Forest had bandits. Yet somehow, this was taking longer!

"Darn it, bunny, you better be alive when I get back," I said, and its long ears twitched – hopefully, in understanding. I crept deeper until the long branches with their fresh foliage blotted out the sky. Insects sung, birds chirped, and I think a deer scampered further in. A deer corpse would be an excellent find! But Old Scar wasn't a rampant killer. He did an important part to the ecology, something that those [Hunter] -types could learn to do.

Killing a deer, especially a doe, meant that the next spawn was slower, if not completely removed. If they were going to kill one, they had to use all of it… and not just decapitate it to mount against their wall. But a headless deer would solve my problems, and Old Scar wasn't a scavenger either…. Mushrooms! There was mushrooms against the tree! They were [White Buttons], and – Flora Blessed, [Chicken Of The Forest]! The weird, droopy orange shape looked like shelves.

If I had orange ink, this would be so easy to draw, but black was the cheapest – though, Pa did say any good sketch shouldn't need color to figure out what it was. Maybe the portrait of Ma and Pa I drew was somewhere in that cottage? I know how to keep parchment good quality now. The mushrooms were easy to collect. I could roast these over the fire for something to eat. However, I could also just find a damp, dark place and start growing them too.

Rubbing them against some of the trees would get the spores sprouted, and I could section some parts of the Farm to be Myceloid colony.. Maggots squirmed. Corpseflies buzzed in the air. The dirge of winter assaulted my ears. The mushroom snapped between my fingers, but I turned my head. The notes made black-blue wind that wafted towards me. The hue was strong, and… fresh. I placed the mushrooms, both breeds, into my backpack and walked towards the cloud of sound.

It weaved between the tall trees, between brushes and branches. The dirge became stronger, and as soon as I turned the corner – Old Scar had a buck between its maw. Blood dripped down its fangs into the grizzled muzzle. The snout still had the scar Adrian gave it. The buck's legs lashed out into the air, tossing out dirt and loose grass into the sky. Within the Buck's eyes, I could see Mirchie staring back at me. Her floppy ears torn apart, and her guts sprayed open.

The Wolf, before it had gotten its scar, feasting upon her remains.

"It's all part of the cycle, my dear." The Dirge of Winter coalesced into words. My fingers stopped shaking – when did they start? It's – Her – voice was like the pattering of snow, and as clear as the blanketed meadow it left behind. Unbroken, blemishless, and stretching into eternity. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. It spilled from the buck's mouth; wispy notes turned into an icy stream. It stopped thrashing, and its eyes became hollow and blank.

It stared directly at me.

"What is given, must be taken. What is took, will always be gave." Her voice was cicadas and maggots. It was consumption and creation. I closed my eyes and tried to cover my ears. It crept inside regardless.

"Do you understand?" I opened my mouth, but only a croak escaped. It was loud enough for Old Scar to stop fighting the buck, and stare at me. Blood graced his fur, and his golden eyes glimmered. Did it remember I was there, that its wound was caused because Adrian tried to protect me? It crept forward. I stepped back, but something soft and cold blocked my exit. It yielded to my touch; ripe and squishy. My fingers burst through its flesh, bathed in hot-cold… I hoped it was blood.

Old Scar stopped moving and its eyes went off me. He stood, his head rising and rising. The fur, matted and dirty, became like aggravated spikes. His tail upturned, and the glaring hunt in his eyes became… fear. He yelped, and whipped around. Dirt sprayed into the sky as the wolf sprinted into the distance, uncaring for its own meal. The presence behind me was still cold and soft. There was no insects chirping, no birds singing. The air was still and heavy. A correction violated my brain. The air was dead.

The world was dead. I was —"You are not, my dear." My throat was dry. I swallowed, but no spit quenched it. I inhaled the cold Winter air. I turned my head. Her hand gripped my cheek, below where my eyes could see.

"No… No.. Go Not To Lethe… For Shade To Shade… Will Drown…Wakeful… Soul." She released my head, and I made no attempt to turn it further. Instead, I stared at the buck's eyes. They glowed blue.

"A Gift," She said, and warmth and sound returned to the world. The buck however began to stand; its throat mauled and open. Its muscles did not contract, but its legs spasmed and twitched. It raised… and the limbs began to move. A knee pulled backwards but the hoof pressed forward, the head turned completely to the left and crimson blood dripped to the ground. And the birds kept singing. The buck's blue eyes swirled endlessly, and its Symphony was a coda to the world around it.

It hurt to listen too, and I whipped around to stop experiencing it. I walked forward, and leaves crunched behind me. Bones cracked, and the air shifted. But it did not breathe. I left the woodlot in less than five minutes. My legs hurt, and my lungs burned. I bent over and gasped, and the buck walked past me. It sauntered over to crops, and its massive body began to collapse over the soil.

"Shit!" I said, dashing forward. The sprouts would be crushed. It never hit the dirt. Blue fluid came from the body; not dissimilar to my [Compost] but far more… refined? The liquid poured against the 27 tiles, and the sproutlings shimmered.

"What in Torment?" I said and turned around to the woodlot. There wasn't anything there at this point. Was that a [Bean Sidhe]? As far as I knew, Pa nor Ma weren't from the Forlon Isles, nor were we Elvish in any way. Was I an Elf?! I shook my head and forced myself to breathe. No, it couldn't have been a [Bean Sidhe], since that would be crying and mourning. The trees swayed, beckoning towards me. Insects continued to sing and birds chirped. And the [Fae] were far less… giving with their gifts.

They always expected something back. But this was given, and it was took. From the fangs of a wolf to my own hands. My fingers were normal, if a bit dirty. And my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I crept back into the cottage and shoved my hands into the soapy, dirty water. Grime broke free from my skin. The ripples in the water were circular… Wait. I jolted up the ladder and towards my desk. The Mortis Agrariae had similar looking symbols within the pages.

My Empyrean was the front pages with all the writing I had done, with my notes and inferences for the farm. But the first page of my spells? The main sigil itself was circular. The two lines that cut through them were… clock hands. One was clearly shorter than the other, but sometimes there would only be one and not the other. Other times, there would be three circular sigils… … and they all looped. What is, was. What was, will be. The hands began to spin, and the circles rotated.

Etches and nocks spiralled into concepts of yesteryear and tomorrow. Rhey'an; The Language of the Dead. The words of Agonal muttering. And the speech of those past the end. I still couldn't speak it. I could understand what I was looking at, but that was not the same as comprehending – much like I knew what [High Draconic] looked like, but the talon-scratches looked like… well, talon-scratches. Maybe Madeleine had a book that would start as a primer to comprehension. Though…

"Why is this even in Rhey'an?" I said.

"I don't know [Divine]." The page didn't shift, but my eyes began to hurt. I slammed the Mortis Agrarie shut and put it back underneath my mother's journal. Adrian could come into this place at any time, Flora knows Pa gave him [Access]. I stared at the ceiling, and put both books into my backpck. You could revoke that [Access], you know. I chewed on my cheek and shook my head. Yeah, it was a silly suggestion to me too. Right now though?

I had mushrooms to cook, and in two days, I could go visit Nathaniel, get my equipment… and sort out the rest of this mess. That seemed like a plan. Behind me though, something moved in the window's reflection.