A Heathens Kiss
Thirteen turns hard ride from the Kabel Monastery, a single dusty track snakes ever earthbound to the great stone valley of Ossan. The Garrison of Ossan nestles in the valley’s lonesome core, shadowed by towering moraines of loose scree and dismal stone, which resembles a mighty axe blow cleaved through the shattered earth. A dark and dreary, treeless stone prison. The desolate borderland of Thiel and Galt. The last outpost of Thiel is the gateway to the natural riches of Galt's gold mines.
crumbling stone hall, drumming a relentless rhythm on the leaking roof. Aldard, the Galtish general of Ossan, sits alone on a long wooden bench, warming his weathered hands over an open fire, his fingers wrinkled from the rain. A bubbling vat of snotty barley pottage hangs above the hearth. He forces down another gulp of the tasteless slop.
"We're heading home, Bear?” A gruff voice grunts, breaking the silence. Aldard’s soldiers huddle together behind him, sitting on ramshackle benches, shoveling down mouthfuls of the lumpy gruel in grim silence.
Aldard rises, his gaze hardening as he faces his soldiers. “In seven turns, we’ll be back at Castle Galt with good food, warm beds, and even warmer lasses. Pack light and bring your hunting bows; there’s still plenty of game on the moors.”
“Aye, general.” The soldiers stand, each nodding to Aldard as they bob out of the tumbledown stone food hall and into the biting rain.
General Aldard closes his eyes, readying himself for home. His filthy fingertips trace the grooves of a small, hand-carved figurine of the Blessed Mother, concealed beneath his tattered cloak. He gives a weary grunt—home, finally, a distant memory, a fleeting hope—before striding out into the lashing rain that cuts through all warmth, leaving a damp, eternal chill clinging to his skin. His heavy-set eyes squint through the gloomy gray, ranging over the dilapidated colony garrison, a sea of slick sodden earth and muddy quagmires.
Dismal rain falls onto crumbling freeholds and impoverished battlements with barely habitable quarters. Scrawny chickens strut amid broken stone clay-packed huts, patched up with wattle, daub, and goat shit. The huts’ fragile, damp thatched roofs leak eye-watering smoke into the glum sky. Dilapidated storehouses, stables, dormitories, and makeshift encampments punctuate the bleak landscape beyond the garrison center. To the south lies the Thielian border camp, and to the north stands his Galtish camp. A solitary sentry perches atop a crumbling parapet, scanning the Thielian horizon with vigilant eyes.
Aldard takes a final glance at Ossan, now flowing with dismal and dank life. Thielian soldiers march in well-ordered brigades, units of a dozen hardened men in studded brigandines lined with leather. Concealed beneath their brigandines, their plates of light steel and metal strips creak with each step. Their arms and legs sway beneath thick woolen pads. The Thielian troops march with sheathed broadswords and shouldered longbows, their royal blue cloaks marking their allegiance. They give Aldard a wide berth as they inspect a wagon loaded with gold ore, pocketing a few loose coins from the driver. Aldard chuckles to himself, he can’t blame them; all soldiers need the extra coin, even the Thielian’s. He then strides toward the center courtyard of the township, past a hotchpotch of stalls and decrepit stone buildings. The dank air is saturated with the reek of stale beasts and sewage. He side-steps a steaming river of fresh piss, erupting from an indignant lone goat.
Aldard’s captain, Algwain, comes to stand firm at his shoulder with a look as dank as the weather. Algwain towers over most tall men by at least two heads, his disheveled copper hair tousled by the wind. His Galtish green cloak, caked with mud and icy drizzle, bears the sigil of a rising dragon. “Morning, general. Any news from King Eiden?” Algwain inquires with a loud sniffle.
“No news, captain.” They exchange concerned glances. “What about the grain shipment, captain?” Aldard asks, wiping the rain from his squinting eyes.
“Unloaded and into the stores, general. We’re waiting for the last shipment, but it’s going to be another harsh winter.” Algwain shrugs, puffing out a misty breath.
“We best get home then.” Aldard slaps Algwain on the back with a wink. “Captain, our duties are done. General Aiseld has the command of Ossan. Have the lads form up. It’s a long march home in this weather.”
Captain Algwain peers up at the gathering clouds in the smoky sky as an eagle soars above the dreary valley, scouting for prey. The eagle’s wings tuck as it dives, spiraling down with its eyes fixed on the target. Its talons sink deep into Algwain’s worn leather glove. The eagle’s sharp beak tears into a lump of marbled fat. Algwain places a small cloth sack over the eagle’s head, nods to Aldard, “Aye, general,” winks, and strides ahead.
The sun peeks from behind slate rain clouds as Aldard approaches his troops. They stand shoulder to shoulder in a single column, three by three. Aldard grits his teeth and sets his mouth in an unwavering grimace. His troops stand waiting, their heads lowered, with shrunken eyes, shielded from the frigid bluster. Aldard sighs, just three dozen Galtish swords and a half-dozen unarmed men. Not even a standard-bearer. He digs deep for words of morale. “Alright, lads. There’ll be little comfort for us for the next seven turns.” Aldard glances at his men, their hollow eyes staring back at him from beneath their cavernous hoods. “Men of Galt, envision a hero’s welcome home with blazing hearths, strong ale, roasted meat, and the embrace of welcoming wives and bairns.” A chorus of fleeting laughter ripples through the column of troops with half-hearted smiles. “We’re relieved of duty. General Aiseld commands Ossan now. Keep the formation tight. Men of Galt, we’re going home."
There is no fond farewell for Ossan as Aldard leads his men from the dank pit they called home for so long. Soaked to the marrow, the column climbs the twisted valley path up through the desolate moraine. Their feet trample through mud, clay, and loose scree as they march up through a gray and sodden world. They march in sullen silence until grating gray stones give way to mucky shades of brown.
Aldard’s thick autumnal beard nests on a sodden, weathered face. The dank wind blows through his copper hair with wisps of gray above his ears. He wears a thick, black woolen tunic with dark woolen britches, and his Galtish green cloak blows behind him in the swirling gale. Around his neck, a giant bear's paw hangs from a tattered leather cord. A crude, long and broad dagger hangs from his buckled leather belt. Sparse by Galtish standards. His clothes are caked in mud and covered with a fine coat of drizzle. His knee-high block leather boots hold firm on the valley’s craggy mountainside as the unyielding slope of lichen-encrusted boulders surrenders to a flat expanse of bleak, windswept peat, bogs, and flowering heather.
The distant howling of wolves breaks the trudging silence as the soldiers march on through a wild moorland painting of rich greens and thistle-purples, where braided streams flow like copper veins through the boggy beds.
Captain Algwain’s eagle soars high above them as day surrenders to the dusk of night. The night’s looming clouds part to reveal the gigantic butterfly nebula of Morana. Her enchanting emerald eyes gaze down on them, ever watchful and all-seeing. They pull back their hoods and stare up at the enigmatic living nebula. Broad smiles evolve into chatter and quick-witted words of banter.
Seven turns march; further north, the great granite walls of Castle Galt stand as dark and foreboding as the night. Snowflakes dance above the castle’s lofty towers. The four cardinal turrets rest in stony darkness, but in the central main tower, a single morbid tower of deathly stone glows with awakened firelight.
“Every bloody winter, I stand up here." A tall tower guard moans, shivering, as he looks out from the turret to an endless world of black. He shields the whipping sleet from his face and wraps his tattered sheep shawl around his shoulders.
“Ain’t even winter yet. You’ve gone soft.” The other short guard chides as he walks a circuit around the round turret perimeter.
“Soft?” The tall guard barks a laugh. “I’m freezing my fecking balls off.”
“Did you learn nothing?” The other guard comes to a standstill. His face flickers in between firelight and shadow. “Wrap your manhood in wool. That’s what I do. Keeps the lads cozy and warm.” He grabs his own bollocks and gives them a shake with a hearty chuckle.
The watch guards come to stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out to a black night of nothingness.
“A nice warm bed with a fiery lass would keep them warmer.” The tall guard gives himself a wistful whisper. “Waste of time being up here. Ain’t nothing out there but rain and goat herders.”
“Quit your moaning and do your duty.” The short guard eyeballs him with an icy stare.
“Alright. I’m just saying. I wouldn’t mind a break soon enough." The tall tower guard lopes to the other side of the turret and looks down into the south courtyard. Below, huntsmen sit drinking around a blustery fire. The hunting dogs whine in the kennels where a sleeting wind whip through stone and timber buildings. “At least they got a fire and ale to keep them warm.” The tall guard grumbles to himself.
The shorter guard wipes the freezing rain from his face and peers over the wall down to the main gatehouse. He gazes at a pair of soldiers who stand still as stone statues, one on each bulwark, looking out into the howling night. “Better up here than down there. Poor bastards.”
The tall guard gives a solemn nod. “I heard one of them froze to death last winter. They had to use boiling water to thaw his feet from the floor.”
“Pfff,” The short guard blows through his lips. “Don’t go listening to what those old kitchen folk say. It’s nowt, but fools gossip.”
The tall guard stretches his long neck and rolls his shoulders as he walks around the turret wall. He peers down the plummeting stone turret to the guard house below. From the soldiers’ shared dorms, low echoes of chatter and laughter carry up on the wind.
The watch tower guards fall into a somber silence. The braying of fidgety destriers and chargers breaks the melancholic lull. They look down to the low-lit outer courtyard, where a lone stable hand hurries toward the stables.
“They’re skittish tonight.” The tall guard muses to himself as he squints through the sleeting darkness.
“Always are on nights like tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
The short guard raises his eyes, climbing up the great main house in the heart of the inner keep. A single central round turret tower reaches far above the great outer walls, standing a pillar of ominous stone. A single light flickers from the highest window; a dim beacon shining out on the harsh autumn night.
The guards stare up at the narrow shaft of light shining from the turret and fall into an ominous silence.
A crackling fire casts dancing shadows on Prince Madon’s chamber walls, which hang with heavy tapestries to block out the bitter chill. Mounted on the wall above the hearth is the great obsidian sword of King Malech. Dark as night, the double-handed head cleaver stands tall as a man, forged by dragon flame, unbreakable, and sharp as sunlight.
A copper bathtub sits at the heart of the chamber, facing towards the open hearth. In the rising steam, Prince Madon’s hair glimmers like forged copper, illuminated by the soft, glowing candlelight. His fiery, molten eyes reflect the golden hues of the dancing flames. Beads of sweat trickle on an austere face, pale as winter frost, set hard as ice.
“So fragile,” Prince Madon’s gravelly voice murmurs from his clenched teeth, his jaw twitching with sadistic anticipation. His nimble hands move through the rising bath steam, as he strums and plucks on invisible strings, his eyes captivated by his own mastery. Each movement is a grotesque portrayal of his power and control.
A body levitates above him, suspended in the steam, strung up by an invisible noose. The man’s corpse dangles in crucifixion, unrecognizable in his original form. His torso folded like a layer of brittle parchment, and his arms as twisted as the castle’s winding stairwells. The body’s limbs twist, crack, and rotate to Prince Madon’s will. He flicks his wrist upward, and the body slithers up an invisible wall, then dances like a mangled puppet on a string. Prince Madon extends his fingers, unfurling them into the shape of a fan. The contorted body stretches to breaking point, limbs snap and dislocate as the body creaks, and the folded spine and ribs are ready to explode from the dangling corpse.
The chamber falls into an ominous silence as the deformed body drifts through the misty half-light, drawn by an unseen leash. It comes to rest on the chamber floor. The candle flames hiss as they flicker out, succumbing to the descending night.
From the concealing darkness of the chamber, repulsive chatters, clicks, and hungry chitters echo as the Umbals’ sharp claws scrape on the cold stone walls. The Umbal shadow demons slither like serpents toward the shattered carcass, their grotesque forms contorting as they feed on the mangled remains with a savage frenzy, like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill. Their claws tear away blankets of skin, shredding flesh and bone until nothing remains but gory pulp.
“You are strong, my God-fire,” Morana’s honeyed voice sings. She takes a deep toke from a long and slender wooden pipe. The wisps of smoke flow like waterfalls from her plump, cherry-red lips. The air carries the intoxicating scent of poppy smoke from the far west, sweet, toasted bread, candied sugar, and sundried fish. She lounges, feline, on an ornate wooden sleigh couch, propped high by a scattering of soft cushions.
Madon growls in agitation. “The Umbal are wild, yet their awareness grows,” he hisses, his eyes narrowing with malevolent intent. He licks his lips like a well-fed hound and beckons Morana to the bathtub. “They need a general.”
Morana rises from the couch, her hypnotic eyes sparkling in the dim candlelight. Her voice flows like the sweetest summer brook. “The Umbal are powerful, but they are few. They will always fear the light. You must mold them to serve your greater purpose.”
Madon’s gaze darkens as he draws Morana closer. “You are everything I intended you to be—elegant, majestic, and deadly as every mortal sin.” His lips curl into a lustful smile. “As I shaped you to my liking, so too will I shape the Umbal to serve my will.”
Morana unties her gown with a single tug on her belt. The gown flutters to the floor, revealing the majesty of her form. She admires herself in a full-height mirror and runs her slender fingertips through her long strands of raven hair. Delicate as the first flowers of spring, she is a living painting, her skin inked from neck to toe with tattoos that move like serpent scales. Her entire body ripples and metamorphoses into new shapes and symbols as she caresses herself.
Morana saunters to Madon on swaying hips; her slender fingers wrap around his shoulders, exploring the nooks and crannies of his neck. “Feed, my God-fire. Satisfy your hunger. Take what you desire. For you live within me, and I am your vessel,” Morana purrs as she lowers her long legs into the copper bath. “I share your hunger.” She sucks on his ears, licks his chest, then cups her breasts.
Prince Madon kisses her neck, moving down to her chest, suckling and feeding like a babe, as she lowers herself onto him. The hearth fire roars with thundering black flames. In the fire’s blazing reflection, two demonic black shadows rut, lost in a blur of rutting. A single writhing mass, swelling like an angry wave on an ocean tide. Morana’s eyes widen as she reaches climax with a single gasp of orgasmic pleasure.
Madon’s eyes ignite with ferocious flames as his world plunges into pitch blackness. His skin turns black as coal and brittle as bark, cracking like an eggshell. The shadow dragon, Ana, emerges from his splintering body, ready to erupt.
Morana’s sweet whisper sings into Ana’s ear. “My God-fire. It is not yet time to reveal yourself. Conserve your essence. A living god is beyond the comprehension of men. They must first worship you as a mortal king before you unveil the truth of your form.”
The shadows recede, knitting his skin back together as Ana retreats into Prince Madon’s body. Madon’s eyes smolder with hatred, his unspoken words held on a firm leash. He reclines, seething in the fermenting silence.
Morana plants a delicate kiss on the prince’s charred cheek, then rises and steps out of the steaming bathtub with a fluid, feline grace. Her feet patter softly on the floor, each step deliberate, as her enchanting form steams in front of the hearth’s flames. She knots her hair with practiced ease, her back arching like a cobra preparing to strike. A devious smile plays on her lips as she spits into the turbulent fire. The hearth’s flames swell in response, bowing to her will, coalescing into elemental visions of past, present, and future. Within the flames, tantalizing images weave together—forgotten times, distant battles, shadowy figures, and enigmatic symbols forged in fire.
“I have seen all the great kingdoms of men rise and fall,” she begins, her voice a low, mesmerizing purr. “My name has been hailed throughout the ages—Blessed Mother, Anointed One, Queen of a Thousand Names.” Morana’s hand glides through the air with an elegant sweep as the flames shift and twist under her command. “From the pyramid thrones in the towering dunes, I listened as the sands whispered the secrets of long-forgotten kings. They spoke of your children, bound in bondage within the great pit beneath the sands, where their torment was eased by my grace.”
As the flames rise higher, her gaze sharpens, narrowing with intent. “In the undying lands, the lesser gods bowed to my wisdom, sealing their oaths with fire and blood. The semi-divine bleed like all men,” she hisses, her voice dripping with disdain, “their sacred blood no different from the mortals they sought to rule. All are weak, mortal and divine, their minds frail, their motives brittle, driven only by lust, power, and pleasure. I bent all to my will, as one bends hot iron in the forge.”
Morana spits into the flames again, her eyes widening with sudden, fierce intensity. “My flowers in Thiel whisper words of treachery and deceit, twisting King Adal’s thoughts, shaping his mind to serve our grand design.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Your father lives in fear of who you are, ruled by his terror and governed by greed.” A soft, mocking laugh escapes her lips. “I have glimpsed your father’s dreams and stoked his desires. He flirts with death yet lacks the wisdom to perceive it. Your gold is well spent, my God-fire.”
With a languid, predatory grace, Morana returns to the copper bathtub, sinking back into the warm water with a satisfied sigh. She collapses into Madon’s arms, her body yielding to him, yet her eyes remain sharp, calculating. “The time has come for your return, to reclaim all that has always been yours, to rise again and make the world tremble before your name once more,” she intones, her voice thick with conviction. “The kingdom is yours. Summon the loyal lords and set forth your plans. Remove all those who stand against you and restore the kingdom’s pride. Rebuild the armies and reclaim the wealth of the mines. Forge your loyal legions and lead them into war.” As she rests her head in the crook of his shoulder, her hand trails sensuously along his arm. Madon scoops water and runs it over her back, her skin glistening in the firelight. “Plans are already in motion,” she murmurs, her voice soft and dangerous. “Set forth by your loyal servant in Thiel. A beggar will lead them to your cause, where men will spew like vomit from the sewers. Thiel will fall.”
A sadistic smile curls on Madon’s cruel lips as the flames dance in his eyes, his fingers tightening possessively around her. They’ll all burn.