A strange word that pulled out from the depths of his thoughts—Merrin pondered this for a moment, watching silently as the briefly stunned figures grew awareness to the sudden loss of a barrel. One sneered. "Mist this!"
Some trembled.
"Do you know what you done gone do now?" The man, black-haired, barked orders as he had prior. "Sir Pycelle will be cutting my pay for this loss!"
The man sprawled on the floor took to his knees. "Sorry, sir." Arms clapped. "My mistake. By the Sister, the floor's wet."
"The ground's always wet," reminded the man. "Mist it."
Words over words.
Merrin observed this, uncaring—or rather, there was no point in the offering of pity. A job was a job, same as its consequences. He sighed, sitting up, prime and ready for another dash into the sky. Another race for the hopeful discovery of the so-called killer in the camps.
"An awful waste." A voice snapped into Merrin's ears; soft, calm, with just a hint of an amused quality. Who was that? Mentation produced the urging question.
Hence, he turned, eyes lowering at the gloomy grounds before the ship. There, he found a man. Calm, stepping out from an area of cloudy fog. This man, a peculiarity, was dressed in a greyish-white robe, with a black loose belt around his waist. A waist that, much like Madam Buns', was rounded and prominent. The clean baldness was but an added feature to his traits.
He smirked. "Each barrel you see is worth more marks than your body." A surge of fear flowed through the company. Men trembling, eyes lowering in some show of ultimate submission. Who was this?
One of the workers, the one who screamed, ran, palms wrapping around each other. "Sir Pycelle," he said, "the floor's wet—I—"
"I know that." The bald person, whose name was now acknowledged as Pycelle, said, a brief smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But it doesn't change the factor now, does it?" His head tilted. "What would you do to compensate me for this?"
"Sir, I—"
"Is it not the duty of one such as you to manage the works of your workers..." he chimed. "Shouldn't you make sure that no such things were to happen?"
"But the sir, the grounds..."
"Ah, please." His tongue touched softly on the face of his lips. He seemed to enjoy that. "This drink... this liquor is specially made in the Honeycomb island. Believe me, it's not easy to bring something down from Fishers Bay to here... No, it is not. So with that. With the cost of even one such barrel being so tremendously high, what do you propose I do?"
"I..." All workers enjoyed a locked gaze on the floors—none dared observe the motions of this man. A man, by the way, as Merrin could observe, existed with no awesomeness in physicality. But then again, casters were rarely required to be creatures of physical might.
Pycelle continued, waving. "You see, you have nothing to say... Cause you are worthless. You have nothing to offer for the thing you have lost. Yes, what was that you said: You will bed Sibel of the Highstorm Inn..." He chuckled, fat belly wobbling in the motions. "How? With what money..."
That's enough... Merrin broke attention, eyes staring up at the rolling tides of the sky's darkness. I should not be listening to this, he thought. It has nothing to do with me. Nothing does. I should simply find this man—this killer. That is the only thing I should do.
He nodded, taking a silent breath of the steam-choked air. Rather pleasant as it fed into that reminiscing aspect of his wholeness. That part that longed for the Ashmountains, for the dance of steam and self.
However... here he stood, under the blackened heavens, clean without the slightest hint of the forever loved ash. What nakedness this was. What impurity: To stand, to live without the Ash. To become Ashless. Lifeless.
The living dead.
He snickered, ending it thus with a hard exhale from the lungs. Tiredness was admitted in that gesture. He paused, realizing the growing fragility within the body. The mind worked exceptionally, as always. The mindForce had a way with that. But for the body, that one treasure owned by its wearer was delicate. Frail now. It needed food.
If only there were something like the bodyForce... He enjoyed the little quip, realizing soon after the passage of time wasted in these moments. Below the building, the workers were still drilled by the Pycelle fellow. Whoever he was. Perhaps one of the leaders of the camps. As was in the mines.
Not that it mattered. Nothing did. Not now. Not ever again.
Merrin stretched, arms tensing, shoulders creaking. That and the slight cracking of his chest. Rather startling, he paused. What was that? A question that quickly faded back into the collective of endless data. It was getting worse now—the near-infinite imputation of information. Almost like a calculation that sought the utter clarity within madness.
Complete lunacy.
Perhaps the goal of the caster is madness. He sighed, sauntering towards the edge of the building, eyes lowering once more at the area below. There he saw Pycelle, arms folded behind, and another. Silent, standing right beside him.
Who was that?
A she... A woman with flowing black hair. Dressed crudely in lowlander terms in a black tight shirt, trousers with a black tattered cloak spilling down towards her knees. She was an oddity in comparison to the others... And then there was that smell, too.
Merrin frowned... what was that? The smell was familiar. What was it?
Pycelle gestured towards her. "Kill that one." Finger pointed towards the kneeling man—the one who had broken the barrel.
What? Merrin jerked into almost motion... Then... like a sudden chill within his bones... he froze.
Why?
Cause he saw it now... that girl, that impossible woman, casually with slowed grace, pulled from her clothes, a brown, sharp-edged stone-knife.
By the Lords, she was Ashman!
Even if all data were to be, by some means, collected from all humans—it would still come short of trueness. Why, you ask? It is simple; often, humans endure a deed-seeded delusion about the trueness of things—words from a deadEye.
Merrin felt the coldness grip around his heart, relentless. It marshaled but one desire. To run. To run faster than he had ever run. To never stop. He was right; by the Almighty, he was right. That woman—she was Ashman, and not just any. He remembered it now.
Although the Dream Fallen had reforged the details into a trapping dream, the truth was somewhat similar. She was the female Eidan, the one who stopped him from saving Liem, or at least that was the version within the dream. In truth, she was the daughter of a Hashar—a leader amongst the Scouters of the Ashmen. And a woman who had once requested his hand for marriage.
He had, of course, refused this. Not calmly—oh no. He was vocal about it. Something along the line of his purpose being greater than that of a mere daughter of a Hashur.
Mist this!
Merrin rolled to a stop, panting atop the roof of a building. A different one. One far, far away from wherever that Pycelle had been. Her and the Eidan... He gritted.
What in damnation is she doing here? He rubbed his hair. By the laws, Ashmen weren't allowed below the mountain, especially not this far north-east into Nightfell. What then was her presence here? That, and of course, the reason she stayed with that man.
Questions within questions.
"MIST IT!?" There was an incessant trembling in his bones, his flesh. That awareness that the past had come. And it had arrived in the shape of a woman. He would hurt now. He could feel it—that crawling darkness that rested within his mind. That self that told and retold of his actions within those mountains. Of the deaths he had caused ever since.
Shut up! He spat. She shouldn't see me. She shouldn't be allowed to know me. A nod. Yes, it should be simple. I do nothing, nothing of importance. Simply nothing... Yes, nothing. That way—I stay safe.
He had to. Now was not the moment to once again drown in that despair. It would be worse, far worse than the mines. At least there, the witnesses existed as a cushion to the blow. But what about now? There was nothing. No hope, no safety... More deaths in his hands...
SHUT UP!
I can't think of this now.
Mist it! Why did she have to be here?
What was she doing with that man?
And and... Ha. I'm sure she killed for him, right? Why?
There were laws by Ashmen—some were forced upon by either the rules of the Valor Clan or those of the Theocracy. One such was to never kill a man such as you. A rule that was often broken in certain circumstances. Special ones. But what was that? She had killed a man she harbored no grudge against. No anger... Why?
Because Pycelle had commanded it.
Who was he?
Why would she obey him?
What hold did he have?
Merrin paused... What am I doing? He mumbled. I shouldn't interfere. I should do nothing. For my own sake. I-SHOULD-DO-NOTHING!
This he said with some measure of conviction….Yet, just as the words found way from his thoughts, something pierced deeply in.
A scream!