Odela's Grimoire IV
super late on this one, but I was hyped to finally start writing about spells.
8th of First Spring
Sennight come and past, we keep to Dorbagh. Coin draws tight, and hunting has ended for what small food is bought and rationed.
I learn a fair secret from Mish as we camp. I know too many secrets to write them openly, and shall keep it as it was told to me more or less.
The bitter salt of death is plunged into ground,
it beguiles all spirits of earth
save what grows the iron-wood
the salt lieged to its fruit
Our last convoco to arms is a great stake-ram. We shall all company it to The Worm King and fix him to the ground by its harsh point. Where he shall be helpless as to a falling axe-head or all our powers to drive his black plagae from the world.
The ride is swift and we make little before the trail. Such losses in the last battle give us no reserve men, but we march in decem.
Along the water we come to a crop of dead men. A priest and few score of travellers, strewn piece by piece against the trees.
It is too late to proffer my soul to god, and they were poor strangers. The men were greatly troubled, but we could not bury them amidst our mission. I write them here only that they are not lost witness and seek me out for my sins. Such as I now do for all the dead.
We camp and hunt, gaming a fine stag for evenmeal, with the bounty of threescore cups of ration split between our company. Night passes without incident, and by dawn we march back to that profaned spring.
Arriving, our many hide in the ambush and send one swordsmaid exprimere at the water’s rotting craw, to call up the Worm King. And whence, he came, quickly smiting the swordsmaid in her retreat to our woodland trench, then we charged him.
The fight was a mess of violence. I was stood back with my druid poultice, although only two such doses. One did nothing to repel that Vermissimus, and I did not try another for less than the blackest hour. In the end, our Brythonman wrested that hateful lance from his grip, slicing at his ear, and he was struck to the ground with the stake where the pictdam cleaved his head in twain.
A bitter conflict, but won at last. From the worm king and his grotto we gathered one and twelve jewelled torques from twelve skulls. From the Worm King I cut his blackened hand to take, one such key to the mysteries he knew in death.
We quickmarch to Dorbagh with treasures aloft, and the swordsmaid in pono along the ram. Our parade comes straight to the keep of Lord Donnagh, emptying houses of the pale living to watch it pass. He inspects the Worn King’s body, once, hark of the end to its long sickness. The rivers will be dredged for weeks, he says, but the bleak darkness draws to a dawn.
A feast is held in our honour. There is l’concours at the month’s end, in Blulach, and he wishes our company to hold his banner.
At court, strangers come from Stemullen, now Lost Stemullen. Raids of wolves, then wild men, then fomoiri in bitter night. All gone save they, all beset by the death of their holy man, the druid MacUlyn. A good man. A samaritan at our first cold day in these isles. His throat cut.
We have only month’s end bound for Blulach, three days’ march. Until then, I hope to learn some new druid-key of the ruins.
I learned these secret signs also, by the dream-working and Mish’s teaching at last.
The Fog-Road
Of the way is the terrible curse. Of the way is the path to the frigid night. The pith of death-returned is burned and sucked up, to cast like ashes against the stars. Greater is the way to eternal dooms. Straddle heaven, and find there the phial of death.
Old Tree and The Wolf
It was a bitter day that Wolf went to Old Tree. He spoke then as spirits do, in falling branch and turning wind. “Old Tree, the great huntsman is coming, and he has cut me deep to my centre.”
“So this will pass, as it has for I.” Said Old Tree.
“You have faced the great huntsman, Old Tree?” said Wolf.
“When they have come, I have said to hide beneath my branches, where the great huntsman shall not look.” Said Old Tree, but it was a bitter day and there were no branches to hide below.
“Must I wait for you to grow new branches, Old Tree? The great huntsman is very close. I smell his axe and rabbit shoes.” Said Wolf, who was growing very anxious.
“It shall not be long, Wolf, for my branches come with the rain, and you may hide beneath them then.” Said Old Tree.
“I see.” Said Wolf.
So Wolf gnawed at Old Tree’s bark, as that all the water within flowed out onto Wolf’s fur, and Wolf became full of the scent of Old Tree’s branches, and all the rushing spirits gathered in Wolf’s shadow.
“Now the great huntsman shall not find me.” Said Wolf.