mor4llywrong

[mor4llywrong]

Servants of a different kind (prologue snippet)

Male OC POV (Mythanar) Astarion's death Snippet of a way larger WIP I might consider posting at some point. content warning: grief, descriptions of murdered person WC: 969

By the time they arrived, the rain had already washed away the blood. The guard had started to get the shallow crowd of late night patrons, lured by the tragedy, under control.

And Mythanar was no stranger to death. To murder and to the grotesque fascination it tended to inspire in people. 

He had joined the church of Ilmater fairly young, after hours spent with his father in the magistrate and finding he had no patience for lies and politics. It was of no interest to him who had withheld taxes and who had smuggled some forbidden wine into the city. His strength had lain in comfort of a victim’s family.

He had a way to talk them through their grief and pain. He could offer comfort, stability and a steadiness many of the grieving people needed. One of his friends had suggested he should attend some of the Ilmater clergy’s masses. 

It had brought him into the clergy and made him walk the path he was confident in walking. While he wasn’t devoted to Ilmater, he was most often sent to alleviate the pain of those who remained. Mythanar had found his faith in helping those who did not understand death and the step it marked in every soul's personal journey. He had admired Jergal for a long time, and had read about the scribe in text that could crumble at the faintest touch. 

A shame what had become of the ancient one’s domain. Myrkul was no better than the rest of the dead three. The fear of death that had spread through the people, made so much worse by the disrespect myrkul’s followers displayed towards the dead. A vile church Myth had no intention of ever crossing paths with.

And if he did, it would not be him needing a rite.

The church of Ilmater was grateful for his presence, for his acceptance of death and willingness to perform the rites according to the dead’s belief. His respect was met in kind and rewarded by the living offering their thanks and him seeing them recover from their loss. 

Sadly, not every deceased would pass quietly and in peace. Sometimes the guard would call for someone of the clergy to oversee a crime scene, ensure the dead were taken to their temple and receive the rites. 

The runner had arrived at the clergy just minutes ago, but Myth had been the only one available, his latest consultation with a grieving widow hopefully having been helpful. 

He had grumbled into his robe as he tied his embroidered sash, marking him as Ilmater’s death warden. It had been pouring for days, keeping the people mostly off the streets, opting to instead stay inside and curl up in the shelter of their homes. 

With a huff he went outside, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, shielding his bright hair from the gently weeping sky. His boots squelched on the ground, rivulets passing him by as he ascended the streets towards the upper city. 

What a dreary night for murder. Light had escaped the Gate’s citizens the entire day with the late autumn sun being hidden behind heavy clouds for what felt like forever and the night was even worse. Darkness fell oppressively over the city, scaring even vermin into hiding.

Myth nodded to the guard as he passed the Gate to the Upper City, their grim faces fitting into the sombré atmosphere the gloomy weather had created throughout the city in the past days. He could make out the guard from afar, their torches bright underneath the walkway. A few stood outside of the circle of light, ensuring the victim was shielded from the curiosity of passersby. 

It was Cal, an Iron Fist Myth who had gone out more than once to drink with and endearingly complain about family to, who spotted him first. Myth was already raising his hand in greeting as the guard’s grim face morphed into shock and then stuck to utter despair. Horror, so visible even Myth had rarely seen it displayed so openly. Ignoring the pit opening up in his stomach, the tightness in his throat, Myth hurried forward.

“What is it, Cal?” Myth asked. Concern lined the edge of his voice. There were few things that would rattle Cal. The half-elf  had seen the horror’s of the city. Had stared over the edge and into the abyss of darkness hiding in people. Yet, nothing had ever brought forth a reaction like he displayed now.

Cal, a brave man daring to stop an elf twice his own weight, blocked Myth from laying eyes on the body. “Go back,” Cal whispered, holding Myth by the shoulders. “Send anyone else, just not you. I mean it Myth. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Myth swallowed, dread writhing through his body. His eyes darted over Cal’s shoulders. Even 200 years later, the image of grey, wet mud on that all too familiar light hair would make Myth stop breathing.

His baby brother. The youngest of their clan. Murdered and left in the mud to die. Someone had killed his brother. 

He couldn’t remember how he ended up on his knees in the dirt, his hands buried in that stupid, stupid, black magistrate robe. But he could remember the pain. The stabbing, tearing, ripping of his heart with every beat. The pure agony of his grief, as he keened into the cracked open chest of his little brother. He could vividly recall the scent of his brother’s blood. Coppery and clinging to the red doubled mother had gifted him just a few days earlier. 

Fear still clung to the ground, to the walls of that dirty alley. Terror hung in the air, heavy and cloying, spreading from his brother’s body.

And amid all of it, the tiniest bit of hope.

[mor4llywrong]

So we're actually starting to use tumblr again, huh?

Man, teenage me is quaking in their boots