Break 1 - Mortan Osserfid

Of mice and men; of birds and Gods.

As the golden moon sat high in the sky, the gnome stood as tall as his slight frame could in the small field just outside of Tarwell. Wisps of wind whipped around him as he walked through the field for the fifth or sixth time. Occasionally, high overhead, a couple of Nemoku's favored could be heard flapping their wings and piercing the night's peace with their caws.

Small mounds of unearthed and then recovered and compacted dirt, hardened once again over time, were marked by small structures of twig, stone and whatever else would stand up against the weather year after year. Although in no way uniform, the markers showed love and devotion crafted into each piece. It wasn't right to call this place a cemetery, at least not a proper one, for in truth there was no structure or religious ideal overriding the area. Cemeteries always stank of over-religious ideals and ceremonies to Mortan. But this kind was different. It was the kind of cemetery where small children buried their pets.

Mortan so loved places such as this. Memories of happy experiences were worked into wood carvings and shaped out of clay. Sometimes pictures were drawn in typical childish fashion: A small child and a dog rolling on the ground; a snake wrapped around what looked like a mother's leg, and so on.

He smiled a grim smile as he continued his walk. Knowledge seemed so close now. Just a few more hours and maybe he'd have more answers about the undead plague that resided in living tissue without immediately devouring it. It was unnatural for any undead entity of less than advanced intelligence to go outside of it's normal path without being forcibly directed by something. But who, or what, was pulling the strings? So many questions that he didn't have answers to, and Mortan hated to be ignorant.

If he thought that he had enough power himself, he would already be down at the shipyards investigating without the interference of the rest of the "saviors" from the boat. But as such, he saw no reason not to let them do the heavy lifting. Besides, as much as he hated to say it, he had seen what was left of him, combat-wise, once his graces of Gharlamaal had been drained for the day. It had not been a pretty sight. The two men that he killed on that road had made their choice of death and it was his duty to see that choice fulfilled as quickly as possible. He had almost failed.Yes, best to let the grunt and the sneak maim the flesh. Let the mage and the bard spin song and spell to turn tides. He needed to reserve his energy for the battle ahead.

And there would be one soon, he knew. The ill winds told true of many things and the ache in his bones could only be Gharlamaal's warnings. The Gold moon shone brightly now, but the sudden appearance of the Dead moon and it's extended stay bode of an imbalance of power in the heavens. The dream had only strengthened his worry. And histories had shown Mortan that battles forged above were often waged below.

One of Nemoku's crows settled high on the branches of a nearby tree, cold black eyes focused on him as he walked towards it in the moonlight. A sudden avian cry of surprise was muffled and quickly died as the crow disappeared from sight, only to reappear shortly after coiled in the vertebrae of a skeletal snake slowly inching it's way down the tree.

He recovered the bird's body and laid his minion to rest before slitting the crow's arterial vein and funneling the quickly cooling crimson fluid into a couple of small vials.

Yes, the gods were watching. The problem was that he didn't enjoy being anyone's tool. The problem was, he didn't like to be watched.