1st Day of Ash, 122nd Year of the Age of Steel
The Grand Hall of the Creth Compound was the largest room they had, perhaps possibly the Menagerie. It was without a doubt the most ornate. With high dark ceilings and long purple banners depicting the white hand of Creth, It was the only place that did not feel like it was underground. Masagh liked the place.
Emerande sat on her throne-like chair, only slightly lounging in her seat. Parthena sat next to her on her right and Cyran on her left. Sabrione sat at the end of one of the closest tables with Cleon next to her. Arrayed along the tables were arrayed the various lesser family. Masagh sat at the table closest to the side door with Bonecaster Arthur.
It was an important day, Cinderfall, the beginning of the cold half of the year. It meant in general they would have more time during a day to be above ground and the living would be confined to their homes more, hoarding their precious life’s heat. The dead could walk easier on this side of the year. Trade with the Goblin King would increase in tempo. Masagh would be asked to leave the compound more often.
Since apprenticing with Arthur, he hadn’t really felt the wanderlust as keenly. Learning a complex and time consuming magical craft was a great way to negate the boredom of a long uneventful existence underground. But it did not negate it completely. Masagh still yearned to go see what had been denied them so long ago.
A soft murmuring filled the hall as a dozen small conversations. Arthur was not partial to needless words. It was part of why Masagh had seated himself next to the man. Instead Masagh watched those in the hall with a frown. While there were only a handful of true Creths left in the world, many minor families had flocked to Emerande’s side when the Empire fell, or had been born or converted to the cause throughout the years. As it stood, his mother, his siblings, and Masagh himself were the last remaining Creth. He had never met another who claimed such a direct line to the old houses they had all been robbed of in the destruction of the Empire.
His eyes moved back to his mother. Emerande Creth may very well be the oldest ghoul left. None left here approached her in age. Only a few of the those present crossed the sea with her so long ago. Those were either her children or had diluted lines with living ancestors.
And here they had sat ever since, with Emerande’s paranoid secrecy to keep them. Masagh frowned down at the meal set before him. A greying limb, cold and rigid with death. The grisly cargo they exchanged their arcana for with the Goblin King. Probably the best deal ever made for such goods for the recipient. Powerful magical goods for some corpses that didn’t matter to you.
“Settle down now.” Cyran’s wavering rasp rang out in the hall.
The conversations all died out and every rotten, leathery face turned to Emerande to hear what goals they would strive for in the coming year. Emerande gazed down at them until their silence was complete.
“Welcome, family. To the Cinderfall Feast. It gladdens my heart to see so many of us here together and safe beneath my roof.” The Matriarch began after she stood.
“Where else would we be.” Masagh muttered under his breath. Only Arthur heard, and he just glanced over with a frown.
“You may have heard our deliveries to the Goblin King are once again meeting schedule.” She continued. “That alliance is growing strong, and because of it we can enjoy the sanctuary we do.” She went on to reiterate the many benefits of remaining hidden and remote. Survival would be assured if they kept all the living unaware of their existence. Thank the spirits for their short lives and even shorter memories.
Masagh picked at the meal while she spoke with disinterest. He hated these feasts. It was always in the moment of a cold, dead meal that the hunger for the warm flesh of the living became them most unbearable. Two centuries had taught him much in terms of endurance of their curse, but never enough to not feel that pang keenly. He clicked his teeth.
“-We have heard reports of a shipwreck off the Gelerian Coast to the north.” Emerande continued, grabbing his attention back. “It is said to be a ship down from the north carrying some sort of highly important shipment from the north, Kalzasi if I understand correctly.”
“How far north?” Masagh heard himself ask.
The entire hall looked at him.
“The answer is no, Masagh.” He was perhaps the least susceptible to her cold tone.
“I could go and see if anything of use it there.” A reasonable proposition.
“We will wait for the Goblin King to report on it.” Emerande said, not looking at him.
“And show him that we are limited?”
“There will be Imperium and Inquisition officials scouring the area.” Emerande finally turned her blazing orbs on him.
“I can be a snake, or a crocodile.” Masagh said, shrugging and standing up. He glanced at Sabrione, who was scowling at him.
“An undead snake or crocodile would still draw attention.”
“Under the waves? I will just hide if there are redveins around.” Masagh said. “It can just be an intelligence gathering exercise. I will be able to see whatever they grab either way and report back.” Masagh carefully kept his voice light. Make it seem like nothing, and the house might question why Emerande didn’t send him. She would not be swayed by such things if on her own, but he had ambushed her. “I believe it is my duty. After the death of Cynfael, I am the only skin changer.”
Murmuring.
Emerande’s eyes bore into him, then flickered to Sabrione. His sister shrugged faintly then nodded.
“If you believe yourself capable, Masagh.” Emerande said finally. “You have my permission to investigate.”
Masagh smiles then and let out a slow breath. “I won’t disappoint you, or die.” He assured her, biting his tongue on the belligerence. She had agreed, no reason to strain their relationship any further. “I should go now though, to head off any others.”
“If you follow the coast north out of the bay there are rocks that reach above the waves.” Parthena said. “They probably have a shipwreck on them now, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for you, brother. A survivor brought the rumor to an agent of mine. About two hours on foot north.”
Masagh bowed low to his family before hurrying out of the Hall. Finally, some excitement!
It was a scant half an hour later that he was above in the night streets readying himself for the Animus working. The street ahead was dark save for the silver gloom of the full moon. A decent enough time to try out his newest form. He had found the animal dying near the river. The small flying reptile had been close enough akin to his other two forms that Masagh had taken it home. It had died a few days later, unfortunately.
But Masagh had lived more than two centuries at this point and had seen them flying about the river his entire life. It was enough to be confident in the form as an initial flight form. So Masagh evoked the aether within himself, feeling it pulse through his ichor in that familiar way it did with personal magic.
He brought out the amber encased bones of the pterincus. The focus that would guide the skin change spell. Pouring the aether into it, Masagh felt his body shifting. It was painful as the bones and muscles shifted. The shape was almost unfamiliar to him, but the pain of the change was one he had endured before. So when, after about five minutes, he became the small winged reptile he was quick to recover from the shift.
Taking a moment to firmly lodge his purpose and his identity in his mind’s eye, Masagh let his mind explore the new body. It was important to keep one’s identity in mind before allowing their mind to wander with the new form. That was how wizards were lost to the beast.
He gave an excited squawk and flapped his wings out. All in all, they were about two feet wide. A small form incapable of much utility besides that one great utility… flight.
No use analyzing and wasting time. Masagh began to run down the street on his squat reptile legs. He flapped his wings hard, and kept at it. He felt his legs lift and then crash back down. But he did not stumble. He kept hopping and wagging along with the wings beating hard.
And eventually he flew. Well, he lifted long enough to become thrilled by it. Then he came crashing down. Pain blossomed in his squat legs and the pterincus gave a croak through his mouth.
No matter, he would start again. The second attempt was much better, with him gaining enough altitude that he skimmed on level with the rooftops. Fear and trepidation kept him uneasily low. He did not want to gain altitude and then fall to a decidedly indignant end. When he eventually found himself over the river he felt much better about climbing.
The pterincus rose and Masagh felt the thrill of genuine pleasure. He had found something he enjoyed almost as much as the blade. He flapped toward the bay and the forest of masts there. The wind blew chaotically around him and he felt it lift him at times. He did not fly as a pterincus did, with grace and a lifetime of experience. Masagh flew by beating his wings wildly and quickly, then gliding until he descended to an altitude he was comfortable with. Then repeating it. But it was a good first attempt.
This seemed to work until he reached the bay. The cool ocean breeze he had enjoyed occasionally on missions for Creth was more like a wall of frigid air at this height. He was just getting comfortable with gliding and experimenting with regaining elevation that way when the force of a draft knocked the wind out from under him. The small pterincus plummeted. Masagh spun and tried to right himself, but his wings whipped about painfully.
He could do little more than panic as he fell. He was just able to get his small clawed feet underneath him before he hit the water. With a final, futile beat of the wings he impacted the water with force.
