Short Story: Dark Furies

A storm was brewing, that much was certain. The horizon was dark with rain, lit by scattered flashes of lightning. The thunder was faint, only a distant murmor. Through the storm, the crimson haze of the Mists thrashed and tore at the gloom as the dark furies refused to be contained.

The youth shuttered the window and moved to the fireplace. The wind was chilling, but the fire would warm the room quickly enough. Again he arranged the collection he had arrayed upon the small table. Parchment, a full vessel of ink, three quills, freshly sharpened.

The chair was overly large and cozy, and more temptation than he could resist. The scribe savored the feel of the down cushions as he nestled himself into its comfort, and looked about the room. Quite a plain room actually. Were its walls of wood and not of cut stone, he fancied, he might well have been in an inn or tavern, or home, and not in a novice's quarters within the Citadel of Knowledge.

And in an tavern he would be, had not his master directed him to this chamber. Even his great master ate and slept, the youth thought scornfully, unhappy with his task. And he had waited alone for some time now. True, such was the life of a novice scribe in service to a legender, but he could not help feeling anger in waiting for someone who had never come. The fire was warm though, and the comfort of the chair enticing. The youth settled deeper into the chair and closed his eyes... and opened them again.

The scribe's gasp was barely audible, but filled the silent emptiness of the room. The old man stepped forward from the shadows, and the light of the fire danced upon a face ancient and terrible. A single eye glowered back at the youth, and a dull fire burned from within a blackened wound where another eye had once lived. The oldster was gaunt, and as he drew closer the fire revealed ancient flesh drawn tight about his bones, scarred and hairless, and unwholesome, unhealthy white. The youth stumbled up and out of the chair, mustering his resolve. "My lord, if I might - ".

The oldster settled into the scribe's chair, his remaining eye locked upon the stuttering scribe. "You are here at your master's instruction, to record into the library of the Citadel what I tell you. Be silent, be still, and listen..."

"Hear you now, of the rise of Dark Furies."