Horrace: Losing It

“...Pharasma is also the goddess of birth and prophecy: from the moment a creature is born, she sees what its ultimate fate will be, but reserves final judgment until that soul finally stands before her...” - The Bones Land in a Spiral.

The soft sounds of slumber and the crackle of the last dying embers of the small camp fire drowned out the near silent movement of the stout figure from his sleeping companions. He weaved through the trees until he was out of earshot. Losing composure he began to stumble and crack his head against low hanging branches, to which he would mutter a moist curse. He wanted to go further but simply couldn't. He fell to his hands and knees. Coughing and wheezing, he began to gag and emptied the meager contents of his stomach. It was hard to tell in the dark, but he was pretty sure there was blood in it. Horrace was sick. Again.

It had happened a few times over the past few years at an increasing rate. It was always a burden to have to sneak away from his traveling fellows, but he felt pathetic enough being a grotesque. It was starting to get serious, and despite his devout study of medicine and health, he had no idea what was happening. The best guess he had was that his twisted body was simply getting worse. Ribs were no doubt starting to grow into the lining of his intestines and stomach, causing internal bleeding when he moved too much. Not an easy thing to avoid for a warrior. Or maybe it was just the curse everyone told him he was born with trying to finish the job. All he knew is that the only thing that seemed to help was the magical healing his glorious goddess gave him. But not the standard clerical healing magic. Only the wave of healing energy that came over him when he drove a soul from it's body. It had been a while since they had battled anything human-like. It seemed to be the only kind of soul that worked.

He crawled slowly towards the sounds of running water until he found a wide but shallow creek nearby. He plopped down onto his belly, wincing in agony, and buried his head under the water. It remained there for some time. His body lie perfectly still. All the insects and tiny fish that found a home in the stream seemed to move away. But they all seemed to be watching. At last his head recoiled and began hacking out cold water and blood. He wasn't sure if he had just tried to kill himself, or if he was simply hallucinating. Either way, it hadn't helped his condition much.

He lay there, shivering at the pain coiling up inside him, like he was full of wood splinters and hot mush. He wasn't sure how long he had even been wandering in the woods now. If you had asked him he couldn't have told you the names of those he rode with. He didn't even know who or what he was. He just stared in horror at his reflection in the water. A heavy sloped brow, a crooked squash-like nose, a massive under-bite with brown and yellow teeth popping up, a tick matted beard that hung in clumps, and one empty festering eye socket. He didn't understand why there were so many piercings on his head. Why he had black spirals inked into his skin on his forehead and around his neck. He closed his eye and seized for a few moments. His body convulsed, and his mouth foamed. The overwhelming pain shook him down to his soul.

As he awoke again moments later he began to recognize the things around him. He looked at the dark spiral on his brow intently. It was a perfect pattern, wrapping in on itself. It seemed to pull him in. He could see so much in it. A pillar of bones, a giant tower pyre piercing through the dimensions like a lance surrounded by lost souls. He felt the eyes of his Goddess upon him. She knew him completely. He had always told himself that Pharasma needed him to do what she could not. Kill the wicked, so she could judge them. It was not how her other followers acted. It was against their teachings, but he could not ignore her presence in his life. He had to be doing something right, or she wouldn't grant him her powers. That was how it worked, wasn't it? He looked upon her beautiful face, but saw nothing but confusion. Even she didn't know what to make of him. But she was trying, and that is what mattered.

He slowly got to his feet, and found his balance. Using his heavy axe handle as a walking stick, he quietly made his way back into the camp. They were still sleeping. It must not have been as long as it felt. He sat down on a stone, masking stoically the pain growing inside himself. Looking out on these sleeping men, he thought to himself, these are strong boys. More or less pure of spirit. What kind of power and healing would come from giving their souls to Pharamsa? He began weighing the pain inside versus the virtue of the men he had been helping thus far. The elf woke up and looked at him in confusion. They were always light sleepers.

“...Horrace? You alright? You were gone a moment ago.”

Horrace stared into his two bright almond eyes with his one piercing green. Thorain could clearly sense some kind of turmoil brewing in his friend, and it made him gulp in concern. Horrace did not answer, but simply stared.