The grounds below Murkspire were cut with a myriad of interconnected waterways, allowing junks and fishing rafts easy access to the bountiful bog resources. Talon’s long gate carried him swiftly across an ancient causeway as he considered his options. Going in heavy-handed here would be a bad idea, and subterfuge wasn’t likely to be effective.

  The shamans of the swamps were not civilized, barely above the animals they worshipped, but even the fox could be crafty. Eldrin had underestimated the shaman, and he’d paid the price in the end. He supposed the best option was his feigned respect.

  His scouts had given him the precise location at least, saving him the headache of approaching the myriad of tents and structures dotting the perimeter of the still stygian waters, their colorful totems and bone charms, a distasteful reminder of their archaic beliefs. At the same time, he played the smiling, respectful fool, attempting to seek their favor in exchange for what he wanted.

  He walked the far perimeter of the loose encampment until he reached the southern edge of the pools, spotting the bearkin shaman and her arrowhead enchantment. He would not wish to do battle with her, at least not in the open; he could win such a fight, he was sure, but the cost would be heavy. As he approached, a pathetic bearkin protectively sidled up to her, a low growl emanating from his lips, as they twitched around the edges of his snout.

  Talon did not slow his pace or show any hesitation; he simply stopped a respectful distance and performed a short, curt bow, showing the exact amount of respect necessary. The accords were transparent on the shaman's place in the Mires hierarchy. “Deep roots, Shaman –” Talon eyed the brown bear, down on all fours.

  “What do you want, Talon?” Mirabella spoke, curtly showing barely restrained disdain.

  Talon inwardly sighed; he’d forgotten how bad his reputation had gotten among the Murkspire shamans. “I’ll take my prisoner back.”

  Mirabella crossed her arms. “I don’t think so, Talon, you’re a fool, the Conclave will see the human.”

  Talon's eyes narrowed. “If the Bone Conclave gets involved,” Talon’s eyes slid to Lyle. A thin, slippery smile spread across his face, “There will be consequences.”

  Lyle took a step forward before Mirabella held out a paw, restraining him, “Be gone, Talon, I’ll not tell you twice.”

  Talon’s eyes lingered on Lyle before returning to Mirabella, “I’ll be back tomorrow to collect the prisoner, see that he’s ready.” Talon gave a curt nod before turning on his heel and marching back towards the distant Spire.

  Talon steepled his fingers as he walked away, pleased with his efforts. However this played out, he was going to be enjoying himself, and soon.

  —

  Lyle, on all fours, sniffed Ren’s prone form, while Mirabella looked down, hands on hips, “Lyle dear, my handsome knight in shining fur, how much did you give him?”

  They’d moved Ren above ground, under cover of night, as he remained unconscious, the effects of the dream potion still underway. Lyle chuffed, “Half a dose, he isn’t massive after all – but, even for his size – I watched as he was flayed alive, his bones and organs wrapped in mithril, the smell of burnt flesh and molten metal thick in the air, while his – core, erupted like my bowels after too mutch zug zug on an empty stomach.

  Mirab’s eyes were widening in horror as she drew back in revulsion at her husband's overly descriptive accounting of events, the latter portion of which she’d been in too much of a daze to pay any close attention. “The point is, my maddeningly majestic mallow root, he should have been able to handle twice the standard dose, I thought I’d have to give him more–”

  Mirab shook her head, “It's fine, what's one more complication. I’ll take him to the Conclave as is. All rights were followed. If he is still under, then it is not for us to decide.

  Mirab reached out two massive paws, as she slung Ren over her shoulder, “Now you get on the road, our neighbors will have started the ritual of cover already, and that spirit of wolf amulet will only last so long. You must be away from here long before I reach the council–

  She raised her paw to silence Lyle’s protests, “I’ll be fine, Lyle. Now go; you're the one in danger. Head to Grumakh. Garzha is in the area, tell her of the situation, the council would seek her input, I’m sure.”

  —

  The district of the Shamans Guild, home of the Bone Conclave, was covered in rolling green hills, checkering the platform from end to end.

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  Streets crisscrossed the valley floors, a winged totem adorned each corner, powering the growth of sage-moss, acting as food for the wyrmbacks, which were as much at home in this verdant district as the orcs and beastkin. The fallen petals of young titans, with their vibrant yellows and showy pinks, were strung in festive banners, stretching from the awnings and wooden street signs, acting as lighting, decoration, and home.

  Mirabella, Ren bouncing over her shoulder, walked the streets, a smile on her face as she waved to the smiling children, who pointed and laughed at the human bouncing form.

  The Bone Conclave sat in an outdoor temple on a plas-crete and stone hill that stood like a colosseum above the natural surroundings. It acted as a fortified structure, with the only way up being a staircase that spiraled around the circumference. The outside walls were covered in young titans, which protruded horizontally, their branches and bows bending up toward the swamplight. Their roots grew into designed grooves, crafted of symbols of power. The entire structure acted like a lightning rod for spiritual mana, funneling power up to the Bone Conclaves ritual henge.

  As Mirabella crested the last steps to the Conclave's Rise, she set her eyes upon their ritual henge and the seat of their power—each pillar, carved from the bones of colossal beasts that had not been seen since the tearing. Femurs, ribs, and jawbones jutted from the ground, their surfaces etched with scenes of battle and natural calamity, from ages long passed. The henge towered over the central dias, where the four Speakers waited expectantly for Mirabella to approach.

  The four an imposing sight, their auras shrouding the henge with power, from left to right the stood: Marraka Boneweaver, a pewter skinned orc, donning the traditional cross harness across her other-wise bare chest, her scarlet rune-mark danced across her neck and breastbone like armor woven from magic and mana, while her ankles and wrists tinkled with the sounds of their bone charms, their skulls and hallowed chambers filled with the preserved remains of nymphs collected during the cresting. It was said that her healing magic was so potent and her levels so high that she might regrow limb or organ, with nothing more than aged sage-moss and trampled wyrmback bones.

  Beside her, Krogh the Bold, squatted over legs rippling power and bulk, that she might leap across districts, her greatsword’s tip so long it kissed the ground from where it lay strapped across her back. Her displacer hide armor, capable of withstanding even the mightiest of swings from enchanted blades, masked her form almost as well as her forest green skin and camouflage spots, their colors blending into the swampy soils.

  Next on one leg stood Kythan Ghostwing, proud and tall, their beak pointed to the sky, their crimson eyeband, like a banner to those of wing and branch. Kythan wore naught but feathers and two golden rings, pierced through his wings' spines near the base of his neck. When Kythan moved through the sky, the wind itself wrapped him, singing his name, for he was their kith and kin. His stealth was second only to the assassins guild’s master ranked stalkers. When he moved through the sky in advance of his enemies, it was already too late to mask your position.

  Finally, Alyndra Nightseeker sat on her backside, legs outstretched, and arms clasped across her golden furred belly. As usual, a fenstalker hive cracked and leaked its sticky amber liquid, so dense with mana that it shimmered in a dazzling display of the succulent and sweet. And she was, as usual, fast asleep.

  Mirab strolled to the center of the grove, its perimeter ringed with adolescent titans, their branches gnarled and twisted into patterns over centuries of pruning and guidance, from shaman of ancient times, their leaves and branch having once upon a time existed in distant lands, before they were moved inside the swamp, and placed several times over the centuries before finding their final resting place here.

  Mirabella dumped Ren onto the grass, as she bowed to each Speaker in turn, “High Singer – Myrmadon – Ghostrake – Dreamwalker – I bring news and perhaps ill tidings.

  She gestured with her paw, spreading her feet as she did so, her anklets gently rattling, “This human fell from the sky, nearly splattering his insides across the pools – I, of course, attempted to save his life.

  Mirabella stood arms akimbo, “In the process, Ren, as he is known, shattered my ancestral totem, before absorbing the last vestiges of its power, in a rather fascinating evolution.”

  Krogh spoke, his merciless, unblinking eyes bore down on Mirabella, “Then why have you brought him? The accords are clear. Do you wish to start a war?”

  Mirabella gave a slight bow, “Forgive me, Myrmadon, but before he entered the dreamstate, so that he might commune with my ancestor, we had a chance to speak. Ren comes from outside the swamp.”

  Kythan extended their wings in a slow stretch, pointing their tips to the sky, as he looked over Mirabella, “Indeed, I suppose your ancestors’ trust is proof enough of their words – how, from where, did he come?”

  Mirabella bowed deeper, “He spoke of grasslands, though where exactly he came from, he didn’t say.”

  Krogh licked their eye, “I don’t like this.” They reached above their head, reflexively gripping their broadsword’s leather-wrapped hilt.

  Marraka pressed her paws together before bringing them down a flutter, tinkling her charms, “Deep roots [Shaman] Mirabella, your clan totem reaches back to the earliest memories of the shamans, this – Ren must be protected, but I fear, we must release him to the Keepers.”

  Mirabella nodded, “Ren, his levels are low, but there is a strength to him –"

  Kythan shot a single wing out, motioning for silence. Liquid rippled across a copper ceremonial basin. A sonorous boom, more ripples, crisscrossed. A long, drawn-out pause. Kythan motioned with his hand this time, silence!

  A guttural roar thundered across the swamp, bubbling gurgles capped in a high-pitched scream – Krogh drew their sword, as Kythan sprang into the sky, the aether wrapping them in swirling shadows, as their wings flapped.

  Mirabella dropped to all fours, ready to spring away, her only thoughts of Lyle.

  Marraka's steady voice cut through the tension, "Mirabella, you will remain here, while they investigate. We'll have trouble enough – " She looked to the south, concern etched in her fur.

  —

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