MP Game - Yarnspinners

[puffyn]

---- Arcoscephale, Turn 37 ----

At night, the grounds around the walls of Mictlan are a depressing place, littered with a hundred broken things. Although it is late spring here, the air is as bitter cold as in the depths of winter. It is as if there is some presence to the land that sucks all of the life and warmth out of every living being. And yet, amid all this decay, I have never felt more at home, more at peace in this strange land, then standing by the side of Amshula's funeral pyre, singing songs with her family. The fire leapt and curled high into the sky, where the sky was brilliantly clear, and the stars close enough to touch. A playful breeze from the south brought sweet forest scents to cover up the battlefield stench, and little gusts fanned the flames to even more daring acrobatics as they carried that incomparable spirit across the final river.

The next day, our force was attacked again by the rapidly dwindling, and very smelly, blood-hunters. We emerged from the battle only stronger, as we lost no one, and three more poor warriors joined our side, and brought with them two great horned serpents. These truly magnificent beasts are much used by Mictlan, but in battle one never gets a chance to examine them properly up close. In the hands of their trainers they are quite docile, indeed, almost friendly once you get over their evil-looking fangs. We will soon put them to good use, for after the battle it became clear that the defending forces no longer possess the wherewithal to keep us out; we will at last storm the gates of hell.

I hope Balachandra is all right. I know he blames himself for Amshula's death. I think he sees in her death a deep failing within himself. I do not see it though. His sorrow for a fellow warrior's death is the mark of civilization, rare among these people. I am glad that he is now bedding Andromache (this gossip can no longer be denied), for she has a remarkably level head after her own troubles and will help him through his self-inflicted torment. And who does this leave in charge of the mystics? A newcomer, ... well, it seems strange to write it, but here it is... Odysseus. No, not just someone with the bad sense to take that unlucky man's name, but someone who actually claims to be that famous king of Ithaca. It is odd: apart from this fairly serious flaw in his mental state, Odysseus is an extremely intelligent man. His rhetoric has done much to bring Mictlan deserters to our cause, and he likewise gives no credit to the persistent rumor that Limmy magically appears to fight by our side on the battlefield. One thing is certain, this man is Greek, and knows Ithaca and its environs well. If he were not mad, perhaps we would become fast friends. But is madness even that much of a handicap in this place and time?

Wlde, who has joined the siege, is very much not Greek. Impatient and bitter, she daily advocates abandoning the siege and marching south to relieve her sisters in the Sinking Land. The last we have heard from them, a local mystic had attempted a magic spell to repair the crumbling walls (it is not well to speak ill of the dead, so I shall refrain from pointing out that it was at Amshula's insistence that we build the walls from the local rock, which is little more than dried mud), but the spell, like most such things, had failed utterly. I do understand Wlde's desire to rescue her sisters, but the war's victory is nigh. Their last city vanquished, we have only to march a league south, where Sethra hides in the woods with a smattering of followers, and an end will be come to Mictlan.

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