EPISODE ONE, PART ONE:
DIED FOOLISH

​​

 

THE BIG MAN'S BODY, EXT

 

We hear a rising, ethereal thrum - the noise of the stars, the chorus of the void.

 

Over this, the NAMELESS HISTORIAN speaks. He is soft-spoken, gentle, and quietly, academically amused.
 

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

I suppose I should begin by telling you about the frontier - and, well, to talk about the frontier, one must talk about the world, and this is the historian’s curse, is it not? To go on unravelling every mystery in explication and digression until all’s included and all is lost.

 

Ultimately, it’s about bodies. Everything comes down to bodies, in the end. 

 

Since your lifetime, this is what we have learnt about the nature of the world; that there is a Big Man walking between the stars, and we human beings live upon its body like lice between the mountainous folds of its wrinkles and the seas of salt and sweat. 

​

Softly at first, we begin to hear the vast heartbeat of the BIG MAN as he walks amongst the stars.

 

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

And we believe that the Big Man loves us - or at the very least tolerates us - because it has taken one bright sun and placed it about its head, then a second drabber sun that the Big Man wears around its belt, and this is what gives us light and warmth, and day and night.

(Mildly)

More than that it’s hard to say. Is the Big Man male or female, or something else entirely? Is it pregnant with a second planet within its belly, or is it seeking another walking world to fuck or fight amongst the stars? Is it looking for a new home for us or a place where it can lay down and sleep at last?

 

We cannot be certain of anything. We can only ride the Big Man onwards through the void.

​

We begin to hear the sound of rushing air as we begin to descend-

 

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

But there are tracts of worldskin upon the Big Man’s body where the light of the stars never lands, and in our time as in yours, these places are both dangerous and foul-

​

-and then with a violent rush of wind we're plunging through the atmosphere, racing downwards, past squawking seagulls, and coming to a sudden halt.

​

FIELDS OF THE LICK, EXT, DAY

​

We're at ground level now. The long grass sways in the wind. Flies are buzzing all around us. There's something rotten nearby.

​

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:​

The Reeking Crook of the Cyshanic Empire is not patrolled, although some hundred years ago we thought to hang a great line of sky-lanterns along the border’s edge.

(Amused)

A largely symbolic gesture - as if we could keep the freezing darkness between the stars at bay with sufficient light of our own.

​

But it is haunted, this borderland; by explorers and cut-throats, scofflaws and thieves, dreamers and exiles, and the occasional vintner who will tell you that the overwhelming stench of the Big Man’s soil in these parts endows their fog-wine with a particularly rich and sought-after nose.

​

The sound of buzzing flies is growing louder. We can hear the creaking of a cage upon a rope - a crow descends and begins to peck at the DANGLING CORPSE inside.

​

NAMELESS HISTORIAN:

And then there are the dead. Our people were always buriers and not burners, weren’t they? 

And if you bury a corpse you must build for it, and so this part of the frontier is plagued by bone-minarets and mausoleum-forests, labyrinths of stone and stinking incense.
(With a little quiet sorrow)
That’s where the trouble really began, I suppose. Building for corpses; immortalising what ought to have been left to rot.

​

Because corpses reign over us now, in Old Cyshane, and everything that lives belongs to them.
 

The DANGLING CORPSE comes to life. It howls violently, snatching up the screaming crow, and bites into it. It begins to feast, hungrily.

​

Then, once the DANGLING CORPSE is sated, it drops the bird's carcass on the ground. It moans, softly. Its jaw distends, at length. It seems to regain its composure.

​

DANGLING CORPSE:

(Weakly and obediently reciting)

My name was Sunny Pelder. In life I robbed travellers along this stretch of the Crook. 

​

Now, chastened in death, I stand watch upon the road, to deliver a message of hope renewed to all good citizens.

​

You are safe once more. This is Great Cyshane, and the rule of law has returned.

(Beginning again)

My name is Sunny Pelder-

 

We hear the rush of hooves, and then DOGGED MOREL comes riding past along the road with a cry- "Yah!"

​

As she rides on and the landscape unfolds on either side of her - farm animals, barking dogs, and the sound of bells - we hear a faint, melancholic peal of music.

 

She comes to a stream and urges her horse, CAROC, into the shallows. 

​

DOGGED gazes out over the countryside. She sighs to herself, patting CAROC's flank.

​

Below in the fields are DIMBOXES, working in slow and shambling unison, muttering as they go.

​

DIMBOXES:

Pluck the grapes. Gather the harvest. Pluck the grapes. Gather the harvest-

​

DOGGED rides on past.

​

DOGGED:

(Narration)

When the dimbox workers appear in the fields, heads bent and muttering out of time with one another, arms swapped out for wooden scoops or their feet altered into great flat paddles to tramp down the grapes…that’s an intrusion, of course, to my solitude. But I don’t let it trouble me, even when they raise their butchered faces to stare at us riding past.

​

Buried deep in the crook of the wine-valley stands an anthill of a town. Sometime in the distant past, they would have heaped up the soil into a great hill in the shape of a woman, a stone keg-tower bursting out of her ruined face at the highest end of the settlement.

​

The woman’s outline is broken. The keg-tower has been ransacked for its stone and no longer stands. 

​

This is a place that has not been rebuilt.

​

​

GATES OF THE LICK, EXT DAY

 

DOGGED rides onwards through the gates - and we hear the sounds of a town marketplace begin to arise as she slows.

 

DOGGED:

(Calling out)

Is this the Lick?

​

A window above opens.

 

TOWN GUARD:

(Calling down, calm and careless)

It is!

 

DOGGED:

(Calling out)

I’m looking for my fader! Come through here this morning?

 

TOWN GUARD:

(Calling back)

Sour old sod?

 

DOGGED:

(Laughter in her voice)

That’s him!

 

TOWN GUARD:

(Calling back)

He’s up at the Big Man’s House, meeting with the mischief. Take a right through the square, and it’s on the hill!

(As a warning)

If you’re not berthing in town tonight, it’s four draws til dark! The gates close quick!

​

The window slams shut.

 

DOGGED urges her horse onwards through the town. As she passes, we hear:

​

TOWN CRIER:

(Calling out)

Thin Torracks! For the crime of petty treason and murder! To be revived, and his treacherous hands burnt to ash, fit for nothing! His head to be sewn upon the body of a loyal dog, to serve eternal at the pleasure of his victim’s heirs-

 

 

BIG MAN’S HOUSE, INT, DAY

 

-and the shutters are closed, blocking out the sound.

​

The HIGH MISCHIEF turns from the window. He walks with a cane and a limp, coming to sit at the nearby table.

​

He uncorks a bottle of fog-wine and begins to pour it out

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Taking a seat with a sigh)

Did you fight?

 

SORE MOREL, in his 50s or 60s, is seated in the other chair. A hard man, driven to bitterness. He’s a little unpredictable in his anger, a little dangerous. We ought to keep an eye on him.

 

MOREL:

Does that matter?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

It’s good to know if a man is only playing at being himself.

 

MOREL considers this for a moment.

 

MOREL:

I fought.

(Conceding the point)

Most of my company are post-war babes.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

It’s work for the young, I’m sure. 

(Changing the subject slightly)

Where did you fight, if you don’t mind me asking?

​

He places the fog-dispenser down on the table between them. It clicks and whirrs for a moment - and then begins to spray wine into the air.

 

MOREL:

(Reluctantly, slowly)

I was with the fleet - and then in the final days, the siege at Emmensar.

 

On the sea walls, the Long Fingers.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(With sympathy)

I understand that was about as bad as it got.

 

MOREL:

(Coldly shrugging, not giving anything back)

I’ve heard that said.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

And then you fell into this work. A natural progression, I’m sure.

 

MOREL:

(Heavily)

No. No, I worked ships for a few years after war’s end. Would’ve kept it up for longer if I could, but the seas, the seas were-

 

He cuts himself off from saying more. 

 

MOREL:

Well, Our Lady Far-and-a-wailing was the last ship I served upon. After she was wrecked, some of the crew decided they’d come with me. Formed into a travelling company, a fighting troupe.

 

We’ve carried her colours and her figurehead with us ever since.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

It’s wonderful, I think, how new prospects can blossom in the most unexpected places. 

(As if quoting a proverb)

“From death, opportunity.”

 

Hoofbeats outside. MOREL almost says something, but restricts himself to-

 

MOREL:

(Sarcastically, into his glass)

Ah, you’re an optimist.

 

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment. A knock at the door.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(A little relieved, calling)

Who’s there?

 

MOREL:

(Calling)

Come in, Dogged.

 

The door bangs open and DOGGED steps in. She salutes.

 

DOGGED:

Column’s close by, cat. 

 

Should be here by second set.

 

MOREL:

(Quietly questioning)

And Finick?

 

DOGGED:

(Tightly, meaning ‘Finick is still alive, but going to die’)

Timmer’s doing as well with Finick as they can. 

 

MOREL acknowledges that and moves on.

 

MOREL:

This is the High Mischief of the Lick, Dogged. He’s the one sent out the chance.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF gets to his feet and takes DOGGED’s arm.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Courteously)

How should I know you?

 

DOGGED:

As Dogged Morel, and woman.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Lively Faillamp, wayman.

 

MOREL:

(Sourly, as an aside, still into his drink)

You’re very modern here.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF pretends not to hear him.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(To DOGGED, politely)

Dogged Morel, you said? The catigern’s daughter, perhaps? I don’t, ah…

(‘see the family resemblance’ is what he’s about to say.)

 

MOREL:

(Interjecting)

I picked up a whole rabble of orphans after the war. Gave ‘em my name, for all it’s worth. Most of ‘em left, over time.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:
(Politely pursuing the small talk)

It must be a comfort, travelling the frontier with family.

 

Now DOGGED dodges this.

 

DOGGED:

(Changing the topic)

Did you brief my fader upon the chance already, mischief, or should we begin there?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

We hadn’t begun. Please - sit.

(To MOREL)

You’re keen on the chance, then, catigern? 

 

MOREL:

(Not giving anything away)

Tell us about the Patriot.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF pauses for a moment, considering. And then, slowly and calmly, he begins to tell his story.

​

The fire flickers - and for a moment we're outside again. We can hear soldiers tramping, marching through the fields.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

This would have been the very final days of the war.

 

We hadn’t seen any fighting this far napeward, but we’d had a regiment stationed with us since near the beginning.

 

Just youngbloods, you understand. The last dregs of the muster, assigned to patrol the hills of the Lug during the day and raid the larders of the Lick by night. 

 

Bored and difficult children, but we loved them all the same. 

 

They dozed out in the fields amongst the vines and told each other stories when the Crown was high and hot overhead and nobody felt like guarding anything.

 

Their catigern was a lord’s son in possession of a polished goodbill and a very good hat, and for all he strutted about and threatened floggings-upon-the-post we could see he wasn’t at all in control of the soldiers he claimed as his own. 

 

He didn’t impress us. We were far more excited about the yearning-stone colossus they’d sent us from Hacklesbad. The Graven Patriot.

​

We hear a thunderous, impossibly huge footfall - and then another, and another, as the colossus steps into the town square.

​

The PATRIOT roars, a hideous and frightening bellow to the sky. 

​

Silence - and then the townsfolk of the Lick begin to loyally cheer.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

It had been assembled, they told us, from the statuary of one of the old imperial monuments, an ancient wartime memorial to the unknown soldier. 

​

Its head was a horse’s head. Its eyes were hollow and black. It had waves or curls of hair carved into the silver of its neck and flowing down its chest, and you could see the remnants of a headless stone rider upon its back. It was a thing both wondrous and terrifying.

 

Four or five choristers from Hyrens came along with it, and they sang to it five times from first dawn to last light of our endless glories and our bygone victories, recalling the memories of those heroes who had been buried within it.

 

It had a mural etched into its thigh. ‘Let none forget the ingenuity of the living in the face of the invidious dead. Swiftrider, Graven Patriot of New And Old Cyshane.'

​

The choristers never called it that.

 

They called it ‘The Mule that’s as thick as muleshit.’

 

MOREL snorts in brief amusement despite himself - and then we're back in the room.

​

Silence for a moment.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Well, the regiment kept themselves busy. Building up the stockade, digging trenches.

 

The same news came back from Pintel, every time. 

 

We were losing.

(Reflecting slightly)

We were losing, but it still felt so distant. As if it was happening to another nation, another people. 

 

And the Mule as thick as muleshit just stood in the town square, perfectly still. Our final hope and our final defender. 

 

Eventually, word got through to us. And all at once it felt all too close.

 

The capital had fallen…

(Correcting himself)

...Catalfac had fallen.

​

Two of the choristers slipped away into the hills that night, and maybe a dozen of the regimental conscripts. 

 

And nobody said a word, but we were all beginning to understand that there was some kind of ending coming for us.

 

Three nights later, the Ancestors reached the village outskirts.

 

I remember the cry going up. 

 

All of us crowding up onto the ramparts and seeing…it was…

(Struggling to explain). 

 

MOREL knows exactly what it was like.

 

MOREL:

(Murmuring almost to himself)

A dark and dreadful sea.

​

We hear the flutter of a flag - and then we're back on the battlements. Signal bells faintly sound. Frightened soldiers run back and forth.

​

HIGH MISCHIEF:

We tried counting them. Couldn’t do it. All the colours of all the ages, the crests and banners of every fragmented kingdom and forgotten province, unified against us.

(A little reflective)

We were…small and disharmonious compared to them, scattered and motley, watching from crumbling walls that in their day would still have stood tall and proud. I felt embarrassed, like a child whose parents have come home to shattered crockery in the kitchen. I felt ashamed, looking out at my nation’s past, to have made so little of their future.

(Pulling himself together)

They’d already recruited a squire from one of the neighbouring towns to the south, and she came riding down to us around dusk, still red-faced and dishevelled, out of breath.

 

‘It’s over,’ she called out to us from across the vines. ‘You need to understand, the war is already over. Everything that matters is already in their hands.

 

‘They care for us, the dead, as their own children. You’ve allied yourselves with foreigners, you’ve been gulled by progressives and subversives - but these are our grandfathers and grandmothers, our own kindly ancestors.

 

‘Lay down your arms, and come on out to welcome them home.’

 

I don’t think the young catigern had ever been in any kind of real fight before, but he was determined to be brave just the same.

 

He climbed out onto the battlements, struck a pose. Told the squire she was a traitor to the living, and she should scuttle back to her carrion-masters before he gave the order to open fire.

 

The young catigern raised his goodbill’s blade to the gleam of the Belt’s light, and he yelled out to us, something like, 

(With vaguely remembered passion and heroics)

‘If this is the end of life and light, of all that’s breathed and grown and flourished here...then we’ll make them remember it. We’ll make them wish they’d stayed with the worms below.’

​

We're back in the room, listening to the long silence.

 

DOGGED:

How long did you last?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Mildly)

Oh, not long. Not long at all.

 

The Ancestors had Hyrenians amongst them as well, you see, and soon enough their own battle-hymns began to carry across the fields. Theirs were sung with real passion, real belief, over the thin and frightened voices of our diminished choir.

 

It’s not true, what they say - that the dead are cold. They’re nothing but yearning, nothing but feeling. Hearing them sing, I almost wept myself.

​

This disgusts MOREL. He quickly gets to his feet and crosses to the window, just to have something to do.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

The Mule tilted its head, listening to their song and ours. It stood there for a long moment amongst the musketfire.

 

Then its hesitation ended, and it turned on us.

​

MOREL softly shudders. He's remembering his own experiences in the war.

 

We can hear the screams, and the howls of the PATRIOT, rising as the HIGH MISCHIEF talks. MOREL's breath begins to rise in turn.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

It snatched one chorister up between its hands and picked him apart.

 

It trod another into the cobbles, then it picked up a group of five citizens who’d gathered on the battlements and it threw them, carelessly, so that they scattered as they hit the rooftops. 

 

And then it began to walk, crashing through stone walls without effort and leaving a breach for the invaders to pour in through. It had vanished into the woods by the time we surrendered.

​

MOREL is breathing hard now, the panic swelling in him. We can hear the bellowing colossus, and a single terrified scream-

​

-then the HIGH MISCHIEF slaps the table for emphasis and the spell is broken.

​

HIGH MISCHIEF:

That was my war, catigern. Nine dead. One beautiful song.

 

Silence. MOREL is too shaken to respond.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Well, afterwards they put a whisper of life back into the young catigern’s head, and strung it up on a rope beneath the gates of the Lick, tongueless, swinging, and howling. The rest of him was threshed, to feed the grapes.

 

After things were settled in C-

(More carefully)

the capital, they mostly left us to it. The old Duchess was resumed. She’s not bad. When a town girl dies sudden, sometimes she’ll take their body for her head, but she’ll always pay for it.

 

She hasn’t done anything about the Mule, though.

 

It’s been out there ever since, roaming the forests of the Lug. Haunting the overgrown amongst the sparrows and the deer.

 

MOREL:

(Sullenly)

Sounds like you’ve learnt to live with it.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

In spite of it, perhaps. We’ve learnt to live in its shadow.

 

Every chance it gets, it reminds us of what it means to be powerless.

 

It tramples a hunting party, it topples a carriage upon the road.

 

Those woods used to be grounds for trapping and foraging, part of the lifeblood of the town. I want my grandchildren to be able to walk there again some day.

 

DOGGED presses on with the conversation.

 

DOGGED:

We have some questions, if you don’t mind.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Of course.

 

DOGGED:

How tall is the Patriot?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(A little evasive - perhaps lying)

Twenty or twenty-five feet tall, perhaps?

 

DOGGED:

How fast is it?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

I’ve seen it catch up to riders at full tilt.

 

DOGGED:

You’ve gone after it yourselves, then?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

More than once. They haven’t left a dent in it. The last effort was a - a particular loss for the town. 

 

Can you do it?

 

DOGGED:

(Trying to speak with confidence)

Yes. Yes, we think it can be done.

 

First we break its stride. Then we cripple its reach. Then we go in with the hammers until it forgets what it is.

 

We’ll need to lure it out of the woods onto open ground, as well.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

That should be simple enough. The Mule does not suffer trespassers; it is a feral, raging thing. If it sees you, it’ll charge you.

 

DOGGED:

(Trying to angle for more payment)

It’ll be a hard day. I can’t lie about that, but you couldn’t have picked a better company to-

 

MOREL:

(Interrupting coldly)

We’ll take the chance, is what she means to say.

 

Silence. The HIGH MISCHIEF notes the slight disagreement between the two.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Excellent. And the payment?

 

DOGGED:

Well, there we can negotiate.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Warning)

We’re offering all we can.

 

DOGGED:

Perhaps there’s more you haven’t considered. Wine from your vineyards, for instance. Any spare supplies for the road. We’d also be grateful to see a portion of the pay upfront.

(Explaining)

There’s nothing to stop you from closing your gates on us once the work’s done.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Nothing to stop you from riding away with your advance, either.

 

DOGGED:

(Starting to enjoy the back-and-forth)

Well, then it’d be a question of trust-

 

MOREL:

(Talking over her, curtly)

Pay us when the job’s done. Easier that way. Don’t expect a man with a full purse to walk towards a hard fight.

 

DOGGED:

(Annoyed, but trying to move past it)

We also wanted to ask about the muster, didn’t we?

 

She trails off, expecting MOREL to take the opening. He doesn’t.

 

MOREL:

(Shrugging, refusing to get involved)

Ask.

 

DOGGED:

(To the HIGH MISCHIEF, lying)

We, uh, had some trouble last night on the road. One man left badly hurt.

 

If we take your chance, we’d appreciate the opportunity to come into town tonight, resupply. Treat the injured boy. 

​

And with that in mind, we were wondering, mischief - if the dead are gathering the grapes and working the presses, what do the youth of the Lick do to keep themselves occupied during the long empty days?

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Snorting in slight amusement)

What do they do? Cause trouble, mostly. Get into fights at the drown.

 

DOGGED:

(Seizing the opening)

That might be to our mutual advantage - because we’d be willing to set up a recruiting station while we’re in town. See if there’s any eager young souls we can take off your hands.

 

We’d keep them in camp for now, of course. They wouldn’t see danger until they were ready.

 

Better pay than they’ll find here. Good friends and honest labour. It’s a life. I can speak to that.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF considers for a long moment.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Not answering the question)

We’ve a couple of barns standing beyond the eastern wall. There should be room there for your company to rest up and for you to treat your injured boy. 

 

And we have a doctor in town, a good doctor-

 

MOREL:

(Shutting him down)

We care for our own people.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Extending an olive branch)

If your adjutant gives me a list of any supplies that are needed, I can ensure those are brought to you as well. In addition to your payment.

 

DOGGED is dissatisfied with this - and increasingly irritated by her father’s lack of engagement.

 

DOGGED:

(Perhaps pushing too hard with an implied threat)
All I’d say is, it can mean trouble for a town, having the aimless young hanging about-

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(A little sharply)

Just like soldiers after war’s end. 

(With firmness)

The barns for now, I think. 

 

A long and slightly hostile silence.

 

MOREL:

(Intervening)

Barns will be fine. We’re done here, Dogged.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF accepts that decision.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Your will and your would, Catigern. Come, let’s bind the cord, finalise our agreement.

 

He gets to his feet.

 

MOREL:

(Eager to leave)

My word’ll be enough for both of us.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

(Confused and a little offended but still polite)

Of course. I’ll see you out, then.

​

 

LICK: TOWN SQUARE, EXT, DAY

 

-and then a door swings open, and we begin to hear the background hubbub of the town square rise once more. Pigeons erupt as MOREL and DOGGED step out together. 

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Good luck, catigern.

(Trying to be helpful)

Listen for birdsong. The sparrows nest in the Mule’s upper reaches. You’ll hear them startle as it comes for you.

 

DOGGED:

(Diplomatically)

We hope to be back soon with good news, mischief.

​

The MISCHIEF takes her arm again. MOREL does not offer his.

 

HIGH MISCHIEF:

Thank you both. Lefthandent. Catigern Morel.

 

The HIGH MISCHIEF steps back inside, closing the door behind him.

​

MOREL spits, turns and strides on.

 

DOGGED:

(Hurrying after him; annoyed and shaken)

You…you didn’t want to press him on recruitment, then, fader? Fill the ranks? You didn’t want to try and negotiate-

 

MOREL:

(Snapping back)

His leg was carrion, Dogged.

 

DOGGED:

(Baffled)

Carrion?

 

MOREL:

He kept it under the table. Didn’t want me to see that they’d fixed him. 

​

He reaches his horse and mounts up.

​

MOREL:

(With disgust)

Spoke like them, too. “Catalfac”, he called it. 

 

DOGGED:

(Trying to be reasonable)

Well, Catalfac is what it’s called now-

 

MOREL:

(Snarling to himself)

Hid the damned rotting thing from me! 

​

In the background, the TOWN CRIER is making a new proclamation.

​

TOWN CRIER:
(Calling out)
Let word ring out throughout the lands of Great Cyshane, in every tongue of every age!

It has been 20 years since the Dead Reclamation, the Restoration of Cyshanic Pride, and the Resumption of Rightful Inheritance! 

​

Her Majesties’ Majesty the Hollowbrow Queen, in her great wisdom, has declared that she will celebrate the occasion by taking a living consort, signifying our nation’s glorious union betwixt living and dead!

​

Applause from a small gathered crowd.

​

MOREL:

Is there not one man left upon the frontier who won’t break bread with night creatures? 

​

TOWN CRIER:

Applicants of royal blood will attend the Cold Court in Catalfac, making their case to take the Hollowbrow’s hand! Let all who love their country rejoice and celebrate!

 (A little hesitant as he gets to the translation)
Letten…word ring otte truh ter…ter landen…

​

The cheers ring out again. MOREL can't stand to hear them.

 

MOREL:

I won’t spend a night in this town, Dogged. I’ll not take their hospitality. We march on; make camp in the hills close to the chance.

​

DOGGED:

Fader, please-

​

MOREL is already trotting on towards the town gates. DOGGED spurs her horse after him.

​

MOREL comes to a stop by the gates. Faintly, we can hear the tongueless howls of the young catigern above them, his head still hanging on its rope.

 

MOREL:

(Half to himself)

Perhaps we turn down the chance. We don’t need this.

 

DOGGED:

(Growing frustrated)

We can’t turn down the chance-

 

MOREL:

(Ignoring her, already moving on in his rage)

That a man can sit and tell that tale, that he can have lived that life and watched it all go to ruin, and then take what the corpse-kings offer him, breathe their wine, serve at the pleasure of cold meat-

 

DOGGED:

What should he have done?

 

MOREL does not reply.

 

DOGGED lays a hand on his shoulder. She stares into his eyes to calm him.

 

DOGGED:

It’s been a hard walk already.

 

Company would appreciate a night’s reprieve, if we took him up on that offer of the barns. 

(With final, forceful persuasion)

Finick won’t last. Better for him to die in a bed than on the road.

 

Silence.

 

MOREL:

(Relenting)

Nobody enters the Lick. Nobody goes to the drown, nobody fucks the locals.

 

If Finick’s already dead by the time the column arrives here, we keep on marching past. See to it.

 

With a furious ‘yah’, he rides on. DOGGED watches him go.

 

DOGGED:

(Perhaps a little exhausted)

Your will and would, catigern.