It drifted over the snows. It had no flesh, and it had no name.
Arnabas. Fernotten. Zeban. Who could keep track of names? It had been through as many bodies as names. The latest of those bodies lay in the snow now, split open like an overstuffed pastry. It had liked fruit pastries, once, when it had been Zeban.
It should have learned more lessons from being Zeban. He had never been strong of arm or hardy of flesh. No, he had been bookish, more interested in reading about swordplay than practicing it. Often had he cursed the cruel fate that saw him born to stupid, simple farmers in a snowy hovel. He had hated them, from their dirty nails to their empty heads.
He had wasted almost eighteen years of his short halfling life before meeting the wise woman. He'd known of her since he was little. She was a minor celebrity around the village. His petty, jealous parents had whispered poison about her around the supper table, saying that she was dangerous, that the things she preached would bring the village to ruin some day. They blamed the growing cold on her, or said it was her evil eye that made one of the cows birth a stillborn calf. So of course he had sought her ought.
She had told him that he was special and destined for greatness. It had been a lie meant to seduce him, of course. Likely she knew that all children want to be special. Zeban had known better. He was born in the muck to the least special people there were. But he had humored her and let her think that she was weaving him into her web. The wise woman knew things, and through her, he would come to know them, too. Together, they had explored ancient tomes that their forebears had brought with them during the diaspora. They had found knowledge and power, yes. It was in those musty pages that they had first seen the Master's hand.
Gavrail was dead, now. Dead twice over. Her first death had been in the tomb. That death had been one full of purpose and intent. She had spent her last breaths offering her soul to Amasalen in exchange for the blessing of life as an everlasting lich. Gavrail's second death had been as meaningless as it was offensive. She had been brought down by a mob as angry and ignorant as the parents whose names Zeban had forgotten. They'd broken her phylactery and torn her apart.
They had broken Zeban's phylactery, too, on that terrible night. That was when it had stopped being Zeban. Its tortured spirit had been set free: free of its rotting husk, free of names. But not free of Him. The Master's cold, sibilant voice had been a constant companion through its bodiless exile. Hearing without ears was a strange thing, but through Amasalen, all things were possible. He had granted Zeban eternity, and He had certain expectations in exchange for that gift.
After the Ten had been reduced to two, the Master had mostly discarded the thing that had been Zeban. Now and then, it was given petty assignments. It had buried itself in the body of a town official here or a merchant there. Sometimes it was human, others a giantman, and it had even been other halflings. The Master's demands were often simple and beneath its considerable skills: spread lies about a devout priest of Lorminstra; kill a popular town official so that one of the faithful might be promoted in her stead. The bodies never lasted long. Its essence was too strong and left them as messy husks after a few days' time.
Then had come an assignment that was different than the others. The Master had found it a body that would last, and had whispered to it of a great work to be done. So the thing that had been Zeban had waylaid its latest form. A stupid, simple farmer. Perhaps the Master did have a sense of humor.
A blush of warmth pulled the spirit from its ruminations. It had no flesh, so it could not feel the cold of the swirling snows around it. It could drift through stone and flame and feel neither. The only warmth it could sense was the spark of the living. During its meanderings, it had felt little pinpoints of flashfire here and there, but this was a veritable bonfire of life.
The halfling making her way through the snows was half-frozen. She was a pathetic thing, spare of flesh and with none of the mirth of a 'Mulewoman. She stank of sweat and unwashed flesh and the sourness of fear. The spirit did not recognize the style of clothing that she wore, or the odd bluish bones that adorned her neck. It did not care.
A scream tore free from the halfling woman's throat as the spirit closed on her. It cut off with a gurgle as the spirit forced its way down her gullet, spilling into her guts. From there, she put up barely a struggle. The spirit was stronger, smarter, and more special than she would ever be. Its tendrils unfurled down her limbs, filling her up with so much power that she might burst. They became one.
She flexed her hands. There was little feeling left in them. The gloves she wore were wet, and the cold had seeped in, marrying leather to flesh. She peeled the gloves off, wincing at first at the pain, but then reveling in the fiery agony that arced down her nerves. This body would not last long. She could already feel her essence burning too bright in its gullet, searing away the flesh from within.
She did not need it to last long. Icemule Trace was an incantation away, and what she sought was there, along with hundreds of bodies that she could wear until they wore out. Wards eons old had failed to keep the Tablet from her. Provincial halflings and their allies would prove even less of a challenge. She had never been strong of arm or hardy of flesh, but she hadn't needed to be. Her weapon was her mind, and no blade was half as keen.
"But my creations," she said suddenly, as much to the Master as to herself. "They were the work of months, and now there are so few."
Over the howl of the wind, the Master's laughter rose as if in mockery. She was still getting used to her ears, but there was something else, a pounding percussion that she could hear as much as feel. She blocked both sounds out and rifled through her thoughts. Having a brain made thinking so difficult sometimes. The woman's heart was pounding and her hands were trembling from more than just the cold. She had been terrified even before their struggle. Memories flooded her thoughts unbidden. She'd been running from something. Things. Monsters. Her thoughts were sluggish from dehydration, from cold, from privation, but the word came to her lips unbidden.
"Gigas."
She bolted, but too late. A hand the size of a boulder closed around her, cruelly lifting her from the ground. Her new ribs cracked under the force of its grip. The giant lifted her up to a vast, filthy face with a stinking beard and pock marks that seemed as deep as potholes. She could smell the creature's ale-sour breath as it bellowed something at her in a slurring, senseless tongue.
Surprise dawned on its features as she began to laugh, her high-pitched amusement joining the Master's cold chuckling.
"Oh, very good," she said. "Very good indeed."
Thanks all who've participated in Midweek 'Mule Train so far. With tonight's wild climax to this part of the ongoing story of Icemule Trace, I settle in for a few weeks of rest while Duskruin takes the center stage.
Midweek 'Mule Train will resume once Duskruin is done and will likely continue on Wednesdays at 9:00PM ET. Although these stories will remain Icemule-centric, folks from other towns are more than welcome to participate. Players have been putting up summaries on GSWiki, but we'll have some fresh opportunities to jump on with the resumption in a few weeks.
