Echoes of the Fallen (Xun Wen, Xun Ri, Heinrich Humboldt, mention of Xun Jian, Fei Cangqiong)

Chill winds blow in through an open window, rustling Xun Wen’s hair. She has let her hair down in the privacy of her room, the long, icy blue strands hanging down past her shoulders. They rise and fall with the movements of her shoulder, as she carefully draws brushstrokes across canvas. To a casual observer, it would appear that the branch matriarch were simply calming her nerves before a daunting venture into the newly expanded Ghost Domain.

Painting was never just a hobby. Xun Wen holds the image of Qinning in her mind’s eye, a logging town on the edge of a taiga that was once quiet and hospitable. Its people felt safe, however illusory the feeling in their proximity to devil-cursed lands, behind their walls. Now the woods course with fell power, and the town lie in ruins. Two days past, Wen and her entourage ventured onto the cliffs above the taiga and surveyed Qinning using her Mosquito Pupil Talismans. Gaping wounds torn open on her walls, structures razed, roads empty, wagons of merchants abandoned. And at the center of Qinning, something else. The remains of a profane ritual, like a demonic dantian with the defiled town roads themselves serving as meridians to channel the foul qi. Xun Wen would be impressed by the measure of the ritual, were she not so disgusted. Its true nature remains unclear. Only nearer examination will lend answers. What is clear is that Qinning’s fall and the Ghost Domain’s expansion were not an act of the heavens, but of man or monster.

And no mistake, it is monsters who rule the ruins now. Carrion beasts like demon crows and prowling, corpse-wearing raccoon dogs hunt the walking dead still bound to flesh, while scurrying from the shrieking wails of the miserable spirits bound by the Ghost Domain’s cursed qi. Even the sky looks poisoned, the aurora stained with sickly hues.

In this moment, Xun Wen is reviewing her survey of the roads through the mountains to Qinning. The most efficient route, with the fewest opportunities for ambush. Her calculations are expressed on the canvas, with flourishes like freckled mountain slopes marking her tallied risks along each rouse, the brushstrokes upon each road marking the advantages. A less esoteric system of notetaking would be too easy for unseemly eyes to learn her plans.

And, in a less strategic sense, the act of painting is very calming before a daunting venture into the newly expanded Ghost Domain. A casual observer would simply miss the finer details.

For now, Xun Wen and her entourage make the Qinxun Prefect’s estate their place of repose. Ruoxi Suying, a commander of the Xun Clan’s forest marshals appointed by Wen herself, oversees this Prefecture on behalf of her branch. These mountainous forests are ripe with natural sources of wealth, a spread of logging and mining towns. Wen trusted that Suying would be able to oversee their safety. But this trouble cuts sharper than the occasional bandit king or stray devil-beast hounding the roads. A middling cultivator with woodland experience did not suffice alone in answer.

“I believe I have chosen our route,” Wen speaks, her voice measured and cool. Her retainer, Xun Ri, looks up. The girl, a few years Wen’s younger, holds a tea cup in her hands and sips it softly, knowing better than to interrupt her mistress’ course of thought. “The northern route through Donqiang Pass is still traversable at this time of year, and the same natural angles which produce an impassible mountain of snow in the precipitous months gird them against avalanche and collapse. While the threat of ambush remains, the overall risk will be lower.”

“Should I bring word to the kitchens to have your afternoon meal prepared?”

Bidden to speak by her adoptive friend’s words, Wen’s stomach rumbles in protest. “Ah,” covering her mouth, Wen realizes that she’d been so caught up in her work that she had forgotten to eat. “Yes. Thank you, Ri. I will trust you to see to it.” The other girl knows her preferences well.

Setting her teacup down, the girl bows her head and stands. “Should I send the good master in as well?” He has been politely waiting outside of the room so as not to break your concentration.”

“So he can be taught,” a distant touch of affectionate sarcasm slips into the woman’s voice, as she flashes her old friend a small smile. “Of course. Let him come.”

Ri steps out of the guest room. In her place, Heinrich enters. His headdress is sitting on a stand next to their bed, alongside Wen’s, letting his summer-flame hair be ruffled in the breeze. In spite of a shiver, he endures the cold and steps closer, holding out his hand in invitation. Wen accepts, laying her own in his palm. “You may close the window, if you wish,” she says, eyes once more lost in the details of her plan. Hidden within the brushstrokes of the town itself, Wen has calculated the necessary formations to counteract the organic, meridian-like structure of the ritual site. While she is uncertain if her countermeasure will undo the damage that has been wreaked, it will stop the spread. This… disease of the land itself.

“All I require ist deine Vaarmth,” in his curious tongue, he begs permission. Closing her eyes, Wen basks in the feeling. For his occasional faults and many social gaffes, she welcomes the man’s respect for her personhood. Taking the hand he offered her, Wen leads it into her hair, which he greedily combs through. Stepping behind her, he brings his second hand into the mix, letting the strands fall upon and between his fingers. “You have been planning,” he says, this time his tongue speaking hers’, in that accent of his. “What solution for die Todesfee?” Over her shoulder, the man’s keen eyes trace over the details of her work. Not all of the secrets will be clear to him immediately, but Wen would love to let him decipher them, had they the time for leisurely code-talk.

“The death fairy,” Wen speaks the meaning of his title for the crying ghosts. He’d spoken of them on the cliffside, as they oversaw the scouting operation. When they’d heard the wails echoing from far below, even Wen and her entourage felt the weakness, the twisting in their guts and limbs. Some of the weaker servants, those who do not cultivate, perished from only the echo. Todesfee. Klagmutter. Banshee. All names her husband gave the spirits. Women-ghosts whose cries drag the living into death. “I have drawn blueprints. Suying’s craftsmen are laying foundations upon our wagon, which will suppress all sound within its vicinity, and I have been preparing talismans to lay upon our ears should the wagon be damaged or fail.” Any who have entered the Pure Realm will not be struck dead by the mere wailing of a spirit, but the weakness could make scavenger-beasts into a true threat, instead of a nuisance. And for those yet to purify the qi of their bodies, prolonged exposure may see them struck down, as the mortals were.

“Do you think we may play a game, while die Vorbereitung is done?”

Wen recalls Heinrich’s proposal. She is still intrigued, though she would hate for their first session to be interrupted, and Wen has set the deadline for their departure precisely based on her calculations of the weather patterns. Too early, or too late, and the ideal conditions for moving through the mountain pass will come and go. “Shall we save it to celebrate our return?”

“So will it be, my love,” taking his hands from her hair, Heinrich walks to her side and politely accepts her hand once more. “Let us eat? I am starving.”

“As am I. Ri has been sent ahead to inform the kitchen,” following his guidance, Wen walks with her husband through the halls of the Prefect’s manor. “See that the retainer with the wandering eyes,” she speaks of the man sharply, ever aware of his commonly lecherous gaze- quite normal among starstruck mortal men, but unbecoming a cultivator in service to a Clan. “Is prepared for our travel. I wish to see if he is worth the investments.”

“Natoorlich, Ri and Jian will also join us? What of the men of Suying?” Heinrich must have seen them carrying out exercises in the manor yard. Soldiers of the north, each of them cultivated from common roots for their potential as forest marshals, are nothing special. Wen would not risk wasting their fleeting lives in the proximity of the death fairy.

“They will go as far as the pass, then guard the route back, that we are not caught unawares on our return,” Wen replies. The two of them step into the dining room, where a long table is prepared with three places. Herself, Heinrich, and Ri. All of the rest will have eaten already, at a more routine time. Ri is already in her seat. “What will we be served?” Wen asks, taking her seat across from Ri, while Heinrich takes his place at the head of the table.

“I am told that Suying hunted fresh partridge this morning, to be stuffed with creamed yams, served alongside pickled peppers,” Ri relates the menu.

“Please, inform the kitchens that-”

“Your peppers should be chilled, so as not to disagree with your internal balance,” Ri finishes, with a smile. The long tail of her hair hangs over her shoulder, resting in her lap.

Wen closes her eyes and nods. She should have known that Ri would have things well in hand. Fire qi present in the region’s peppers helps to keep the mountaineers warm, and serves well to temper Wen’s verglas, but the temperature must be monitored carefully. “Have the inks proved compatible with my designs?” she asks, while they wait for the servers.

“Yes. I have adorned the insides of Dashan’s ears with the requested pattern, and painted his fur.” The woman’s skill with ink and tattoos has proven a boon, and opened entirely new avenues for Wen’s designs. “Jian was quite shocked when he arrived and found his loyal hound wearing the appearance of an oxen,” Ri laughs.

Taking up a cup of tea, Wen sips through her own smile. Heinrich’s face splits into a wily grin. “Aha. Clever, love. If we are attacked, der Dommkopf will mistake our guard-beast for a mere beast of burden.”

“Quite,” Wen confirms, setting down her cup. “And the formations inscribed upon Dashan’s ears will allow his barrier to serve as another contingent protection from the spirits’ cries.” Breathing in deeply, she detects the scents wafting from the kitchen. “Preparations are nearly complete. Tomorrow, or the day after. I do hope the craftsmen are capable enough to keep to the deadline. We’ve run out of spare arms.”

“We can always collect some in der Stadt,” Heinrich volunteers optimistically.

“Yes, quite. You will have your pick of materials from man and monster alike, I am certain.”