The tower of the unwoken

 He had been happy to find again a ventilation shaft. The tunnels had once more proven to my impossible to navigate to an outsider like himself. The dessicated leaves had appeared brilliantly vibrant as he noticed them in the dust of eons. He had followed the trail to the turning stairways before him. Admittedly they were an oddity, their carved wood and painted plaster contrasting greatly with the metallic ettistone shaft around it. He shrugged. It was sturdy enough, and he was glad he wouldnt have to risk limb again to reach the surface.

The surface was clothed with the blanket of night. Night never fell deeply in this strange looping world and he could clearly see the landscape about him. Slightly hilled and wide did the fields stretch, surrounded by old mountain peaks. Bushes broke up the monotony and the landscape sloped in a way to suggest a river. Walking through the sleeping land brought him though the bushes, which turned out to be knotted bamboo and sugary smelling bramboo. Sosir had no knowledge or name for these plants, but enjoyed the fruit nonetheless.

Bamboo coppices made way for a used path, which in turn led through terraced fields of starchy tubas and carrots. The incline of the fields had him walking through a small hamlet of plastered huts of somewhat square-like shapes. Woven streamers and banners adorned the clumsily built hovels and complemented the brightly colored frescos on them. With his belly full and his mind recently rested below in the tunnels he felt no need to wake the creatures within the houses.

A more frequently used path leads him out into the fields once again, and it meanders up and down the terraces for a long distance. The time passes slowly as the Norn breathes in deep the pleasant aromas of night, enjoying the smell of the grass and earth, and a fresh and honest nightly moistness. He looks up as the chatter of cheerful voices sound, and he is a little shocked to see lighted lanterns. Uncharacteristically he had not noticed his feed had taken him to the next hamlet. He passed a workyard with stacks of bamboo, hammers and tubs with bamboo soaking in them. The chattering became louder as he neared the heart of the town where a large octagonal building stood wide as it was tall. A large banquet table filled the open space of the village square.

“Sosir! Little devil, you have made it!” 

Sosirs confusion mounted as the giant, Torsun, loudly greeted him.

A tall Norn, dressed in neatly woven cloth, greeted him from his spot at the tables head.

“Welcome Sosir. Torsun was just speaking fondly of you, and I had seen you would come and join us this night.”

The sleepy and content eyes of purple chichis and brightly blue bondi norns stared at him from their feast around the table. Sosir wondered if he had fallen asleep while he was walking, but mistrustingly asked:”it is good to see you again Torsun, but who are you to know of me, stranger?”

“I am known as the mouth of the shee. They speak through me, offer me visions when I am open to them. They intend to guide us norns to unity and greatness. I have seen your adventures and exploits from afar and welcome you to stay with us to set this world right.”

Sceptical of the seer but glad to see the familiar face of this Jotnar friend again he agrees to stay. Seating himself next to the bookish giant he partakes in the feast, filling up on peak pies and yarn fruit.

“Tell me, Torsun. What bedeviled you to disappear that one night in the tunnels? Left alone I barely found my way again.”

“Bedeviled might be the right word, my rough friend. Ettin sized creatures paralyzed me in the night and stole off with me. They took me to a strange place in-between. Mouth-of-the-Shee told me these are the D’laak, a scourge upon our ringed lands for they are natural thieves and saboteurs. He explained that he had willed me free of them and twisted their lands back into ours, allowing me to escape.”

Sosir hears the story out, and quietly surmises the fulls story after putting his experiences and fiction together. Nodding he looked at mouth of the shee, who always seemed to know when he was looked at and glanced back with a knowing smile.

“I might know a little bit more about those strangers, Torsun. I never knew their name but I believe I have seen enough of them to offer an account for your archives.” the rugged norn said. The adventurer and the giant archivist spoke throughout the duration of the feast. The sleepy crown of norns gave little interesting conversation, offering only talk of their weaving and creative endeavors. The robed seer seemed content with the bohemien conversations, but sosir felt the attention of the charismatic norn upon him, even when he wasn't looking.

He awoke well rested. The hay cot in Torsuns hut was quite comfortable and sleeping out of the moist and draft had been a boon to him. A simple breakfast of fruit and nuts started their day. 

Sosir noticed the hamlet was surprisingly thinly populated. The only occupants of the town were the young norns he had met the night before. Mouth of the shee was the inhabitant of the octagonal tower, he was told. The tapistries and flags all over town clearly told many tales, and the layers of cloth on the tower suggested many decades of experiences. The paintings on the tower were of tall blue beings showing benevolence to small norn figures. They were implied to be gods of sort. That must mean Mouth of the shee was a priest.

In the tribe Sosir grew up, priesthood was a momentary vocation. Twice a year some nornir would learn how not to be themselves, paint themselves blue and dance, sing and shout madly. Sosir had learned to mistrust the holy ones.

They agreed to explore the land somewhat. The Jotnar had arrived earlier and was able to show the surroundings to the ombre Norn. In the daytime the slightly rolling hills of pleasant greenery were clearly visible. The air was no less cool than that of Sosirs homeland and the slow moving, wide river made the land bountiful. They passed the bamboo filled workyards, where the verdant hollow stems were soaked and hammered into a rough fiber. On their wandering through the landscape they passed those that collected the bramboo fruits for dying the fiber. The industriousness amazed Sosir, who had not often seen such efforts with Nornir.

Their walk passed a heavily set tower by the river. It stood on a raised hillock by the shore. No windows or doors pierced the rounded walls, and thickly layered upon the sides were banners, streamers, strands of flags and tapestries like the layers on a leek. Those brightly coloured weavings still left some of the pale and bulbous plastered walls uncovered, and the contrast reminded Sosir of the pale and bloated skin of some very ill animal. 

“You have been here a little longer, do you know what this tower is for?”

Torsun looked up with a puzzled expression.

“Perhaps a granary, another temple like the tower of mouth of the shee. Or a crypt of sorts, because without doors it's not a building for everyday use. I fear this is not my corner of the world to archive and document and I have not met the Jotnar here.”

As they walk on through the settled lands and follow the main road of the region the valley narrows into a great pass. An immensely tall but drably plastered wall fills the narrow strait in the mountains, broken only by the steely blue of ettistone gates in the center.

“The great gatehouse of the forbidden city. Not since my great- great- grandfather have another but the ettins entered there. But, thanks to your status as a fugitive, I have been taken into the gatehouse for questioning!” torsun said, glowing with grateful pride.

Around the great featureless city lied narrow mountain passes which the nornir of the bramboo valley used for trading routes with the rest of the lands. Neither adventurers had any desire to go that far from their refuge, and they went back to the weavers hamlet in anticipation of nightfall.

The small hamlet is once again in a state of festivity. A dreamy, slow dance is held in the open spot and through the streets. Young norns almost hypnotically waver to the tune of unheard music though the barely lit night. A sight Sosir finds somewhat unsettling, but after a while and supplemented by a meal, comes to find entertaining to watch. Torsun seems happy to makes mental notes of another cultural oddity. The delegation eventually congregate in the center, and the reason for the party is shown: a perfectly healthy though sleepy adult norn is shown lying on wraps and banners. The others wrap him in cloth, weavings and tapestries and carry the bundle out of town, all the while still swaying to the soundless music.

The procession travels through fields and terrace, past standing banners and below the cold stars above until they find themselves at the foot of the bloated and clothed doorless tower. Wide ribbons hang down from the darkness up above and the norns give up their sleeping, wrapped friend up to the flapping cloth tentacles for him to be carried into the darkness up above.

Tired but content, all travel back to their homes under quiet chatter. Sosir and Torsun remain behind, somewhat shocked. Agreeing this is something they will both have to process, they too wander back home.

Sosir lies awake on his cot. The oddities of the night had drawn his attention away, but as he lied staring at the ceiling it came to him that mouth of the shee was never present. Unable to sleep, he decides to pay the wiseman a visit.

The lights of little candles light the small windows in the octogonal tower. The bamboo mat serving as a door allows sosir easy access. With a knot in his stomach he creeps through the silent house. The ladder to the second floor creaks and whines with dusty age as he climbs it, but it remains silent in the tower. The weavings and paintings on the inside wall seem quite a bit less aimed for beauty and storytelling, and more aimed at ritual and research. Arcane symbols and maps of the mind covered the walls. He slinked hugging the walls to the towers zenith, where the flickering of a single candle lit up vague motions. Suddenly, mouth of the shee stepped fully into the dim light.

His robes and banners were off. In this state of undress the reason for his dramatic cloth was clearly visible: a thickly scaled tail and scaley, muscular back marred his body. The heavy perfumes of the sorcerer made sense now. Impossibly, the tall norn was half grendel.

The pale, toothy grin shone at him. Sosir’s hair stood on end and he froze at the unexpected confrontation. Unwilling to fight the muscular necromancer, he confronted him carefully and with words:”what is in the tower?”

“Dreaming norns is all. Ettins carry determination, Grendels ambition, Jotnar only look back. Nornir dream. What is more powerful than dreams! The hope to steer the future, the want, the willingness, the desire. It is the real power. They dream their lives away, granting me their power while they dessicate and eventually turn to dust.”

“How do I fit in that? You spoke of setting all right. You spoke as if I were to have a role in that. What did you mean by that?” As he spoke the sturdy ombre nornir readied a flint knife and tried to relax his pose as he slowly closed the distance.

“I know of your journey, of your warps and your conquests. The lives your deeds have ended, the protectors, however deluded, slain by you. You have reluctantly trained and outfitted an army, disassembled a city driving the once settled D’laak once again all over the ring. Such will, such a drive is an immense power to me. 

Does the call to power resonate as strongly with you as it does with me? Are you an ally, or merely fuel?”

“Neither.” Sosir barked. A shard of honed stone swung at the muscular throat of the wizard, yet hit nothing, passing straight through the disappointed looking speaker

“Fuel then. A pity, Sosir.” The wizard fades into the air, wavering as the air above a flame. 

Hastily picking himself up he leaves the stone thorn with disregard and makes his way home. Waking Torsun as fast as he can, and in short syllables explaining what happened they go to the hideous tower in the wilds. Torsun appeared barely awakened and it wasn't clear whether he believed Sosir or merely thought he was dreaming still. Climbing up on the banners and coarsely woven cloth with candle and torch clenched between their teeth they make their way in the darkness up to the tower's top. The wind whistled softly though the rails and parapets. A far more evil sound sounded in the high emptiness besides the tower. Borne on animated wing of ritualistic stitched cloth drifted the magician.

“Slay the dreamers if you think this will deprive me! Wouldn't broken hopes and fleeting dreams energize me all the same!?”

Sosir turns with a glint in his eyes. “Who spoke of slaying!” Resting on his fingertips stood a standing bell of ettistone. Torsun steps into the dim light, another singing bowl of the same uncertain stony metal shimmering in his oversized hands. Together they broke loose an ear shattering pandemonium… dense high ringing rang through the tall crypt of the living. Torsun had been given souvenirs after his interrogation behind the steely blue gates of the centuries forbidden city.

Dusty yawns and stretching struggles croaked through the clothed tower as generations of norns came back to waking life. One heavy cloth of cabalistic sigils was outside the tower, drifting empty in the wind devoid of its sorcerous owner.