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Author Topic: The Meguahari - A Ghost Tale  (Read 1032 times)
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Bard Judith
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« on: 21 February 2005, 20:49:00 »

Dark is the night and dark are the cloaks
Of the Meguahari!
Dark are the souls of those who die unshriven, unloved, and unforgiven
By any god...
And such are the Meguahari!

You doubt what I say?  You doubt such as they
Walk the night, stalk the fields of the dead?
Listen well, doubting child.  Listen well to my tale
Of the Meguahari!

There was a sorcerer went forth one eve, with his cloak on his back and his staff in his hand.  And he sought old battlegrounds that he might weave a cunning spell of hellish might.  Found such a field did the magick-wielder, set his staff in its ancient clay, there where the blood had dried long since and the corbies ceased from crying.

Xeua he called and magicks he wove, strung from the lusts and the ancient hates of the men who had died in the earth at his feet, dragged from the ground like a gutloop loosed and yanked from a ewe by a hraven's bill. Up came souls who had stabbed in the back, slit a young throat, stolen and lied - ripped from uneasy rest they came, to tell him of how they had died. Up from uneasy graves they came, murder and deathrack wrapping their bones, hatred clacking their teeth.

Meguahari!  Wailed the wind,
Whisking the fog to skeins of grey -
Listen, child, and believe what I say! -
Up came their bones with an eerie light in the frightful sockets sunk in the skulls
Green-glimmer ghost-fire tugging at fog to cover the naked rattling ribs,
To wrap round the empty loins that were,
Shrouding the horror that hung where a heart
Should beat in the chest of a living man.

Down went the sorcerer, staff flung awry; no incantation could save him now.  The Meguahari hunger for flesh, hunger for blood that will feed their hate!  No - no, they eat not, neither drink deep - no bony teeth to futilely gnaw down the gobbets where missing jaw and tongue and belly should serve.  

Came they in upon the mage, and they sucked of his soul and his spirit alone.  Out of his mouth he could feel the breath going forth, and the inrushing death - no kindly air for the mortal fool, only the thin long scream of hate that shriveled his lungs and his muscles and mind, and left him mad ere the screaming stopped.

Meguahari and the Sorcerer

Dark are the souls of those who die unloved, unshriven
With their blackest crimes
Graved on their hearts and rung in their bones...
And when they are wrung from the Earth they rise
With cold green flames in their empty eyes

With thanks to Quellion for his marvelously evocative picture of those creatures I have named - the Meguahari...  

Edited by: Artimidor Federkiel at: 3/6/05 10:15

"Give me a land of boughs in leaf /  a land of trees that stand; / where trees are fallen there is grief; /  I love no leafless land."   --A.E. Housman

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« Reply #1 on: 15 June 2005, 09:31:00 »

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