Fiorn the Wanderer stumbled, and caught himself on the rotted trunk of what was once a tree. The muck around his bare feet sucked at his toes and stank of rot. Still, even the vile creatures of the swamp knew enough to give him a wide berth. He had no need to fear here. Here, he was the powerful one. Fiorn spat to the side. That pompous wizard thought he knew power. He knew nothing. Fiorn had watched elder men and wiser twist and weep, and finally break under the Dark Lord's power. He had broken some of them. Fiorn smiled to himself, relishing in his own sense of granduer, a small trail of spittle spilling down his cheek as he slugged through the swamp. He could feel it now, no matter which way he turned. It was like a lead weight on his soul, draggin him south and west. He could point to where the mountains stood, though he was still hundreds of leagues from being able to see even their shadow on the horizon. Still, he knew they were there. The weight of the summoning had settled on him, and like it or not, he was bound. Fiorn's feet became tangled in a long dead vine, and he fell full foward, his face smacking the wet, steaming mud. When he finally made it back to his feet, Fiorn tried to wipe the sickening slime from his face, but it clung to the skin of his fingers and hands, smearing more than cleaning. Finally, though, he got his eyes clear of it, and he blinked back tears to open them again. And there, standing barely twenty feet from him, clad only in the thinnest film of a robe, was the most stunningly beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She had curves that called to him and woke fires he thought had long been smothered. The way she stood, hips slightly thrust to the side, head tilted down just a bit, so that her honey hair flowed over her shoulders and framed her face. She was so beautiful Fiorn almost forgot to breath. For a moment, Fiorn thought that his Master had decided to reward him for his faithful service. Perhaps he'd sent this woman to give him pleasure... but that was not his Master's way. "Tears are bitter'st," The woman said in a sweet, sultry voice, "When for..." "Oneself they're wept," Finished a rough, grating voice, to Fiorn's right. He turned and found himself face to face with what he at first mistook for a twisted, rotting stump. The hag was hunched almost double, her wrinkled flesh sagging over gnarled bones. Her milky white eyes stared balefully at him, and her teeth were moldy black stumps. "But sweet'st honey," A new, hollow voice intoned, "When for another kept." Fiorn turned to his left to find a woman unnaturally tall and thin. Her skin was pale white and her veins stood out as a stark blue beneath it. Her hair was thing, straggly, and brittle. Her eyes were jet black with no whites. "What tears to stain that face of thine?" The first witch asked, walking slowly forward, her ruby lips parted in a sensual smile. Each step was a dance of seduction. "Sweet'st honey?" Grated the gnarled hag to his right as she limped and lunged toward him. "Or sour'd wine?" The black-eyed witch intoned in her hollow voice as she moved forward in a strange, shuffling step that seemed to move her more with each step than the length of her stride should make possible. In the span of a few confused, terrified heartbeats, Fiorn found himself surrounded, the three witches circleing him slowly. He tried to spin, to catch the ones not speaking as they walked around him, but somehow he never could move fast enough. The mud and rotting vegetation at his feet seemed to hold him fast, refusing to give. As the beautiful witch passed in front of him, she trailed one long-nailed finger along his jaw line and smiled, "Tears wept on ice may freeze thy soul," She said in a soft whisper. "Tears wept on stone bear a heavy toll," The gnarled hag grated at him as she stumped past. "Tears wept on ash tell the dead man's past," The tall, specterly witch said, her voice seeming to echo off the air. The first witch sauntered past him again, trailing her hand along his chest, "Tears wept in the sea, forever last." "Your bitter tears shall the demons slate," The bent and hobbled witch grated, her breath reeked of the rank swamp. "For they bind thy soul," The ghostly witch said in her hollow, echoing voice. From behind him, so close he could feel her warm breath on his ear, the seductive witch whispered, "And twist thy Fate." Fiorn spun around, ready to throw his arms around the beautiful woman, no matter what might happen... But he was alone. Only the twisted gnarled trunks of the swamp nags stood around him, draped with gray hanging moss. Fiorn looked at the ground all around him, but there were no footprints...no tracks of any kind. Alone, in the rancid rot of the swamp, Fiorn slowly trudged one foot in front of the other, and wept bitter tears. The deep, dark halls of Shame were there, in the south....hundreds of leagues away....and he could have pointed straight at them.
