The Queen’s Call

The Marshes held a disquieting serenity to them that night. No breeze passed through the gnarled trees. No stirrings roused the murky waters. Not even a cricket sang in the rough grasses. All was calm. Dark. It called to Hedrek. Away from the warm hearths of the town he wandered, breathing in the stagnant air as if it were life itself. Magwytch Town was secure, familiar, but <i>busy</>. Here, in the stillness, solitude was freedom. He relished in it even as a sharp gust blew across his scalp. He closed his eyes as another came. Then another. And another. Accompanied by the flapping of leathered wings and a soul-piercing screech.

In the distance, Hedrek could see the beckoning lanterns of Magwytch Town, but their embrace was blocked by a woman cloaked in pale hides. At first, he thought her human, but then he noted the gold crown atop her head. Next, he thought her Fae, for who else could maintain a face so regal, so stoic, unaffected by the screech or the darkness. He made to approach her, but, as he did, the cloak parted into clawed wings and the head tilted skyward to reveal a maw neither human nor Fae. A harpy. With safety out of reach, Hedrek turned to run for the Marshes, but two more harpies descended from the skies. These were smaller, fresher, faceless—like newborns yet to take on an identity. Their new mouths tore open with shrieks. Then they advanced.

The next morning, the patrolling Company guard found Hedrek’s remains strewn across the rocks of the bog—his fear-stricken face the only part of him left identifiable. The Explorers who helped us settle here posit the harpies leave the faces intact on purpose. Whether they serve as a warning to us or other harpy covens, or the faceless use them as inspiration for the expressions they grow, we may never know. But Hedrek, the first of us to perish at the hands of the Realm, lies buried as a warning to heed the wisdom of Realmwalkers past. Venture not into the mire alone at night, lest you seek an audience with the Queen.