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         "You wouldn't dare."

A sneering statement. Three words that blended so many volatile emotions. Arrogance, hatred...fear? In another world, he knew there were other sounds, other emotions. But, he supposed, in this world, as well as the other, that those other sounds mattered little. Merely a backdrop to the three words, like a symphony of bitter contention. And just like in the other-time, the words evoked a visceral reaction.

Dare he did.

Flashes of pristine white--a wedding--merging with red...wine? No, not wine. Blood. He would know, as he'd spilt both more times than he cared to remember. Not in battle, as he'd felled others before. No, a murder. The name came to him, as did others attached to the growing cacophony. What amazed him--and had in the other-time, was that he could not recall the faces, even of the man he'd hated enough to murder.

Around him, in the gore-red fog, the chorus hit a fever pitch, and then dropped to a low buzzing of voices. " Mægmyrðra. Mægmyrðra. Mægmyrðra. Mægmyrðra..." They chanted, over and over and over.

He knew what was coming next, and braced for it. A smell of red hot iron, the every growing heat on his face. And then, the sharp sizzle of roasting flesh and the stench that comes with such things. The blood-fog was replaced by a dazzling whiteness.

" Mægmyrðra..." Then he woke up.

He came to with a burst of pain and a jolt. The searing pain on his cheek faded as it always did, to be replaced with the very real pain in the rest of his body. Everything hurt, as if he'd spent a week on Thym's anvil being beaten with the god-smith's hammer. Unsure of where he was, he decided to move around, to test his limbs for possible broken bones. That's when he realized his legs were trapped under something heavy, but soft. His hands were bound tightly with stout rope, and a blood-stained gag had been tied around his head--the blood likely his. A sudden bounce that left him roughly jostling around upon whatever he was laying on, he realized it was a cart. A small moan escaped despite the gag as the pain all across his body throbbed.

Whoever was driving the cart must have heard him, because he heard a creaking a wood as someone shifted on the driver's seat.

"Hmmm. My young friend has returned to the land of the living. Or well, after a fashion. Sorry to say that you've gotten yourself in a bit of trouble." The ancient sounding voice spoke with an accent he couldn't quite place. And though it sounded genuinely empathetic, he got the feeling that whomever owned the voice had no intention of freeing him. All he could do, was make unintelligible noises through his bloody gag.

"Ah, right, right. Forgot about that. Now listen here my young friend, if I remove the gag, do you promise to not make a fuss? I figure you behave yourself and we'll have a chat. Gods know, a few words before they take the plunge does their sorry spirit some good." Whatever that meant, he nodded anyways, because he wanted some answers. After a moment, he heard more creaking, and then a gnarled old hand came down and wrestled the gag from his mouth.

The first order of business was the spit the wad of bloody saliva that had been pooling in his mouth. Next was getting answers.

"W-where am I, who the hell are you, and why am I trussed up like a slave?" He said haltingly, his own voice sounding foreign to him, with his melodic accent undercut by a hoarseness from lack of water.

The driver grunted, and for a moment, he figured the man was not going to answer. Finally, that old voice responded. "I shall answer out of order, my friend. We, are in place that belongs to no one, because none claim it but the dead--I think you know of where I speak. Second, you're trussed up because if I cut you lose, you'd do anything in your power to run--and as much as I can sympathize with your predicament my friend, I can't let you go. Lastly, my name is John Driver, and i'm responsible for guiding your kind to their final resting place."

He barely heard the last two answers. The place--it had no name among his people--was a rumor in his lands. A place where different kingdoms dumped their undead. Various stories had it that it was alternatively a paradise or an absolute hell. But why in the void would he be taken there? Only the--his eyes widened as the realization had dawned on him.

"Tell me, young friend, what's your name?" The driver's voice preempting his protests.

"I--my name? It's ah, Morcar. Listen, John, this is a bloody mistake, i'm not--"

He--Morcar, could practically hear the old man raise a hand to cut him off. With a heavy voice, the old man replied. "Morcar? A stout name. Well, Morcar, you can stop before you start. I've heard all that before. It's typically the first thing I hear from one of my charges. But I have no choice. I've seen others of your kind that looked even fresher than you in my cart before, and even for them, I could not take the risk of believing them--not with the problems our kingdom is facing. No, i'm afraid I can't get you out of this. Especially you--since you killed three men before taking that fall. Saw it myself, I did. And while those men got what they deserved, murder is murder. Those three men, their friends wanted to burn you at the stake. But the reeve thought dumping you with the rest of your kind would be a more fitting punishment. He figures you won't get off so easy that way. Sad to say, but I think he's right, young Morcar."

With John's words came the memories, still hazy of what had transpired. "Three? I thought there were five." Morcar croaked, somehow managing to find something to be indignant about in his predicament.

A dry laugh met his question. "Aye, 'twas five. The last two threw you out the window." There was a pause, and then a low whistle. "A four story fall. You may not realize you're dead, but I saw it happen. Maybe you've forgotten about your mark? Looks like it's been a long time since you've cut it out of your flesh."

Head pounding with the memory of the fall, Morcar absently traced his bound hands along his heavily scarred cheek. "Huh? Mark? No, it wasn't a mark, i'm not--"

Gently, John Driver cut him off. "Remember what I said, friend Morcar. I will talk with you, answer most any questions you have, but don't bother trying to convince me. Better you realize what you are, so you can come to some form of acceptance."

Frustrated, and barely able to move, Morcar ground his teeth--one towards the back feeling loose in his mouth--and growled. "Fine." He spat the word. "Where are my things, i'd at least like to take them with me."

For the first time of the day--dark and dim as the forge star was, it was still definitely daytime outside--he was given good news. "I have your possessions with me, young man. They'll be returned to you once we've arrived at the asylum."

"What in the void is the asylum, and how far off is it?"

The cart, came to a stop just as he was finishing his line of questioning. It swayed side to side for a moment as John dismounted. Now that they'd come to a stop, he could hear others moving around as well. So they weren't alone. Time passed in silence, broken only by the grunts of men and the scraping of things being moved or taken off the wagon. Finally, though, the heavy weight across his legs lifted, and he felt strong hands on his legs. Next thing he knew, Morcar was unsteadily lowered onto his feet.

To either side of him, were armed guards wearing a livery he vaguely recognized as being from one of the southern kingdoms he had recently visited. They looked neither angry, or for that matter friendly, merely disinterested.

"The asylum, dear Morcar..." John began as he stepped into view. Old--like his voice--and rail thin, he nevertheless managed to look imposing. His weathered features were not unkind, and soft blue eyes spoke of both compassion and a weariness that outstretched even his advanced age. A long white beard was the only hint of hair on an otherwise hairless head, and the cart driver was clad in drab grey robes. A waterskin hung from a strap across his chest. "...is where the insane or the criminal go. Or where a powerful enough person might send someone they despise enough. It is not like the rest of this place, where your kind are typically allowed to spend the rest of their days. Often, some might go down into the asylum as their mind starts to go, to protect others. But it is not a choice easily made. In your case, my friend, you have no choice. And so we will part ways soon. Come along."

The old man started off, and the guards led Morcar behind him, hands clamped firmly on his arms. There was no point resisting, bound as he was, and without his weapons, there was little he could do. Ahead of them, was a low stone building, surrounded by an even lower wall, and a rusted iron gate. There had been statues surrounding it once, but time had long eroded their features to lumps of tall amorphous stone. Despite its obvious age, the building itself looked on the outside at least to be in good repair--a stark contrast to the numerous stone ruins that littered the rather pleasant looking landscape around them. At some point, this must have been a beautiful city.

With a rustly squeal, the gates where opened, and the group walked through, the guards now becoming visibly agitated as they crossed into the courtyard. There were no windows, Morcar noticed, on the building. And it was only one story tall, which led him to the conclusion that the construction went down instead of up.

"We're here." John said heavily, interrupting Morcar's thoughts. The old man opened the thick wooden door on yet more rusted hinges. The inside was dark, and what little light the forge-star provided could not penetrate inside. "You men can leave him with me, I will see him to his resting place."

The guards let go of Morcar, and he stared into the blackness of the doorway. He vaguely felt John's gentle yet firm hand settle on his forearm, and he hardly noticed his feet moving forward. All he could think of was the blackness. Noktorm's realm, the void, where only the wicked, the bed-deaths, and the marked go.

In reality, there was some light inside, a number of guttering torches set into the walls. Still, the impression never left him. Perhaps this was merely the entrance way to the abyss? Down a short hall they went, until they wound up in a wide room that must have spanned the rest of the building's length and width. In the center was a wide, circular pit. And at the bottom? Morcar could only guess. It seemed like the place had once been occupied. Some torn iron brackets on the edge of the pit suggested like there might have been a ladder to climb in and out, but had at some point been removed. Rotten wood tables and chairs--even an empty weapon rack--lined the room. John seemed to pick up on his thoughts.

"Aye, I hear tell in ages past, long before even I was young, this place was just a normal prison. Well, like the name and the history of the peoples who used to live here, the jailers are gone. Now we just inter a different kind of prisoner."

John had walked them to the edge of the pit, and Morcar stared at it through hair clotted thick with blood. "What's down there?" He asked the cart driver, in a wary voice.

Beside him, John shook his head, a grimace adding further lines to his face. "To tell the truth my friend, I don't know. I merely bring my charges here, see them down, and then return home. Now, before we part ways, my friend, do you have any next of kin? Anyone you wish to notify of your...ahem, death?"

Morcar was startled by the question, and for a moment, was too surprised to answer. But after a long moment, he blood streaked face hardened. "No, there's no one." He spat out, bitterly.

The old man nodded sadly, and stepped behind his charge. "Well i'll mark your name down in my book anyways. I like to remember the poor folks I shepherd down here, so at least someone remembers them."

Strangely touched by this small act of kindness, Morcar nodded. "Thank you...I...appreciate that." Behind him, he could feel John hesitate.

Finally, John spoke. "Are you ready?"

For the first time since he'd taken brief flight out a fourth story window, Morcar cracked a lopsided grin. "I suppose I couldn't convince you that i'm living now that we're at the edge of the abyss?" He knew the answer already, and hadn't intended the question to be serious.

John shook his head behind the young man. "Fraid not, young man. Those two men outside wouldn't let you leave anyways. I'll have your things sent down after you."

"Alright, let's get this over with. I'm ready as i'll ever be, old John." Morcar said, taking a deep breath. Nothing happened. After a moment, he felt something slide over his shoulder.

"If you're not lying...take my water. And, for what it's worth, I've heard tell one has made it out. They story says the secret is to follow the steam, whatever that means. Ready?"

Morcar grunted. "I was ready five minut--"

In one swift motion--and with surprising strength--John scythed a knife through his bonds, and pushed him into the pit with his other hand. Morcar, to his credit, managed to hurl several scathing invectives upwards before hitting the bottom of the pit.

There he lay for several minutes, having landed on a soft mound of sorts. A soft thud nearby told him that they'd gotten around to throwing his down after him. Before him lay a large hallway, lit at irregular intervals by torches. One near the entrance to the pit gave him enough illumination to see some of his surroundings. It also showed him that he had landed on a pile of corpses. With a start, and clambered off the bodies and whipped around to appraise the sight again. Many of the corpses looked like they had been mauled, and even more wore expressions of terror on their frozen features. He wasn't sure who or what had killed them, but he suspected these were folks like himself, who had been mistaken for the marked. Bloody scratch marks had been embedded into the walls of the pit--a monument to the futility of escape. After a moment to catch his breath, he searched around the bodies until he found his gear.

Morcar found everything was there, minus his coin purse which he assumed had been taken by the reeve or perhaps one of the guards. His mail shirt was still on his body, and he put his sword belt on over it. From it hung a long, single edged war-knife and some small pouches containing little of anything besides a sewing kit and a roll of fine bandaging. Also included in the bundle that had come down has his prize possession, 'Foe-fell', his massive single-bladed war-axe. After digging around, he'd also found a couple of unlit torches.

Lighting one of them on the nearest lit torch, Morcar grabbed his axe firmly in his hand, and began his long journey into the asylum. It was a grim and foreboding place. Labyrinthine in its layout, the mere act of navigating it seemed to warp all sense of time and space. And then there were the hallucinations. Or at least what he hoped, were hallucinations. As he explored the endless dungeon, he would catch movement, or the gleam of glowing yellow eyes out of the corner of his sight, but any time he'd turn toward it, there would be nothing there. There were also the scraping, the rasping growls, or what he could almost make out as a kind of fevered whisper--although the words themselves were lost in the deafening silence.

He must've been in the asylum for close to half a day now, and he'd seen neither steam, nor any sign of life save for the occasional blood stain or old bones. If he didn't find a way out, he'd eventually starve to death down here or worse--lose his mind. Like any man of the Marches, that wasn't a death he readily welcomed, and so determined, he continued into the depths...