#42 The Weirdstone of Barfunmoor

As she swooped down with the spirit host towards the cairns, Marchioness Paule Weiß noticed a bray shaman in the centre of the stones. Under its supervision, a flock of ungors had succeeded in pulling a large boulder upright, where it teetered on its point, its great weight straining at the crude ropes tied around it. As the shaman grunted a primordial chant, the great stone slowly began to rise up into the air.

The malignant spirits accompanying Weiß were indignant: one of the lesser stones was sacred to them, an integral part of an ancient barrow which had rested undisturbed up here on Barfun Moor for untold years. The vampire was unclear regarding its precise significance to the Procession of the Foolish Martyrs, but the fervour of their anger was enough to convince her to investigate.

Paule had been embedding herself into this Procession for sometime now. She, just like the spectres it comprised, had in life been a devoted member of the Society of the Sanguine Rose. The best cover stories were true, and so not even Lady Olynder herself seemed to have any idea that Weiß was an agent of Neferta, reporting to Lady Beauvoir.

But understanding (let alone communicating with) these nighthaunt was extremely problematic. Most of the gheists existed in their own private, eternal tortures and spoke only to moan or wail. A few were more aware of their wider surroundings but were generally so bitter and spiteful that it was difficult to learn anything useful from them. 

She turned to one such, known as the Prelate, as they descended towards the beastmen. “Which stone?”she asked.

The cairn wraith said nothing, but as they drew closer, pointed at a nondescript rock with his spectral scythe. It seemed the beastmen planned to make use of it to help support the primary monolith.

At that moment, the children of chaos became aware of the approaching spectres and a hail of bronze-tipped, bone-shafted arrows soared through the air to greet them. Marchioness Weiß separated herself from the ethereal cloud of spirits moments before they attacked the desecrating beasts. Utilising the distraction, she made straight for the mysterious rock.

Assuming she had understood the Prelate correctly, the stone that was so important to the malignants seemed nondescript. She placed her hand upon it to feel its energies. Yes, she could sense that it had been touched by magic long ago but it was hard to be any more specific than that. Having glanced up to check the beastmen were still concentrating on the Nighthaunt attack, she bent down to examine the rock more closely. Muttering spells, she ran her hands over its surface looking for marks. Just near the ground, partially obscured by the long grass, she found something. It was worn with age and hidden by lichen, but she could just make out an intriguing symbol: what appeared to be a stylised plant. A bramble, or thorny vine of some kind. It had been carved as a twisted form, intertwined as if to represent a ring or perhaps a crown? Crouching lower she saw beneath it part of another symbol right at the base of the stone where it lay upon the ground. Mustering all her soulblight strength she pushed hard against the boulder, lifting it just enough to see... the unmistakable form of a five-petalled rose.

Suddenly, her concentration was broken by a bestial uproar. Looking up she saw the ungors had managed to drive off the Foolish Martyrs. The bray shaman was completing its foul ritual. The now erect herdstone glowed with an unnatural nimbus of Chaos, as it started to create a rift in the fabric of reality.

It was time for her to leave. Even as she flew up into the purple sky she noticed one of the prancing ungors start to mutate as it came too close to the throbbing herdstone. She would not be able to provide Lady Beauvoir with as much information as she had hoped, but she could perhaps offer her one more piece of the Barfunweltz puzzle.

#43 ANATOMY OF A ROSE