MOROI
THINGS IN THE DARK
The early evening sun was setting across the hilly moorland of Moroi. Cool fog began to snake around the ankles of Nadal and his work crew, as they wrapped up the day's work. He had been contacted three months earlier on behalf of a fellow by the name Allister. Allister was an eccentric, a collector of the strange and curious. He had propositioned Nadal with six months pay up-front, and a substantial sum upon completion of the job.
The job, was to dig up a site which Allister believed to be an ancient, pre-Imperial parish church. Via lengthy text and garbled vox communicae, Allister had explained to the digmaster that this promised a wealth of curios and artefacts, resulting in the substantial fattening of Nadal's pockets. That was all he'd needed to hear, really.
Now, night was upon them. The area they worked was populated with sparse willow trees, breaking up what was otherwise a sea of rolling green hills. It was pleasant. Duncan scratched at his three-day beard; he was wondering how this Allister fellow ever acquired the permits to excavate this place, let alone the coordinates to jump them here. He fiddled with his weapon - it was a well maintained long-las, fitted with heavy ceramic heat sinks and a low profile scope. His bionic left arm whirred gently as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension from his upper back. He wasn't sure what had put him on edge, but the veteran scout trusted his instinct. A small voice called out - it was one of Nadal's archaeologists. 'I've got something here!' Bram's voice trailed off into the deepening dusk, sucked into the darkness.
'I've never.. uhm,' Bram stepped away from the hole he'd been working. Dropping his bristly brush, the lean man stepped away from his discovery. Nadal was there a moment later, wiping clay-soil covered hands on his canvas and grox-leather smock. Lowering himself to his haunches, the digmaster twisted his face up in a scowl. It was a skull looking back at him. A human skull, with the tattered remnants of parchment-like skin still clinging to bone like a layer of preservation wrap. 'That's not right,' Nadal muttered, chewing on his moustaches.
Rich velvety blackness was blanketing the landscape as the crew excavated the rest of the skeleton - the site was illuminated now by flickering sodium-lamp setups, which cast an uncomfortable blue light. They'd decided that a new lighting situation was first on their list of wants. Lying forlorn and looking accusatory, the skeleton was an unsettling sight. a fist-sized stone had been shoved into the mouth prior to burial, and the legs had been broken so that they could be wrapped gruesomely 'round a small boulder. Even devoid of flesh or blood, the skeletal remains were chilling. Bram had recovered himself, and the junior anthro-archaeologist was now working to extrapolate the age of the remains with a multi-spectrum tissue analyzer. 'Nothing. The damn thing is gone to skronk,' the disgruntled scientist smacked the bulky tool against his palm. 'It says the bones are.. what, thirty-seven thousand years old? Skronk that,'.
The crew hunkered into their habitat, requisitioned for the duration of the dig. It was a building on the far outskirts of the nearest village, what appeared to be an old coaching inn of some sort. It was, as their ancient cultural-facilitator Edwar had informed them in great detail, a half-timber building of classical design. The interior was old, balancing on the fine edge of rustic and dilapidated. Duncan had leaned his weapon against the lintel of the first floor fireplace, warming his feet in front of the crackling fire. Taking in their new home, he smiled; He had always quietly dreamed of a retirement something like this. Quiet, cozy, a property with history and charm. He had managed to push aside his earlier feeling of unease - lulled, perhaps, by the vintage whiskey the town's Earl had offered them upon their arrival. His wooden pipe hung loosely from the corner of his mouth, disturbed by an occasional puff from the man's bionically altered diophragm. Duncan had seen violence in his life, and was tired of it.
Bram was asleep on the second floor of the building, curled up beneath a bundle of furs that looked to belong to some sort of ursine creature, given their size and limb-arrangement. Edwar had found a comfortable den on the second floor, and busied himself with a few books provided by the town's lore-keepers. It looked as though the den may have been a library at some point, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on three walls, and another large fireplace occupying the fourth. Nadal was frantically writing up a record of the days' dig, refusing to relax until the paperwork for the day was done. Duncan noted with a wry smile however, that the digmaster had also availed himself of the local liquor.
'You think he'll care for the papers?' Duncan was now leaning himself against a window, watching underlit clouds slink across the sky. They looked like watercolors, being diluted as they were spread and thinned. 'I do. He seems like the sort - a bit of a stick up the arse. A stick made of credits, mind ye,'. The old guardsman snorted at that. He'd always enjoyed Nadal's company, and had enjoyed his employ for more than a decade. Moving to close the heavy wooden shutters, Duncan froze. The light was faint, just barely finding its way this far out of town, but it was enough.
'In your words, 'That's not right,'' he grunted. Nadal stood; he trusted his old friend's eye, and knew his tone. Peering out of the window, he caught a glimpse of a figure lurking on the edge of the property, where the scraggly lawn met the untamed shrubs of the moor. It was pallid, white even, and it was looking at them. Or the building, at least. 'I think it's time to go, eh? I'll wake the others - you keep your gun on that thing.' Duncan nodded slowly, and rested his weapon in the crook of the window as Nadal hurried to the second floor, trying his best to move stealthily.
Peering back, Nadal, Edwar, and Bram came tumbling down the stairs again in a heap, wriggling and crawling over eachother. 'It's really not right - and we're going!' Duncan looked back down his scope. The figure was gone. 'Move, move!' He growled in frustration, and made a point of snatching up the local whiskey as they hustled out towards their APC.
