The Grey Court - pt 2 The Ashen Stair

The remains of Grunther were lashed to a post on its lord's back, and as it raised a withered arm, a sound like kindling knocking together came from its tattered garb. Farchett followed the bony finger over his head to the horizon beyond, squinting a half-dead eye at the vista beyond his helm. Together they'd crested the steppe overlooking a blighted valley, clattering and flaking over every ridge like some molting machine. In life they'd been knight and squire, but now the curse had molded them like a god twists earth between hands that have forgotten that mud does not yield like stone.

The Stair was visible now, like a tornado taller than the mountains, threatening to close the distance if one watched it too long. Behind Farchett, the forward advance of the Grey Court stumble-shuffled into view; a treasurer, a queen, and a huntsman. As they lurched over the hill's lips, smaller forms swung and bobbled from their hoists like puppets on parade. These ones had been servants of the once mighty house, who's name had bubbled and boiled once the rot set in. The crest under the name fared not much better, the servants worse still, and all the rest is rot.

In the perpetual twilight, the husks of aristocrats communed for a moment, standing still and silent. After a fashion all of the knowledge and intent had diffused between the members, and consensus had been reached on who would press further, and who would return to the train that followed in their wake. Then as quiet as they came, the mounds of deathless flesh departed. Spreading like a sickness, one might say, to the steppes above and the valleys below.