Moss (The Chronicle) - Concept sketches

"Moss.. We must stop." a faint, shaking woman's voice whispered

The lichen covered stone and slate humanoid paused in its rumbling stride, looking to the slight Elven woman in its arms "We are but a few strides from the platform, Mistress--"

"No.  I am tired." she eyed her creation through lidded eyes, face streaked with dust and mud "Please, put me down here"

The creature obeyed, gently laying the small form down amidst what it perceived to be the more comfortable pile of gravel nearby, its eyes emitting faint pale light in the dense black of the mine.

"Mistress shall catch her breath.  I shall wait."

"Listen, please.." she swallowed as if choking on the dry air, reaching up to the creature."

"Do you wish another record, Mistress?" it queried

"No.. Moss.  This is for you.  This is for you alone" she writhed slightly in the gravel and clutter she lay upon. "The breath I gave you.  My breath.  It is important.  It is a key.."

The creature straightened in recognition "To Auldag's Barrow, yes, of course."

The elven woman managed a smile "Dear Moss.  You have learned so much." she rested her head back, eyes starting to see the swirls hereafter, smoke-dancing mist at the edges of vision "It is important that this breath does not fall to the dark.  Guard it, dear Moss.  Do you understand?  Do not let this shadow be our last.." 

She paused, eyes welling up with tears "Will you tell our story?"

Moss managed an awkward nod of stone "Of course, Mistress."

The woman smiled "Thank you.." her voice weakening "I am so tired."

The creature lowered, leaning over her "Mistress.  The leaves in your hair.  They have turned autumnal.  I have not seen this before.  Is it a new trick?"

She weakly smiled, once more "It is a seasonal shift, dear one." she paused as Moss leaned back as if contemplating this "Please.. find." she swallowed, breath cracking "..Find.."

Moss waited a moment.  Then another, before his head tilted and eyes flickered with inquisitiveness "You are tired" he stated, as the autumn leaves turned to dull russets, and fell amidst her honey-blonde hair "You rest, Mistress.  Sleep.  I shall stand guard."

The automaton settled in amidst the nearby stones, as if taking up a camouflage amidst its brethren in the Galcaerrow, and he waited.

Minutes to hours.

Hours to days.

Days to years, and years to century.

He waited as she slept.

A concept done for a creature named 'Moss' otherwise known as 'the Chronicle'.  The last record of the disaster at Whiterook, as told through the Vibrant Host, a reknown adventuring band turned leaders of the uprising against the Amantiri Mage Kings.

-T.J.