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FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART V
The hunter knelt beside his friend in the spotted shade of the aspens, feeding the megatherium handfuls of leaves from the pile built up next to him. Haranim rested peacefully on the side of his fourteen-foot, nine-thousand-pound frame, muzzle cozied up against the elf’s left leg, and chewed on the bunches of aspen leaves with methodical laziness. While the giant sloth had entered into his fifth year of life recently, the elf had reached his thirtieth, and the latter now awaited a meeting with the King of Thorns. No nerves worried at him, for he knew the purpose of this summons and what to expect of the King’s words.
“Our Lord of the Forest’s Fury demands your presence,” Nomanti’s deep baritone required of him.
Without a word, the elf rose to the beckons and started for the clearing farther up the mountain. When the megatherium rolled his bulk over to follow, the hunter swept a hand out behind him in a calming gesture and stated, “Ndu, Haranim.”
His friend listened immediately, and slumped back down onto his belly . . . though the giant sloth did slowly creep forward enough to reach the pile of leaves before settling completely.
“What say you, creature?” the satyr inquired with a mocking grin, snatching the elf’s arm above the elbow as he passed. “Time for one more beating before my King throws you from the mountain?”
The hunter looked sidelong at his teacher, expressionless. “Our King waits for me.”
Nomanti shrugged as if it mattered not. “Your tardiness will reflect poorly on you. Do you believe I would be blamed? So far as the King of Thorns knows, you wasted time here shaking in fear of this meeting.”
This time it was the hunter’s turn to shrug. “Then do as you will, Master, that I might get on with the honor of my meeting with our King.”
The fey glared at him for a long moment before finally letting go with a disgusted shake of his head. “Go, filth. I grow tired of even beating you. How fortunate that I shall not have to see you much longer.”
The lowly servant merely nodded his agreement and continued forward up the mountain.
Behind them, Haranim lowered his head back to the foliage collected for him, the powerful muscles in his limbs relaxing.
As the elf progressed up the natural mountain path to the predetermine location of the audience, he cast a glance out over the aspen grove to the wide mountain range beyond. Pristine white snow crowned every tall peak above the snow line, and the highest of them wore a regal cloak of billowing cloud. Deciduous trees blanketed the valleys below in a rolling green carpet, while thick and pointed conifers clawed their way high up the mountainsides. From his current vantage, the elf spied half-a-dozen hawks drifting on the swirling air currents, their keen eyes searching for prey. This living landscape--so overwhelmingly beautiful and majestic--cleansed the deepest parts of him and reconciled the last battling vestiges of mortality and self-preservation within him.
He knew beyond doubt that he could--and would--die for it.
Minutes later, the hunter arrived upon the lonely ledge where his future would be determined. Standing at its very edge, looking out over a seven-thousand-foot drop, resided the King of Thorns. With armor crafted from the dagger-like thorns of the hawthorn tree, and a helm that featured the long, curving horns of a mountain ram, the King hardly needed to try at intimidation. The greatsword slung on his back appeared forged of the mountain stone, with elk horn bands used to fashion portions of the guard and grip. The pommel formed a snow-capped mountain, and a rivulet of water constantly flowed its own course like a glacial river along the length of the sword. Its name, Delve, was widely known, and widely feared, by all fey in the Mindspin Mountains. In virtually every way--save for the birdlike wings covered with the green leaves of Spring instead of feathers, and deep emerald eyes that showed irises instead of only a solid coloration--the erlking’s appearance resembled that of the elf. When studying the two from afar, one might mistake them for father and son. A grave mistake that would be, of course, as the Lord of the Forest’s Fury was indisputably fey, while the young hunter most assuredly was not.
The elf crossed the ledge until he closed to within thirty feet of the fey king, then dropped to one knee and bowed his head in deference. Silence followed. He knew better than to speak first, and the King of Thorns was renown for making his subjects remain kneeling for hours before saying his first word. Good fortune trailed him this day, for he had not to wait so long.
“You are weak,” the King said, examining the panorama before him.
“If it pleases the Fury to say so, then yes,” the elf replied in strong, dignified sylvan.
The King of Thorns swiveled his upper body a fraction to the left to peer at the mortal with eyes more ancient than the mountain they stood upon. “You would disagree,” he proclaimed--the erlking never asked--in a voice that sounded like wind eroding stone.
The elf remained bowed, never making eye contact. Without leave, such would get one thrown off the mountain. Perhaps that may well be his fate anyhow. “I am as the Fury dictates. Never could any creature be more.”
“Then you desire death.”
“Such is the destiny for all worthless beings,” the hunter answered stoically.
The erlking smiled. “I would grant you this desire, mortal.”
“If it pleases the Fury to do so, then yes.”
As the elf’s final word began, but before he finished speaking it, the King of Thorns stood over him with the blade of Delve drawing a thin bloody line across the back of his neck. The hunter remained perfectly still throughout. Had the erlking wanted him dead at that moment, nothing he could have done would have prevented it. Also, the fey king’s movement had been so quick, he had not even registered it until the line of pain flared up. To shift now could mean severing his own spinal column against that impossibly sharp blade! He only hoped the King of Thorns chose not to force him to maintain this position of absolute stillness and supplication for long, and, again, fortune favored him when he felt the mountainous sword lifted away.
“My Queen has taken a liking to your nurturing heart,” the fey king sneered. “She assures me you are a protector.”
“I am pleased to have found favor in the Cascading One’s eyes,” the elf replied, emotionless. Inside, the furious beating of his heart expressed a resounding appreciation for the Queen’s approval!
“I give you leave to be a protector, then” the King of Thorns declared, slinging Delve onto his back. “Rise,” the erlking ordered as he returned to his place on the edge at a more normal pace.
The hunter stood, but continued to keep his eyes downcast.
“Still, I grant you your desire,” the Lord of the Forest’s Fury revealed. “You are weak, and I despise weakness. If the inhabitants of the wilderness do not kill you, be assured your own sentimentality will. You are not long for this world, mortal.”
“The Fury is most wise,” the elf professed with a deep bow.
“From this day forward, you are my Queen’s creature,” the King of Thorns informed him. “If you should but utter my name in the wind, Delve will finish what it started. I desire no further words from you. Remove yourself.”
He obeyed the fey king’s command without delay.
“The Fury permitted you the slow descent?” Nomanti’s tongue lashed him upon entering the aspen grove. “That hardly seems fitting for the likes of you.”
The elf arched an eyebrow at the satyr as he approached. “Truly?” He stopped and graciously provided his former teacher with a clear avenue to the path ascending the mountainside. “If you believe an error in judgment has been committed, please, take it up with a higher authority than I.”
The fey’s face reddened with embarrassment, and he sputtered in an attempt to find something to say, but knew he had been trapped with his own words.
“I thought that to be the case,” the elf confided, then continued on beyond the satyr. “My thanks for the years of training. You have taught me much. I am the Queen’s creature now. Farewell, Nomanti.”
“Do you believe this to be the last we will see of each other, rodent?” Nomanti snapped at his back.
“Certainly not,” the elf admitted without slowing. “It almost certainly will be the last I see of you today, however, and that is enough.”
“You wretched, pathetic creature,” the fey growled, grabbing for his staff. His hand quickly shied away from the weapon when Haranim hoisted up onto all fours. The megatherium had a menacing look in his eyes that Nomanti could not miscomprehend!
The hunter held a hand up to stay his friend, then half-turned so as to meet the satyr’s eyes with his own. “The time for that has passed,” he said in earnest. “I am Adanedhel now.”
“As though that were any better,” the fey spat furiously.
The hunter offered a conciliatory nod. “Admittedly, it is not much,” he conceded, “but it is enough.” He turned his back on the satyr again and called for Haranim to follow him, which the megatherium promptly did.
“The Mindspin Mountains are not so large a place,” Nomanti growled, his words sounding very much a threat.
“Agreed,” the elf replied. “Should we meet again within its expansive confines, know that I shall look forward to hunting orcs with you."
The close-knit companions of Adanedhel and Haranim departed the fey’s company without another word spoken.
You continue in your line of developing the character, and I like it a lot. The only thing I can say without repeating myself is that I love the dichotomy between his calm surface and his inner storm. That makes the character really interesting.
Is this the last one or do you have more?
I'm soooo jealous... You don't ask for "More...more!" of my stories!
Just kidding.
I also want "More...more!"
well..maybe not of your *stories*...
;-)
More of what? ;-P
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More of what? ;-P
Actually Galicia is not thaaaat hot xD
But summer is still summer.
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More of what? ;-P
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
More of what? ;-P
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
More of what? ;-P
Steals Kileanna's attention (and hopefully also her heart), while the 80's toyforces battle things out ^^.
More of what? ;-P
More of what? ;-P
these guys are professionals.
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Steals Kileanna's attention (and hopefully also her heart), while the 80's toyforces battle things out ^^.More of what? ;-P
Waaaaaaaah! How did that get out of my chest?
these guys are professionals.More of what? ;-P
Professional stuntmen, maybe. Professional terrorists? Well...let's leave that to the judges. Professional soldiers? Nope.
YO JOE!
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Waaaaaaaah! How did that get out of my chest?Steals Kileanna's attention (and hopefully also her heart), while the 80's toyforces battle things out ^^.More of what? ;-P
Cobra lalalallalalalalalalalallalalalalalalalalala
Wow. Never thought I'd be able to make a medical insurance joke but there you are.
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Waaaaaaaah! How did that get out of my chest?Steals Kileanna's attention (and hopefully also her heart), while the 80's toyforces battle things out ^^.More of what? ;-P
Ahh err...Madam, madam please calm down...I, I didn't want to steal you heart literally! I mean, I guess I just didn't how skilled I was in the larcenous arts!
I'll put it right back! I, I just need you to....
*His face turns a bright red, eyes dart up and down Kileanna, and starts fidgeting uncontrollably*
Bare your chest to me?!
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Is this the last one or do you have more?
I have four more written (9 parts total) and one more in my head that I've not written yet . . . . I warned you it was quite long! =D
________________________________________________FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART VI
“This one is heavier,” Adanedhel explained to his companion, kneeling beside a small rock partially covered in lichen. He called Haranim’s attention to a small portion of the lichen that had been damaged by something forcefully pushing down upon it. “That would make three in this group. Scouts.”
The megatherium stared at the elf for a brief moment, then rose up to rip leaves off a low-hanging branch from the tree next to him.
“Truly? Could you not at least feign interest?”
In response, Haranim’s long tongue uncurled to wrap around a small grouping of leaves and pull them back into his mouth.
Adanedhel chuckled and shook his head. “Well, enjoy your snack, my friend, because these prints are fresh. The orcs cannot be more than ten minutes from here.”
“Perfect,” a melodic voice emerged through the trees. “My slowing you will hardly matter, then.”
“Sath,” the hunter greeted, then glanced over to the megatherium. “No warning at all?” When Haranim plopped down on his side munching the mouthful of foliage, it dawned on Adanedhel that his friend’s behavior had been the warning. The giant sloth knew of the faun’s approach, and so decided he had a bit of time for an early meal.
Yet the fey still arrived opposite Haranim in almost supernatural silence. “I received word you wished to speak with me.”
“I did,” the elf confirmed, standing. “During the waning moon, I came upon a small band of travelers amidst the northern peaks. Most were human, but one among them appeared as an orc, yet less bestial. She possessed tusks, but far less pronounced. Her skin was green, but lighter and smoother than any orc I have seen. And her temper was . . . . ” Adanedhel paused a moment, considering. “Jovial,” he finally decided with a look of bewilderment. “She laughed and joked and even sang a song . . . a beautiful song with a beautiful voice. I must admit, friend, I felt at a loss. So confused was I at the sight and the sound of her that I could not bring myself to raise a hand against her.”
Sath listened to the young elf’s confusion and nodded sadly. “You witnessed a half-orc,” he said quietly.
“A half-orc?” Adanedhel queried, no less confused at hearing the term.
“Yes. A union between an orc and a human,” Sath clarified.
The elf looked aghast. “Humans breed with orcs?”
“Not willingly,” the faun explained. “I need not clarify for you that orcs ruin all they touch, for that you well know by now. Half-orcs are yet another physical manifestation of that simple truth. In their constant hate-filled striving to satiate an unquenchable, instinctive lust, orcs violate the women of other races over the course of their destruction. The lucky ones perish quickly. An unfortunate few survive the brutality to find themselves carriers of their tormenters’ progeny.”
Adanedhel found himself holding his breath as he listened to his former teacher. “The Cascading One emphasized our handling of orcs with indifference,” he recalled, “but the beasts make it exceptionally difficult to not hate them.”
“You would be wise to heed our Queen’s words,” Sath warned him. “Far too much emotion exists in hatred, Adanedhel. Hatred leaves room for future remorse, which can lead one into the realm of forgiveness. Orcs neither want nor deserve such compassion. They are not worthy of it. Indifference protects you from an inherent weakness possessed by all mortals: sentimentality. Orcs are pests--particularly savage and brutal pests, certainly, but merely pests all the same. Dispose of them as such and think no more about them.”
“I understand, of course,” the hunter reassured the fey. “Never have I doubted our Queen’s lessons. Where do half-orcs fall, however? Does their orc blood require our indifference?”
Sath smiled and slapped the elf playfully upon the cheek. “No. At the very least, they deserve our pity. At most, they deserve our respect for overcoming the tainted blood within them, as the female you witnessed clearly had done. At all times, they must be watched for any hints that the darkness within seeks to overwhelm them. You may admire them for their fortitude in keeping the darkness at bay, but never come to trust them, for it is always there and may emerge at any time. Half-orcs suffer from the weaknesses of mortality, as well, and may grow fatigued in their fight against the darkness that always resides within them. When the blood of the orc shows through and begins to dominate, be quick to put them down as you might a rabid beast--not because you desire to, but because it is best for the beast and all who may have later come in contact with it.”
Adanedhel considered the faun’s clarification on half-orcs for a long moment. The thought of separating pest from progeny felt strange to him, almost inconsistent, though the idea that its human blood could counteract the orcish blood seemed plausible. More than plausible, actually, since the half-orc woman he had seen exuded not a single orcish tendency. Thus, he decided, a certain sound reasoning must be inherent within the words of his former teacher.
Finally, the elf tipped his head in acceptance and appreciation. “My thanks for the illumination. It has settled the disquiet growing in my heart that perhaps I had done the wrong thing letting her live. Now, please do not think me inconsiderate, but there are pests about that require our attention,” he indicated himself and Haranim. Having enjoyed his short break, the megatherium yawned while climbing to his feet.
“I have traveled some distance to speak with you,” Sath feigned disapproval, “and now you wish to just cut and run? The least you could do is inquire as to whether I would like to join in the hunt!”
“It has been nigh on three winters since last I have communicated with anyone other than Haranim,” Adanedhel declared, placing a fist over his heart in a conciliatory gesture. “Of course, I would be honored if you would join us for this day’s small festivity.”
“With such an invitation, how could I refuse?” the faun accepted with a grin.
With a smile and nod, the hunter started off with fey and giant sloth in tow. Within the hour, the Mindspin Mountains' orc population had diminished by three.
Is this the last one or do you have more?I have four more written (9 parts total) and one more in my head that I've not written yet . . . . I warned you it was quite long! =D
Nothing wrong with that! I am enjoying. And as I have been busy writing the campaign journal and with real life I've had this one a bit abandoned, so I'm glad someone is giving it some use!
This is being a nice read. I cannot make further comments this time as I don't have anything new to add, but it doesn't mean I'm not enjoying reading it.
Waaaaaaaah! How did that get out of my chest?Steals Kileanna's attention (and hopefully also her heart), while the 80's toyforces battle things out ^^.More of what? ;-PAhh err...Madam, madam please calm down...I, I didn't want to steal you heart literally! I mean, I guess I just didn't how skilled I was in the larcenous arts!
I'll put it right back! I, I just need you to....
*His face turns a bright red, eyes dart up and down Kileanna, and starts fidgeting uncontrollably*
Bare your chest to me?!
Sure. You should wear sunscreen. You seem to have a bad sunburnt on your face.
Is this the last one or do you have more?I have four more written (9 parts total) and one more in my head that I've not written yet . . . . I warned you it was quite long! =D
________________________________________________FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART VI
“This one is heavier,” Adanedhel explained to his companion, kneeling beside a small rock partially covered in lichen. He called Haranim’s attention to a small portion of the lichen that had been damaged by something forcefully pushing down upon it. “That would make three in this group. Scouts.”
The megatherium stared at the elf for a brief moment, then rose up to rip leaves off a low-hanging branch from the tree next to him.
“Truly? Could you not at least feign interest?”
In response, Haranim’s long tongue uncurled to wrap around a small grouping of leaves and pull them back into his mouth.
Adanedhel chuckled and shook his head. “Well, enjoy your snack, my friend, because these prints are fresh. The orcs cannot be more than ten minutes from here.”
“Perfect,” a melodic voice emerged through the trees. “My slowing you will hardly matter, then.”
“Sath,” the hunter greeted, then glanced over to the megatherium. “No warning at all?” When Haranim plopped down on his side munching the mouthful of foliage, it dawned on Adanedhel that his friend’s behavior had been the warning. The giant sloth knew of the faun’s approach, and so decided he had a bit of time for an early meal.
Yet the fey still arrived opposite Haranim in almost supernatural silence. “I received word you wished to speak with me.”
“I did,” the elf confirmed, standing. “During the waning moon, I came upon a small band of travelers amidst the northern peaks. Most were human, but one among them appeared as an orc, yet less bestial. She possessed tusks, but far less pronounced. Her skin was green, but lighter and smoother than any orc I have seen. And her temper was . . . . ” Adanedhel paused a moment, considering. “Jovial,” he...
YASSSSSS
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FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART VII
Everything had gone quiet. Tiny rodents had stopped scurrying, and playful birds had halted their chirping. The mountain breeze--cool even in the midst of the summer--tickled the foliage in the trees and caused their incessant chattering, which sounded like madness whispering in the newly-discovered eerie silence. The flickering leaves cast moonlit shadows across the hardened soil that brought it to life, as though sable swarms of insects skittered about the valley floor.
Eyes of molten gold flashed from high within those boughs, where the hunter perched in ambush for orcs that might traverse the hidden trail below. As he turned his attention east along the trail, a lock of his golden hair--washed silver by the moon--escaped the confines of his deep green cloak and traced down his chest like a beam of starlight. A shortbow rested at the ready in his left hand, arrow set upon the string. Whether this stillness was attributed to incoming orcs or some other predator he could not say for certain, but if the former, he intended the first to be dead before its companions even realized the danger.
The entire tree suddenly jolted around him, forcing him to grab the branch overhead to stop from falling out of it. Glancing down to its base, Adanedhel saw Haranim staring back up at him. Something in the eyes of his companion registered as absolutely wrong to him, and he studied the megatherium’s face with concern. He spied fear there.
Haranim was terrified.
Never had Adanedhel witnessed such a thing from his friend of forty winters, and the sight of it now confused him. What could possibly affect the giant sloth in such an adverse way? Might the number of orcs coming up the trail be too significant in number? If such were true, he would simply allow them to wander by and hunt them individually throughout the night. Haranim knew that. They had used the tactic many times before. Something else, then . . . but what?
His tree rocked again, a little rougher this time. “Kela, Haranim,” the elf instructed his companion, motioning towards the north after regaining his balance. If what was coming frightened his friend so, he desired the megatherium to depart, that he could weigh the threat from his place of safety above. Tracking his friend would prove very little trouble.
Haranim glanced up the trail quickly, then hoisted twenty feet upward on his hind legs, so his head resided half that distance away from Adanedhel’s position. Pleading urgency filled his eyes, and his jaw opened just a bit for emphasis, as if he might tell the elf they must go.
“Kela, Haranim. Kela,” Adanedhel now begged his companion, aptly concerned at the giant sloth’s behavior.
But it was too late.
The hunter perceived the heavy pounding of many onrushing feet in the distance. They beat the ground with a reckless fury and no consideration for stealth.
“What . . . ?” Adanedhel breathed softly in bewilderment as he watched the ravening pack careen through trees in the moonlight. A score of creatures with pallid, emaciated flesh wrapped so tightly about their bodies that every bone threatened to explode outward from it formed an onslaught intent on he and Haranim’s position. Some had foreheads with the steep slant akin to orcs, while others appeared much more human, but all had hairless heads and bodies. Likewise, they each shared mouths lined with razor-like teeth and long, thin tongues that lashed outward a foot or more in anticipation of a meal. Claws consisting of elongated fingers and nails hard as iron left gouges in tree trunks as they rushed past. One actually ripped nail and fingertip off--leaving both planted in a trunk--as it surged forward, and it cared nothing at all for the lost digit!
Haranim’s resolve steeled as he rotated around to face the pack, and his visage erupted into a silent snarl. Without another second’s hesitation, the megatherium pushed its great bulk forward in a lumbering charge that splintered and downed small trees in his path.
“N’uma, Haranim! Khila!” Adanedhel cried out, shaking off his shock and horror of the ravenous pack upon seeing his friend’s courageous, driving assault. He swiftly brought the bow up and fired the nocked arrow over the shoulder of the onrushing giant sloth. The missile buried into the right shoulder of the first creature, barely slowing it before Haranim’s twenty-thousand pound frame barreled over it, leaving an unmoving, mangled corpse in his wake.
The megatherium’s charge finished with a double fore claw pouncing of a second creature that crumpled beneath the imposing weight. The rest of the pack converged on him like a swarm of voracious crows, their own claws raking and sharp teeth biting. Haranim accepted those painful strikes without a sound of protest, ripping torsos asunder with each swatting claw that connected.
His second arrow having flown wide, the hunter fitted a third and drew it back. Before launching, he noticed a solitary creature farther behind the pack closing more slowly. The thing looked much the same as those creatures piling onto his friend, but with a bluer tint to its skin and facial features that appeared more crooked, angular, and deformed. Though its eyes gleamed with hunger, something else existed within them, as well. Cunning.
Recognizing this newcomer as a serious threat, Adanedhel angled his bow a touch higher, took aim, and released. He failed to see the fruits of that missile, however, as just before its impact Haranim reared up to his full height, sending clinging creatures flying away. Despite his companion’s ferociousness, and the pack’s diminishing numbers, they refused to disperse. The giant sloth bled from two dozen wounds, but he continued the rampage against this repulsive enemy that just kept coming back at him. When opportunity presented itself, the hunter flung missile after missile into the fray, searching the trees beyond for the allusive newcomer between each shot.
Corpses littered the ground surrounding the megatherium, and only a handful of the creatures remained, when the unthinkable happened. Though blood washed and matted Haranim’s thick fur, Adanedhel had seen his friend absorb a great deal more punishment in the past. Most of his wounds appeared more superficial than anything. As he reared back again to swat away the thing clutching onto his side, the megatherium went suddenly still, as if time had somehow stopped moving forward for him. His mighty claw halted mid-swing, head twisted to the side and a wide eye stared down at the unnatural target, all frozen in place and instantaneously vulnerable.
Adanedhel watched in horror as the clinger’s four companions converged voraciously, climbing over Haranim like they might a tree in search of ripe fruit. One sought the giant sloth’s neck and scampered up to stand upon his shoulders, gloating over the magnificent megatherium that his destiny was to simply be this perversion’s next meal. The hunter buried an arrow between the thing’s shoulder blades, which knocked it off the giant sloth and propelled it twenty feet toward the ground, where its head crunched sickly to the side upon impact.
As if realizing for the first time that the elven threat existed, the last four creatures broke off their preliminary feasting and bolted for the tree he resided in. Their chaotic zigzag pattern of movement confused the hunter’s next shot, which stuck in the ground nowhere near the closing menace. Two arrows inhabited his quiver as the first of the wasting humanoids reached the base of his tree, and the elf stole a quick glance to his companion only to find Haranim still rigid in that barbarous pose as he set the penultimate missile to the string. The click-clack of pointed claws digging into wood demanded his attention below, where the inhuman creatures scurried up the trunk to get at him. Bow bent as he pulled the string back to the corner of his mouth and took careful aim. The one nearest him hissed when it drew within ten feet, its tongue testing the air like a serpent.
The loosed arrow ripped its bottom jaw clean off and embedded into its abdomen.
It continued to climb without slowing, a product of its abnormal hunger and not having the anatomical workings of the living.
Adanedhel cocked his head a bit and scrunched his face in a combination of confusion and revulsion. “What are you?” he inquired rhetorically, not certain at all if he truly wished to know.
Having closed the distance to only a couple feet, the creature launched itself upward in an attempt to grab him, but the hunter interposed his shortbow between them. When it latched onto the weapon with both hands and sought to haul itself up onto even footing, he pushed out, released the bow, and let each fall the thirty feet to the valley floor, hitting numerous branches on the way down. The shortbow survived the fall; the same could not be said of the creature.
With the other three fast approaching, Adanedhel knew his position quickly grew precarious. Though his branched spear enabled a higher degree of dexterous handling, its length hindered him in combat amidst the boughs, and thus provided his enemies’ tooth and claw with the advantage therein. The limb he perched upon splayed out to the northeast, where a second, relatively thick limb from a nearby tree stretched out near to it. Perhaps, he decided with very few other options available to him, close enough to be reached with the most infinitesimal of leaps.
Elven grace helped the hunter stand and walk along his thinning branch with relative speed. The next of the inhuman creatures arrived on the same branch and followed a mere ten feet behind. Having no means of egress now, and feeling the bough beginning to give way with both their weights upon it, he quickened the last few steps and leapt for the corresponding branch. The limb from which he sprang gave out just as he vaulted from it, stealing some momentum, and his destination--he soon realized with some disdain--required a bit more than the most infinitesimal of leaps . . . . A hand darted out to clutch at the strong limb, but the effort succeeded in only slicing open the tip of his left index finger.
Another limb a few feet down punched him in the stomach, then issued a resounding crack as it snapped upon impact. Deadened velocity found the elf falling almost straight down into a crooked branch that raked up the shaft of his spear and back. The leaf blades that “branched” from the spear caught it and jolted him further off-balance. Another blow to the gut and slap to the face by a younger bough arranged him into a disoriented sitting position that landed the hunter onto a final branch with the back of his thighs. As he slipped over backwards, the battered elf maintained just enough conscious wherewithal to keep his knees angled at ninety degrees, enabling him to hook the limb and dangle there with the ground ten feet below.
Adanedhel opened his eyes, but a few seconds passed before his vision slipped back into focus. The creature whose weight had broken the branch had apparently taken a more direct route down, and now clawed its way across the earth with a right ankle and leg completely shattered. Above, he heard the shaking of leaves and creaking of boughs, which tipped him off that its companions had somehow successfully crossed over into his own tree. Reaching up to grasp the limb that supported him revealed a wash of pain from a cracked rib, but the hunter grunted through it out of necessity so as to lift his body enough to straighten his legs and glide them under the branch. He allowed for agonizing full extension so as to minimize the drop and fell into a crouch a few feet below. White spots flooded through his vision, and he stuck a hand on the ground as an anchor to prevent from collapsing.
After taking a breath to get settled, the elf gathered his feet and ended the maimed creature’s progress with the branched spear he grabbed from the leather sleeve on his back, then put a short distance between he and the tree to await the coming threat.
Within moments, the final two gaunt creatures dropped from the green foliage, one after the other, and quickly stormed toward Adanedhel. When the first neared, the hunter swung his branched spear in a wide, circular arc over his head and sliced into the foul thing with the bladed leaves from reach, knocking its charge offline. He provided a swift jerk to shred its dry, dead flesh and shortened the spear by sliding the smooth shaft through a loosened grip to half its length. The creature failed to compensate for its veered course, and Adanedhel easily dodged a swiping claw. Before it could slow enough to readjust its position, he jumped back and flicked his arm forward to lengthen the spear in the reverse motion he had just used to shorten it. The foot-and-a-half long spearhead pierced its eye, resolving its attempted pursuit.
The last creature pounced upon him, sinking its claws into his shoulders and thrusting those wicked teeth at his neck. The hunter rammed the butt-end of his spear back into the thing’s chest, not so much to damage it, but to put separation between them. The maneuver worked, pushing the humanoid beast away. He immediately leaped forward and spun the branched spear around to smack his attacker upside the head. Skull cracked from the force of the blow, but, unbelievably, the feral beast just lunged at him again. Changing tactics, the elf ducked and sidestepped, permitting it to pass by to his left, then quickstepped around back of the creature and threw a haymaker at its weakened skull with the hardened leather and sharpened bone cestus worn on his right hand. The punch caved in that side of its head and released an explosion of ichor unlike anything he had ever seen.
Adanedhel refused to look at his hand as the creature slumped to the ground, repulsed as he was at the sight. Nothing about these things felt natural to him, and he wanted nothing more than to be away from this soiled place of ruin.
“Khila, Haranim,” he called to his friend, but the megatherium simply stood statuesque as he had for the last couple minutes.
Worried for his companion, Adanedhel moved to check on the giant sloth and discern the cause of this awkward behavior he exhibited. As he drew close, a sudden and reprehensible odor overwhelmed him. It was unlike anything he had ever known. His gut heaved, and he retched all the contents of his stomach right there on the ground beside him. The sickness rolled over him so swiftly that he clasped tight to his branched spear and used it to prop himself up until the queasiness passed. It did so in short order, but his body continued to rebel against the stench, which smelled to him as scores of fish left to rot in the hot sun for days on end. Not excited about the notion, but knowing that he needed to inspect his friend, the elf drove onward one foot after the other. He tried to call out to his companion again, but the sickening reek forbade any such action.
The sight that awaited him was most unwelcoming.
A pool of blood and viscera splayed across the earth from the eviscerated megatherium. A vertical wound nearly four feet in length had been savagely torn into the bottom half of his body. Haranim’s luxurious fur coat was matted with copious amounts of blood, and, while his countenance maintained the same appearance as it had in the moment of this strange happening, no signs of life endured within his eyes. How the megatherium had kept upright was but another mystery added onto this grotesque conundrum.
Adanedhel staggered backward at the initial shock, but then he noticed something no less revolting, though even more disturbing: a portion of his friend’s body bulged out momentarily. Closing his eyes to the unholy sight caused his other senses to garner more feedback from the scene . . . .
Something feasted within his friend.
The hunter’s eyes opened wide, a mixture of repugnance and rage roiling about within them. Despite the inhibiting sickness brought about by the powerful and lingering stench, the elf's grip tensed on the branched spear, and he bellowed out a feral challenge to his friend’s defiler.
All motion within the megatherium’s body abruptly stopped. A long pause stretched on for what seemed an eternity before the flaps of Haranim’s hide parted like a curtain to slowly reveal the blue-tinted and contorted face of the creature he had shot earlier. That face, pushed out between his friend’s hide, rotated and swiveled chaotically, as if the disgusting thing had no control over its movements, or perhaps its hunger prevented it from keeping still. Regardless of the reason, the hunter now had a target to pinpoint his wrath. The branched spear dropped into readied position as the elf charged without so much as a whisper of sound preceding the attack.
The abnormal monster exploded outward from the megatherium, but the heavy, restrictive hide prohibited any real maneuverability. The spearhead skewered the creature through the diaphragm before it could turn left or right. It clamped down on the shaft to immediately pull itself off, but the bladed leaves punctured through its hands and severed fingers, foiling the tactic.
At the same instant, Adanedhel used the defiler’s own forward momentum to hoist it into the air, planting the butt of the spear upon the ground to help suspend it nearly nine feet up. The creature slid down on the sharp branches, further making an ichorous ruin of its insides before the elf shifted his weight and propelled the thing headfirst into the valley floor. Impalement and the subsequent drop failed to kill the abomination, but the elf wasted no time in springing upon it and pummeling its head to an unrecognizable pulp. He only ceased the pounding when he heard the massive corpse of Haranim crash to the earth.
************
Adanedhel traveled through sun and moon for three days without rest. He never stopped to eat, and drank only handfuls of water wherever he crossed a river or stream. No pains were taken to watch for danger via trail sign or ambush. The morose elf journeyed despondently through all terrains and obstacles until he arrived within the dale to which Sath had brought him forty winters ago.
Once within those familiar confines, the hunter began in earnest that which he knew best: to track. He sought any partial print or sign for his quarry, working back and forth along the width of the valley. The first indicator that he had located the proper trail appeared in the trees overhead. There, the elf detected lower branches cleaned of foliage despite the trees being perfectly healthy. With that telltale sign identified, finding the trail of what caused the phenomenon proved quite easy. He stalked the creature systematically for the next couple hours before coming upon her resting beneath the tree that would undoubtedly provide the leaves for her next meal.
Upon discovering the giant sloth, her fur streaked with grey and features drawn with old age, Adanedhel dropped his head in shame as he advanced. He walked to within a dozen feet of the elder megatherium, close enough to get her attention, and fell to his knees before her. Silence lingered for a long time as the elf stared down at brown earth, his thoughts churning with the emotions kept bottled up these last few days. A deep breath calmed the turmoil, and he looked up into her face to convey the sadness of her son’s passing. There in her eyes he saw a mother’s sorrow and realized she knew why he had come.
Her grief broke him.
“Forgive me,” Adanedhel blurted before the sobs racked him. Unspent tears from the previous days poured out of him now, the debility of the sudden, overpowering despair bent him over at the waist. The musculature in his shoulder strained as he propped himself up by the arms and the weeping convulsions placed continual tension upon them. “I could not save him,” the elf wheezed, the words barely audible from his lack of breath. His head shook childishly from side-to-side while beads of bloody sweat trickled down his skin from the anguish, and throughout it all he gasped the phrase, “I could not save him,” the pain of the lame expression unbearable even to his own ears.
Hopeless. His words proved incapable of assuaging the guilt. He left his friend to die alone against that swarm of . . . he knew not what they were! How could he have not even come down from the tree? He claimed that he could not save Haranim, yet had he properly tried? Rather than fight next to his most able companion, he remained in relative safety like a coward.
Hollow words designed to appease.
All strength fled from him after many long minutes of hyperventilation, and the elf collapsed onto his side, his tears quickly polluting the ground where his head lay. The torrent of disconsolateness left him a pathetic heap upon the earthen floor, his energy sapped. Still he cried, unable to stop the mess of emotion that conflicted him concerning the ineptitude and futility of his efforts. Dirt rubbed his cheek and the corner of his lips raw as he feebly apologized with the only words he knew to be true, “I am sorry.” He repeated them now like a mantra, feeling more and more worthless with each passing moment.
Minutes slipped by into hours, and, near the end, his words of recompense became garbled and incomprehensible. “I should have listened,” the elf mumbled at the last; then, “Why did I not listen?” before exhaustion finally overtook him.
Too downtrodden and self-absorbed within his heartbreak, Adanedhel never recognized that the mother had gotten close enough to lay her head next to his.
I really liked it. I didn't expect what happened on this one. I feel sorry for Haranim, it has been a really well told story. I am already wanting more.
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So it's okay when YOU want more...;-)
I cannot be jealous if I am the one saying it xD
Anyway, you cannot ask me for more as I am not posting anything at this time, right?
I want to tell some stories but I cannot decide what to do next. And I have to keep writing my campaign journal too. I want to have it finished someday. So it's cool to have someone making use of this thread right now xD
I cannot be jealous if I am the one saying it xD
Anyway, you cannot ask me for more as I am not posting anything at this time, right?
I want to tell some stories but I cannot decide what to do next. And I have to keep writing my campaign journal too. I want to have it finished someday. So it's cool to have someone making use of this thread right now xD
I'm incredibly grateful to you for creating this thread, where stories can be shared. I enjoy getting some feedback on what I write, and I also enjoy sharing stories with folk!
So, thanks a million for this! =D
Not at all!
When I created it I wanted people to share their stories as I shared mine too, but I was unsure of people being interested in reading my stories or sharing theirs. So seeing that I am getting a good reaction makes me happy.
Campaign journals are great for long stories told by the same person but I get the impression that people is more afraid of commenting or sharing their own experiences as they feel like uninvited guests, or like they were interrupting the storytelling.
That's why I wanted to do something that allowed shorter stories and where more people could participate. Getting it to work is being great.
So thanks to you for participating. I do my best to give you my opinion on your writing even though I am not very valuable as a critic xD
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FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART VIII
Adanedhel sat alone upon the ledge, the crisp bite of early fall nibbled upon his nose and exposed fingertips. The sensations hardly bothered him, except as a reminder that he yet lived when one worthier than he did not. Thoughts concerning life and death humbled the elf quite often, for he could not understand how one so strong and beautiful and regal would die so horribly while another so small and uncertain and insignificant would live. No amount of logical reasoning helped make sense of it and only kept him confounded and in misery.
Haranim meant ‘kingly’ in elven. It was a name aptly given. His name, Adanedhel, meant ‘an elf’ in the same language. Sath had given him the name, and it, too, was aptly given. In him resided nothing significant, nothing of worth or note. In him resided a spirit whose only purpose was to perish and find some measure of importance in the dying. He knew that to be the measure of his life. In his name one found only generality, and not by accident. It acted as a prompting for humility, that existence meant nothing save for doing what was necessary to ensure the proper outcomes for this land and the people that survived upon and within it. To act rightly, to serve courageously, to strive for fruitfulness; none of these things brought merit to his life. Virtue could only be realized in the end, when all selfishness and pride and desire and vengeance were released in that one final breath. Perhaps then, in the deed leading to death, any quality that shined brightly enough to be recognized might earn the elf a new name.
A worthy name.
Perhaps a name such as Haranim.
To dwell on such aspirations, however, seemed wrong to him. They were above him, as much so as the King of Thorns or the Queen of the Frozen Falls were above him. One should never be preoccupied with matters beyond him, lest he succeed in failing the test before its completion. What worth could he ever find then? None. Only a dwindling existence of dire sorrows, empty platitudes, and a useless name that would remain meaningless and quickly forgotten.
Yet, as Adanedhel gazed out across the open expanse of the eastern foothills to the Mindspin Mountains, he could not shake the hollowness so prevalent within him. Over a year had passed since his friend’s death, and the loss weighed upon him like a mountain. His teachers had prepared him for the inevitability of his own death--even pressed upon him the necessity of it for gaining any consequential meaning to his life, but none had readied him for such a loss as the elf had experienced with Haranim. It meant nothing to lose a life without intrinsic value, but how does one cope with the extinguishing of a life with exceptional inherent value? Especially when such a death could have--no, should have--been avoided?
The expectation, he knew, was that no such problem should have ever been faced by him. Had either Sath or Nomanti been beside him now, both would have declared with obvious resentment toward his cowardice that he should have given up his life so Haranim would have lived. In so doing, a magnificent creature would have continued on to its destined purpose, and he would have achieved his life’s significance: to die defending the greater good. Thus, he had failed his Queen, he had failed his teachers, and he had failed his truest friend.
What was he to do now?
In the distance, the elf spied the frontier town of Trunau, its people busily harvesting what crop had survived through the fickle summer season and the dangerous raids by orcs and other beasts. He admired their resilience to the perils of the region, their ferocity in the face of whatever menace threatened with each new day. Often, Adanedhel had considered going there to meet such a strong and hardened people, but Sath’s warning about them lingered ever in his mind. Openly approaching the town’s inhabitants could be unpredictable at best, disastrous at worst, and he wanted no part in interrupting what solace they had built for themselves there.
Even so, the Cascading One had spoken highly of their efforts to secure freedom in spite of the resounding odds against them. Sath had proclaimed a reason for appreciation in their presence and purpose here, as well. And, had not the King of Thorns gone to their aid when a great orc threat might have overcome them? Perhaps, there upon a tall hill at the foot of the mountains, Adanedhel had an opportunity to make amends for what he had blundered so severely. He would not forget his costly mistake in giving his friend up to die, and he could not forgive himself such a grave error, but to defend these people might serve as some recompense to all whom he had unintentionally betrayed through his fearfulness.
The hunter nodded once to himself as a way of solidifying his decision in the material world. He would become a guardian to Trunau, a friend from afar to protect their freedom and the lives of their children and children’s children. “The fault of a year ago will not be repeated,” he resolved into the wind, that his oath could be carried throughout the majestic mountains, and they would hold him accountable to it.
“So long as I live you will live,” Adanedhel promised the town. “My life for your life.”
The elf retrieved the branched spear beside him and climbed to his feet. Most of his energies had been spent within the mountains themselves, not in the foothills outside of them. He needed to begin familiarizing himself with the lay of the land there so that his charge could be carried out properly. He also desired to know how close orcs tended to get to Trunau in the dark of night, and on how regular a basis. Their tracks would tell him that news and give him a more thorough understanding of where his presence might be required more frequently.
Great,as always. You had to delay this one because the forums have been not working and I missed it ;-D
I expected Adanedhel to take the decission to protect the town at some point, and having lost Haranim it makes a lot of sense. I think (correct me if I am wrong) that he always felt alone and Haranim had helped with that but now he's gone.
I've been not writing a lot here lately as I'm trying to focus on other stuff and busy with real life, but I want to share a link to another user who is writing some stories that always make me smile or laugh openly. I had a fun time reading it.
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Great,as always. You had to delay this one because the forums have been not working and I missed it ;-D
I expected Adanedhel to take the decission to protect the town at some point, and having lost Haranim it makes a lot of sense. I think (correct me if I am wrong) that he always felt alone and Haranim had helped with that but now he's gone.
I thank you for the compliment. =)
Having been raised by fey that had no real concept of natural human interaction (except on their own terms), and thus having no real concept of human interaction himself, Adanedhel was designed very much to be a lone wolf. I'm sure you've taken from the story that Adanedhel was pretty much taught by the fey that his only real worth could be in how well he died for the realm; thus, he valued the life of Haranim far more than his own.
Any time I design a character, I make sure to include elements that will require growth throughout the campaign. In the case of Adanedhel, that element involved his coming to see himself as something of value, which the other PCs would play a large part in doing . . . depending on their interactions, of course!
In fact, the penultimate section coming up below involves a fellow PC that he "meets" for the first time, which was planned to have an impact in the campaign. That didn't work out as intended, but that's the beauty of playing the game!
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FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART IX
The hunter jogged with more urgency than usual a couple hundred feet south of the Kestrel River. Very few caravans traveled to Trunau throughout the year due to its distant frontier location, which made the first to come out of Vigil incredibly important to the community. Typically, that caravan departed Lastwall within a day or two of the Spring equinox, and Adanedhel had made it a habit to keep watch for its coming over the last few decades. On this occasion, he had spotted the short column of wagons the fourth morning after the equinox and started out to secretly escort it toward the town soon after. The sun had set behind the mountains three hours ago, and he knew himself to be close, but that fact had not spurred on his current swiftness.
Two hours ago, the hunter came upon easily identifiable tracks of over a dozen orcs that had crossed the Kestrel River and progressed on an eastbound collision course with the westbound caravan. Another unfortunate reality pertaining to caravans heading for Trunau was their size: they tended to be small, which equated to few guards for protection. Though capable of fending off attacks by wild beasts or orc scouting parties, the likelihood of their surviving an ambush by a full-on orc raiding party was slim at best. How he might help stem that slaughter he knew not, but that he must try went without saying, regardless of the cost.
The first shout of warning arose over the next hill, and a cacophony of orcish war cries immediately followed. Adanedhel quickened his pace into a flat out run, unslinging the bow as he worked up the slope. The hunter took a knee the moment he crested the hill and surveyed the situation. A bonfire in the midst of the circled wagons provided him a clear view of the attack. The orcs had fanned out to surround the caravan, a tactic that forced the defenders to spread out and reduced their ability to aid one another. Orcs were brutal, overpowering combatants when they could get victims into one-on-one encounters, but were incontestable when permitted to swarm over a single opponent. Their current strategy enabled them to do exactly that as the sleeping defenders scrambled too slowly to help their standing companions nearer the perimeter.
His own battle plan formed within those first couple seconds of assessment. If he sought to kill the orcs, the massacre would be over before ever he finished off the third mark. No, this fight required faster movement on his part and slowing the enemy down. The more he could inhibit the orcs’ advance and allow the defenders to gather themselves, the better the chances that more of the defenders might live.
The hunter sprang forward into a sprint and swept down the hill, cloak billowing out behind him. The first arrow slipped from the quiver at his side, twirled between agile fingers, and fitted to the string as he hurried into the valley of the attack. The elf stilled that stride in a heartbeat and loosed, taking his first target square in the back as it traded blows with a guard. There was no waiting to see what came of the combatants; the moment the missile reached its destination he bolted away to the right, hoping the distraction had worked to give the defender an upper hand.
Arrow after arrow flew into the fray, each aimed for the torso of an orc body because it offered the largest target. Occasionally, a shaft fell a brute, but most served to confuse the savages so as to turn the tide of an encounter. Adanedhel flitted about the edges of the battle, firing his bow from within sixty feet, then scampering back outside the orcs’ darkvision to reposition. In less than a minute, the south and west sections of the circled encampment were under control as merchants reinforced the guards to drive back the threat. His strategy had proved successful there, changing the course of the fight for those involved.
Unfortunately, the turn for the better on this side of the caravan had drawn further defenders to where they saw the potential for victory, thus weakening the north section where the orcs had gained the upper hand. Merchants willingly fought for their lives, but their battle acumen failed to take them where they were necessary, settling instead for where they believed the best chance for survival existed.
To the north, Adanedhel caught sight of a solitary figure donned in a tattered white cloak with shoulder guards that resembled jaggedly severed wings and arrayed in several broken, golden chains squaring off against an orcish brute. Two badly wounded guards bled crimson upon the ground behind the brave warrior, and both tried as best they may to crawl back to the inner portion of the encampment. A second orc--the left side of its face caved in from the defender’s morningstar--pulled itself along the ground after the pair, its lust for death and destruction refusing to let it perish before the most possible carnage could be rendered. Furthermore, the elf noted a fresh pair of orcs pinching in on the figure’s position from the left and right. Perhaps the defender did not see them, or perhaps did not care that the beasts came, for if the post was abandoned then those wounded attempting to escape would surely die.
If none aided the warrior, he knew, all three would meet that similar fate.
Continuing his dance about the perimeter would take him there too late; only a more direct course might get him there in time. Hence, the hunter abandoned the darkness and rushed into the light. He dashed passed the outer ring of action now made more manageable by the merchants’ arrival and cut between a pair of wagons into the inner circle. The hood of his cloak billowed as he sped to the right of the bonfire, which caused a wisp of hair to escape that streaked gold in the light of the roaring flame. With arrow already set to string, the hunter halted all momentum amidst the retreating wounded and let fly at the orc closing from the left. It buried into the brute’s sword shoulder, provoking a startled recoil that momentarily stopped its progress.
Shortbow dropped harmlessly from his left hand and branched spear slid silently overhead into his right as Adanedhel moved forward one, two, three strides, gripped the haft with the left behind the right for additional power, and skewered the crawling orc through the center of the back in a single fluid motion.
Whether the white-cloaked warrior saw him, or simply felt his presence there, the defender gave ground to the orc so as to reposition at Adanedhel’s front-left. Broken chains rattled as the guardian parried the orc’s falchion with a twist of her body--indeed, it was at that moment that the elf recognized the figure to be female by her bust and flowing blood-red hair. Her new, closer location brought the rushing orc from the right into contact with him first. The savage beast performed a two-handed, right shoulder swing meant to behead him hastily, that it might get on to the joy of bleeding out its original victim. The hunter swung the shaft of his spear--still impaled within the dead orc’s back--out wide to intercept the attack, then propelled himself upward into a wicked uppercut with the cestus worn on his right hand. Serrated bone spikes drove up hard behind its lower jaw, just in front of the larynx. Having never released the spear with his left hand, the offensive maneuver also pulled the weapon from the deceased orc, which enabled him the mobility necessary to lightly brush her right thigh with his knee as he spun completely around behind her.
Identifying the message there, the warrior swiftly shifted into his former position with a backhand swing of her morningstar against the newly staggered orc. Spiked ball ripped into orc flesh where the neck meets the shoulder, dropping it like a sack of grain to the earth. Amazingly, the brute still moved after, but the force of the blow had made its right arm useless, not to mention disorientated the beast. For a moment, at least, that orc was out of the fight.
The orc that had faced her initially, however, stepped in to cut down the elf that had taken her place. Using a maneuver uncharacteristic of its brutal nature, the orc thrust its falchion beneath his guard and sliced a red line along his left side. Adanedhel accepted the feeble attack for what it was and jabbed out to his left with the branched spear, toward the charging orc there. The beast dodged by sweeping its upper body sideways to narrowly miss the spearhead and not get thrown off course. Little did the brute know, however, that the jab was not the attack, only the setup. Pushing briskly forward with his right arm, the barbed leaves along the spear’s shaft pierced the side of the orc’s neck, and its momentum carried it through even more of them, leaving a gory mess in their wake. Not ones to be deterred, the orc powered through the shredding maneuver to swipe at the elf, but the strike was badly off-balanced and missed everything.
Even better, the hunter altered the course of his right hand downward, which allowed the spear’s haft to become a shield that brushed the first orc’s falchion out wide of his body so it could not get a second easy slice against him. Planting the butt into the ground with his left hand to solidify his defensive posture, Adanedhel used the cestus to puncture holes into the side of the first orc’s face. He then pivoted around the vertical spear to flank that orc with the woman, but maintained his primary focus on the orc that had entered in from the left.
The morningstar pummeled the chest of the flanked orc, though its armor appeared to absorb most of the blow. Still, the impact forced it back a step and dazed the brute, because its counterattack wobbled lazily to her left side.
The second orc, blood gushing down its shoulder in waves, bellowed out in a crazed rage and swung its falchion with every ounce of strength remaining in it. The heavy blade would have severed his right arm clean off had the elf not tucked in close to the shaft of his spear, which put him inside the heaviest--and deadliest--portion of the blade. The thinnest section of the falchion, that nearest the cross guard, impacted against the branched spear, stealing much of its momentum, so that the small amount of the weapon that gashed his arm failed to cut deep.
Adanedhel leaped away from both orcs and dropped the bladed leaves back down upon the grotesque and gushing wound at the second brute’s neck. Those razor sharp blades lacerated deeper still, and the beast’s thrashing to get away from the cutting tines only helped to bring about its end.
Now to his left, the warrior and the orc fought one another to a standstill, neither getting the upper hand against the other. A simple spear thrust to the back of the orc helped end that stalemate. After slaying the last of the standing brutes, the white-cloaked warrior turned her morningstar upon the nearly dead one that even now groped at her ankles in an attempt to hinder her. When she rotated about to inquire of her unexpected ally whether he might require help for the wounds she knew he had taken, she found that he was no longer beside her.
The hunter’s eyes flashed amber at the outer extent of the firelight when he took in one last view of the courageous woman. He desired to see her once more before departing, though he refused to let that look linger for more than half-a-second before disappearing into the dark night. The sounds of battle had died down, indicating that the rest of the caravan members had indeed gotten the best of their attackers. Such was good, as his shortbow remained within their circle of wagons.
The loss hardly concerned him; the elf knew where he could get another.
As he crested the hill north of the encampment, Adanedhel’s gaze fell back over the caravan. He told himself this final check was to ensure that none attempted to follow him, but his eyes scanned the aftermath of the battle until they settled upon the familiar white cloak, which he noticed crouched over one of the sorely wounded men. While done in combat and solely that they both might survive, the physical contact he had made with her was the first he had known with anyone or anything not trying to kill him in nigh on seventy winters. The significance of that instant, though he could not know it now, had changed the elf.
Though completely unaware as to how or why, she saved him that night.
I see what you said in your post. I like the seeds that come from involving this woman in the story. I'm sorry to hear this didn't come out as expected but it's a good hook to give to your GM.
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FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH - PART X
Adanedhel had watched the pair from the shadows throughout the day as they meandered about the deep green foliage of the valley. A dozen times he thought to introduce himself, but each time the elf failed to exit the periphery due to lingering doubts within him.
A pair of winters had passed since he helped defend that small caravan from an orc raiding party, yet the memory of it had seared into his brain and would not leave him in peace. On all accounts, the defense had proved successful--with the caravan saved, its casualties few in number, and the orcish death toll high. Still, its recollection haunted him daily. His thoughts returned to the event ceaselessly and weighed upon him as though his insides had become iron. Movement felt lethargic, uncoordinated . . . meaningless.
The hunter held fast to his oath throughout this loss of . . . of what? Of himself? Was ever there anything there to lay claim to? Of his mission? No. His sense of purpose remained intact. Thus, the elf failed to comprehend how such a success left him reeling so. Left him saddened. Confused.
Empty.
The last time Adanedhel remembered feeling similar to this was after Haranim’s death. Admittedly, the emotional aftereffects of that incident seemed dissimilar from now, but close enough in their nature that the uncertainty of it led him here. Back to this place, where the elf believed he would never have the courage to stand again. The only place where joy had found him once. A part of him hoped--perhaps prayed, but to what he knew not--that joy might find him again.
So, Adanedhel observed mother and son as they ambled away the day, desiring nothing more than to speak with them, but dreading what might come from such interaction. Who was he to think himself worthy of looking these noble creatures in the eye, after all? Her most of all! Who was he? Both nameless and a coward. These things which defined him earned the hunter no right to speak with her.
Especially considering the reason for his need to be here remained a mystery.
In spite of himself, and with great trepidation, the hunter broke from the shadows and camouflaging greenery with hands out wide from his waist in a non-threatening gesture. The massive megatherium turned a lazy gaze in his direction, not bothering to rise, though her much smaller son climbed to all fours and took a single step forward, hesitant but curious. A quiet snort from mother froze the youngling in its tentative tracks.
“I come in peace,” Adanedhel called out to her, forcing himself to make eye contact and not cast his vision to the valley floor. Looking upon her face brought back painful memories. The elf could see his old friend in subtle ways: the curvature of the snout which hooked just a fraction deeper than most megatherium, or that patch of discoloration in the fur on the left side of the head, just behind the ear. The similarities were vague this far removed, but not unrecognizable for one who cared enough to see them. He knew these characteristics so well that her identifying him as a stranger--possibly even a threat to them--wounded Adanedhel deeply.
“I knew your great grandmother for a brief moment in time,” the elf continued, voice strained, “and her son was a brother to me. Four decades he hunted the evils of these mountains by my side until the day he . . . he . . . . ”
Adanedhel’s voice choked on the word. It refused to pass his lips even now, over half-a-century after the fact. The grief remained too near.
Rather than wrestle with it any longer, the hunter clenched his teeth and swallowed hard, letting silence reign for the moment required to collect himself.
“I am lost,” Adanedhel confided at last. He whispered it, as if afraid that something hidden in nature might hear and punish him severely for uttering the phrase. “I do not know why. There is a way I am to go, a people--an ideal--I am to protect. I know this and I have given all myself to it, as is my duty.” The elf raised his arms out wide in an all-encompassing, yet questioning, gesture. “I am a guardian of all this . . . of all that is so much more precious than I.”
Slowly, the hunter’s shoulders slumped and hands thumped back to his sides. His vision blurred as he attempted to blink the moisture from eyes of amber. “Yet I am lost.”
Adanedhel tilted his head back to examine the boughs overhead. Ever changing patches of blue sky appeared sporadically with the swaying breeze, and the leaves rustled with laughter at his expense. He dared not believe them to be weeping for him.
“I thought that--” he began, returning his glassy stare to mother and son once more, “that perhaps . . . . ” Perhaps what? he thought, berating himself through another awkward silence. Damn him, why was he here? Why could he not understand any of this? How could it be this hard to say anything comprehensible?
Frustration spun the elf about. In this jumbled and confused emotional state, he found his feet had commenced walking without his brain realizing it. It took overwhelming willpower to command them to stop again. In that fierce instant of desperate inner turmoil, when his body sought to act of its own volition and his mind fought to regain dominance, Adanedhel’s tongue suddenly rebelled as well.
“I cannot walk with them!” he blurted, the words carrying a volatile mixture of anxiety, anger, and profound weakness.
His head bowed in silent mortification, as the stares of both megatherium bore a hole straight through the back of him. Had Sath heard him exclaim such a thing he felt certain a harsh beating would have followed. Nomanti would have killed him. Both would have been in the right. What a selfish utterance after so long a time. What absolute betrayal after all they had done for him.
Yet, in his very gut, Adanedhel knew those words to be at the crux of the issue. He could not take them back, so he sought to expound upon them instead.
“Sath warned me of this a century ago--that I should one day desire to walk among them; that I might even feel a form of kinship to them. Not in my most uninhibited thoughts would I have ever believed him to be accurate in assessing me thus, but now I cannot question the validity of his insight. I know it to be impossible, but . . . . ” Adanedhel breathed out the continuation of that conclusion in an effort to gain more time to reflect upon it. “I have a superior understanding of the world around me, Sath once said, and for that I could only ever be an outsider to them. I have oft wondered about that these past few seasons.”
The elf pivoted back to face his company again. The attention of both remained transfixed upon him. “Am I so hard to understand? Would they stand aghast at my deeds, or confused at my reasons for performing them? Am I so complicated a creature as that?” He shook his head timidly. “I am not so sure.
“It strikes me as irrefutable that neither of my former teachers believed I should live so long, and, in doing so, perhaps I have only aggravated the problem. Can a mortal outlive his usefulness to purpose? Since the day of Haranim’s death, I have avowed that it should have been me lying dead upon the ground.” Back again, that pesky wetness, threatening his composure. “Cowardice”--Adanedhel’s voice cracked with the word, causing its pronunciation to be mangled horribly, but he soldiered on--“yoked me to that t-tree, dripping f-fear from my pores rather than s-sweat. I c-could have s-saved him,” he choked out, fists clenched so tight his palms bled. “I sh-should have saved h-him. I--”
The pent up rage and guilt released itself in a primal scream that saw the small megatherium scurrying back a few steps toward the safety of his mother, who had herself quickly lumbered up onto all fours. The piercing wail drowned out the laughing leaves and momentarily silenced the rising chatter of the valley’s inhabitants. All energy drained away from him as the excess emotion depleted the air in his lungs, and the hunter dropped to his knees with sagging shoulders and dead arms. As a minute stretched to two, Adanedhel remained a crumpled mess upon the hard ground, his expression broken, eyes hollow, and breath shallow.
“I did die on that day,” he mumbled the dark secret into the eerie stillness. Adanedhel had known all these decades, somehow; had hidden the truth of it behind a dark cloud of responsibility to the realm and to the people of Trunau. His soul had festered with the unclosed wound, and it had killed him just as any gangrenous wound left unchecked would. That air continued moving in and out, and blood still flowed round and round, only helped to complicate the already baffling nature of this protracted realization.
Then came the sudden flash of a woman warrior in white--the determination of battle grim upon her countenance--like an intruder sweeping through the graveyard of his recollection. The hunter recognized a faint tingling sensation in his knee which promised to awaken the rest of him from his stupor. The warmth of tears stimulated the nerve endings within his cheeks, and he discerned that they streamed down his face without any scruples concerning his dignity.
Life.
For all that time spent dead in his own skin, she had infused within him some semblance of life once again. That was what he had been feeling all this time . . . why he could not leave the memory of that battle behind him. She had sutured the festering wound and started the slow, methodical process of healing a gash he had believed mortal. He recalled the vast number of wounds and injuries given him by his fey teachers--some deep within the very bone, and how painful the recovery from them had been. In many ways, this felt the same to him, except the wounds were far more extensive than anything physical.
“I do not want to be alone anymore,” Adanedhel admitted. The confession oozed of personal weakness, but he endured the shame of it because the words needed to be said. Perhaps Sath understood his frailty from the beginning, which had prompted the faun to bring he and Haranim together. Another branch of wisdom extended but not immediately grasped by the hunter. As badly as Adanedhel desired to walk with others like him, his Teacher knew it could never be. Such did not mean that companionship needed to be spurned completely.
Companionship required growth, however. Death was inevitable within the Mindspin Mountains, but none need die alone.
As Adanedhel conjured that thought, a small snout wormed its way under his right hand and lifted it from the ground. Intuitively, he began to pet the head of the small megatherium that had saddled up beside him in an act of submission.
“Maksa,” he spoke softly the elven word for “soft.”
Then he smiled.
Is this the final one? Because it seems a circle has closed with Adanedhel joining a new companion.
I enjoyed it, as always. A pretty solid and well told background for your character.
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Is this the final one? Because it seems a circle has closed with Adanedhel joining a new companion.
I enjoyed it, as always. A pretty solid and well told background for your character.
This is the final part, yes. The backstory is complete, and within a year (game time) of this event the campaign begins.
I'm certainly happy that you enjoyed it! =)
I did, indeed!
Whenever you want to share more of your stories, I'll be glad to read them!
I've been kinda busy with work these last weeks so I had to leave writing stories and drawing on a second plane, but I want to keep on writing.
By now, I am focusing in finishing S&S campaign journal.
THIS WAS AWESOME