Niethan
03-20-2006, 03:30 PM
There was blood everywhere. It had soaked into the dust and yellowed grass, turning the ground into a slick maroon paste. It was in his hair, in his clothes, in his eyes... even the air seemed saturated with it, making the light a sunset haze and the air a thick syrup tasting of ozone and copper-slick iron. Lying on the ground was Niethan, skin stained violet and blue-black braid matted and tangled in the grass. He was trembling, nerves shaking and every twitch amplified by the electric residue still sparking from the body of the dead thunderhead's corpse lying not three feet away. Eyes the color of a deepsky dawn stared sightlessly outside himself, as another spasm curved his spine and forced his tusks into the dirt.
* * * *
He'd been hunting the thunder-lizards outside of Camp Taurajo on the direction of Jorn Skyseer. Jorn had warned him against taking the beasts lightly; of all the inhabitants of the Barrens, it was the armored giants who were toughest to slay. Thick scaly hides, razor-sharp bone plates and spikes, and footsteps that shook the earth. Add to that the static bolts that arced between their horns, and hunting them became a nasty proposition indeed.
Jorn had simply handed him three phials, and said that heartsblood would be suitable proof of his prowess. And that is how Niethan found himself buried up to his chest in the not-quite-dead body of a Thunderhead, using a skinning knife to cut his way to the slow-beating heart while his pet moonstalker, Sigrun, glared at him from several feet away with a clear expression of distaste.
He managed to reach the heart before it stopped completely, and with a yell of triumph stabbed it, letting the blood drain into the waiting phial. He wrenched himself loose from the gory mess and turned, grinning, to his companion.
"Ha! Dat's it, den. Three bottles o' dis stuff fo' Jorn ta shove up where de sun don' shine. Ready ta go back to de inn, pretty lady?" He moved to grab his knapsack, but froze mid-reach at the sound of thunder.
Pounding up the hill was another thunderhead, but one as removed from its bretheren as a troll from a nightelf. It was blue, for a start; the shade of drowned flesh and the swollen underbellies of stormclouds. The plates on its back did not sway in the motion of its thunderous passage. They, and even the beast's skin looked fused, melted, and cracked into a parody of iron plate armor. Bolts of electricity raced along the back-spikes to the tail and horns, and static rippled across its sides. Niethan noticed with some disquiet that the other lizards moved out of the blue beast's way without hestiation.
He noticed with alarm that it was headed right for him.
Out came the bow, and down went the bent-wood frame of a trap. A quick flick of tinder, and it was set. He notched an arrow, then reached down inside for the spark of magic. (For mages, magic was desire. For warlocks, it was control. For a hunter- for Niethan- it was memory; he summoned the remembered taste of snake fangs on his tongue, the numbing burn of venom. The arrowhead shone green, and he released it.) The beast roared at the insulting sting, then turned its great blind head towards the source and charged.
Niethan immediately backed up, signaling Sigrun to take the beast's attention when it tripped the Immolation trap. He'd already fired two more arrows, and was readying a third when the beast slammed its foot onto the trap, breaking the seal and extinguishing the flames without even blinking.
"Aw, dat just perf'ct! Sigrun, get 'im!" Niethan picked up the pace, jumping away and firing as soon as the arrows were in his hand. Most scored home. Some merely bounced off the thick hide. It was several minutes before Niethan's arrows and Sigrun's claws at last caught up to the thunderhead's determination to live, and the beast toppled over with a crackling moan. Sigrun danced away from the monolith of flesh and padded over to where Niethan was lying trembling on the ground. The stomped and matted area where the thunderhead had fought felt alive, and Niethan could feel the tingling energy of magic beyond his own seeping out of the beast's body and into the ground, the air, and the young troll who could not force his muscles to obey.
* * * *
It started in his feet, then his hands. A thin, warm tremor working its way into flesh and blood, bone and nerve, body and soul. It crept through Niethan's legs and arms like a fever, spreading into the torso and sparking a cold well of adrenaline in his stomach. The cool flood gurgled up his throat and Niethan retched until dry heaves shook his frame. Then the seizures started.
Blue fire raced along his nerves and set them alight, crackling in his brain, putting out the light in his eyes and strangling his startled outcry before it passed his lips. It felt like being electricuted, white hot incandescence in every pore.
* * * *
He lay on the ground until the tremors ceased. They did, eventually. But not until he was curled up on himself, knees to chest in the oldest espression of helplessness, empty stomach twisting and lungs heaving gasping breaths. Sigrun was beside him, mewling and tugging at his blood and sweat soaked clothes in a rare display of outright concern. Niethan looked up at her, moonlight painting her fur silver, and managed to uncurl enough to rub a trembling hand over her ears.
"S-s'ok, pretty lady... I t'ink I be okay..." He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Jus' gotta get up, now." He unlocked stiffening muscles, then forced himself to his knees, then standing. A great shuddering breath as he stretched, before at last inspecting the long-cooled body of the blue thunderhead. It was just as ugly in death as in life, and if he hadn't still felt the shimmer of electricty in the air around it, Niethan would have said it looked less threatening. Instead, it just seemed disquieting, with the blind eyes faded and the lively ripple of energy extinguished. The only thing of note, he decided, was one of the tailspikes; it had old scars embedded into the base, old cuts from axes and swords and who knew what else. It was layered like the rings on a tree, scars old and new, like it had been hacked at and severed again and again and again. It reminded him of the old worn cuts on the hide of Eycheyakee, scars so deep fur had ceased to grow over them. Skinning cuts.
Which meant that this thing was part of the Barrens edition of Hunter Training 101. Niethan cursed. "Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me. Nobody say anyt'ing 'bout a blue lizard!" Sigrun paced around the body as Niethan readied the bastard sword he was keeping as his melee weapon- not well suited for a hunter, but it reminded him of home, so... He walked over to the tail, taking aim. "Feh! Jorn didn' warn me 'bout no magic siezures, neither. Gonna have a word wit' him."
The tailspike set off sparks when the blade cleaved it from the rest of the corpse. Niethan picked it up, still grumbling and shaking, and went about collecting his fallen possessions for the walk back to the Camp.
* * * *
The walk turned into a stroll, then a jog, then a full-out run. He was long past the Camp and the moon was setting as morning neared, but there was lightning in his veins and an incessant desire to move move move pacing in his brain. Sigrun ran with him, tireless as he, feeling the burn of adrenaline through the quiet bond of hunter magic. Morning came and went, and afternoon rose over Taurajo, and still there was no burn of fatigue. Just the twisting of cool fluid in the stomach and the pounding litany of motion.
* * * *
It was almost evening when Niethan and Sigrun returned to Camp Taurajo. They looked wide awake and energetic when Niethan handed the three phials of heartsblood to Jorn Skyseer. Jorn thanked them, and started in on his speech to every young hunter that passed the trial, but was interrupted by a flash of electric sparks two inches from his nose.
"Ahh... I see you have slain Owantanka, the Blue Bolt." He took the tailspike from the trembling hands of the troll with reverence. "It is said that Owantaka was struck by lightning and, fueled by the sky's rage, wanders the earth forever unceasingly." He did not notice the look of surprise and growing dread upon Niethan's face. "He never sleeps, they say, as the energy of his spirit sustains him." As the ritual dictated, here Jorn looked at the hunter fidgeting next to him. The troll looked... edgy. There was a faint tremor in the line of his shoulders. Jorn frowned. "Hmm. You have slain him recently, I see. Do not worry. The spirit of Owantanka has strengthened you, and that strength you will keep, but the burn of his touch will fade within an hour. Now, for the next part of your training..."
Jorn allowed the rote of memory to speak for him. He was remembering the many hunters that had come to him with the sparking tailspike. Few had been as young as this troll, but it wasn't so unusual. The beasts that had been around long enough to make names for themselves, their spirits strong and their natures undaunted, had become the most important part of the hunter training. The artifact brought back from the kill made it possible to revive the creature again and again, and Jorn held jurisdiction over several of the named beasts of the Barrens. He'd seen this tailspike many times, and the students always brought back the same story; a pleasant feeling of energy and a desire for motion that faded after an hour or so. It was always good to see beginning hunters suceeding on the path. It was an old one, after all, used for ages without error. He glanced at the young troll and smiled. He probably wanted to go enjoy the rush.
* * * *
Niethan was hardly listening. There was a soul-deep ache clawing at his muscles, unceasing. It was all he could do to stay standing still.
* * * *
He'd been hunting the thunder-lizards outside of Camp Taurajo on the direction of Jorn Skyseer. Jorn had warned him against taking the beasts lightly; of all the inhabitants of the Barrens, it was the armored giants who were toughest to slay. Thick scaly hides, razor-sharp bone plates and spikes, and footsteps that shook the earth. Add to that the static bolts that arced between their horns, and hunting them became a nasty proposition indeed.
Jorn had simply handed him three phials, and said that heartsblood would be suitable proof of his prowess. And that is how Niethan found himself buried up to his chest in the not-quite-dead body of a Thunderhead, using a skinning knife to cut his way to the slow-beating heart while his pet moonstalker, Sigrun, glared at him from several feet away with a clear expression of distaste.
He managed to reach the heart before it stopped completely, and with a yell of triumph stabbed it, letting the blood drain into the waiting phial. He wrenched himself loose from the gory mess and turned, grinning, to his companion.
"Ha! Dat's it, den. Three bottles o' dis stuff fo' Jorn ta shove up where de sun don' shine. Ready ta go back to de inn, pretty lady?" He moved to grab his knapsack, but froze mid-reach at the sound of thunder.
Pounding up the hill was another thunderhead, but one as removed from its bretheren as a troll from a nightelf. It was blue, for a start; the shade of drowned flesh and the swollen underbellies of stormclouds. The plates on its back did not sway in the motion of its thunderous passage. They, and even the beast's skin looked fused, melted, and cracked into a parody of iron plate armor. Bolts of electricity raced along the back-spikes to the tail and horns, and static rippled across its sides. Niethan noticed with some disquiet that the other lizards moved out of the blue beast's way without hestiation.
He noticed with alarm that it was headed right for him.
Out came the bow, and down went the bent-wood frame of a trap. A quick flick of tinder, and it was set. He notched an arrow, then reached down inside for the spark of magic. (For mages, magic was desire. For warlocks, it was control. For a hunter- for Niethan- it was memory; he summoned the remembered taste of snake fangs on his tongue, the numbing burn of venom. The arrowhead shone green, and he released it.) The beast roared at the insulting sting, then turned its great blind head towards the source and charged.
Niethan immediately backed up, signaling Sigrun to take the beast's attention when it tripped the Immolation trap. He'd already fired two more arrows, and was readying a third when the beast slammed its foot onto the trap, breaking the seal and extinguishing the flames without even blinking.
"Aw, dat just perf'ct! Sigrun, get 'im!" Niethan picked up the pace, jumping away and firing as soon as the arrows were in his hand. Most scored home. Some merely bounced off the thick hide. It was several minutes before Niethan's arrows and Sigrun's claws at last caught up to the thunderhead's determination to live, and the beast toppled over with a crackling moan. Sigrun danced away from the monolith of flesh and padded over to where Niethan was lying trembling on the ground. The stomped and matted area where the thunderhead had fought felt alive, and Niethan could feel the tingling energy of magic beyond his own seeping out of the beast's body and into the ground, the air, and the young troll who could not force his muscles to obey.
* * * *
It started in his feet, then his hands. A thin, warm tremor working its way into flesh and blood, bone and nerve, body and soul. It crept through Niethan's legs and arms like a fever, spreading into the torso and sparking a cold well of adrenaline in his stomach. The cool flood gurgled up his throat and Niethan retched until dry heaves shook his frame. Then the seizures started.
Blue fire raced along his nerves and set them alight, crackling in his brain, putting out the light in his eyes and strangling his startled outcry before it passed his lips. It felt like being electricuted, white hot incandescence in every pore.
* * * *
He lay on the ground until the tremors ceased. They did, eventually. But not until he was curled up on himself, knees to chest in the oldest espression of helplessness, empty stomach twisting and lungs heaving gasping breaths. Sigrun was beside him, mewling and tugging at his blood and sweat soaked clothes in a rare display of outright concern. Niethan looked up at her, moonlight painting her fur silver, and managed to uncurl enough to rub a trembling hand over her ears.
"S-s'ok, pretty lady... I t'ink I be okay..." He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Jus' gotta get up, now." He unlocked stiffening muscles, then forced himself to his knees, then standing. A great shuddering breath as he stretched, before at last inspecting the long-cooled body of the blue thunderhead. It was just as ugly in death as in life, and if he hadn't still felt the shimmer of electricty in the air around it, Niethan would have said it looked less threatening. Instead, it just seemed disquieting, with the blind eyes faded and the lively ripple of energy extinguished. The only thing of note, he decided, was one of the tailspikes; it had old scars embedded into the base, old cuts from axes and swords and who knew what else. It was layered like the rings on a tree, scars old and new, like it had been hacked at and severed again and again and again. It reminded him of the old worn cuts on the hide of Eycheyakee, scars so deep fur had ceased to grow over them. Skinning cuts.
Which meant that this thing was part of the Barrens edition of Hunter Training 101. Niethan cursed. "Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me. Nobody say anyt'ing 'bout a blue lizard!" Sigrun paced around the body as Niethan readied the bastard sword he was keeping as his melee weapon- not well suited for a hunter, but it reminded him of home, so... He walked over to the tail, taking aim. "Feh! Jorn didn' warn me 'bout no magic siezures, neither. Gonna have a word wit' him."
The tailspike set off sparks when the blade cleaved it from the rest of the corpse. Niethan picked it up, still grumbling and shaking, and went about collecting his fallen possessions for the walk back to the Camp.
* * * *
The walk turned into a stroll, then a jog, then a full-out run. He was long past the Camp and the moon was setting as morning neared, but there was lightning in his veins and an incessant desire to move move move pacing in his brain. Sigrun ran with him, tireless as he, feeling the burn of adrenaline through the quiet bond of hunter magic. Morning came and went, and afternoon rose over Taurajo, and still there was no burn of fatigue. Just the twisting of cool fluid in the stomach and the pounding litany of motion.
* * * *
It was almost evening when Niethan and Sigrun returned to Camp Taurajo. They looked wide awake and energetic when Niethan handed the three phials of heartsblood to Jorn Skyseer. Jorn thanked them, and started in on his speech to every young hunter that passed the trial, but was interrupted by a flash of electric sparks two inches from his nose.
"Ahh... I see you have slain Owantanka, the Blue Bolt." He took the tailspike from the trembling hands of the troll with reverence. "It is said that Owantaka was struck by lightning and, fueled by the sky's rage, wanders the earth forever unceasingly." He did not notice the look of surprise and growing dread upon Niethan's face. "He never sleeps, they say, as the energy of his spirit sustains him." As the ritual dictated, here Jorn looked at the hunter fidgeting next to him. The troll looked... edgy. There was a faint tremor in the line of his shoulders. Jorn frowned. "Hmm. You have slain him recently, I see. Do not worry. The spirit of Owantanka has strengthened you, and that strength you will keep, but the burn of his touch will fade within an hour. Now, for the next part of your training..."
Jorn allowed the rote of memory to speak for him. He was remembering the many hunters that had come to him with the sparking tailspike. Few had been as young as this troll, but it wasn't so unusual. The beasts that had been around long enough to make names for themselves, their spirits strong and their natures undaunted, had become the most important part of the hunter training. The artifact brought back from the kill made it possible to revive the creature again and again, and Jorn held jurisdiction over several of the named beasts of the Barrens. He'd seen this tailspike many times, and the students always brought back the same story; a pleasant feeling of energy and a desire for motion that faded after an hour or so. It was always good to see beginning hunters suceeding on the path. It was an old one, after all, used for ages without error. He glanced at the young troll and smiled. He probably wanted to go enjoy the rush.
* * * *
Niethan was hardly listening. There was a soul-deep ache clawing at his muscles, unceasing. It was all he could do to stay standing still.