Riddlerow
04-05-2006, 01:23 PM
(Just something I wrote a while back, lemme know what you think)
Hunter Hunted
Intro
His birth into the small tribal wood elf community was nothing out of the ordinary. He was destined to become a warrior for the tribe, as any other male would be. Through his early years he learned the survival skills every young tribe member was responsible for knowing. How to start a fire, chisel a spearhead, gut a rabbit, mend torn tents. He was the son of one of the elders - as the tribe's tradition was that the strongest and most suitable males give life to the tribe. No child was ever close to his or her biological parents. Instead, the tribe cared for and raised each new soul as if it was their own.
It wasn't until he was able to hunt with the rest of the men that he showed his true worth. In his tribe, no boy was considered a man until he proved himself worthy of the hunter's spear until he completed a trial set forth by the elders. His own trial was unique, as it bore great significance to the tribe and its elders. An old worg wandered the woods famed for the deaths of many hunters, a beating heart of evil and worthy of fear. The young elf was given the task of killing it - a test of his will and determination to become a man. He was let loose in the woods and told not to return until he carried the hide of the black beast.
The morning after the decision, he was set out. In only his skins and a makeshift copper dagger at his side. The elders stood solemnly as they watched him fade into the fog of the forest. Nights and days he spent in the wilderness alone, tracking and surviving. Signs from animals, plants, the whistles of the winds lead him to the path of his enemy. He used his surroundings to his advantage, aware of the nature around him where he would harden his spirits. It wasn't until many nights that he would finally track down the worg.
Alone, feasting on its freshly hunted meal, its maw bloody and dripping, the worg snarled into the open belly of its prey. The elf lay quietly on the musty forest floor, covered in moss, dirt and leaves, only the white of his eyes giving a hint of life.The hunter broke his cover, peeling away from the ground, hunched over as he creeped towards the beast. A wooden spear above his head poised to be thrown. A face contorted into anger, teeth clenched, his eyes flaring with a lust for blood. His feet became careless and slipped on a mound of leaves - instantly the beast swiveled to face the threat, snarling at the encroaching elf. The spear was thrown, planting itself just shy of the creature's neck, the point burying into its fleshy leg. A yelp and gutteral growl as the savage elf threw himself on the worg's back, daggers in hand, slashing and tearing into the meat at its back and neck, digging into the bone of its skull. The thrashing, crunching, slashing and roaring soon stopped. The gore-covered elf stood up on the carnage under him, staring. He earned his place among the rest of the hunters.
Out from the shadows of the forest before him emerged the five elders. Draped with their earthen-colored cloths, admiring the scene of the dead worg and its slayer. They were both grateful and amazed - such a young and inexperienced tribesman managed such a task. They gave their approving nod and welcomed the bloody warrior back to the tribe. A small ceremony was held that night and before he fell asleep, he was given his name in the old tongue of the tribe, along with the title of warrior. Losely translated, his name meant "Beast Stalker."
From their observations of Beast in the wilds, they noticed he carried a strong bond with nature. Working with it to accomplish his goal, embracing it as a crucial part in his hunt. It was rare that a warrior would show such a strong bond with it, and they took it upon themselves to show him the ways of the shaman. Beast became devoted in his learning and over time became a respected figure in the community. Adorned with wooden, bone and leaf creations, he stood distinguished and proud above the rest of his tribe. He wore the skins of his first worg in battle, painted and fierce with spear in hand. His tribe often warred with others, in the end always the victor. However, the time came when a new force wandered into their territory. One which used powers never heard of before, weapons never seen before. Those-of-the-West would come and Beast's tribe would see its end.
A cool, quiet morning shined on the savage village, the leaves bristled and a small fire burned. An armor clad fighter approached, blue and polished shining metal plates, shield as his side, a flaming sword held ready. Behind him followed other such men, their armor clanging as they crept towards the barren animalskin tents. A woman trailed behind holding a sparkling staff, spells playing on her lips as her free hand weaved in front of her. They crept to the center of the village by the dying fire, not one soul to be seen. The foremost fighter let down his guard, scanning the forest beyond him before turning to his comrades.
"There's nobody here."
Birds darted from tree to tree overhead, a strange silence fell over the woods. There was a pig cooking over the fire, baskets by the tents filled with goods, spears in the making leaned against the treetrunks. Signs of life, but no people. The forest floor is but one place to fight - these fighters were not accustomed to any different. A bird call rang out into the air, clear and constant. The silence broke.
"YALALALALA!"
A spear flew down from the canopy and stuck a fighter between his plates, crunching bone underneath. The fighters turned their attention upwards to meet a rain of spear-weilding, animalskin draped warriors, yelling and roaring as they fell upon them. Shields flung up, blocking a hail of arrows, darts and spears, the cold iron sending the wooden shafts into splinters. Around the armored group swarmed the inhabitants of the tribe, men and women alike, faces painted with tribal symbols. Flaming blades slashed through hides, split wooden spears, severed limbs. Balls of blue magic were flung at the screaming warriors, felling two or three at a time. Balls of flame burned tents and flesh, blasting against the forest floor. There Beast was, in the middle of it all, chanting in his own tongue an incantation of the wilds. Roots and ivy engulfed the invaders while spears drove into the crevaces of their plates.
The mage, still flinging bolts of acid from her hands brought a horn to her lips and blew. Over the warcries of the tribesmen it was heard, far over the forest and into the sky. The fightning continued between the armored men and warriors. Scores of villagers lay at their feet as more kept bounding over them, throwing themselves at the flaming swords and broad shields. Again roots began creeping up from the soil, vines lowering from the trees to entangle another cluster of men. Beast tore the helmet from one of the men, revealing the human face under it. Snarling, he dug his knife under the scalp and shaved off skin, a voice sounded behind him and upon his neck struck a heavy block of iron, knocking him unconsious. Before fading from vision, he saw the rest of his tribesmen fall to a new wave of metal covered fighters. There was no way they could have prepared for this new terror.
He blinked himself awake to find himself in front of a blue-eyed, light-skinned man studying him as he sat on his helmet. Realizing his situation, he drew a broken spear up in an instant, nudging the man's throat with the stone point. Beast shook his head and wiped his eyes as he slowly stood up, the man holding his hands up. A few paces away he could see more armored men sitting around a fire, an instinctive growl called their attention. Beast kicked the man in front of him to the ground to make his escape, the others scurried to their feet. Flaming arrows struck at the trees beside him as he bound through the leaves and bodies of his friends. Balls of fire shot over his head scorching the forest around him. He dove behind a wide oak, barely dodging a magical ball of energy. Among the leaves of the canopy he hid, camoflaged from sight. In the distance he see his tribe in ashes. As the only survivor, he had to ask: Why? Why was he left alive? Shamans were known for working miracles, but he was alone. On a sturdy branch he cried himself to sleep. What was to become of him was a mystery.
Beast spent his days wandering the forest away from the village, mourning so many lives lost and planning his certain revenge. He was the last of his tribe, but by the gods he would find and kill those that slaughtered his own people. He hadn't noticed until later, but he had traveled east, to the forest of webs and poisons. There he faced a new challege, to remain hidden from the giant arachnids that lurked. It was there his anger grew, losing his sanity, becoming a feral beast of the wilds. Still, the memories of that one day would stay with him and fester. It all came together when he caught sight of another armored one. Alone and panicked.
Beast heard the pants and whimpers of the man in the metal shell as he stumbled across the forest floor, obviously nervous and frightened. A tint of ferocious hate covered the eyes of the feral elf as the bare neck of the man glared at him in the light. It was one of them, one of the West...maybe not. Those of the West stayed there. Although this one wore the same metal sheets. It no longer mattered to him. The spirit of this man was weak and deserved to be killed.
The armored man spun around and swung blindly at the rustling of leaves. Beast lunged from his cover and leaped onto the back of the man, biting into his neck and shredding the flesh at his exposed wrist with a stick of thorns. The man fell to the ground yelling, gasping for air as Beast roared and growled on his back, the thorns being driven into his uncovered neck and face repeatedly. After the man was limp and breathless on the ground Beast's claws and fangs continued their work on his body. He released his rage onto the corpse until his limps grew tired. Under the bloody mess under him shined a badge, horn and key. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he clutched the bundle of trinkets from the belt of the man and eyed the symbols. Nothing resembled anything he knew, yet this lone man couldn't have been far from more of his kind. Beast held on to his new belongings and darted back into the shadows.
Outside the thick woods of the forest he stumbled upon an open, flat area. In the distance he could make out the silouettes of two soldiers in the night, standing guard over a cliff. He avoided them and swept to the side, scaling a steep cliff. Cautiously he wandered this new land, there was a road beneath him, punctured with heavy footprints. A babbling waterfall nearby with a stone bridge arching over the stream. With intrigue he eyed the bridge, feeling the smooth stone surface. It was surely nothing built by the tribes of the forest. His attention snapped down the path towards the two wooden slabs creaking open. A cluster of flickering flames bobbed towards him. The familiar clanging of metal, the strange tongues he had heard before, he could make out faces as the people neared. A bulky man with torch in hand clanged past him, nodding briefly. The rest trailed behind him, each glancing at Beast before passing by, each with a sack of rocks slung over their backs. One stopped and glanced at the horn dangling from Beast's hand, then up at the unfamiliar face. The man gave him a heavy pat on the back.
"Welcome to Axfell, 'cruit."
Beast followed the trail of men without uttering a sound. Apparently there were people of the East. Nothing left for Beast to lose, he slept under the stars within the walls of Axfell the rest of the night.
Hunter Hunted
Intro
His birth into the small tribal wood elf community was nothing out of the ordinary. He was destined to become a warrior for the tribe, as any other male would be. Through his early years he learned the survival skills every young tribe member was responsible for knowing. How to start a fire, chisel a spearhead, gut a rabbit, mend torn tents. He was the son of one of the elders - as the tribe's tradition was that the strongest and most suitable males give life to the tribe. No child was ever close to his or her biological parents. Instead, the tribe cared for and raised each new soul as if it was their own.
It wasn't until he was able to hunt with the rest of the men that he showed his true worth. In his tribe, no boy was considered a man until he proved himself worthy of the hunter's spear until he completed a trial set forth by the elders. His own trial was unique, as it bore great significance to the tribe and its elders. An old worg wandered the woods famed for the deaths of many hunters, a beating heart of evil and worthy of fear. The young elf was given the task of killing it - a test of his will and determination to become a man. He was let loose in the woods and told not to return until he carried the hide of the black beast.
The morning after the decision, he was set out. In only his skins and a makeshift copper dagger at his side. The elders stood solemnly as they watched him fade into the fog of the forest. Nights and days he spent in the wilderness alone, tracking and surviving. Signs from animals, plants, the whistles of the winds lead him to the path of his enemy. He used his surroundings to his advantage, aware of the nature around him where he would harden his spirits. It wasn't until many nights that he would finally track down the worg.
Alone, feasting on its freshly hunted meal, its maw bloody and dripping, the worg snarled into the open belly of its prey. The elf lay quietly on the musty forest floor, covered in moss, dirt and leaves, only the white of his eyes giving a hint of life.The hunter broke his cover, peeling away from the ground, hunched over as he creeped towards the beast. A wooden spear above his head poised to be thrown. A face contorted into anger, teeth clenched, his eyes flaring with a lust for blood. His feet became careless and slipped on a mound of leaves - instantly the beast swiveled to face the threat, snarling at the encroaching elf. The spear was thrown, planting itself just shy of the creature's neck, the point burying into its fleshy leg. A yelp and gutteral growl as the savage elf threw himself on the worg's back, daggers in hand, slashing and tearing into the meat at its back and neck, digging into the bone of its skull. The thrashing, crunching, slashing and roaring soon stopped. The gore-covered elf stood up on the carnage under him, staring. He earned his place among the rest of the hunters.
Out from the shadows of the forest before him emerged the five elders. Draped with their earthen-colored cloths, admiring the scene of the dead worg and its slayer. They were both grateful and amazed - such a young and inexperienced tribesman managed such a task. They gave their approving nod and welcomed the bloody warrior back to the tribe. A small ceremony was held that night and before he fell asleep, he was given his name in the old tongue of the tribe, along with the title of warrior. Losely translated, his name meant "Beast Stalker."
From their observations of Beast in the wilds, they noticed he carried a strong bond with nature. Working with it to accomplish his goal, embracing it as a crucial part in his hunt. It was rare that a warrior would show such a strong bond with it, and they took it upon themselves to show him the ways of the shaman. Beast became devoted in his learning and over time became a respected figure in the community. Adorned with wooden, bone and leaf creations, he stood distinguished and proud above the rest of his tribe. He wore the skins of his first worg in battle, painted and fierce with spear in hand. His tribe often warred with others, in the end always the victor. However, the time came when a new force wandered into their territory. One which used powers never heard of before, weapons never seen before. Those-of-the-West would come and Beast's tribe would see its end.
A cool, quiet morning shined on the savage village, the leaves bristled and a small fire burned. An armor clad fighter approached, blue and polished shining metal plates, shield as his side, a flaming sword held ready. Behind him followed other such men, their armor clanging as they crept towards the barren animalskin tents. A woman trailed behind holding a sparkling staff, spells playing on her lips as her free hand weaved in front of her. They crept to the center of the village by the dying fire, not one soul to be seen. The foremost fighter let down his guard, scanning the forest beyond him before turning to his comrades.
"There's nobody here."
Birds darted from tree to tree overhead, a strange silence fell over the woods. There was a pig cooking over the fire, baskets by the tents filled with goods, spears in the making leaned against the treetrunks. Signs of life, but no people. The forest floor is but one place to fight - these fighters were not accustomed to any different. A bird call rang out into the air, clear and constant. The silence broke.
"YALALALALA!"
A spear flew down from the canopy and stuck a fighter between his plates, crunching bone underneath. The fighters turned their attention upwards to meet a rain of spear-weilding, animalskin draped warriors, yelling and roaring as they fell upon them. Shields flung up, blocking a hail of arrows, darts and spears, the cold iron sending the wooden shafts into splinters. Around the armored group swarmed the inhabitants of the tribe, men and women alike, faces painted with tribal symbols. Flaming blades slashed through hides, split wooden spears, severed limbs. Balls of blue magic were flung at the screaming warriors, felling two or three at a time. Balls of flame burned tents and flesh, blasting against the forest floor. There Beast was, in the middle of it all, chanting in his own tongue an incantation of the wilds. Roots and ivy engulfed the invaders while spears drove into the crevaces of their plates.
The mage, still flinging bolts of acid from her hands brought a horn to her lips and blew. Over the warcries of the tribesmen it was heard, far over the forest and into the sky. The fightning continued between the armored men and warriors. Scores of villagers lay at their feet as more kept bounding over them, throwing themselves at the flaming swords and broad shields. Again roots began creeping up from the soil, vines lowering from the trees to entangle another cluster of men. Beast tore the helmet from one of the men, revealing the human face under it. Snarling, he dug his knife under the scalp and shaved off skin, a voice sounded behind him and upon his neck struck a heavy block of iron, knocking him unconsious. Before fading from vision, he saw the rest of his tribesmen fall to a new wave of metal covered fighters. There was no way they could have prepared for this new terror.
He blinked himself awake to find himself in front of a blue-eyed, light-skinned man studying him as he sat on his helmet. Realizing his situation, he drew a broken spear up in an instant, nudging the man's throat with the stone point. Beast shook his head and wiped his eyes as he slowly stood up, the man holding his hands up. A few paces away he could see more armored men sitting around a fire, an instinctive growl called their attention. Beast kicked the man in front of him to the ground to make his escape, the others scurried to their feet. Flaming arrows struck at the trees beside him as he bound through the leaves and bodies of his friends. Balls of fire shot over his head scorching the forest around him. He dove behind a wide oak, barely dodging a magical ball of energy. Among the leaves of the canopy he hid, camoflaged from sight. In the distance he see his tribe in ashes. As the only survivor, he had to ask: Why? Why was he left alive? Shamans were known for working miracles, but he was alone. On a sturdy branch he cried himself to sleep. What was to become of him was a mystery.
Beast spent his days wandering the forest away from the village, mourning so many lives lost and planning his certain revenge. He was the last of his tribe, but by the gods he would find and kill those that slaughtered his own people. He hadn't noticed until later, but he had traveled east, to the forest of webs and poisons. There he faced a new challege, to remain hidden from the giant arachnids that lurked. It was there his anger grew, losing his sanity, becoming a feral beast of the wilds. Still, the memories of that one day would stay with him and fester. It all came together when he caught sight of another armored one. Alone and panicked.
Beast heard the pants and whimpers of the man in the metal shell as he stumbled across the forest floor, obviously nervous and frightened. A tint of ferocious hate covered the eyes of the feral elf as the bare neck of the man glared at him in the light. It was one of them, one of the West...maybe not. Those of the West stayed there. Although this one wore the same metal sheets. It no longer mattered to him. The spirit of this man was weak and deserved to be killed.
The armored man spun around and swung blindly at the rustling of leaves. Beast lunged from his cover and leaped onto the back of the man, biting into his neck and shredding the flesh at his exposed wrist with a stick of thorns. The man fell to the ground yelling, gasping for air as Beast roared and growled on his back, the thorns being driven into his uncovered neck and face repeatedly. After the man was limp and breathless on the ground Beast's claws and fangs continued their work on his body. He released his rage onto the corpse until his limps grew tired. Under the bloody mess under him shined a badge, horn and key. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he clutched the bundle of trinkets from the belt of the man and eyed the symbols. Nothing resembled anything he knew, yet this lone man couldn't have been far from more of his kind. Beast held on to his new belongings and darted back into the shadows.
Outside the thick woods of the forest he stumbled upon an open, flat area. In the distance he could make out the silouettes of two soldiers in the night, standing guard over a cliff. He avoided them and swept to the side, scaling a steep cliff. Cautiously he wandered this new land, there was a road beneath him, punctured with heavy footprints. A babbling waterfall nearby with a stone bridge arching over the stream. With intrigue he eyed the bridge, feeling the smooth stone surface. It was surely nothing built by the tribes of the forest. His attention snapped down the path towards the two wooden slabs creaking open. A cluster of flickering flames bobbed towards him. The familiar clanging of metal, the strange tongues he had heard before, he could make out faces as the people neared. A bulky man with torch in hand clanged past him, nodding briefly. The rest trailed behind him, each glancing at Beast before passing by, each with a sack of rocks slung over their backs. One stopped and glanced at the horn dangling from Beast's hand, then up at the unfamiliar face. The man gave him a heavy pat on the back.
"Welcome to Axfell, 'cruit."
Beast followed the trail of men without uttering a sound. Apparently there were people of the East. Nothing left for Beast to lose, he slept under the stars within the walls of Axfell the rest of the night.