12/6/14
Potent shadows harbor the carnage of violence that erupted only moments ago. Broken bodies of broken men litter the ground, bound together by their pool of blood. One of them -- in his final moments -- reaches for the strands of moonlight shining through the breach in a panel of stained glass. Fighting to stay awake, his strength eventually withers away as he succumbs to his final sleep. His hand rests by his broken blade, as death glazes over the spark of fear in his eyes.
“And so another joins his brethren in the realm beyond this one.” A cold, tasteless voice thrives on the thick silence that hangs in the air. The voice’s owner uses a nearby column to pull himself off his own knees. Covered in the tattered remains of midnight black attire, he draws his dagger from its intact sheath. Warm blood trickles down his fingers, drenching the hilt and dripping off the serrated edge. His eyes -- akin to those of a predator -- fixate on his prey.
“What takes you so long?” wheezes a crumpled, aged man. “Don’t you have other people slaughter?” He rests on the ground next to the doors blocking access to the balcony. Protruding from his leg is an arrow; on the shaft the all-too familiar feathers of a raven. When the figure in black limps towards him, the elder draws a knife and puts it between him and his predator.
Stopping for a moment, the man in black’s eyes fixate on the knife. “I take my time because I am not here for your blood.” Watching the knife lower slightly, he continues. “I want you to answer my questions.”
“I already told you what you want--”
“Now tell me the truth.” Without warning, the man lunges forth. Quick, fluent maneuvers with his dagger force the elder’s knife out and away. “Give me a reason,” he says, placing the cold steel against the elder’s warm throat, “a reason to think you’re dead and not ensure it.”
“You’re mad!” The elder glares at the man. “Do you really think that they will let you leave this city alive if you kill me? And why should I believe you -- of all people -- would spare me when you have what you want?”
“Because it’s what she would’ve done. The truth. Now.”
“You want to know who made me do it? Who ordered me to condemn them all?” Looking over at the dead strewn together, the elder chuckles. “Your footprints were never invisible, Wolf; you were never hidden. Look into your own shadows, and find there the man who changed your life.”
In the distant end of the chambers opposite the pair, the sounds of dozens swarming through the broken doors replaces the silent chorus of the dead.
“Hurry! The Wolf is already here!” a voice calls out.
The guards.
“Sounds like our little chat is ov--” the developing smug grin on the elder’s face twists in agony and dismay. Eyes wide, he looks down at the blade fastened between his ribs, mouth agape. “We.. we had a deal,” he protests in a strained voice, “is this what she would have done?”
“It’s what I would do.” Ripping the blade out from the elder’s chest, the man approaches the balcony doors. His blade’s blunt pommel meets the lock several times over, until it finally shatters, the door swinging open.
“You haven’t changed,” the elder chokes, clutching the breach into his lungs. With a series of hoarse coughs and wheezing, his body gives way, death envelopes him.
“For you, I have not.” Rushing out the doors, the man looks over the balcony at the dark abyss below. The guards coming close, he climbs onto the ledge and jumps off, just as they arrive at the scene.
“By the gods, what happened here?”
“The King! Look!”
“He’s dead! Gods show mercy upon us..”
“This work..”
“Then it is true; none of us are truly safe, we are simply sheep in the eyes of the Wolf of the West.”
Chapter 1
“Did yer father ever tell ye that ye’ve got a talent for this sorta thing?” A giantish man runs his fingers over his thick beard. His eyes patrol over the fresh corpses strewn about a caravan. “Five of ‘em, an’ ye cut down three before they even knew what hit ‘em.” Chuckling softly, he kneels by the body of a dead woman, face down in the snow. His hands stop just before searching her remains, and he looks up at a young man. “Think ye got honor of the first pick, Ryuden.”
Ryuden kneels down next to the corpse, wasting no time; his hands pat the various layers of clothing adorning the body. “People choose the worst routes to travel with valuables,” he comments, withdrawing a small pouch from the woman. Shaking it, the satisfying clink of coin earns a grin both him and his tall companion.
“Ye wager this a trade caravan?” asks the man.
“Not this time, Tug.” Ryuden nods towards the former livings’ caravan while pulling the scarf off his victim. “It is plain, nothing that would attract the wandering eye. This evening’s volunteers must be some kind of nobles. Poor things, afflicted with the same addiction to shiny things that we are.” Eyeing a gleaming locket, he removes it with a slight of his hand, holding it up in the dwindling sunlight to observe.
“A real beauty,’ Tug notes, looking over Ryuden’s shoulder.
“The locket, or the woman?” At Tug’s small fit of laughter, Ryuden shakes his head with a small grin of his own. That means both. Standing up, he eyes the other three bodies, then shifts his gaze to the ominous, grey clouds snuffing out the sun. “We won’t have nearly enough to take it all back to camp.”
“But the quota,” Tug interjects, his gaze shifting to the wagon. “Death here, or death at the camp?”
“Neither.” Ryuden pulls one of the three corpses towards Tug. “We’ll load them in the back; I’ll search them over while we get the carriage back to the camp.”
“Not getting it back with the horse, we won’t.” Tug nods to the heaved creature blanketed in crimson snow. “Ye father’ll be mighty upset over this waste of meat.”
“For the sake of Uskbight, we don’t have enough time to regret slitting a throat.” Pulling another body over to Tug, Ryuden’s eyes stay on the oncoming storm.
How many never returned to camp when the clouds reached them?
“Do ye expect me t’pull this cart all o’ the way back?” Tug inquires, tossing the second corpse in with little trouble.
“Or push it, whichever you prefer.” Ryuden takes the arm of the woman’s body, and begins dragging it toward the wagon. When an ice-cold hand clamps down on his wrist, he looks back to the stare into the eyes of the still-alive woman in her final breaths.
“Why…?” The word limps out of her mouth, barely heard over the growing winds. Then, her grip releases on both Ryuden’s wrist, and her life.
Staring at her for a moment, Ryuden then shakes his head. The answer in his mind is quite simple, the nature of his bloodshed originates not from hatred or fury. The way his father had explained it made it all seem justified, in a sense.
"If you won't be the predator, you will be the prey.”
***
The wind howls as it surges past the mountains. The fierce call can be heard within the sanctuary of a fortress in the frozen bowels. Usually, a chorus of profanities join the sound when a powerful gust slams against the logs of the walls and shakes them violently. However, the ravaging does little to phase the inhabitants of an atmosphere thick with tension.
“I’ll ask again -- is that all you can find?” A tall man stands on the edge of light encompassing a bruised, bloodied and crumpled heap of flesh. When no immediate response is given, he approaches the heap and sends the front of his boot in.
A pained gasp bursts out as the heap -- or rather, the elf composing it -- rolls onto his back. “The pickings are slim, Kelyn! There are less people braving the Gap, a-and those that do--”
“What of those that do?” Kelyn asks, his boot coming to a rest on the elf’s chest. “What keeps you from taking what we need?”
“They’re better protected, with bodyguards I’ve never seen before,” the elf forces out in his weakness. As the boot is lifted off his chest, he sits up and looks pleadingly at Kelyn. “I-i’ll meet more than double of next week’s quota, I swear! Nothing is gained from this!”
Kelyn retorts with a swift strike to the elf’s jaw with his heel, followed by spitting on the elf’s face. “Shut your mouth, else I’ll cut out your tongue and force you to choke on it!” He turns around to meet the eyes of Ryuden. Putting on a big grin, he beckons him forth. “Don’t be afraid, you’ve made your quota.”
Not saying a word, Ryuden departs from the ring of outlaws formed around the brutal spectacle. Standing next to Kelyn, he stares down at the elf. The fear in the elf’s eyes leaves him.. unphased. It is no different than the fear displayed by the people he hunted down only hours ago, or by--
“However, your friend, Tug, will have to answer for himself.” Kelyn places a hand on Ryuden’s shoulder, making a gesture towards the elf. “Do you know what the punishment for failure to acquire your given quota is?”
“Death,” replies Ryuden curtly. With Kelyn’s approving nod, he draws his sword. Gripping the hilt tightly, he dangles the edge at the elf’s throat.
The pale, horrified expression on the elf’s face only finishes painting an image that feeds Ryuden’s instinct. “P-please,” he stammers, “tr-triple the quota! I can pay it all!”
Ryuden observes the elf for a few moments more, then closes his eyes. “To survive in this pack, you must be strong.” Thrusting the blade forth, he feels the steel shred through flesh. The croak -- a cry of pain and fear stifled by blood and metal -- that reverberates through the room sends little more than a chill down Ryuden’s spine. “You were not strong enough.” Hearing the occasional drip of blood splattering against the ground in the all-too-quiet room, he revels in the pleasure that comes after. The kill itself did not sate him, rather it is the fact that doing so is what he has been ordered to, as if he has reason to be void of guilt.
“Like father, like son.” Kelyn squeezes Ryuden’s shoulder, before pulling away to address the rest of his bandits, his speech routine. “There is only room for the strong here. The weak will perish, as you have seen proven countless times. The quota is designed to sort out the strong from the weak, and pay for the strong’s provisions while starving the weak. It is the price of this haven. We are murderers, rapists and thieves, gathered together because we are not the sheep that cower behind their city walls. We are wolves, this fortress is our deen and we form a pack, feared by all. We feed off the weak without mercy. We kill those who challenge our strength. We are Wolves of the West.”
The rest of the men remain silent, their eyes fixated on either Kelyn, Ryuden or the elf who lays still. A moment suspends itself from passing, as even the winds are quieted.
“Now, eat and rest,” Kelyn says, “the new quota will be started by tomorrow evening.” As the crowd disperses, Kelyn folds his arms over his chest. “Your blade was reeking of his blood the second you came in.”
Ryuden widens his eyes. “How--”
“If you’re going to be any good, you can’t be caught by something so foolish as not cleaning your blade properly.” At Ryuden’s silence, Kelyn chuckles. “Did you at least bury the body?”
“The storm will.”
“Not good enough. When it passes, I expect you to dispose of it properly. And, why did he die?”
“Only one of us had enough for the quota.” Ryuden stands over the elf’s corpse, watching Kelyn head towards the door.
“Go sleep, Ryuden. Tomorrow is another day to survive.” With that, Kelyn departs, leaving Ryuden alone. Alone with the thought of Tug somewhere outside, the violent winds and ice rending through his body, clutching his slit throat.
***
The only time of day the wind seems to calm down is at dawn. And, after the previous evening’s storm, all traces of life outside the fortress are buried away. Standing outside, Ryuden looks at the sea of white. Under the beauty of winter unending, how many bodies lay frozen in their final horror? It would take years -- if not decades -- to retrieve all of them. He traverses the steep slopes, searching for Tug.
Though the snowstorm spared nothing in its path, both Tug’s body and the caravan he manages to push nearly all the way to camp are not of small sizes. If not some of his body protruding through the white blanket, then the caravan would be.
Ryuden comes over a hillcrest, eyes scanning the vast area ahead of him. Though no distinctive indication is present, he remembers coming home from the east, so-- A solid mass collides with one of his boots, causing him to stumble and fall into the snow. Quickly rolling onto his back, Ryuden’s hand reaches for his sword, but then stops; there lays Tug -- or rather, his shredded remains.
Bite marks perforate the frostbitten flesh where bone is not picked clean, all the way up to a marred face that still holds its initial shock. The actual wolves of Uskbight would look for any source of nourishment, from living or dead -- hence why Kelyn named his group of bandits the Wolves of the West. Tug’s body is little more than half of his mass; the rest long gone.
Ryuden stands up, sighing softly. Tug was a loyal Wolf, but one -- if not both of them -- would face a fate similar to the elf’s. “It’s just business, Tug,” he murmurs, before kneeling down to pat the body over one last time. A head start on valuables for the quota is always useful. The first thing he takes is a dagger strapped to Tug’s lacerated thigh.
Though too big to be a knife, the dagger is too small to be considered a sword. However, it fits well in Ryuden’s hand. The Aradian influence on the weapon’s smithing gives the blade an appealing, slight curve, with a fine point at the end. The serrated edge shimmers in the daylight, all the way down to the metallic guard and wooden hilt.
Continuing his search, Ryuden stops when his fingers brush over a slight distortion in Tugs pockets. He reaches in to find a piece of parchment, the yellow seal on it already broken to signify it has been read. Curious, Ryuden sits beside the body, and -- after a glance to check for wolves or other threats -- reads.
Dear Wolf,
We are very pleased with your cooperation thus far. Your information on the ambush locations on trade routes has let us cut the number of incidents involved with our clients’ caravans and bandits. The coin is in its usual spot. As for the terms of your last agreement, our scouts have confirmed the location of the hideout. We have negotiated the end of your bounty in Siyerrod, so you are free to go home once this is all over. Find refuge away from the fortress, and rid yourself of any company. My men have been ordered to only save one person, and will kill you should you decide otherwise.
Sincerely,
Valuda.
Ryuden’s heart stops. A seeming unnessecary, undesired, hidden piece of a puzzle rests in his hands. The increasing difficulty of finding caravans to strike, the abandonment of ambush zones, it suddenly all adds up. Standing up, Ryuden leaves Tug’s corpse and heads for the Wolves’ Den. However, when an orange haze fills the crisp air, he stops in his tracks.
The battle cries of men and the undeniable booming of explosions compete with the howls of the wind. The orange haze comes from a fire that wildly consumes the fortress. Like ants flooding out a gash in an anthill, the Wolves rush out towards a constant stream of warriors unlike anything Ryuden has ever seen before. They are clad in armor that shines bright like polished gold, and march towards the Wolves with an unwavering pace. Is only when they are meters away from the Wolves that they break the ranks to rush into battle. A ring of bodies, debris and fire encompasses the battleground.
Ryuden rushes down the slopes towards the battlefield, his blade drawn. The cold is no longer the suspect of an icy chill running down his spine. His heart plummets with every pained scream. Running over the injured and deceased, a plume of smoke gives way to one of the opposing warriors.
“Let them come!” the warrior bellows, staring down Ryuden as his axe is raised. “Vermin like you deserve to rot in Byzix’s Court!” He brings the axe down to Ryuden, the wind whistling as it is cut in half.
Ryuden lunges forward -- beyond the bite of the great axe -- and casts his blade into the warrior’s armpit. With a forceful push, he watches the steel burst through the other side where the armor plates do not cover.
As he lets out a stifled gasp of pain, the warrior drops his axe, placing his off hand under his arm to grab hold of the blade’s hilt.
Twisting the hilt, Ryuden evokes more pain in an attempt to subdue the warrior.
Thwack!
The sounds of battle are overpowered by a high pitched ringing, and Ryuden’s sharp focus is dulled. Everything becomes blurry, and the strength in his legs wains immensely. Collapsing into the snow, Ryuden only sees darkness in the bitter cold.
12/6/14
The wind howls as it rushes through the mountains, carrying the opaque snowstorm into the gap in the range. As his boots sink into the powdered ice, Rune takes in the majestic boldness of the Stalwart Mountains, the stone maw known throughout Erelith. "Uskbight," he murmurs, tightening the layers of clothing bundled around his body. Even though he is dressed as warmly as possible, the cold winter air penetrates the layers like water through cracked glass. It reminds him of the first time he was greeted with winter's biting chill, only a month prior...
***
The thin blanket of snow dressing the ground blinds Rune as it casts sunlight into his eyes. Squeezing them shut, turns away from the outdoors for a moment, before forcing his eyes open again. Focusing his gaze back to the snow, he sustains a squint. A brisk chill pervades the thick layers of fur clothing adorning his body.
“Come on,” the chieftain implores, “it’s time for our walk.”
Giving a reluctant nod, Rune closes the door of his shack behind him. “Remind me to throttle the shaman who had this idea.”
“You’re a warrior, are you not? If you’re going to gripe of anything, it should be of battle injuries, not of daily walks around the village.” A grin displays on the chieftain’s face as he turns around, striding through the blanket of white. “Besides, this walk helps stretch your body. After so many months bedridden, you should be grateful.”
“I was grateful for the first few weeks,” says Rune. Following the chief, he glances at the other shacks as they pass; smiling faces, laughter and joy still belonging to the former slaves.
“Their gratitude remains undiminished,” the chieftain comments. “So, you have been recovering swiftly?” he asks as they reach the heart of the village.
A broad bonfire dominates the center, its warmth spanning far from its flames. Several women and children tend to daily chores, such as fabricating clothes and preparing meals. Groups of men - some armed, others with picks and axes - exchange stories as they idle by the fire.
“Once the fever broke, I started to see again.” Approaching the fire, Rune takes in its warmth. “It was really blurry at first,” he adds, turning his head to watch the chieftain pick up a chopped segment of a log.
“And now?” the chieftain inquires.
“Sharp. Good as new.”
“That is fortunate to hear. Now, let us see if your strength is as developed.” Setting the wood down on the ground, the chieftain takes a few paces back. “Draw your weapon."
Rune moves his hands slowly, recollecting the once-instinctual motions to take Gwynt out of its worn scabbard. Raising it to hover just above the split log, he tightens his grip on the sword’s hilt.
“So if I split this log, what will happen?” inquires Rune.
“You’ll be permitted to leave the village.” The chieftain raises his hand, aiming it to the skies in the West. “You intend to travel into the lands of Uskbight, as your companions have. It is worse there than anywhere else; lethal winters, vicious predators - of man and beast - and terrain nearly impossible to simply traverse.”
The thought alone picks at Rune’s interest. “This sounds dangerous, I admit, but what of it? Have I not proven to be strong enough already? And how will splitting a log prove so?”
“Uskbight is a land which serves as a predator to even the most experienced veterans of battle and survival. You would not last several hours in those frozen bowels.” Gesturing to the wood, the chieftain folds his arms over his chest. “As for that, just split the log. It will prove if you are worthy or not.”
Raising Gwynt above his head, Rune arcs it downward, for the blade to divide the wood -- the screeching of metal upon metal fills his ears briefly, before his blade is repelled by the unexpected stalwart resistance of the wood log. "What in Byzix.." Rune mutters as he looks down to find the wood - still in one piece - completely unscathed. However, Rune has not missed; he watched his blade meet the wood directly in what should have been a clean cut.
"Not strong enough," the chieftain states, picking up the wood and examining it. "You may try again, after spending a week contributing to our home."
Rune scoffs. "A week? I've just come over the fever that was rattling my very being for several months, give me some relief!"
"Your enemy won't give you relief, so neither shall I. This week you shall spend hunting." Turning around, the chieftain strides away. "Wake up early, so you may join our hunting group then."
Glaring at the departing chieftain, Rune slides Gwynt back into its sheath. A week time, just for one swing on that enchanted piece of wood? Ludicrous.
"Looks like we'll be waiting on you a little longer," someone says, at Rune's back.
Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Rune takes in the changes in his brother. "Gold… what happened to you?"
"I have not been feeling well myself, as of late," Goldshot replies. A sickly pale tone paints his flesh, as all but his hands and face are covered in cloth to conceal the rest of his body. "It looks like you are faring much better from the last time you came out."
"Much better, but according to the chieftain--"
"Wolyrn. His name is Wolyrn."
"Ah." Rune feels a sense of idiocy tingle in his mind. It never occurred to him to ask for the chieftain's name. "But," he says again, "Wolyrn will not allow me to leave until I am strong enough."
"Enough for what?"
"Splitting a piece of wood as hard as steel, if not harder." Turning his head to observe the bonfire, Rune watches the flames dance in the bonfire as they do in his well-hidden aggrovation. "So, I am to work here for a week as a hunter. Then, I try again."
"I see. Well, look at that irony; the slaves are now the masters, and their savior is their worker." Goldshot gives Rune a weak smirk, before laying a hand on Rune's shoulder. "Rune, these people want me to leave."
"But they cannot force you," Rune says, "th--"
"I'm afflicted with something they have never seen before, and it frightens them." Frowning, Goldshot picks his hand off Rune's shoulder. "Leina said the magi at the Nexus will know what to do."
"So you're leaving?"
Gold nods. "Leina said she has faith in you to find the Nexus yourself. The stircraziness is setting on Zaphen now, and Myrzen's been roaring to move on."
"Go on then," says Rune with a hollow smile. "I'll catch up soon, I'm sure of it."
"If you say so," Gold responds. "I wish you good luck, and may we reunite sooner rather than later." The two stand there, quiet for a moment before Gold's arms wrap tightly around Rune and pull him into an embrace. As quickly as he pulled Rune in for a hug, Gold pulls away, and hastily walks off, leaving Rune with the open flames.
***
The sun is just cresting over the horizon, relieving some of the violent chills with its gentle warmth. Without white puffs of clouds in the airs above, hues of light blue, orange and both mixed flood ithe open skies. Reflecting the colors from the sun, the endless sea of snow cast in a brilliant spectrum of warm colors reigns unpreceded; trees, stones, even the mountains are dominated by the snow.
Even with the sun's warmth, Rune's chances of survival are limited; the longer he spends in this cold, barren wasteland, the more likely the cold will claim him. He traverses the terrain via the trade route; there is no other successful route to pass through the mountains. The path slopes down in a gap between the mountains, so Rune follows it. Walking into a large crevice where even the sunlight fears to tread, Rune slows his pace.
The wind seems to hold its breath in wait, its resume pending on Rune entering the passage. Resting his offhand on Gwynt's hilt, he takes a deep breath, before progressing into the cavern as his mind wanders back, since it is already reminiscing his time at Wolryn's village..
***
With each passing day in the tribe's captivity, Rune awakens before the sun. Armed with bow and arrow, he and the hunters delve into the forest. Gradually, he absorbs the skills used to stalk, entrap, and harvest the creatures of the wilderness.
As the week comes to a close, Rune stands by the bonfire. His gaze on Wolryn, he places his offhand on Gwynt, ready for the test again. "As you have requested, I gave a week--"
"Your ignorance marks your will as fragile. I deem you unfit." Wolryn folds his arms over his chest, approaching Rune. "You say you gave a week of labor for us, but it was us who gave you a week. A week of knowledge."
Holding his tongue, Rune nods, feigning an understanding patience and choosing not to speak his true mind.
"Instead, you will now fight for a week." Pausing, the chieftain turns to face Rune. "You will not harm my warriors, do you understand? We may be strong, but we are few in ready numbers."
"I understand," acknowledges Rune. "Your warriors will be left unharmed." A question formulates in his mind, and rushes out of his mouth. "What could you show me in combat?"
"You will learn soon enough." Leaving Rune with that vague response, Wolyrn departs from the heat of the bonfire.
***
"Archers!" croaks a dry voice. "Ready your weapons!" An arrow flies through the air, the head carving into the palm of Rune's main hand before it can grasp the hilt of Gwynt. "Not so fast, traveler," the voice says with a cackle. "You're special; to recieve a quick death rather than a slow one by the cold is an honor!"
Snow cascades into the crevice, accompanied by a part of people Rune has never seen before; their skin porcelain white, the assailants glare at him with pitch bblack eyes held in narrow slits. Forked tongues flicking in the cold air, the most prominent feature is their bold - or foolish - lack of protection. Thin layers of clothing adorning their glabrous bodies, they still appear unaffected by the cold.
"Lay down your weapons, and we'll make this painless." The speaker - a taller variant of these humanoids - readies an arrow and takes aim for Rune. "This can be easy, or it can be be easy and mess-"
A sinister chittering overpowers its voice, and its bold impression. Slow, rhythmic pounding against the ground coerces the assailants to move their aim off of Rune as they look around for the source of the seismic force.
Taking the chance to draw his weapon, Rune brings up Gwynt to defend himself when they attack. Though his main intention is self-defense, part of him wants to put his new combat techniques to the test...
***
Gradually, Rune recollects his tactical reflexes and his warrior's instincts thaw out. Over the course of the week, he gives his opponents in sparring a series of bruises while collecting several himself. Taught to fight using a focus on finesse, Rune's first observation is the difference in technique between him and other warriors.
Their movements - unlike his quick, swift strikes - focus their strength into steady, slower chains of attacks. What interests Rune in specific is the tremendous source of strength behind each blow. Though most proved too slow to match Rune in sparring, those who defeat him leave large bruises, even through his armor.
Gradually, recovery changes to improvement. Through careful focus, Rune learns to mimic he warriors' motions, and obtains the strict discipline to follow through the attacks. Mixing them with his quicker motions, his blows become quick, precise and sundering.
The night before the next attempt at the test, Rune strolls through the village, his boots crunching in the snow. The moon placed high in the cold air, its divine light diminishes before the warm glow of the flames. Timing his footsteps, he ignores more the crunching noise, until something comes to his awareness; the crunching noise is not completely at par with the timing of his gait. Someone is behind him.
***
"Uskbight," murmurs the speaker, "have mercy on our souls.
The light above the crevice is blotted out by a large, eight-legged as it falls down the gap. One of its legs coming down on the speaker, the spider moves the leg up, some of the speaker's parts clining to it.
"It killed her!" another cries out before turning to run from the giant arachnid. Several more scatter, only to have the giant spider bound after those who flee.
Not waiting for the others to be killed and the beast to return, Rune runs in the other direction. The further into the crevice he pushes, the deeper the snow becomes as it hits an upwards slope, the exit in sight at the top.
"Don't let him escape!" calls one of the other assialants, "chase him! Cut him down! Our deity commands it!" Their trampling through the snow reaches Rune's ears, giving him an even more urgent reason to scramble up the slope faster.
***
Whirling his body around with Gwynt already drawn, the blade whistles through the air before impacting against another. A solid clang rings through the air, the counterpart of Rune's foe sent back by the strength of the initial blow. Rune's eyes meet a familiar pair under a hood that paints shadows over the Wolf's face.
Fury taking his hands, Rune continues the dance of battle. Stepping forth, his shoulder bashes into the Wolf's shoulder, sending him staggering backwards towards the bonfire. "You made a grave mistake coming here, Wolf of the West!" Not permitting the Wolf a chance to retaliate, Rune's boot slams into his gut, sending him to the ground like a collapsing tower of glass. Raising Gwynt to deliver a swift ending, he looks not into the face of the Wolf, but instead the chieftain.
"What are you doing?!" Wolyrn shouts, glaring up at the paused Rune. He stands up and backs away. "I take you into my home and share my food, medicine and wisdom, to be repaid like this?"
"It was dark, I thought you were--"
"Were what?"
"The Wolf," says Rune, lowering his blade.
Quiet, Wolyrn's infuriated look softens. "Two things must be said. First, your test shall be pushed back yet another week."
Having expected such a punishment, Rune gives a solemn nod. "I understand. What will I be doing for the next week?"
"Standing by me." Wolyrn runs his hands over his torso, where Rune's knee impacted. "Your defeat tainted not only your body, but your mind. The brush with death only bolstered the binding to the trauma. It is not something that one can recover from alone."
Rune sheathes Gwynt and stands upright. "I will be fine," he states, "just let me leave this place. My companions await my return." Though denial paints Rune's surface, something rings true in Wolyrn's words. They were not far from the truth.
"If that is your will, then so be it."
"But what of keeping me here until I pass the test?"
Raising half of the wood piece, Wolyrn runs his fingers over the smooth cut which severred the other half. "You already passed, and had I not had this block, I wouldn't be here to say so myself."
"Fortunately, you're okay." Rune places a hand on Wolyrn's shoulder. "Thanks to you, I learned much within this month. I am in your debt."
"Your improvement is clear and goes uncontested," admits Wolyrn, "yet not to the potential I envision."
"I will come back another time to learn more."
"You remind me of another who departed from this tribe centuries ago. He said the same exact words." Wolyrn turns around to leave the fire, heading towards his shack.
"What was his name?" asks Rune.
"Terzogue."
***
The exit from the treacherous crevice within reach, the slope steepens to the point where Rune is climbing more than running. "I warn you this once," he calls back to his pursuers, "I will not capitulate; I will fight to the death, and you will bury more of your people should you follow me.: Recieving only the struggling grunts of them when they try to follow as a response, Rune slips through the narrow gap leading out.
Emerging from the crevice basks Rune in sunlight, as well as his pursuers as they come in his wake. Pulling Gwynt out from its scabbard, his hands grip the hilt firmly. Like wolves, the assailants circle around Rune - their prey. Faced witih multiple blindspots, Rune engulfs himself in darkness by shutting his eyes. Milking the sound of the wind's wails, the faint chittering of the spider to follow suit. He only focuses on the crunching of the snow. When one of the sets of footsteps changes pace and shortens the distance between them and Rune significantlyy, he whirls around, swinging Gwynt through the air to clash against another blade. He can feel the meeting of the weapons, the kinetic reprocussions rattling through his hands and arms.
Following through the motion, Rune can even feel the edge bite into the attacker's flesh, taste the blood and fear. Though this new level of synergy is new to him, he remains calm. He keeps his eyes closed and presses on with ferocity. The blade carving through flesh and bone, Rune withdraws Gwynt from the body of his current target when another takes a strike at his left flank. Cutting through the unseen air, he can feel the parry preclude a potentially lethal blow.
Opening his eyes to assess the effectivity of his tactic, he finds the virgin snow turning a juicy red. The first of the assailants to drop lays still, his body in a pool of his own fluid. The other who recovers from the backward stagger from Rune's parry is met by another attack.
Gwynt slams into the assailant's blade with astounding force, the momentum forcing it to move backwards, the edge digging into the attacker's throat. Pained, smoky eyes grow dull as they lock with Rune's, the grip on the sword weakening as life departs from the body.
Whirling around the face the other two, Rune only catches a small glimpse of the pair retreating back down into the crevice. He frowns. They might come back with more reinforcements, perhaps better fighters. Not wishing to test the number of this species, Rune sides Gwynt back into its scabbard and turns around to progress further into the frozen terrain. With each of the spider's chitters that echo through the mountains, Rune pauses in his tracks.
"She smells your blood."
Resting a hand on Gwynt's hilt once more, Rune meets the gaze of a refreshingly normal - looking person clad in brown rags. Though the person seems passive, the feeling that all is not as it seems remains ever present.
"Your hand is bleeding. I can feel it drenching the hilt." The person sits atop a that just juts above the snow, at eye - level with Rune. "I give the beast ten minutes before it finds you. With its stealth, speed and - oh, its primal urge to kill, you should be quite worried about meeting a painful demise here."
"What is that spider?" asks Rune. Though his hand stays on the hilt, he eases the grip on it as he finds the stranger not an immediate threat -- if a threat at all. Against the will of his curiousity, Rune holds his tongue before asking for a name; the mutuality of strangers cannot be mended, and preserving it in such a harsh land may be ideal.
"The spider is a servant of Uskbight," the stranger replies. "He is the god of desolation, the cold, and survival of the fittest. You were first attacked by his devotees as a test, and he sent the servant to kill two birds with one stone; to remove those from his worshippers who are not worthy, and test if you're worthy of being named our Guardian."
"Guardian?"
"Of me, the angel, and the sword." The strager places his hand into the snow, which quickly melts at his touch.
"I am Siden."
