You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Dauntless  (Read 687 times)

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Dauntless
« on: June 10, 2018, 03:56:28 AM »



...

"Sasha, what are you doing here?"
"Watching the trees, uncle. Why?"

A young boy, sat atop a chopped tree trunk, his hair a bright, reddish brown similar to chestnut, light blue eyes and a fair complexion looked up to a mirror image of himself upon his own askance. The older man was worn, wrinkled, and scarred. Toned with hardship and set through fire, others would say of him. The night was young, still, all around them, though the stars burned brighter than the torches far off behind them in the family homestead. The edges of a looming, dark forest stretched out in front of them, where the boy sat, watching without averting his gaze.

His uncle scowled.
"You know better than to stray so far away from home. Come, before They do." As if on cue, the first howls of the night pierced the air, and the man's burly arms reached to wrap around the child, as if to haul him up over his shoulder. With a grunt of surprise, the boy was thusly hauled, as if a small sack of potatoes. His stare remained on the treeline, a sort of wonderment befalling his eyes when a pair of yellow, canine eyes, looked back from the darkness... a sort of wonderment followed by something he has never felt before.

...

Spring. It brought along with it so many promises - of wellness, renewal, and life. The forest was calm, full of vigor and sheen; flora and fauna flourished every-which-way. His footfalls trode heavily upon the earth, his expression dour. A youthful man, though one not untested, with cuts on his face and hard hands. Armed in a hodge-podge of polished metal and frilly colors, he seemed a mercenary, new to combat, perhaps a member of a band. His chestnut brown hair clung to his face past the death of recent rainfall, and his blue eyes warily sprung from one sight to the next, expecting danger at any corner. He seemed to almost invite it. A flock of birds flew off from a nearby tree, startled. Then came the shouts for help.

...

When the wolf's eyes vanished from sight, the boy mumbled to his uncle. "Why do we let Them do this?"
The large man twisted slightly to have a glimpse of his nephew's face, responding softly. "The Predators must be given their proper respect, Sasha - you know that. And at the same time, we must make sure They do not do with us here as They would do with us beyond. Do you understand?"
Shaking his head as slightly as he was able, Sasha responded in kind.

"No, I don't."

...

Rushing his way to the source of the pleas, the young man drew out his sword, the only thing left of his father's legacy. With heavy footfalls he near ran, through shrubbery, inclines and declines, until he found himself in a clearing. A trio of gray furred wolves had surrounded a woman, one dressed for travel, waving about a dagger. She looked a Vistana. She looked determined.

A wolf leapt toward her.


...

His uncle's treading became heavier, and his gaze averted, a deep scowl now drawn. "What is not to understand? Do you not remember the stories we would tell you so often, boy?"

...

The youth ran straight forth, as a wolf's jaws clamped about the Vistana's forearm. The others she kept at bay with her other hand, though her pain was clear, and blood was drawn. Very little mattered in that moment.

...

Once again, the boy shook his head. "It's not about that! I remember the stories... I remember them!" His voice was raised to an outraged shouting. Crows flew away nearby, and with that, his uncle took a deep breath and set him down upon his feet, onto the earth, hands to his hips as he looked down upon his blood in scrutiny.

"Then what are you getting at?"

...

His sword went through one wolf like a knife through warm butter. Blood sprayed them both, then he yanked it free, struggling - another of them had turned toward him, changing his desires from the feisty Vistana to the struggling warrior. His left fist hooked and hit the oncoming wolf at the bottom of its jaw, sending it back oh so slightly with a whimper. It was enough for him to get his sword, to bludgeon it to death.

The Vistana's knife found flesh in her last enemy a fair enough times.


...

"You know I hate it when you try to scare! It's stupid!"
"It is only to teach you a valuable lesson, and you know that."
"What, to be scared?"

The child seethed unhappily and folded his arms.

...

Quick, labored breaths came from the woman as he knelt by her. The panic and rush, the loss of blood, and the state of her mangled arm. He felt much of the same, barring the oncoming weakness; frailty of body. He reached for his pack, and a bundling of linen. "Hold still, now, Miss! I... I'll get you right as rain, don't you worry!"
In between short breaths, she tried to put out a few words, to no avail between the grimace and twitch of pain. He begin wrapping cloth around her wounds, mumbling to himself, his work haphazard. He rested his hands tightly over her forearm, to staunch the flow of blood, and closed his eyes.

...

"To be scared? No, never - to be respectful, Sasha, like I just told you!"
"What's the difference when you'd have me respecting the stuff that goes through my bad bed-dreams? Why is that good?"
"Then what would you do, to make sure to never get on the side of the damned, Sasha? To earn rest with the Ancestors, when that time comes for I, mine, and you?"

The question stung, and the harsh scrutiny he was under left him uncertain of what to say next.

...

His thoughts were awash with what he recalled of that night in the fields. The same emotions he felt then, so conflicting and yet, so crystal clear. It was his desire - no, duty - to mend what was lost, and to make sure that would never happen again. Wickedness, whatever form it may take, always takes away. It hurts, it burns, it causes loss. To respect it is to give quarter. To not stand against it, is to allow it to persist. To let the wounds it leaves upon all good life fester, is almost as well as turning into Wickedness yourself.

When he opened his eyes, a warm, golden glow came from his palms. It pulsed across the Vistana's arm, and the bloodstained linen did not soak more of the crimson substance. Her features, earlier pained, had eased and settled. Astonished, the youth looked upon his palms, mouth agape - and not too long after, a warm smile was sent to the animal corpses at his back.


...

"I don't want to rest. What good does it do you, to rest after living life in fear, like you're trying to teach me?" The boy's fists clenched. "I'll beat Them all down! I'll get big, and strong, like you - and go out there and beat Them! And when I go to the Ancestors, and I'm not let through... I'll keep beating Them!"

Not taken back by his ward's outburst, the man took a few moments to examine him with a similar scrutiny, before turning and continuing the walk to the camp. The boy seemed confused, though he, a few moments later, began to walk after his uncle, the first few steps made in a hurry.

After only twenty or so odd steps, his uncle rumbled.


"Just as foolish as your father."