The Vision Hunt
Yichimet - December 22, 2005
Hidua walks the path of the Wild Lands. His two strong horns
point skyward to the moon. His young, uncracked hooves leave pits
on the trail, and behind all his children fall into them,
squirming like trapped rodents.
He is making love to a young Shu’halo he has never met, who coos
like a bird. She is his first love. She is a he, who is his
student. When the love-making evaporates his old body is alone.
He is an ancient bird with wings far-stretched: an owl hunting
the mice of the valley floor.
He is perched on dead branches, and from his wing pulls a feather
which is a Moon. He pulls a feather which is an antlered skull.
He pulls a feather which is a round, milky eye.
He walks on the giant branches of the Tree, rubbing its bark and
telling it the stories of his life. He carries a bow and no
arrows, a staff with no dream-catcher. He walks and talks for
years without fail.
He pulls the head off a mouse, which is the sweetest, most tender
flesh he has tasted. The mouse’s body is his body, and he chews
his own head with abandon.
He and his pupil are Needles pointing to the sky, each watching
as the other tumbles in ages of wind and rain.
* * *
Yichimet moves. He begins to feel his body, and as it moves, he
sees:
His heart break from his throat as a gem.
His head made from hundreds of twigs and branches turn and speak
to him.
His maned back curling under a giant log.
His giant hands forced apart and unable to clasp.
His body made peaceful in sleep.
[Daala]
Typically, I hold a truism that, in its time, has served me
reliably and faithfully. "Do not partake of any ritual involving
blood without clear knowledge of intent and consequence." Never
before have I been so thoroughly reacquainted with the wisdom of
that statement.
At the previous moon, Snowfeather asked me to the proceedings,
though I'd no inkling as to their nature. Were I to make a set
prediction, it wouldn't have been accurate at all. So, instead of
the practical course of action, a full day's rest and
preparation, prior to ceremony I served against the Scourge in
southern Kalimdor. There, I encountered a lich, - the first I've
seen since serving under one at Dalaran, and the meeting left me
exhausted and feeling quite strangely. I passed it off as shock;
even now, I don't discount that possibility. But then, I'm
rambling, and committing that most grievous of sins: warranting
or justifying a thing before its mention.
The moment I tasted that potion, septa, was it?, a shooting pain
lanced through my skull. Only it wasn't my skull, it was deeper
than that, but shallower than my mind...and it wasn't a lancing
pain, so much as the coming of several dozen spiders, each taking
a single bite before being on their merry way, a cascading
torrent of the juice of hot peppers quite completely saturating
the fresh wounds. Again, I exhibited great stupidity in not
saying anything; I'm not entirely sure why. There's an eerie
sensation that at the moment of that pain, I lost awareness of
all external concepts. But this is all speculation, who has the
time?
Too many stories need telling, but no time...no time...
There were three hooded gentlemen waiting for me when I fell to
that strange world of ephemeral visions. One by one, they added
bits and pieces to the same train of thought; collectively, it
made one long, coherent sentence. It was spoken neutrally, with
that well-honed undercurrent of rote. Then, something very
strange occurred...
Their voices faded exponentially, and seemed to slow down at an
alarming rate. One of the men, on the right, if I recall,
suddenly radiated an acute sense of a gleeful grin, and I could
swear there was some crazed, sadistic gleam in that hazy cowl
where an eye or two would be. A voice, so much louder than the
others...terribly, horridly loud...with a magnificently pure
clarity of diction.
"It's just you and me now, lass..."
Then, the flow of things returned to normal, and some quiet
intuition told me that things had been normal all along, that
what just happened occurred in my mind, but did not spring from
any source of my own.
Without warning, colors reversed in polarity, lines shifting,
blurring, vanishing altogether, tints and tones following suit.
It was not unlike the swirling of every paint of an artist's
pallete. One of the voices, not the one that had spoken to me a
moment ago, cried out with great alarm and fervent emotion.
"This is -"
FLASH
Alys and I were sitting, my arm around her shoulder, her's,
around my waist, watching the sun set from our balcony. Our cozy
cottage was built in the Duskwood, one of the few places in the
East that hadn't been lost to the blighted sprawling of Sylvanas'
new settlements, ever since the last humans, barring the breeding
stock, succumbed to that dreadful contagion of hers. I've always
felt safe with her, like I've still got a pulse. My angel, my
Goddess, the light of my life. Suddenly, her grip around me
tightens violently; I look to see what's the matter, and her
powerful jaws rip into my right breast. Tearing a dripping,
ragged strip of flesh away, I shriek, pushing her away. Suddenly,
an epiphany rocks me; peering over the edge, I spy something that
would've rendered me immobilized, if I hadn't so desperately
needed the facilities of my legs. A large, very large, carrion
beetle, a distinctive calling card of the Crypt Lords of the
Scourge. Alys had been enslaved again, the Scourge were
returning...we didn't stand a chance. I stood there, motionless,
as she tore into my back, ripping pieces of me away, as I do
nothing to stop her, unable to bear the thought of hurting her,
my sweet Alys...I pray that I'll be taken by her new master
before there's nothing left of me. Alys...my angel, my Goddess,
the light of my life...I love you, Alys...
Before she severs the last stray tendon holding my head to my
chest, I hear that voice that spoke to me, moments before...
"Inevitability..."
'...wait...a voice? What voice? I've been here, in Elwynn...why
is it so familiar? Why-'
Darkness.
FLASH
The alarmed voice again. What just happened?
"- not right! Something -"
FLASH
It was only a matter of time before Thrall paid heed to that
disquieting feeling in the back of his head, and the Horde
retracted all diplomatic ties with the Forsaken. Alys and I ran
away when it happened, two years ago; those not in hiding would
be slaughtered by the wolves. We had some living friends, of
course, but couldn't stay long with any; a few weeks here, a
month there...it really wasn't so bad of a life. That's when one
day, we started hearing news of our old brothers and
sisters...Something was causing the Forsaken to suddenly wither
away, to lose their life essence. It would appear that without
Ner'zhul, we didn't have all that long, on Azeroth. So many, so
terribly many, defected to the Lich King, prostrating themselves
for a few extra years. Soon, our time came. Alys departed first,
during a monsoon in the mud of Stranglethorn...unable to
recognize my face, my touch, my voice. I couldn't make her wait
for me...I followed, hot on her heels. As the knife fell from my
hands....a voice...
"Inevitability."
FLASH
"-has gone wrong!"
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
I see hundreds of lives, and just as many deaths. The
constants...Alys, and that damnable voice...in the last one, I
tore my teeth out of my gums, undrained blood streaming from my
mouth as I dashed about, crying and shrieking.
That voice...was it the Lich I killed earlier? Some fiend that
I've yet to commune with? Probably just my own brain. Don't know.
Don't really give a damn. I never remembered anything, in any of
the lives. When I wake, it might just be another one. That
voice...
It hides in the holes in my memory. Now isn't the time for that
story. Suffice it to say that as I served in the Scourge,
sometimes I deigned to pay notice to how Ner'zhul strung my
movements along, but most of the time I ignored my senses. I
missed something very important, in doing that, I fear. Now, that
voice hides in what I cannot see.
He is taunting me, torturing me...never take blood. Never, ever,
drink blood...
I love you, Alys.
The Vision Hunt by Yichimet
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: The Vision Hunt by Yichimet
[Phu]
”Phu”.
The troll stirred at the soft voice that sifted down through the
layers of sleep.
”Phuuu…”
“Whatya need, mon…,” Phu shifted his bulk under the coarse wool
blanket. “I be sleep’n here.” Something was wrong, yet very
familiar… the troll couldn’t place it.
”PHU."
Phu bolt straight up, both the blissful sleep and warm blanket
forgotten beside him. That was his father’s voice – one that he
hadn’t heard in, wha was it?, 12 years? He blinked at the lantern
light that flooded the small room he and his adopted brother
shared.
“Fadda? When did ya get ba…” The words stopped in his throat. His
voice was all wrong – too high – too small. He looked up at the
towering troll that he remembered from so long ago and held up a
child’s hand.
“Fadda?”
“You be good ta ya Mudda and Brudda, Phu.” His father bent down
to gently scrape a long tusk against his own. “They might be
need’n ya ta be strong.”
The lantern that his father was carrying was brighter now and Phu
needed to squint to see the scarred and aged face. His father was
worried.
Memories crashed in. “Fadda, don’t go!,” he pleaded. “Dere’s more
dan you t’ink! All kinds of pinkies – an’ elv…”
His father lovingly put a large hand on Phu’s forehead,
interrupting him. “Shh… you’ll wake Bhar.” The lantern was so
bright now that Phu had to squeeze his eyes against the light.
“You been hav’n a bad dream. Jus’ ‘member what I said ta ya, Phu.
Be strong fa ya Mudda.”
Even through shut eyes, the light was painful.
“No Fadda! Dis be da dream! Dis is!” Tears were streaming down
his cheeks.
His father, apparently ignorant of the brightness, took his hand
away. Phu could hear him back out of the room, one of his tusks
scraping against the rough-hewn door.
“Fadda!” “Fadda!”
The light vanished so suddenly it left his ears ringing. Blinking
in the darkness, he knew that he was no longer in his childhood
home. A cold breeze fluttered his blanket and chilled the tears
that still clung to his face.
Where was he now? He could smell the fecundity in the air… leaves
rustled in the wind.
A forest. But where?
An owl called in the distance. It was a strange call, but
undeniably that of an owl.
Phu stood up carefully in the darkness, careful not to bump his
head on anything unseen above him. Straightening his back and
stretching, he tried to become accustomed to his surroundings. He
breathed deeply and slowly to push away the memory of his
long-dead parent.
A small light – no, several of them – appeared in the sky. It was
overcast, and a few stars were peeking down at him from behind
the silhouette of a distant tower.
The owl called again and the troll heard it more clearly now.
“Phu,” was what it had said.
He cocked his head towards the sound and felt the comforting
weight of hi tusks pull him back down to a relaxing stoop.
Dis be da septa, he thought. Dis not be good.
Letting out a whistle, he called for his near constant companion.
All that the summons brought was a colder wind.
Phu looked around, surprised. Voodoo always came. Then he
grunted. Dat damned septa! I should’ve let Voodoo lick ma fingas.
Feeling more alone than he had in a long, long time, the hunter
crept through the dark wood towards where he had heard the owl.
“Phuuu…,” came the eerie call again.
He walked three steps towards the sound before his foot splashed
in muck. Far too suddenly, the sounds of a bog surrounded him.
“Loss,” came the throaty call from a frog.
The skin on the back of Phu’s neck tingled at the word. He had
never had the feeling that a frog was directing anything at him
before.
“Loss,” came the croak from another, just behind him.
Spinning, the hunter let his thick-fingered hand rest on the
axe-haft hanging from his belt. “Who ya be talk’n to, mon?” He
felt silly for talking to a frog, but this was a septa dream, and
his Mother had no lack of frightening stories about septa dreams
from the old country.
“Youuu…,” the owl replied, and Phu turned so fast that his tusks
rapped against a previously non-existent tree. The owl, its eyes
blazing white in the starlight, was perched atop a large mass
hanging limply from a branch. Th troll peered upwards to make out
what the dark shape was… it looked very familiar. The shadow’s
misshapen form became clear once the owl jumped away t a nearby
limb.
It was Kung.
Phu had last seen his first pet at Shadowfang Keep, where he had
hoped that the training he had given the Mulgorian wolf would
keep him safe from – and pack leader of – the worgs living in the
old castle. When the hunter had left, carrying Voodoo as a
black-worg pup in his arms, he was please to see a confident Kung
backing two cowering worgen into a corner.
If this vision was any indication of the truth, that victory was
a short-lived one.
From across the bog, another frog spoke up. “Loss,” it croaked.
He sadly looked up at Kung’s form once more as lightning cracked
loudly in the sky above him. Deafened by the sudden crash, Phu
blinked away the green afterglow from his eyes…
…and found himself standing squarely in the middle of
Stanglethorn, the sun overhead casting an emerald light through
the multiple canopies of jungle. He recognized the path to
Grom’gol to his side, and smelled the distinctive odor of the
lashtails that infested the area. What was different was the pile
of sun-bleached tauren skulls that blocked the path out of the
camp.
“Dis don’ bode well, mon,” the troll stated – remembering the
purpose for the septa dream.
“Truuue…,” came the reply from the Owl – now circling overhead.
Phu looked up at the bird – growing impatient. “What does dis
mean, mon? Is da young’n dead?”
The owl glided down to silently alight atop the pile of horned
skulls. It stared at Phu, its eyes glowing green in the reflected
light, and shook its head side to side.
“Den where is he, mon?”
“Newww…,” came the reply.
Phu opened in eyes to the bright light of morning peeking through
the inn window. He was swinging on the hammock he had fallen into
last night, and his mouth tasted that not only he sipped of the
septa, but had drained an entire pig. The sounds of an Orgrimmar
that was up all night drifted in.
“Wake up, Voodoo. We have ta find dat ol’ Hidua.”
“Arrl??,” was the sleepy reply of the dog, who lifted his mighty
head off of the floor.
“Oh, now don’ ya go talk’n ta me too, mon!”
“Arrl…”
”Phu”.
The troll stirred at the soft voice that sifted down through the
layers of sleep.
”Phuuu…”
“Whatya need, mon…,” Phu shifted his bulk under the coarse wool
blanket. “I be sleep’n here.” Something was wrong, yet very
familiar… the troll couldn’t place it.
”PHU."
Phu bolt straight up, both the blissful sleep and warm blanket
forgotten beside him. That was his father’s voice – one that he
hadn’t heard in, wha was it?, 12 years? He blinked at the lantern
light that flooded the small room he and his adopted brother
shared.
“Fadda? When did ya get ba…” The words stopped in his throat. His
voice was all wrong – too high – too small. He looked up at the
towering troll that he remembered from so long ago and held up a
child’s hand.
“Fadda?”
“You be good ta ya Mudda and Brudda, Phu.” His father bent down
to gently scrape a long tusk against his own. “They might be
need’n ya ta be strong.”
The lantern that his father was carrying was brighter now and Phu
needed to squint to see the scarred and aged face. His father was
worried.
Memories crashed in. “Fadda, don’t go!,” he pleaded. “Dere’s more
dan you t’ink! All kinds of pinkies – an’ elv…”
His father lovingly put a large hand on Phu’s forehead,
interrupting him. “Shh… you’ll wake Bhar.” The lantern was so
bright now that Phu had to squeeze his eyes against the light.
“You been hav’n a bad dream. Jus’ ‘member what I said ta ya, Phu.
Be strong fa ya Mudda.”
Even through shut eyes, the light was painful.
“No Fadda! Dis be da dream! Dis is!” Tears were streaming down
his cheeks.
His father, apparently ignorant of the brightness, took his hand
away. Phu could hear him back out of the room, one of his tusks
scraping against the rough-hewn door.
“Fadda!” “Fadda!”
The light vanished so suddenly it left his ears ringing. Blinking
in the darkness, he knew that he was no longer in his childhood
home. A cold breeze fluttered his blanket and chilled the tears
that still clung to his face.
Where was he now? He could smell the fecundity in the air… leaves
rustled in the wind.
A forest. But where?
An owl called in the distance. It was a strange call, but
undeniably that of an owl.
Phu stood up carefully in the darkness, careful not to bump his
head on anything unseen above him. Straightening his back and
stretching, he tried to become accustomed to his surroundings. He
breathed deeply and slowly to push away the memory of his
long-dead parent.
A small light – no, several of them – appeared in the sky. It was
overcast, and a few stars were peeking down at him from behind
the silhouette of a distant tower.
The owl called again and the troll heard it more clearly now.
“Phu,” was what it had said.
He cocked his head towards the sound and felt the comforting
weight of hi tusks pull him back down to a relaxing stoop.
Dis be da septa, he thought. Dis not be good.
Letting out a whistle, he called for his near constant companion.
All that the summons brought was a colder wind.
Phu looked around, surprised. Voodoo always came. Then he
grunted. Dat damned septa! I should’ve let Voodoo lick ma fingas.
Feeling more alone than he had in a long, long time, the hunter
crept through the dark wood towards where he had heard the owl.
“Phuuu…,” came the eerie call again.
He walked three steps towards the sound before his foot splashed
in muck. Far too suddenly, the sounds of a bog surrounded him.
“Loss,” came the throaty call from a frog.
The skin on the back of Phu’s neck tingled at the word. He had
never had the feeling that a frog was directing anything at him
before.
“Loss,” came the croak from another, just behind him.
Spinning, the hunter let his thick-fingered hand rest on the
axe-haft hanging from his belt. “Who ya be talk’n to, mon?” He
felt silly for talking to a frog, but this was a septa dream, and
his Mother had no lack of frightening stories about septa dreams
from the old country.
“Youuu…,” the owl replied, and Phu turned so fast that his tusks
rapped against a previously non-existent tree. The owl, its eyes
blazing white in the starlight, was perched atop a large mass
hanging limply from a branch. Th troll peered upwards to make out
what the dark shape was… it looked very familiar. The shadow’s
misshapen form became clear once the owl jumped away t a nearby
limb.
It was Kung.
Phu had last seen his first pet at Shadowfang Keep, where he had
hoped that the training he had given the Mulgorian wolf would
keep him safe from – and pack leader of – the worgs living in the
old castle. When the hunter had left, carrying Voodoo as a
black-worg pup in his arms, he was please to see a confident Kung
backing two cowering worgen into a corner.
If this vision was any indication of the truth, that victory was
a short-lived one.
From across the bog, another frog spoke up. “Loss,” it croaked.
He sadly looked up at Kung’s form once more as lightning cracked
loudly in the sky above him. Deafened by the sudden crash, Phu
blinked away the green afterglow from his eyes…
…and found himself standing squarely in the middle of
Stanglethorn, the sun overhead casting an emerald light through
the multiple canopies of jungle. He recognized the path to
Grom’gol to his side, and smelled the distinctive odor of the
lashtails that infested the area. What was different was the pile
of sun-bleached tauren skulls that blocked the path out of the
camp.
“Dis don’ bode well, mon,” the troll stated – remembering the
purpose for the septa dream.
“Truuue…,” came the reply from the Owl – now circling overhead.
Phu looked up at the bird – growing impatient. “What does dis
mean, mon? Is da young’n dead?”
The owl glided down to silently alight atop the pile of horned
skulls. It stared at Phu, its eyes glowing green in the reflected
light, and shook its head side to side.
“Den where is he, mon?”
“Newww…,” came the reply.
Phu opened in eyes to the bright light of morning peeking through
the inn window. He was swinging on the hammock he had fallen into
last night, and his mouth tasted that not only he sipped of the
septa, but had drained an entire pig. The sounds of an Orgrimmar
that was up all night drifted in.
“Wake up, Voodoo. We have ta find dat ol’ Hidua.”
“Arrl??,” was the sleepy reply of the dog, who lifted his mighty
head off of the floor.
“Oh, now don’ ya go talk’n ta me too, mon!”
“Arrl…”
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: The Vision Hunt by Yichimet
[Pincus]
Darkness.
Silence.
Where am I? Why... why can I not breathe? Heavy... chest... Must
escape. Must... claw out... Free... out... NOW!
Falling. Dirt... Yes, that way. That way is up. Almost free. Yes,
sunlight. Air! Free from my prison!
My physical prison. Where is Richard. I told him to be here. I
gave him instructions to be here. Where is that fool, it is not
like him to be late.
Oh there you are. Over here, do what you promised to me. Destroy
me, Richard. I gave you the spell to do so. A child can do this.
Do it! Do not doom me to this! You promised me! Don't make me
kill you... don't make me destroy you as I did those others who
failed me!
Urf. HOW DARE YOU STRIKE ME FOOL! YOU WILL PERISH FOR YOUR
INSOLENCE, WORM! I will hunt you down and destroy you for this!
You promised me my freedom!
-FLASH-
WHERE IS HE?!? Do not make me squeeze harder. Your child's head
is about to pop as it is! Where is Richard, I know he is here! He
is one of you... and you simple pesants help one another. You
know something, I see it in the fear in your eyes.
-FLASH-
"Pincus, I have given you a gift. The gift of undeath. In life
you were powerful, but in death you will become unstoppable.
Release your grasp on the mortal world. Join us as we bring order
to this world."
"Truer words have never been spoken, my Lord. I would be honored
to serve you Kil'jaeden in bringing order to these lands. I will
be your humble servant for eternity."
-DARKNESS-
[Regnanetah]
Regnanetah crept into the crumbling tower he called home,
preparing to sleep after the days work, helping to keep the elves
busy in Teldrassil while others hunted for an owl to save
Yichimet. Afterward he'd drunk some strange drink that they said
would make him dream, though he doubted it. he never dreamed, at
least nothing that he could ever remember. As he laid down on the
mat he called his bed, he closed his eyes preparing to
sleep...and suddenly felt like he was falling, with nothing to
stop him, his magic failing to slow him as he hurtled backward
into nothingness.
A Whutless, named Maledictus. The Grim. A place he could finally
call home, that would respect the traditions he had been taught
by his father among the Yeyewata Tribe of Saakes, and use the
skills of the arcane taught to him by the Fus'obeah Saakes. He
smiled, as he had finally found a home.
A village elder. An Old Fus'obeah Caang berating him for
following the old traditions of his tribe, the Yeyewata. For the
eating of the fallen. And his leaving of his village, and need
for a new family to call his own.
A village of Fus'obeah Saakes. The Saakes that took him in as an
orphan, training him in the arcane arts, or more precisely the
art of controlling them. While he had much innate power, it
tended to run loose, and he spent his time learning more to let
some of his power out without it spilling uncontrollably out of
him.
A small boat, washed ashore outside of a Fus'obeah village, a
lone young Caang, almost dead from dehydration, obviously having
been adrift for a long time. He was taken in and fed, and found
strong in the magical arts. The other Saakes took him in even
though he was not of there tribe, and began to train him,
thinking that after such a disaster he wouldn't remember his time
among other Saakes, whatever his tribe had been.
Adrift. The sea all around. Nothing to drink, the only food the
dead on the boat with him. The young Caang remembered the things
his father taught him, and begin to prepare the bodies. He would
eat them and gain there strength, he smiled as he set to work,
knowing that his father would of approved.
A storm. The land that was his home, the beautiful deserts of the
south, falling further and further away as the storm drove him
out to see and far to the north. He tried to row the boat, but he
was too small, to young...too weak. His strength was not enough.
It had never been enough, his father unable to train him as a
true warrior of the Yeyewata had always berated him for not
working hard enough, for being born small. and now his measly
strength would spell his doom, as he would be lost at sea, the
land now a distant memory.
His fathers face. Contorted in agony as arcane energies swept
over him. His tribes greatest warrior, helpless before the magic
streaming toward him, wracking him in pain, and slowly killing
him inch by inch.
His brother's body. His neck broken from the force of the blow
that had been meant for him. The brother that had always
protected him, had taken the killing blow meant from him.
His family around a campfire. His father showing him how to treat
a kill. How to preserve the properties that you wanted to gain.
Explaining how the eating of the fallen was nothing but an honor,
showing that you respected the qualities they possessed, and
wished to take those into you.
His Fathers face. Shamed by having such a weak son. While his
older brother was coming along fine, He was a runt, and his
strength was as a runt. He would never be a great warrior like
his father. And he lacked the gift for Shamans work, though that
too would of shamed his father. The greatest warrior of the
tribe, with a son that could barely lift a weapon.
Regnanetah awoke, having finally mustered the will to raise
himself back from consciousness. The dreams had come, and they
had brought with them memories, memories that were better off
buried. While he may of been supposed to search for Yichimet in
his dreams, he knew that he had too many memories that would
rather creep up and remind him of his past. Others would have to
search for him. It was better if he kept out of it. Rising, he
set about to find something to keep him occupied. It would be
better if he didn't sleep while there was any chance of this
potion being active. Hopefully the others would succeed.
Darkness.
Silence.
Where am I? Why... why can I not breathe? Heavy... chest... Must
escape. Must... claw out... Free... out... NOW!
Falling. Dirt... Yes, that way. That way is up. Almost free. Yes,
sunlight. Air! Free from my prison!
My physical prison. Where is Richard. I told him to be here. I
gave him instructions to be here. Where is that fool, it is not
like him to be late.
Oh there you are. Over here, do what you promised to me. Destroy
me, Richard. I gave you the spell to do so. A child can do this.
Do it! Do not doom me to this! You promised me! Don't make me
kill you... don't make me destroy you as I did those others who
failed me!
Urf. HOW DARE YOU STRIKE ME FOOL! YOU WILL PERISH FOR YOUR
INSOLENCE, WORM! I will hunt you down and destroy you for this!
You promised me my freedom!
-FLASH-
WHERE IS HE?!? Do not make me squeeze harder. Your child's head
is about to pop as it is! Where is Richard, I know he is here! He
is one of you... and you simple pesants help one another. You
know something, I see it in the fear in your eyes.
-FLASH-
"Pincus, I have given you a gift. The gift of undeath. In life
you were powerful, but in death you will become unstoppable.
Release your grasp on the mortal world. Join us as we bring order
to this world."
"Truer words have never been spoken, my Lord. I would be honored
to serve you Kil'jaeden in bringing order to these lands. I will
be your humble servant for eternity."
-DARKNESS-
[Regnanetah]
Regnanetah crept into the crumbling tower he called home,
preparing to sleep after the days work, helping to keep the elves
busy in Teldrassil while others hunted for an owl to save
Yichimet. Afterward he'd drunk some strange drink that they said
would make him dream, though he doubted it. he never dreamed, at
least nothing that he could ever remember. As he laid down on the
mat he called his bed, he closed his eyes preparing to
sleep...and suddenly felt like he was falling, with nothing to
stop him, his magic failing to slow him as he hurtled backward
into nothingness.
A Whutless, named Maledictus. The Grim. A place he could finally
call home, that would respect the traditions he had been taught
by his father among the Yeyewata Tribe of Saakes, and use the
skills of the arcane taught to him by the Fus'obeah Saakes. He
smiled, as he had finally found a home.
A village elder. An Old Fus'obeah Caang berating him for
following the old traditions of his tribe, the Yeyewata. For the
eating of the fallen. And his leaving of his village, and need
for a new family to call his own.
A village of Fus'obeah Saakes. The Saakes that took him in as an
orphan, training him in the arcane arts, or more precisely the
art of controlling them. While he had much innate power, it
tended to run loose, and he spent his time learning more to let
some of his power out without it spilling uncontrollably out of
him.
A small boat, washed ashore outside of a Fus'obeah village, a
lone young Caang, almost dead from dehydration, obviously having
been adrift for a long time. He was taken in and fed, and found
strong in the magical arts. The other Saakes took him in even
though he was not of there tribe, and began to train him,
thinking that after such a disaster he wouldn't remember his time
among other Saakes, whatever his tribe had been.
Adrift. The sea all around. Nothing to drink, the only food the
dead on the boat with him. The young Caang remembered the things
his father taught him, and begin to prepare the bodies. He would
eat them and gain there strength, he smiled as he set to work,
knowing that his father would of approved.
A storm. The land that was his home, the beautiful deserts of the
south, falling further and further away as the storm drove him
out to see and far to the north. He tried to row the boat, but he
was too small, to young...too weak. His strength was not enough.
It had never been enough, his father unable to train him as a
true warrior of the Yeyewata had always berated him for not
working hard enough, for being born small. and now his measly
strength would spell his doom, as he would be lost at sea, the
land now a distant memory.
His fathers face. Contorted in agony as arcane energies swept
over him. His tribes greatest warrior, helpless before the magic
streaming toward him, wracking him in pain, and slowly killing
him inch by inch.
His brother's body. His neck broken from the force of the blow
that had been meant for him. The brother that had always
protected him, had taken the killing blow meant from him.
His family around a campfire. His father showing him how to treat
a kill. How to preserve the properties that you wanted to gain.
Explaining how the eating of the fallen was nothing but an honor,
showing that you respected the qualities they possessed, and
wished to take those into you.
His Fathers face. Shamed by having such a weak son. While his
older brother was coming along fine, He was a runt, and his
strength was as a runt. He would never be a great warrior like
his father. And he lacked the gift for Shamans work, though that
too would of shamed his father. The greatest warrior of the
tribe, with a son that could barely lift a weapon.
Regnanetah awoke, having finally mustered the will to raise
himself back from consciousness. The dreams had come, and they
had brought with them memories, memories that were better off
buried. While he may of been supposed to search for Yichimet in
his dreams, he knew that he had too many memories that would
rather creep up and remind him of his past. Others would have to
search for him. It was better if he kept out of it. Rising, he
set about to find something to keep him occupied. It would be
better if he didn't sleep while there was any chance of this
potion being active. Hopefully the others would succeed.
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: The Vision Hunt by Yichimet
[Mohan]
The foray into Teldrassil and the Ceremony had drained Mohan's
energy. The fatigued hunter made his way to the inn in Thunder
Bluff to prepare for the inevitable journey his spirit would
take. After another quick prayer to himself, he settled himself
in a hammock for the night.
But no sooner had his body fallen asleep, his spirit was jolted
awake.
******
A storm raged all around him. Thunder boomed and lightning arced
across the sky. Winds buffeted him from every direction. As he
gained his bearings, he realized that he stood in the center of a
familiar camp.
This is my home, intact! The light from a campfire in the largest
tent caught his eye. Everyone is still alive! Father! Mother!
Imuten, Poho! Naiya, my love!!
As Mohan took a step towards the tent, he was stopped dead in his
tracks. A massive lightning bolt struck him where he stood,
paralyzing him. Excruciating pain tore through his body. But he
fought it. He would not be stopped from being reunited with his
family, with his love. He put the pain out of his mind, and
attempted another step towards the tent.
But he found that he could not lift his hooves. He struggled with
all his strength, but with no success. Examining his hooves more
closely, he found them covered in tree bark. He had no time to
question though, as the bark began spreading up his legs, and the
pain returned tenfold what it had been. Aaaaaarrrrrrgh!! What is
happening to me?!
Before Mohan knew it, his entire body was covered in bark. But it
didn't stop there. The pain only intensified as his body became
distorted; his arms becoming long and thin; his body stretching
to an unnatural height.
After what seemed like both an instant and an eternity, the pain
and the transformation stopped. Still he stood in the center of
the camp, but not as a young Shu'halo hunter. Mohan stood as a
giant tree, limb-like arms reaching out over the numerous tents
of the camp.
The wind suddenly picked up. The gale force winds blew his limbs
in every direction, despite his best efforts to stop them.
Lightning struck his branches, setting them aflame. Suddenly, one
of his limbs crashed into one of the tents, crushing everything
beneath it. Then another. And another, as if his limbs were
aiming for the tents. His mind was intact, but resist as he did,
Mohan could do nothing to stop himself. No!! Not again! My home
cannot be destroyed again! Finally, only the largest tent
remained. Without so much as a pause, both of his limbs crashed
down on top on it, reducing it to rubble. NOOOOOOOOO!!! His
spirit broken, he watched as his village burned.
But his spirit did not remain broken for long. Rage welled up in
the depths of his mind. He wanted to tear his own limbs from his
trunk, but still could not make himself move.
Suddenly, Mohan's attention was caught by a sudden movement among
the ruins of the largest tent. From under the burning embers, a
large wolf limped towards him, stopping directly in front him and
staring directly into his mind's eyes. Then, more wolves came
from the ruins of other tents to stand around the largest wolf.
When they were all gathered, they looked to the sky and let out a
haunting, ghostly howl. The spirits of the wolves rose from their
bodies, mingling together until they took the form of a giant
owl.
The owl took to the air and circled around his trunk a few time
before stopping to hover directly in front of him. It turned its
gaze toward him and, with its milky-white eyes, looked deep into
his mind. The owl spoke.
Mohan of the Wildwind. You are Strong, and your Rage will indeed
make you Stronger. But it is misdirected. Inward Rage will lead
only to your own destruction. Direct your Rage outward, and you
will find the Strength to destroy those responsible for the
deaths of your clansmen.
The owl's eyes glowed with a blinding light, and it once again
flew around Mohan's trunk. The rage in his soul welled up until
it could grow no more. In a burst of energy, a bone-rattling roar
escaped Mohan's lips. His bark skin shattered, and his body
shrunk and changed until he again took the form of a young
Shu'halo.
As he rose to his feet, the owl perched on his shoulder. Now,
awaken young Hunter. You have work to do.
******
Mohan's eyes jumped open. It was morning. And there was work to
do.
The foray into Teldrassil and the Ceremony had drained Mohan's
energy. The fatigued hunter made his way to the inn in Thunder
Bluff to prepare for the inevitable journey his spirit would
take. After another quick prayer to himself, he settled himself
in a hammock for the night.
But no sooner had his body fallen asleep, his spirit was jolted
awake.
******
A storm raged all around him. Thunder boomed and lightning arced
across the sky. Winds buffeted him from every direction. As he
gained his bearings, he realized that he stood in the center of a
familiar camp.
This is my home, intact! The light from a campfire in the largest
tent caught his eye. Everyone is still alive! Father! Mother!
Imuten, Poho! Naiya, my love!!
As Mohan took a step towards the tent, he was stopped dead in his
tracks. A massive lightning bolt struck him where he stood,
paralyzing him. Excruciating pain tore through his body. But he
fought it. He would not be stopped from being reunited with his
family, with his love. He put the pain out of his mind, and
attempted another step towards the tent.
But he found that he could not lift his hooves. He struggled with
all his strength, but with no success. Examining his hooves more
closely, he found them covered in tree bark. He had no time to
question though, as the bark began spreading up his legs, and the
pain returned tenfold what it had been. Aaaaaarrrrrrgh!! What is
happening to me?!
Before Mohan knew it, his entire body was covered in bark. But it
didn't stop there. The pain only intensified as his body became
distorted; his arms becoming long and thin; his body stretching
to an unnatural height.
After what seemed like both an instant and an eternity, the pain
and the transformation stopped. Still he stood in the center of
the camp, but not as a young Shu'halo hunter. Mohan stood as a
giant tree, limb-like arms reaching out over the numerous tents
of the camp.
The wind suddenly picked up. The gale force winds blew his limbs
in every direction, despite his best efforts to stop them.
Lightning struck his branches, setting them aflame. Suddenly, one
of his limbs crashed into one of the tents, crushing everything
beneath it. Then another. And another, as if his limbs were
aiming for the tents. His mind was intact, but resist as he did,
Mohan could do nothing to stop himself. No!! Not again! My home
cannot be destroyed again! Finally, only the largest tent
remained. Without so much as a pause, both of his limbs crashed
down on top on it, reducing it to rubble. NOOOOOOOOO!!! His
spirit broken, he watched as his village burned.
But his spirit did not remain broken for long. Rage welled up in
the depths of his mind. He wanted to tear his own limbs from his
trunk, but still could not make himself move.
Suddenly, Mohan's attention was caught by a sudden movement among
the ruins of the largest tent. From under the burning embers, a
large wolf limped towards him, stopping directly in front him and
staring directly into his mind's eyes. Then, more wolves came
from the ruins of other tents to stand around the largest wolf.
When they were all gathered, they looked to the sky and let out a
haunting, ghostly howl. The spirits of the wolves rose from their
bodies, mingling together until they took the form of a giant
owl.
The owl took to the air and circled around his trunk a few time
before stopping to hover directly in front of him. It turned its
gaze toward him and, with its milky-white eyes, looked deep into
his mind. The owl spoke.
Mohan of the Wildwind. You are Strong, and your Rage will indeed
make you Stronger. But it is misdirected. Inward Rage will lead
only to your own destruction. Direct your Rage outward, and you
will find the Strength to destroy those responsible for the
deaths of your clansmen.
The owl's eyes glowed with a blinding light, and it once again
flew around Mohan's trunk. The rage in his soul welled up until
it could grow no more. In a burst of energy, a bone-rattling roar
escaped Mohan's lips. His bark skin shattered, and his body
shrunk and changed until he again took the form of a young
Shu'halo.
As he rose to his feet, the owl perched on his shoulder. Now,
awaken young Hunter. You have work to do.
******
Mohan's eyes jumped open. It was morning. And there was work to
do.