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| Old Things; [ Persephone ] | |
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| Topic Started: Mar 2 2009, 10:18 AM (105 Views) | |
| Koardruk Stormbellow | Mar 2 2009, 10:18 AM Post #1 |
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The vivid splashes of dark scarlet blood made a trail in the snow that a child could follow. Koardruk knew that he had struck the animal a mortal blow, and his hand still gripped the spear he had fashioned from a sharpened branch of pinewood. His prey, a deer, had been a cautious, swift quarry, but Koardruk had won the day with patience and skill. For hours it had eluded him, until finally he had bore it down in a clearing at the center of the forest. Ignoring the snow that blew into his eyes, the trollkin chieftain trudged through the high snow that covered the forest floor, his large footprints eclipsing the trace of the deer's diminuitive paws. His breath fogged in the air, thin specters of mist dancing on the wind as they vanished against the pale winter sky. Koardruk's tough, leathery skin kept the worst of the chill from seeping into his bones, but he still slapped his hand against his chest to keep warm as he made the top of the small knoll to which the dying creature had managed to drag itself. Just ahead the trail ended, and a small, dark shape silhouetted itself against the snow. The hunt was over. Leaning his spear against the trunk of an old tree, Koarluk knelt beside the animal, running his thick, stubby fingers over its blood-matted fur. Dark, frightened eyes stared back at him, pain and death-anxiety glittering in their depths. Its flanks heaved as it struggled to draw breath. With surprising gentleness Koardruk let his fingers close around the deer's neck, and with a quick twist of his powerful hand he offered it a final mercy. It had been a good hunt. His quarry deserved the dignity of a quick death. He pushed himself to his feet, shaking off the snow that had settled on his broad shoulders. The sun had passed its highest point, and the shadows were beginning to stretch along the ground. Koardruk's eyes turned to the east, and he blinked against the glow. Evening was rapidly approaching, and it would be a cold night. He had wasted too much time already. Picking the fresh carcass of the deer from the ground, he began towards the large hill which dominated the southeastern patch of forest, picking his way across the brambles and the underbrush that slowed his progress. As the thrill of the hunt began to fade he felt a familiar weight bearing down on his shoulders. The needs of his bruak could never pass far from his mind, as much as he would like them to. This winter was but the last in a long line of its kind, and even the trolls, famous for their resilience, could not entirely ignore the whims of the sky-gods. Rivers thickened. Game animals went to ground. Whelps froze in their cradles. If things did not improve soon they would have to move again; back to their old village. It belonged to another bruak now, but that could not be helped. A few skirmishes were preferable to starvation. Around him the treeline was growing thinner as he neared the top of the hill, and frost had begun to cling to his lower lip. A chill crept up his spine, and for a moment he felt as if he was being watched. He shook it off, turning his eyes toward the slowly darkening east. It would be some while still before the sun set. He had time. Ages of wind had carved out the bald top of the hill, giving it the appearance of a giant, sloped bowl. Koardruk slowly picked his way down the inside, stepping over the rocks that littered the depression. At the center rose a trio of great boulders, black and ancient, each standing the height of a lesser troll and just as wide in their circumference. Strong hands had hewn them into the shape of something resembling ancient teeth, and all around their surfaces were carved with thick runes. The symbols wound down the stones in single, unbroken lines, and in some places the runes seemed to meld into one another to form new patterns, compound meanings and interpretations. Dry brambles of dead wood crunched underneath Koardruk's feet, the ground around the stones flat and void of snow. To him, to any troll, this was a place heavy with significance. The stones told the story of his bruak, written in the complex rune-tongue of the shamans and preserved with the magicks of the earth. On their surface one could read a myriad tales, all interwoven, all following a similar skein of time. Such was history, and history was of utmost gravity to the trolls. Each time his people had moved they had left homes, food and possessions behind, but the strongest youths always bore the stones on their backs without complaint. Koardruk approached the edifice with reverence, momentarily overcome with emotion. From his belt he drew a chisel of beaten iron, and he slowly folded his stout legs underneath him to sit. He had been skirting his task for hours like a wolf around an open fire, and it could wait for him no more. A full ten days previous one of the village elders had passed to the earth. It had been a slow, ugly death, the once proud elder's shape twisted by some foul disease. The tribe was poorer for it. The wizened old troll had been a great warrior in his prime. One of the best. As chieftain, it fell to Koardruk to write the death rune upon the chronicle stones. It was a great honor to have ones name inscribed into the rock, for there it would linger even when living memory of the bruak had long faded and the earth had swallowed them all. Then the stones alone would remember, and they would guard their secrets jealously. He began to work, carefully chipping away at the old rock with a skill and delicacy to which his rough hands bore no testament. The runes were complex things, and a single mistake would do irreparable damage to the final rune. This one deserved to be fine. Once he had managed an outline he dipped one finger into the still-warm blood of the deer, smearing it across the stone to impart some of its magic into his work. Stone was the keeper of secrets. Blood would make it honest. Once again Koardruk could not help but feel as if he was being watched, and this time he knew the source. She knew this place, perhaps better than he. Of course she would come. He looked up from his task, and he delicately placed the chisel on the dry earth. "You can come out, moss-clad. You are lousy at hiding when you want to be found." Edited by Koardruk Stormbellow, Mar 2 2009, 10:25 AM.
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| Persephone Fallenheart | Mar 3 2009, 06:30 AM Post #2 |
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She was more a part of this world than any other creature she knew. Humans were far too knew to understand the rhythm of Gaia as it rumbled beneath them, and elves were even worse: for they were those who thought they understood, but had no true comprehension of Mother Earth. And now, it seemed that the fate had doomed her to be alone: other nymphs had long since departed on longboats, as the elves were said to have done. Her decision to stay behind had infinitely changed her life, and she'd long since realized that she was lonely. The forest tended to go to sleep during the winter, and so Persephone was forced to wander a snowy wonderland that didn't even smell like home anymore. It was enough to break anyone. She knew she was lucky; she had the warm furs of animals who had died to keep her warm, and instead of a tunic and leggings (as she usually wore during the summer). There was food to go around, because she no longer had to share, and she was able to stalk the chilly pathways on her own, without worrying about who or what she would encounter. Most sane beings enjoyed staying in their hovels during the winter, preferring to wait it out, rather than attempt to survive. Persephone smelt blood. Surprising. Any hunters who thought to find game found deer too clever to be snared by a simple arrow, and most likely got lost in the trails that led through the forest. It was not often that there was someone who was able to get close enough to make a kill. Sniffing the air with her delicate nose, as a predator might sniff out it's prey, she leaped into a tree and began to run, dancing across branches as if they were little more than stones, laid out for her to run across. Snow fell from the branches, but she paid that no heed: when she was closer, she would perhaps be more stealthy. There was no need for that now. The scent on the wind told her that the man (or troll, she supposed) smelled badly, and was still far away yet. Night would be falling. The creature would not know where to go, unless they had walked this forest before. And if they had, Persephone had a good feeling who it perhaps could be. It was harsh land to live on, she reflected as she ran, trees and distance passing underneath her fleet feet. Too cold for most things to prosper, but there was evil hidden in the trees. Orcs roamed beneath them, not even paying any attention to the cold weather. Men, barbarians who had been dispelled from their own homes, lived in hermitage in caves. And that was discounting the various animals who had lived there for thousands of years, not bothering anyone. Animals who were beginning to stir and find problems with the forest and with the men and women who lived off the land. Women like Persephone. The trees were ending, and she would be more exposed. Persephone paused in her running and slipped down the trunk, landing on the snow covered ground and ignoring the crunch and the cold against her bare feet. She could make out a figure far ahead of her, at the top of a knoll that had been carved by time. That was the being she sought, not to punish him for his transgression, but for curiosities sake. She knew what was up there. Persephone had gone to investigate a few days after the rocks had appeared, and she knew who had put them there. Trolls had come to her forest, and she'd been meaning to find a reason to meet with them. For the most part, she didn't mind them. They were old, like she was, though much younger comparatively. They didn't harm her forest, other than taking what they earned, and she would get along well. However winter had not been kind. Troll babies died. Food was scarce. They were dying out, and she wanted to help. Proud as she was, she was not so proud as to watch an entire tribe die because she did not want to give up one of the few secrets of her kind. It was too dangerous for her to approach at the moment. Far too dangerous. Night hadn't even begun to fall yet, and she was not going to be protected by the rocks. They belonged to the trolls, completely, and they would tell her secret. For a moment, she had to weigh her options. It was very rare to find a troll on his own, though it had been increasingly common recently. She could speak to him now, and perhaps something could come from it, or she could wait. From his stance, it seemed like he was the alpha male, the pack leader. Something along those lines. Very few opportunities like this would come again. He dropped to his knees, sitting, and Persephone took that as her cue to move, walking across the grass and passing silently through what little brush separated them. The troll busied himself with something, and Persephone had a feeling that he wasn't going to expect her to approach, though there was no doubt that he would feel her once she got near enough. Observant ones, trolls. They didn't miss much, though their misconception of stupidity made them "easy pray" to some. Stupid wasn't something that you could ever call a troll. They possessed a cunning, and a drive to protect their own, that few other races did. Reaching the wide open space before the rocks, she stood there and just watched him for a while. He was slaving over something, using the blood of the deer- or so she surmised. Blood had power in many races, it was a universal reactant and truth-keeper. Anything signed in blood would always hold to what you asked it to do, no matter what your real intentions were. That was why few mages were qualified to use it: nymph druids didn't even dare. Persephone's brown eyes narrowed. What was he doing? Casting some form of a complicated spell? "You can come out, moss-clad. You are lousy at hiding when you want to be found." Persephone knew that she ought to expect that. "You are observant, mud-one. Many would have looked me over as simply a piece of the wind," she added, as she stepped forward, a good-natured smile on her lips. "I came to investigate. I like to know what you and your bruak presume to be doing in my forest." The meaning was clear. ooc; Feel free to make your next post shorter. -.- |
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| Koardruk Stormbellow | Mar 3 2009, 01:14 PM Post #3 |
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Koardruk shifted on the ground, turning away from the stones and back toward the western lip of the depression. Staring against the sun, he finally laid eyes on the forest sprite. She was a tiny creature, unusually so even for one of her rare kin, a hot-eyed slip of a thing draped in the colours of a late autumn. Moss-clad. It was the troll word for it. Or them, rather; the forest lords, sprites and elementals who watched over the woodlands and whispered the myriad tongues of trees. They were creatures of the earth, and so afforded due reverence. This one, Koardruk knew, had stalked his bruak for some time. More than once his sentinels had spoken of what they thought was a human child skirting through the forest, and they had found smaller tracks paralell to their own when they had moved to patrol the borders of their territory. She even seemed to have learned their tongue, even though she spoke it with the trilling lilt of a morning bird rather than the appropriately guttural cut of the tongue. As all her kind, she was far too curious to long resist making contact face to face. Even seated Koardruk was near of a height with the diminuitive nymph, and he didn't bother to get up. His legs were already cold and stiff from sitting on the frozen ground. "We seek refuge from the cold," he rumbled, his voice like stones rolling on dirt. "And the wolves. And war." With a four-fingered hand he gestured toward the horizon. "Peace. We seek peace, and to nurture our young." The elders warned against angering the spirits of the woods. They were small in stature, but they made friends of trees and all manner of forest creatures. Whatever her allies, Koardruk's bruak needed no further enemies. "We have honored the earth as we are able. Our shaman have spoken the rites. Even in this winter we have made offerings." In truth, even the cold was not the heaviest weight resting on his shoulders. Koardruk looked to the north, where the Cloudsweep mountains stabbed at the sky like the maw of some ancient titan. Even this far south word had reached the troll tribes that the highlanders were stirring. Something had shook them out of their caverns, and now they were sharpening their spears for war. |
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| Persephone Fallenheart | Mar 6 2009, 12:59 PM Post #4 |
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There were many words for her kind, each more descriptive (and even stranger) than the next. She preferred to be named as the trolls named her; moss-clad. Fitting for a group of people who spent their entire lives protecting their home, even to the point of abandoning their young at a very young age. Nymphs could never, ever be accused of being a sentimental lot, especially where their offspring were concerned. Persephone herself had been raised by an elder nymph who was considered too old to tend the forest, but not old enough to die. She didn't know her mothers name, or her fathers name. Only the laws of her world, taught to her since she was but a few days old. As she surveyed him, she didn't pretend that she'd been stealthy in her tracking. The first week she had noticed them, she'd spent brushing up on his tongue, something that was gravelly and a bit confusing to one who was used to the songs of the trees and druids. The next week, she'd followed and watched, until she knew each of them by scent and perhaps even by name. The week after that, she'd watched for damage: bits of trees left behind, any sign of irreverence. It was on this fourth week that she had decided they posted little threat to her way of life and her home, and Persephone had made contact with him. It seemed he misunderstood, thinking that she was throwing him out. Persephone eyed him curiously, before shrugging her copper shoulders. "I understand, troll," she added softly. "The years have not been kind to any of us; least of all the forests. I seek only to bid you welcome, and applaud your efforts. The forest is happy. I am pleased with your offerings. You show respect for my home and my friends. I won't ask you to leave, not during winter. You have babes to raise, and I am not so cruel." The edges of her eyes crinkled with a hidden smile. Tipping her head to one side, she trilled something in a language that was only called sentac, by nymphs. It was said to be the language of the earth, the trees, living beings big and small - but few could understand, and even fewer could speak fluently. It sounded like a laugh; a narrow birdsong lasting only a moment. "War? What do I know of war? Human struggles do not concern me, and normally they do not concern your kind either. What could be bad enough to force you to seek refuge here, to give up your homeland in the dead of winter? Give me tidings of the world, mud-one. I wish to know what has you so worried," she spoke, adopting his tongue again. Persephone did not know of war, of human struggles. They were alien. Nymphs did not need war - they did not fight. They were united by a common goal and a common enemy (everyone else). When there was bloodshed, the cause was swiftly culled. They did not have any room to fight with each other when there was so much work to be done in protecting the woods. Anyone disturbing the peace was either killed, or exiled. Druids had even harsher punishments. |
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