Post by Kolava on Jan 3, 2004 20:21:35 GMT -5
Deep in the Mysts, while dawn was still locked away behind the mountains, the crackling of twigs under careless boots drowned out the hushed breath of the rabbit. Two hunters lurked in the cold forest, one with his pale leather greatcoat stuffed with rags for extra warmth. He was in search of breakfast for his family; venison was preferable but even a rabbit would do. Kolava, the other hunter, held back his frustration, after all, how could this human have known about the twenty minutes of stalking that had been ruined? A few plucks of a bow and Man is fed, never giving pause to consider the plight of those without bows.
More crunching, this time the sticks were larger then twigs--branches, even. Was this berk trying to scare away the entire forest? The creature adjusted his stance beside the fallen log as his extended claws sank into the frosty soil, his signature gloves had been left behind in favor of the more natural alternative. Thumbs, for all their perks, were useless out here.
Eventually, the footsteps were replaced with the faint rustling of that greatcoat and stringing of that bow. Perked ears bypassed the distance, allowing Kolava to clearly observe every breath, every scratch, every murmur of this groggy peasant. Why was this day-dweller even out of bed? He wasn't going to hit anything, not after all that noise and definitely not with such dulled senses.
The creature considered his company for a few minutes, wondering if it would be worth it to drive off this oaf; After all, this hunting spot was extremely valuable and he wasn't about to let some bumbling Man wander in and claim it. As that old bow--badly in need of repair--gave another twitch, he also considered the possibility of being hunted himself. He was pretty lean, but would feed a small family if the hunter was desperate enough.
Mild fear gently gave way to reason: there was no way a simple arrow from this hunter would pose any threat. Kolava, even on his worst day, could march right past a peasant hunter without being so much as noticed; if he was feeling especially confident, he could even do it backwards with his eyes shut. So little faith did he hold in the fellow hunter's skill that, with a silent pout, he decided to move from his stalking spot so as to better observe. His previous endeavor, the snowy rabbit, had long since taken flight when the human had shown up so he had little else to do.
A few minutes passed uneventfully. The man fiddled with his beard, casting tired eyes over the clearing. He watched the snow and scattered debris, never guessing that one of the debris was watching him. He didn't want to be out here, but the pantry was empty and he couldn't spare another chicken for the breakfast table. The pre-dawn wind mercilessly burrowed through his ragged excuse for a coat, and his nose had turned bright red, but he persisted.
Finally, a sizable boar wrestled its way past a thicket and into the clearing. As it exhaled a plume of steam from its snout and peered around, the two hunters held their breath. The man brought his arrow out from its quiver with the languid grace of a wind-tossed branch; his stealth impressed Kolava and left the boar clueless. Was this human really going to attack such a viscous creature? Stories had been spread of angry boars that survived the first arrow only to crush the ribs of the bowmen.
The man knew of these stories, but drew back the arrow regardless. He wasn't going to come back empty handed, not again. With a snap and a twitch, the man let fly an arrow that buried itself deep in the boar's rump: a terrible place to shoot a boar. It wasn't long before the beast wheeled about and locked its beady eyes on the leather greatcoat that it had previously failed to spot against the bark of the tree.
With a great grunt, the hooves of the boar tore against the icy dirt and those brutal tusks were brought level. Kolava grit his teeth and bowed his head, anticipating a good show. The Man could very well be killed, but he didn't care; he believed humans needed to take responsibility for their own foolishness.
After all, would the man do the same if their places were switched? A hunter watching an enraged swine charges some furry thing would only laugh and hide, glad that he himself was not in danger. Humans were greedy cowards, staving off the harshness of reality with their labor saving technologies. Kolava could never bring himself to respect them, or even pity them.
The man, however, was not about to let a thoughtless beast kill him on such a sour note for his species. He hefted a hatchet from his belt and brought it through the frigid air, cracking the leg of the boar just as it was leaping over the exposed roots of a tree. Beast and man toppled into a snowbank that was soon stained with carnal shades of red. Kolava watched, his breath growing shorter with every passing second; the swift counter-attack, level headedness against feral rage, smooth strokes against wild thrashings, the creature could not help but see a bit of himself in this human.
Despite the species barrier, were they not both hunters? Did they not both take matters into their own hands/paws and try to live in spite of nature's oppression? Cursing himself for not seeing it sooner, the Kolava thrashed his tail and rose from the fallen log. The sounds of the struggle were growing faint, the hunter was losing strength. If this Man died, it would be yet another loss for the dwindling forces of logic in this world ruled by insanity. Perhaps he was reading too far into things, but perhaps Fate really was laughing at him.
As blood ran from his nose and mouth, the man reached desperately for the knife in his boot. The empty-headed animal, following nothing but adrenaline and instinct, was stabbing with those tusks again and again to destroy the unfamiliar thing. Growing pale from pain and bloodloss, the human had closed his eyes and just about given up on seeing his family again when suddenly a great force buffeted him. He thought that the beast had finally crushed his ribs and he was dying, but, in fact, the cold that followed was the empty air wafting through his tattered greatcoat. He forced his bloodshot eyes open just long enough to see the boar heave its last breath against a tree several feet away, its form crumpled as if stuck by the hammer of an invisible giant.
Kolava laughed at himself, beginning to question what had overtaken him. As the fibers of psionic power trickled away from him and his thoughts returned to normal, he stared at the ground and dismissed his actions as temporary delusion. How could he have intentionally aided some foolish Man? He had given him too much credit, and recent stress must have been to blame; he was so desperate for peace of mind that he was drawing silly conclusions with every event. Either way, he would never know now that it had ended, right?
As it turned out, the truth was not out of grasp. Intense emerald hues fell upon the bloody peasant who was moaning now as the pain caught up with him, "it" had not ended. If he was left here, he would surely succumb to his wounds or the cold. But this didn't matter, right? One less human to taint the world? Kolava felt betrayed by his bitter shell, which had faded and left him soft. He struggled to keep his emotions under control, but eventually found himself at the man's side, prodding and assessing with compassion in his features.
The man, delirious with the pain of a smashed body, thought that he was but a few steps from his front door and that his loyal dog was greeting him. He smiled at the sky, mumbling incoherently and groping sightlessly for his canine companion. Kolava's ears went flat against his head and he whined very softly, realizing that the man's wounds were fatal. He tried to sneer, tried to think nothing of it, but the callous cynic in him had been revealed as a fake. He could only sit there, stewing over what had happened. Maybe if he hadn't been so bitter, he would have done the right thing. Maybe if he hadn't been so stubborn about not bringing his gloves, he could have bound the wounds. Maybe if he hadn't been so eager to see the Man die, he would have acted sooner.
Deep in the Mysts, dawn cast its magenta radiance across the sleepy forest, filling the icy canopy with light. Two hunters lay against a snow bank, one with bow and hatchet presented ceremonially across his chest, the other with sorrow presented upon tense features. One exhales steam in short, troubled bursts, the other doesn't exhale at all. And somewhere above it all, even if only a delusion, Fate cast a derisive glare.
More crunching, this time the sticks were larger then twigs--branches, even. Was this berk trying to scare away the entire forest? The creature adjusted his stance beside the fallen log as his extended claws sank into the frosty soil, his signature gloves had been left behind in favor of the more natural alternative. Thumbs, for all their perks, were useless out here.
Eventually, the footsteps were replaced with the faint rustling of that greatcoat and stringing of that bow. Perked ears bypassed the distance, allowing Kolava to clearly observe every breath, every scratch, every murmur of this groggy peasant. Why was this day-dweller even out of bed? He wasn't going to hit anything, not after all that noise and definitely not with such dulled senses.
The creature considered his company for a few minutes, wondering if it would be worth it to drive off this oaf; After all, this hunting spot was extremely valuable and he wasn't about to let some bumbling Man wander in and claim it. As that old bow--badly in need of repair--gave another twitch, he also considered the possibility of being hunted himself. He was pretty lean, but would feed a small family if the hunter was desperate enough.
Mild fear gently gave way to reason: there was no way a simple arrow from this hunter would pose any threat. Kolava, even on his worst day, could march right past a peasant hunter without being so much as noticed; if he was feeling especially confident, he could even do it backwards with his eyes shut. So little faith did he hold in the fellow hunter's skill that, with a silent pout, he decided to move from his stalking spot so as to better observe. His previous endeavor, the snowy rabbit, had long since taken flight when the human had shown up so he had little else to do.
A few minutes passed uneventfully. The man fiddled with his beard, casting tired eyes over the clearing. He watched the snow and scattered debris, never guessing that one of the debris was watching him. He didn't want to be out here, but the pantry was empty and he couldn't spare another chicken for the breakfast table. The pre-dawn wind mercilessly burrowed through his ragged excuse for a coat, and his nose had turned bright red, but he persisted.
Finally, a sizable boar wrestled its way past a thicket and into the clearing. As it exhaled a plume of steam from its snout and peered around, the two hunters held their breath. The man brought his arrow out from its quiver with the languid grace of a wind-tossed branch; his stealth impressed Kolava and left the boar clueless. Was this human really going to attack such a viscous creature? Stories had been spread of angry boars that survived the first arrow only to crush the ribs of the bowmen.
The man knew of these stories, but drew back the arrow regardless. He wasn't going to come back empty handed, not again. With a snap and a twitch, the man let fly an arrow that buried itself deep in the boar's rump: a terrible place to shoot a boar. It wasn't long before the beast wheeled about and locked its beady eyes on the leather greatcoat that it had previously failed to spot against the bark of the tree.
With a great grunt, the hooves of the boar tore against the icy dirt and those brutal tusks were brought level. Kolava grit his teeth and bowed his head, anticipating a good show. The Man could very well be killed, but he didn't care; he believed humans needed to take responsibility for their own foolishness.
After all, would the man do the same if their places were switched? A hunter watching an enraged swine charges some furry thing would only laugh and hide, glad that he himself was not in danger. Humans were greedy cowards, staving off the harshness of reality with their labor saving technologies. Kolava could never bring himself to respect them, or even pity them.
The man, however, was not about to let a thoughtless beast kill him on such a sour note for his species. He hefted a hatchet from his belt and brought it through the frigid air, cracking the leg of the boar just as it was leaping over the exposed roots of a tree. Beast and man toppled into a snowbank that was soon stained with carnal shades of red. Kolava watched, his breath growing shorter with every passing second; the swift counter-attack, level headedness against feral rage, smooth strokes against wild thrashings, the creature could not help but see a bit of himself in this human.
Despite the species barrier, were they not both hunters? Did they not both take matters into their own hands/paws and try to live in spite of nature's oppression? Cursing himself for not seeing it sooner, the Kolava thrashed his tail and rose from the fallen log. The sounds of the struggle were growing faint, the hunter was losing strength. If this Man died, it would be yet another loss for the dwindling forces of logic in this world ruled by insanity. Perhaps he was reading too far into things, but perhaps Fate really was laughing at him.
As blood ran from his nose and mouth, the man reached desperately for the knife in his boot. The empty-headed animal, following nothing but adrenaline and instinct, was stabbing with those tusks again and again to destroy the unfamiliar thing. Growing pale from pain and bloodloss, the human had closed his eyes and just about given up on seeing his family again when suddenly a great force buffeted him. He thought that the beast had finally crushed his ribs and he was dying, but, in fact, the cold that followed was the empty air wafting through his tattered greatcoat. He forced his bloodshot eyes open just long enough to see the boar heave its last breath against a tree several feet away, its form crumpled as if stuck by the hammer of an invisible giant.
Kolava laughed at himself, beginning to question what had overtaken him. As the fibers of psionic power trickled away from him and his thoughts returned to normal, he stared at the ground and dismissed his actions as temporary delusion. How could he have intentionally aided some foolish Man? He had given him too much credit, and recent stress must have been to blame; he was so desperate for peace of mind that he was drawing silly conclusions with every event. Either way, he would never know now that it had ended, right?
As it turned out, the truth was not out of grasp. Intense emerald hues fell upon the bloody peasant who was moaning now as the pain caught up with him, "it" had not ended. If he was left here, he would surely succumb to his wounds or the cold. But this didn't matter, right? One less human to taint the world? Kolava felt betrayed by his bitter shell, which had faded and left him soft. He struggled to keep his emotions under control, but eventually found himself at the man's side, prodding and assessing with compassion in his features.
The man, delirious with the pain of a smashed body, thought that he was but a few steps from his front door and that his loyal dog was greeting him. He smiled at the sky, mumbling incoherently and groping sightlessly for his canine companion. Kolava's ears went flat against his head and he whined very softly, realizing that the man's wounds were fatal. He tried to sneer, tried to think nothing of it, but the callous cynic in him had been revealed as a fake. He could only sit there, stewing over what had happened. Maybe if he hadn't been so bitter, he would have done the right thing. Maybe if he hadn't been so stubborn about not bringing his gloves, he could have bound the wounds. Maybe if he hadn't been so eager to see the Man die, he would have acted sooner.
Deep in the Mysts, dawn cast its magenta radiance across the sleepy forest, filling the icy canopy with light. Two hunters lay against a snow bank, one with bow and hatchet presented ceremonially across his chest, the other with sorrow presented upon tense features. One exhales steam in short, troubled bursts, the other doesn't exhale at all. And somewhere above it all, even if only a delusion, Fate cast a derisive glare.
