Re: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 1: Godsworn Valley]
07-12-2012, 10:33 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
The wolves flitted through the undergrowth, footsteps drowned in the sound of rain. Trees like iron shadows rose from the earth in grasping hands with branching fingers, shielding them in the shadows of the brush as they ran with sunlight dappling their skin. The sky above was dark with smoke and the cries of dying men, yet their eyes were sharp: blood and water freckled the ground. Their quarry had been here. Their leader howled, long and loud, and the sound echoed through the branches and onto the killing grounds.
Cirrha was the swiftest of them all, heading the pack with feral fierce joy in his heart and his howl. He longed to cut through the woods, run to the battlefield and feel his teeth around the throats of men and his claws on their soft white skin, but their business was too pressing for any distractions. Fear- men’s fear, hot and thick, slathered against the trees- clouded his head and the captain snarled, snapping at twigs and leaves. The forest smelt of death and fire, years old and seconds fresh, all blurring into one. He could have easily as found a single drop of blood in an abattoir.
His aide yipped urgently at his side, ears pricked and jaws panting with excitement. He growled, baring his fangs at the fledgling she-wolf, but then the scent caught him: bright as a candle to his altered nose with terror and pain. A man. He took it in, savoring it as his pack gathered about him, baying and howling at his heels. With a sharp bark he sent them ahead, watching the fleet grey shapes melt into the shadows. He followed them at more leisurely pace, his attendant loping gently just ahead.
The howls of the pack told him all he needed to know long before he came to the narrow clearing where they had cornered the quarry. Their yips bounced through the trees like birdsong as Cirrha shouldered through, snarling in anticipation. The yellow eyes of his pack turned to him and lowered respectfully, parting before him respectfully, and then he was looking upon the end of the hunt: a small figure crouched against a twisted sapling, feet bloody and torn. The captain grinned.
The pack fell away like startled doves as he padded to the center of the clearing. The forest was silent but for the distant sounds of cannonfire and the fire raging ever closer, dry wood splintering like gunshots at its edge. Cirrha sniffed once. “Oliver James,” he said through a wolf’s mouth, “You stand accused of murder.”
A pale face slowly turned up at him, wretchedly soft and young and smeared with dirt. The emissary clung to the shadows of the forest as if they could protect him, shielding himself with the tattered sleeves of his robe. He had lost his glasses, the captain noted. It was fitting that the forest had stripped him of such indulgences. “It’s here,” he said softly through cut lips. “It came.”
Someone in the pack howled in triumph. The captain allowed it. “Where are my men?”
“It took them.” The boy’s eyes darted to the side at a low-hanging branch. With a toss of his head one of the captain’s wolves crept to the Desolan priest’s side, blocking any hope of escape. He did not appear to notice. “The river flooded its banks and it heard them. It came for them,” he said quietly.
The edge of a growl entered Cirrha’s voice and the younger members of the pack flattened their ears and whined. He gave the boy a glimpse of his teeth. “Is this what they teach your little priesthood? Evasion tactics? I didn’t know Desolo was the god of cowards. Did he convert?”
The boy smiled weakly. He held up his hands; for an absurd instant Cirrha thought that he was wearing a pair of long red gloves, and then he realized the priest’s forearms had no skin.
“Show me, sayd hee, whose men you be, that hunt soe boldly heere…”
The voice was a sultry woman’s, low and sweet, drifting towards them from high in the canopies. Cirrha’s hackles flared. He glared sharply at his wolves but none had strayed, nor did he smell anything beyond the blood in this clearing and the sharp scent of metal and smoke. Bait? He would have caught the scent of another human in the nearby woods. He nodded to the nearest of his men, a stocky creature with a silvery pelt. He watched her pad off with narrowed eyes and turned back to the priest, who had resumed huddling beneath the shadows. “I’m in no mood for games, boy. You’re a damn fool to try an ambush.”
“…That without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere…”
The priest stirred but did not look up. He mumbled something even a wolf’s ears could not catch.
Cirrha bounded forward, clearing the space between them in an instant. “I suggest,” he breathed, his jaws an inch from the boy’s ear, “That you answer my questions a little more quickly, softskin. Bless me, I’m not a patient man.”
The priest raised his head, meeting the wolf captain’s gaze with dark eyes. “It’s not an ambush,” he said. His bloody hands glistened in the fading light. “You walked right into it.”
“Ere thus I will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: I know thee well, an erle thou art; Lord Percy, soe am I!”
A piercing shriek split the air, a rattling cacophony that burst leaves from the trees and set the wolves to howling in agony, clawing madly at their ears. Cirrha roared, turning on the boy but clamping down on only air; the boy had backed away and was cringing behind the sapling in his ruined rags. The captain snarled at him but turned away; there would be time for due justice later. Bellowing at his men and damning their souls to the Eternal Skinning he snapped at their ears and muzzles until they obeyed, falling into reluctant line behind him. The terrible screaming carried on all the while, and the singing, on and on through the forest and up from the dirt and blood and bones beneath their paws. Cirrha could feel it grating into his head, blinding all thoughts except those of retreat and panic, yet he roared his rage to the darkened woods and charged, vanishing in a flurry of leaves with his wolves in tow.
The howling continued on for several minutes after that. Oliver James rocked back and forth beneath the shadow of the sapling, eyes glassy with shock and ravaged fingers clutching at his robe. “I did what you said,” he told himself, over and over and over. “I did what you said, I did what you said. I did what you said. I did… I did what… I did…”
The trees rustled with the soft breath of a distant wind, and he heard it whisper, “Oh Christ! It was a griefe to see, and likewise for to heare- the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there.”
The wolves flitted through the undergrowth, footsteps drowned in the sound of rain. Trees like iron shadows rose from the earth in grasping hands with branching fingers, shielding them in the shadows of the brush as they ran with sunlight dappling their skin. The sky above was dark with smoke and the cries of dying men, yet their eyes were sharp: blood and water freckled the ground. Their quarry had been here. Their leader howled, long and loud, and the sound echoed through the branches and onto the killing grounds.
Cirrha was the swiftest of them all, heading the pack with feral fierce joy in his heart and his howl. He longed to cut through the woods, run to the battlefield and feel his teeth around the throats of men and his claws on their soft white skin, but their business was too pressing for any distractions. Fear- men’s fear, hot and thick, slathered against the trees- clouded his head and the captain snarled, snapping at twigs and leaves. The forest smelt of death and fire, years old and seconds fresh, all blurring into one. He could have easily as found a single drop of blood in an abattoir.
His aide yipped urgently at his side, ears pricked and jaws panting with excitement. He growled, baring his fangs at the fledgling she-wolf, but then the scent caught him: bright as a candle to his altered nose with terror and pain. A man. He took it in, savoring it as his pack gathered about him, baying and howling at his heels. With a sharp bark he sent them ahead, watching the fleet grey shapes melt into the shadows. He followed them at more leisurely pace, his attendant loping gently just ahead.
The howls of the pack told him all he needed to know long before he came to the narrow clearing where they had cornered the quarry. Their yips bounced through the trees like birdsong as Cirrha shouldered through, snarling in anticipation. The yellow eyes of his pack turned to him and lowered respectfully, parting before him respectfully, and then he was looking upon the end of the hunt: a small figure crouched against a twisted sapling, feet bloody and torn. The captain grinned.
The pack fell away like startled doves as he padded to the center of the clearing. The forest was silent but for the distant sounds of cannonfire and the fire raging ever closer, dry wood splintering like gunshots at its edge. Cirrha sniffed once. “Oliver James,” he said through a wolf’s mouth, “You stand accused of murder.”
A pale face slowly turned up at him, wretchedly soft and young and smeared with dirt. The emissary clung to the shadows of the forest as if they could protect him, shielding himself with the tattered sleeves of his robe. He had lost his glasses, the captain noted. It was fitting that the forest had stripped him of such indulgences. “It’s here,” he said softly through cut lips. “It came.”
Someone in the pack howled in triumph. The captain allowed it. “Where are my men?”
“It took them.” The boy’s eyes darted to the side at a low-hanging branch. With a toss of his head one of the captain’s wolves crept to the Desolan priest’s side, blocking any hope of escape. He did not appear to notice. “The river flooded its banks and it heard them. It came for them,” he said quietly.
The edge of a growl entered Cirrha’s voice and the younger members of the pack flattened their ears and whined. He gave the boy a glimpse of his teeth. “Is this what they teach your little priesthood? Evasion tactics? I didn’t know Desolo was the god of cowards. Did he convert?”
The boy smiled weakly. He held up his hands; for an absurd instant Cirrha thought that he was wearing a pair of long red gloves, and then he realized the priest’s forearms had no skin.
“Show me, sayd hee, whose men you be, that hunt soe boldly heere…”
The voice was a sultry woman’s, low and sweet, drifting towards them from high in the canopies. Cirrha’s hackles flared. He glared sharply at his wolves but none had strayed, nor did he smell anything beyond the blood in this clearing and the sharp scent of metal and smoke. Bait? He would have caught the scent of another human in the nearby woods. He nodded to the nearest of his men, a stocky creature with a silvery pelt. He watched her pad off with narrowed eyes and turned back to the priest, who had resumed huddling beneath the shadows. “I’m in no mood for games, boy. You’re a damn fool to try an ambush.”
“…That without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere…”
The priest stirred but did not look up. He mumbled something even a wolf’s ears could not catch.
Cirrha bounded forward, clearing the space between them in an instant. “I suggest,” he breathed, his jaws an inch from the boy’s ear, “That you answer my questions a little more quickly, softskin. Bless me, I’m not a patient man.”
The priest raised his head, meeting the wolf captain’s gaze with dark eyes. “It’s not an ambush,” he said. His bloody hands glistened in the fading light. “You walked right into it.”
“Ere thus I will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: I know thee well, an erle thou art; Lord Percy, soe am I!”
A piercing shriek split the air, a rattling cacophony that burst leaves from the trees and set the wolves to howling in agony, clawing madly at their ears. Cirrha roared, turning on the boy but clamping down on only air; the boy had backed away and was cringing behind the sapling in his ruined rags. The captain snarled at him but turned away; there would be time for due justice later. Bellowing at his men and damning their souls to the Eternal Skinning he snapped at their ears and muzzles until they obeyed, falling into reluctant line behind him. The terrible screaming carried on all the while, and the singing, on and on through the forest and up from the dirt and blood and bones beneath their paws. Cirrha could feel it grating into his head, blinding all thoughts except those of retreat and panic, yet he roared his rage to the darkened woods and charged, vanishing in a flurry of leaves with his wolves in tow.
The howling continued on for several minutes after that. Oliver James rocked back and forth beneath the shadow of the sapling, eyes glassy with shock and ravaged fingers clutching at his robe. “I did what you said,” he told himself, over and over and over. “I did what you said, I did what you said. I did what you said. I did… I did what… I did…”
The trees rustled with the soft breath of a distant wind, and he heard it whisper, “Oh Christ! It was a griefe to see, and likewise for to heare- the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there.”