Moar Riting!
Aug. 11th, 2010 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
realsorienOkay, I fiddled a LOT with the story of Nerash's escape from his tribe. I added perspective from another character, some information on the who's any why's of the event, and did a little cleanup on the story in general. So, second draft I guess. I'd appreciate feedback!
Night had fallen. Hours since the fall of the last light of the sun, Arakh Maug sat in his tent and considered. Hunting had been good; the tribe would have no problems remaining where they were, but in a month all would itch to move. He already felt it himself, the restlessness that drove his people eternally from place to place. The cause was not a need to travel in his case. No, it was who rather than what that distracted him. The Witch Woman. Hura’nh. Kerun. And Nerash, his eternal thorn. gnawing a hangnail, Arakh listened to the noise of the night and the tribe. It would be best for them all if he led alone, but speaking that aloud would end with him on the Post.
"Warmaster!" The hushed but urgent words intruded upon Arakh's brooding. Sitting straighter, he turned to the offending speaker.
"What?" A snap of impatience and anger rode upon the word.
"She is dead!"
"Daer take you. WHO is dead?"
"The Witch Woman! She was found cold in her bed!"
Arakh stopped, his notched and battered ears rising at the news. "This is true?"
"Yes, Warmaster. They build the pyre now."
Arakh smiled. A moment later he threw back his head and laughed. "At last the old bitch has passed.” His eyes narrowed. “Does Nerash know?"
"No. He sleeps yet. He was with the long hunt, and was as exhausted as those with him.”
The Warmaster smiled. "At last we are rid of her. We will yet be rid of him. I will be rid of him! Fetch the men; this night will have blood to stain the Post!"
Blood-curdling, chittering howls ripped through the air, followed by the sound of cloth ripping; Nerash barely got his eyes open before the first dull-clawed hands took hold of him, and then it was too late. He still fought, getting his teeth into one of his attackers, the taste of blood salty in his mouth when he was ripped loose.
Another howl split the air, and the beating began. Now awake from the adrenalin alone, Nerash knew what it all meant; the four years were over, and the end had come. Now all he had to do was survive.
He smelled smoke, and the reek of burning meat and fur- someone important had died, their pyre already burning fiercely at the edge of camp. He hated to think who. It had to be his protector, the Witch Woman; the Warmaster would never have dared an attack on Nerash without her gone. She’d tolerated his strangeness and shielded him with the strength that her station could bear. He’d never known why.
Fists struck him, taunts and jeers ringed in his ears. He still tasted blood, this time his own- the tiny obsidian knife he habitually hid in his mouth at night had cut into him from the violence. With it still there he might have a chance to get away.
More blows fell as he was dragged from his tent towards the center of the camp. Risking a look around, he saw the pyre at the edge of the camp- yes, it was her. He could see them tossing in her possessions. He knew he had a different destination though- the Blood Post. Even though he knew it futile, he started struggling once again. He managed to get an arm free, and with it got in another few violent swipes. It made little difference. Someone finally struck him in the head, shattering his concentration. While he was dazed they got him to the post, slamming him against it.
This actually helped, clearing his head a bit. Fighting again, he managed to get a hand to his mouth as he cursed them and struggled. When it came down again in their grasp, his tightly-clenched fist held the tiny knife. Now if there was a chance to use it...
His arms were forced around the pillar, the rust-stained wood against his chest. They bound his hands together, clenched fists touching. “Perfect,” he thought. “I might have a chance.”
Of course, that meant he had to survive what came next.
The yells and jeering slowly became a chant- Nerash could hear drunkenness building in the voices. His death was a celebration.
“The Witch Woman is dead! We suffer the loss! But we also no longer suffer that which she protected, Nerash!”
The crowed roared approval of this, and the speaker, Arakh Maug, continued. “We knew you were strange; but after you returned from the Pit you were changed even more. We watched you, and over time knew that you had been seduced by false powers! And now you will pay!”
Nerash didn’t listen closely to the words of the Warmaster, being too busy working the obsidian knife against the ropes. All too soon he heard the crowd of his former tribesmates quiet, and the slap of the scourge on the ground. A moment later and the many-tailed whip snapped near his back, its metal spurs ringing metallicly. The next swing wasn’t a demonstration.
Though ready for it, the pain made his vision go white; he held onto the knife, but his hand now bled from it slicing into his palm when his fist tightened. He felt blood on his back, and idly wondered how many blows it would take to kill him. The second blow, then a third- his vision greyed, sparkles swimming in his sightline. The crowd was jeering and yelling once again, the liquor flowing freely. Another blow and he felt something peel from his back; but he also cut the rope binding his hands through!
As he pulled his hands loose another strike landed, the leather strands whipping around his side, tearing more hide from him; but he was loose! A brief stagger took him clear of the Post. With more drive than he thought possible, he fled. A leap through the liquor-mazed mob and a half blind charge into the night, and the race was on.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Some of the tribe were still drinking and carousing, too drunk to realize what had happened, but most stared in shock. None had broken free of the Blood Post! Arakh broke the spell with a howling shout.
"DAMN you all! He FLEES! GET him!" With that, a mad scramble began, warriors charging after the figure now lost in the black of night. However, a trail of blood was there to follow; it was only a matter of time before Nerash was once again on the Post, or dead.
Arakh didn't care which.
Blood streamed down his back and legs, and Nerash paused for a moment- calling upon Vaeldur, he used what little power he had to obscure his trail, than continued his headlong flight into the mountains. He knew where to go- a place none would dream that he would venture. He turned to the west and once again bent his weary legs in flight.
Hours later, dawn touched the Eastern skies. The cool of the night was already beginning its passage to burning heat, finding Arakh stood over a figure laid prone. His fist still clenched, a rumbling hate-filled snarl rose in his throat as he glared down.
"... I don't know how we lost him, the trail just ended!" Varak'n winced and held his jaw where his Warmaster had struck him.
"TELL me. How is it that a half-dead, BLEEDING male, fresh from the Post, could leave NO trail when in full flight?"
"The trail simply ends, I swear it!"
Arakh cuffed Varak'h again. "You will show me. If you prove to be a fool who lost the trail, or are lying, I will place YOU on the post."
Varak'h shuddered, nodding to Arakh and led the way. From the camp the trail initially was obvious- Nerash had been bleeding badly from the scourging, and was making no attempt to conceal his passage. Indeed, running full out it was obvious he sought distance, not concealment. However, about a mile from the camp the trail simply ended. On one side of an invisible line there was blood-spoor and footprints; on the other, unmarked, unbroken ground.
The Warmaster glared at the site, taking several breaths to take in the impossible; without a word to the unnerved Varak'h, he returned to camp. Varak’h watched as the Warmaster started back, and thanked whatever dark god had smiled upon him and spared his life.
Hours later and heedless of any of this, Nerash staggered into the one place that his people would never follow- the Pit. He limped within and down, finding one of the alcoves off of the main passage. Caring not of its lifeless occupant, Nerash dropped to the floor and promptly lost consciousness.
When he woke much later, he felt the fever burning in his wounds. His thoughts were confused, but he wanted, needed water. Finding one of the torches that were spaced along the sloping wall of the passage, he managed to get it lit. With the light it provided he weaved and staggered downwards to the final chamber. He drank from the pond in ragged gulps, then once again collapsed.
Days passed, with the cycle of waking, drinking and collapsing being the entirety of his existence. Eventually the fever broke, leaving him lucid but horribly weak. Calling to Vaeldur, he requested replenishment of the gifts the God provided. Quickly healing himself as best as he could, he made his way back out of the Pit to hunt.
A month went by before he felt ready to return to the site of his tribe’s camp. Not surprisingly they had moved on in the eternal pattern of the nomad. He quickly located the cached gear he’d concealed; not all of it, but he’d expected some to have been discovered. He wandered through the now-abandoned site, lingering on two spots- the partly filled hole where the Blood Post had stood, and a pile of trammeled grey ash where the pyre had burned. Kneeling, he ran a hand through the ash; naught else was left. “I do not know why you protected me, Old one... But thank you.” That said, Nerash turned his eyes to the future.
His strength was returning, though his back wasn’t healing properly. Now with weapons and clothing he was able to survive more easily... But he had no home to go to. Nerash knew that eventually he’d encounter either his former tribe or another; in either case the meeting would be fatal for him. After six months, he knew there was only one choice left to him- the Human city of Oasis. With luck, perhaps they would accept him.
Night had fallen. Hours since the fall of the last light of the sun, Arakh Maug sat in his tent and considered. Hunting had been good; the tribe would have no problems remaining where they were, but in a month all would itch to move. He already felt it himself, the restlessness that drove his people eternally from place to place. The cause was not a need to travel in his case. No, it was who rather than what that distracted him. The Witch Woman. Hura’nh. Kerun. And Nerash, his eternal thorn. gnawing a hangnail, Arakh listened to the noise of the night and the tribe. It would be best for them all if he led alone, but speaking that aloud would end with him on the Post.
"Warmaster!" The hushed but urgent words intruded upon Arakh's brooding. Sitting straighter, he turned to the offending speaker.
"What?" A snap of impatience and anger rode upon the word.
"She is dead!"
"Daer take you. WHO is dead?"
"The Witch Woman! She was found cold in her bed!"
Arakh stopped, his notched and battered ears rising at the news. "This is true?"
"Yes, Warmaster. They build the pyre now."
Arakh smiled. A moment later he threw back his head and laughed. "At last the old bitch has passed.” His eyes narrowed. “Does Nerash know?"
"No. He sleeps yet. He was with the long hunt, and was as exhausted as those with him.”
The Warmaster smiled. "At last we are rid of her. We will yet be rid of him. I will be rid of him! Fetch the men; this night will have blood to stain the Post!"
Blood-curdling, chittering howls ripped through the air, followed by the sound of cloth ripping; Nerash barely got his eyes open before the first dull-clawed hands took hold of him, and then it was too late. He still fought, getting his teeth into one of his attackers, the taste of blood salty in his mouth when he was ripped loose.
Another howl split the air, and the beating began. Now awake from the adrenalin alone, Nerash knew what it all meant; the four years were over, and the end had come. Now all he had to do was survive.
He smelled smoke, and the reek of burning meat and fur- someone important had died, their pyre already burning fiercely at the edge of camp. He hated to think who. It had to be his protector, the Witch Woman; the Warmaster would never have dared an attack on Nerash without her gone. She’d tolerated his strangeness and shielded him with the strength that her station could bear. He’d never known why.
Fists struck him, taunts and jeers ringed in his ears. He still tasted blood, this time his own- the tiny obsidian knife he habitually hid in his mouth at night had cut into him from the violence. With it still there he might have a chance to get away.
More blows fell as he was dragged from his tent towards the center of the camp. Risking a look around, he saw the pyre at the edge of the camp- yes, it was her. He could see them tossing in her possessions. He knew he had a different destination though- the Blood Post. Even though he knew it futile, he started struggling once again. He managed to get an arm free, and with it got in another few violent swipes. It made little difference. Someone finally struck him in the head, shattering his concentration. While he was dazed they got him to the post, slamming him against it.
This actually helped, clearing his head a bit. Fighting again, he managed to get a hand to his mouth as he cursed them and struggled. When it came down again in their grasp, his tightly-clenched fist held the tiny knife. Now if there was a chance to use it...
His arms were forced around the pillar, the rust-stained wood against his chest. They bound his hands together, clenched fists touching. “Perfect,” he thought. “I might have a chance.”
Of course, that meant he had to survive what came next.
The yells and jeering slowly became a chant- Nerash could hear drunkenness building in the voices. His death was a celebration.
“The Witch Woman is dead! We suffer the loss! But we also no longer suffer that which she protected, Nerash!”
The crowed roared approval of this, and the speaker, Arakh Maug, continued. “We knew you were strange; but after you returned from the Pit you were changed even more. We watched you, and over time knew that you had been seduced by false powers! And now you will pay!”
Nerash didn’t listen closely to the words of the Warmaster, being too busy working the obsidian knife against the ropes. All too soon he heard the crowd of his former tribesmates quiet, and the slap of the scourge on the ground. A moment later and the many-tailed whip snapped near his back, its metal spurs ringing metallicly. The next swing wasn’t a demonstration.
Though ready for it, the pain made his vision go white; he held onto the knife, but his hand now bled from it slicing into his palm when his fist tightened. He felt blood on his back, and idly wondered how many blows it would take to kill him. The second blow, then a third- his vision greyed, sparkles swimming in his sightline. The crowd was jeering and yelling once again, the liquor flowing freely. Another blow and he felt something peel from his back; but he also cut the rope binding his hands through!
As he pulled his hands loose another strike landed, the leather strands whipping around his side, tearing more hide from him; but he was loose! A brief stagger took him clear of the Post. With more drive than he thought possible, he fled. A leap through the liquor-mazed mob and a half blind charge into the night, and the race was on.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Some of the tribe were still drinking and carousing, too drunk to realize what had happened, but most stared in shock. None had broken free of the Blood Post! Arakh broke the spell with a howling shout.
"DAMN you all! He FLEES! GET him!" With that, a mad scramble began, warriors charging after the figure now lost in the black of night. However, a trail of blood was there to follow; it was only a matter of time before Nerash was once again on the Post, or dead.
Arakh didn't care which.
Blood streamed down his back and legs, and Nerash paused for a moment- calling upon Vaeldur, he used what little power he had to obscure his trail, than continued his headlong flight into the mountains. He knew where to go- a place none would dream that he would venture. He turned to the west and once again bent his weary legs in flight.
Hours later, dawn touched the Eastern skies. The cool of the night was already beginning its passage to burning heat, finding Arakh stood over a figure laid prone. His fist still clenched, a rumbling hate-filled snarl rose in his throat as he glared down.
"... I don't know how we lost him, the trail just ended!" Varak'n winced and held his jaw where his Warmaster had struck him.
"TELL me. How is it that a half-dead, BLEEDING male, fresh from the Post, could leave NO trail when in full flight?"
"The trail simply ends, I swear it!"
Arakh cuffed Varak'h again. "You will show me. If you prove to be a fool who lost the trail, or are lying, I will place YOU on the post."
Varak'h shuddered, nodding to Arakh and led the way. From the camp the trail initially was obvious- Nerash had been bleeding badly from the scourging, and was making no attempt to conceal his passage. Indeed, running full out it was obvious he sought distance, not concealment. However, about a mile from the camp the trail simply ended. On one side of an invisible line there was blood-spoor and footprints; on the other, unmarked, unbroken ground.
The Warmaster glared at the site, taking several breaths to take in the impossible; without a word to the unnerved Varak'h, he returned to camp. Varak’h watched as the Warmaster started back, and thanked whatever dark god had smiled upon him and spared his life.
Hours later and heedless of any of this, Nerash staggered into the one place that his people would never follow- the Pit. He limped within and down, finding one of the alcoves off of the main passage. Caring not of its lifeless occupant, Nerash dropped to the floor and promptly lost consciousness.
When he woke much later, he felt the fever burning in his wounds. His thoughts were confused, but he wanted, needed water. Finding one of the torches that were spaced along the sloping wall of the passage, he managed to get it lit. With the light it provided he weaved and staggered downwards to the final chamber. He drank from the pond in ragged gulps, then once again collapsed.
Days passed, with the cycle of waking, drinking and collapsing being the entirety of his existence. Eventually the fever broke, leaving him lucid but horribly weak. Calling to Vaeldur, he requested replenishment of the gifts the God provided. Quickly healing himself as best as he could, he made his way back out of the Pit to hunt.
A month went by before he felt ready to return to the site of his tribe’s camp. Not surprisingly they had moved on in the eternal pattern of the nomad. He quickly located the cached gear he’d concealed; not all of it, but he’d expected some to have been discovered. He wandered through the now-abandoned site, lingering on two spots- the partly filled hole where the Blood Post had stood, and a pile of trammeled grey ash where the pyre had burned. Kneeling, he ran a hand through the ash; naught else was left. “I do not know why you protected me, Old one... But thank you.” That said, Nerash turned his eyes to the future.
His strength was returning, though his back wasn’t healing properly. Now with weapons and clothing he was able to survive more easily... But he had no home to go to. Nerash knew that eventually he’d encounter either his former tribe or another; in either case the meeting would be fatal for him. After six months, he knew there was only one choice left to him- the Human city of Oasis. With luck, perhaps they would accept him.
