The Tale of the Great White Stag
In fact, such was the grey that all color was drained away. It was as if peering through a fog, or a dirty glass, or if the world had gained a light coating of dust. This setting is usual to me, so come to understand it now. So thick were the clouds that no one could rightfully point where the sun hid behind them, but the land was not so dark as to need more lighting. It was merely a grey world, no rain, and with a wind that nipped a bit harder than a teething worg. Or puppy, if the image is easier.
This story begins on the fourth day along the road east of Amberpine. The road was empty at the time, and combined with the leaden look of everything, it was no surprise that silence prevailed over all else. Even the plodding of feet seemed ill-suited to the time. These are the thoughts I had that day, though there was a mix with review of the details of my task, for the road was long and a lone traveler had nothing but his thoughts to pass the time.
The great white stag was said to have a connection to an elven god, the lover of the moon, Malorne. Yet like with Malorne, the hunt was fruitless, and by my fourth day of bleak nothing, I knew myself a fool to attempt it alone. I resolved myself to stopping at the nearest trapper encampment to find a companion.
The Wyrd is a tricky thing. Its hand is subtle, leaving no hints until you are already deep within its web, and the spider that is Fate will snatch you up and coil you deep in its webs. No amount of fitful struggling will allow you escape once Fate has her hold on you. That is why men fear her so.
Then, I was young and still new to the world, and though I did not yet believe in the Wyrd, I knew enough to recognize her touch.
Fresh from setting my resolve, I was soon to cross the first encampment. It was empty. In fact, it was so recently cleared out that the coals were still warm in its fire, beneath the scattered sands that snuffed it out. A few miles further, I found another, this one so stagnant that they had a tower of pine and a working tannery installed. Despite the heavy scent of leather and fresh sawdust still thick in the air, it too was empty and expecting no return.
My first touch of the weird was a deep worry at the wrongness of it. Coincidence is too easy a word, and the powers that be were too clever and present to allow such things. I was only one man, mortal as they come, but still I unbound the hilt of my sword and I strung my bow, keeping them clear for use for when trouble came.
A third camp was not to be easily found. I stuck to the road, looking for trader posts and crossroad lodges, to no avail. The eastern recesses of the land were not for civilization, it was said, but the completeness of its absence had another wrongness to it. Even at high noon, the sun had not the strength to penetrate the lifeless sky above, but I counted time by the mile and stopped for a short lunch accordingly. Dry fish and sharp cheese.
Of course, I would have missed the camp entirely if I remained on course. After lunch, I was hardly five minutes on the road again before Fate showed her hand once more. I rounded a bend, skirting the wide breadth of a colossal pine, and found the road encumbered by a series of abandoned traveling bags. They were brown and fur, a trapper's bags, and each fat enough to hold a whole carcass of a grizzly if it so chose.
And so they did choose, as I was still twenty yards out when the first bag lifted its head and gave me a lazy stare. Round, youthful ears of a young bear twitched with curiosity. Then the mother of the bags lifted her head. She sniffed the air with a nose the size of my fist and made a sound like...
I'm not sure how to explain how a matured grizzly bear sounds compared to most bears. I'm not sure most people even understand their size without seeing one. Imagine a wagon with a full load, with great stacks of goods hundreds of pounds each poised high and proud from its broad back. Then take that wagon and cover it all in a coat of fur about half a foot deep. Equip it with claws longer than my fingers and teeth like a sabre in a head as wide as my torso.
Unlike a wagon, it's fast. Not even the lightest elf could outrun one. As for power, it could press just one heavy paw on any tree and tip it over. It is a siege engine of muscle – with the temperament of a bear that knows all these things. And I just encroached on her midday rest with her young.
The first sound was mostly curious. A little grunt with the deepness and sound of a cart crashing on its side. You know the deep, powerful resonance of a a one ton impact, how it pierces right through your chest and quickens your heart with surprise. It is the kind of sound that snatches the ear of anyone in the area, leading an immediate search for the source because all instinct knows that sound is important.
Then the mother bear recognized my proximity to its young and assessed my threat. The next sound was that of a falling tree. The angry snapping and smashing of a great redwood's descent to the earth, and in watching its fall, your skin prickles with goosebumps and fear as you realize your own insignificance against the weight of such a thing. Yes, that was its roar.
I did not stand there and ponder on the oddness of a family of bears resting on the middle of the road. I did not bemoan my chances or look to the sky with accusing eyes. Nor did I pull out my sword with a great bellow of challenge and face down the behemoth of nature. No, I retreated deep within the primal instincts of my race, where thoughts were erased in the tidal wave of fear, and I ran.
Even now, I do not remember which direction I ran, or how fast my legs moved. I know that I was off the road, and I knew that somehow I did not stumble or trip in my flight. Had I done so, I would not be here to recite this story. I do remember flashes of it, however, of leaping clear of vast boulders that I know I should not have been able to. I remember a second and third roar like the first, pressing against my back with the menace of dragons, and how it gave my feet wings. Climbing a tree was out of the question, but I flitted through the parts where the trees grew close together and only a nimble human could fit between.
I like to think that is where I lost the bear, for there was no longer any sound of it following after. The cynical part of me argues that the bear had not bothered to chase me at all, that Lady Urth merely laughed to herself in her method of guiding my path. But that is not for this story.
My heart did not allow me to slow even minutes after the last sound of pursuit. I stopped only when nearly dead with exhaustion, atop a great cluster of boulders that gave me view for several hundred yards back. I saw no bears in that desperate moment, and, in my relief, pitched over and dropped dead. One might argue that I fainted in fright, but a large part of it was the changes of the body after vigorous exertion and how by suddenly stopping myself, the blood left my head leading me to black out. But mostly, it was the fright.
I met her when I woke up.
Still awkwardly collapsed on the cropping of rock, I heard the scrape of a boot and knew I was no longer alone. It took a few moments to collect my wits enough to remember why I found it so important to sleep on such baleful bedding, until the grey of the world reminded me it was not yet night and of my brush with a family of bears. The haze hadn't completely left me even after I pulled myself up to a sit, and I found her staring at me with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
Amber is not a woman that a man forgets. There is something to her smile that warms your heart and reminds you that despite all appearances, the world is not a grey place. From crown to foot: She has raven black hair always tied back, whether in ponytail or braid. Her eyes are wide and the sort of blue-grey of the ocean in cold places. Her skin is a pleasant tan, a reminder of the outdoor life she lives. As a trapper, she is fond of red flannel and sturdy leather, which she took care to keep soft and supple so it did not creak inappropriately. Though strong and sturdy from her work, the long limbs of youth never left her, leaving her as comely as they came. Her pants tucked into soft leather boots, stained to be a dark brown that matched the forest floor.
I suppose I was not out for long, as she said to me in a voice that rolled like country hills, "Howdy mister. I noticed your fall and thought to see if you are alright."
At the time, I didn't think much past the weathered musket she had slung to her shoulder. I said back, "I think I'll live, but I appreciate the concern."
With the worry of an injury gone, the carefully restrained smile of hers, shown only in her eyes, revealed itself in full. It was my first taste of it, and truly it lightened a man's burdens. She said then, "I have to say, I haven't seen a man run like that since stubborn Jef met his first yeti. Were you racing horses or did the furbolgs have a cook pot waiting behind you?"
I wish I could lie about this next part, but I was young and still dazed, and she was pretty and had a great smile. So with all the crassness of youth, I told her, "I saw your smile in the distance and my feet moved accordingly."
My cheeks burned hot even before she laughed. With her blue eyes twinkling, she told me, "I think you fell harder than we thought, but I thank you for the kind word anyways."
I suppose this is a good time to mention I was only nineteen years old then, and Amber is two years my senior. Back then, I still used to think age mattered, and I'm sure she saw that as nothing more than the words of a child. Amber was sweet, but she intimidated me, both in looks and maturity, so with a clearer mind, I furiously tried to put my remark far behind us.
I told her, "I'm looking for a trapper camp, actually. I was hoping you might have an idea to the nearest."
"I dare say you did well in your haste then," she replied, and I remember her shifting her gun against her shoulder. She pointed behind her, and I saw the beginning of a wood fence atop the hill. "You passed out right on our doorstep, but I'm last out. I was just running final inspection when I heard a ruckus like a stampede from the forest and grabbed my baby Buck here to take a look." The was her gun's name. She treasured it like she did all her meager possessions.
My frustrations rose again when I realized that this camp too had packed up and left already. In a large group of trappers, certainly one could be convinced to part with them for a short while, but I seemed fated to never catch them in one place. I explained my troubles to Amber anyways, hoping a small hope I could spark her into accompanying me. Never mind that she was a woman; she knew her way around this rugged land and that was all that I asked for.
We moved back to their camp to speak. It looked like the others, with everything that could be carried packed and gone. It had a homely scent, the lunch of bacon and beans still present in the air, but the feel of it was wrong, like a home with its folks murdered or taken. An empty sort of wrong, like a ghost town. Two people couldn't fill the life of it.
After introductions and the real explanation for my run through the woods, I began to tell her of my quest. At the mention of the great white stag, she made an expression that finely mixed intrigue and skepticism. Women are good at that sort of thing.
She asked me, "Are you sure you weren't being had on? I've been around these parts and never heard of a white stag, let alone a great one."
Eager to not look the fool, I was quick to explain, "The men at Amberpine put it off too. Even when a second traveler said the same thing, he was hardly given an ear until the third came by. They all say the same thing: When the moon is high, a white stag the size of a mammoth can be found going about. One man said it touched his broken leg with its ivory antlers and he was healed right then, letting him finish his trek back to camp. Another saw it trampling a mountaineer camp, crushing the men under its heels and casting the souls among the stars.
"Frankly, it all seems like hearsay, but one of them took an interest in the white stag and had already asked around. Its temperament is nothing but a beast, but its chock-full of magical properties. Antlers that can heal wounds, blood that cures any illness, and a coat of fur like mithril, able to turn aside arrow or blade with ease. He also has it on several sources that whatever supernatural blessing that came upon that beast will pass onto whomever can slay it."
By the end of it, the hunger overcame the doubt, and before she even spoke, I knew I had won over Amber. I had my trapper. She became distinctly businesslike about it too, saying, "Well, it sounds very taunka in origin, like one of their tales given life. If people really have begun catching sight of it, then this might be one not yet deep in the histories just yet. As for catching it, we might try to go about it like a regular stag, but if Buck can't pierce its hide, I don't know what to do. Poison, maybe, or a push off a high cliff."
It was delightfully devious, the way she rubbed her hands together and regarded me. It was also the first time I had seen a woman with lust in her eyes. "If we do this, I get the coat. That's my price." Remember, as sweet and kindly as Amber can be, she was a trapper first.
I agreed to her demands. "Assuming the magical properties persist, Amberpine just wants the antlers and some blood for their doctors. The kill though must be mine."
"Stop there, Fellion. You will pardon...
XxX
...the interruption," Lady Sylvian cut in, shaking him from his reverie. Her chest was lifted almost indecently high above the rock now – but not so much. With unnatural eyes alight with attention, the elf said, "Though you have done well in your descriptions as seen by your eyes, a listener needs one thing more. You are still so young, but the Fellion before me is different from the one in your story. Describe him and how he introduced himself to Amber. How your visage impressed her. We can see already that he is a glory seeker at heart, but what drove such ambitions?"
"Radically separate topics," he murmured, but he nodded acquiesce to her point. "Glory seeker. It is a good term. Amber used it too, but we'll get there shortly. Let's see, what was Fellion the Black-Struck like in those days... I wore leathers, if I recall. The details of myself back then are hard to remember through the beacon that was her, but it's returning to me. Yes, my old leather jerkin. I cared for that thing like my own child, keeping it cleaned and the leather strong. It was cheap enough for even my purse, and hard enough to keep my guts inside during my exploits. I had purchased it with matching leather pants, but those insufferable things took half an age to get in and seemed composed purely of malefic discomfort and indecent noises.
"I took the damned thing to a leatherworker, who fashioned from it a decent pair of bracers and stitched the rest as extra padding for my time-tested riding pants. For a pretty penny more, he stained it all a fine black that did not wash away at the first hint of water. My cloak then was green as Northrend pine needles, waterproofed and warm, and it replaced a soft bed and thick blankets for more nights than I like to recall. Good traveling boots, a perfect fit, I always made sure of that. Sometimes, that is the most important thing of all.
"I carried a sword – iron, straight, length of two and a half, short guard, and leather hilt – as well as a stout hunting bow. There's something to this you will need to know, but it ties to my ambitions, and we will cover it then. So, while that is my image, back then I was still fool enough to introduce myself as Fellion. It was harmless then to do so, and that is how Amber knows me."
With a flat-eyed stare, he asked, "Anything else?"
The Fae's smile was nearly a grin. "Only what you cannot see. The intensity in your eyes as you speak, it gives me shivers. I'm sure Amber felt it too, finding herself drawn into them, like the currents of the river, helpless to your imploring for help in this mystical quest."
He shrugged away her teasing and decided to fall back into the story rather than fall into elven tricks. "Glory seeker. That was her reply...
XxX
"You seek the fame and power," Amber concluded. It was simple insight to my character at the time, but I took it as an accusation and responded accordingly.
It was true though. Understand, I had been too young for the First and Second wars. I'm not the son of a noble, or a hero, or even a warrior. My parents were merchants, sometimes wealthy and just as often poor. I don't have an origin of training to be a powerful warlock, nor the money for mage tuition, nor the subtle hand for an SI:7 operative. I didn't stumble upon a forgotten hero who trained me into a fanciful sword art. In fact, my training came at the hands of a human who learned elven sword-dancing from another. And when I struggled to learn, rather than pull off a remarkable lesson that would penetrate my stubborn head, he merely lifted his hands, shrugged, and left me behind.
When I was old enough to leave home, the War of the Shifting Sands was finished, Onyxia was dead, and the heroes were already returning from shattered Draenor. I was not part of the great heroics of this generation. I barely caught the latter half of the Fall of the Lich King, and I never reached the glacier before it was truly finished.
I had nothing to my name. My bow was not the mark of a ranger or great hunter. My sword was nothing special either. There was no class or school I belonged to. I just had delusions that heroic problems came to those ready to rally to its call, but nothing came for me. When I caught drift of the great white stag, I assumed my chance had finally come to prove myself, and that is why I so doggedly pursued it. I needed that kill to prove, to myself if no one else, that I was a hero like the rest.
So with a bellyful of fire, I told her... well, let's just say I told her that. I nearly shouted it, and I am not proud of that moment. However, I can promise that was the last time my frustrations got the better of me. I was nineteen, on the final threshold of manhood, and I can say it was with Amber that I finally grew up. It is crucial to understand her importance in this story.
Far from offended, Amber laughed her easy laugh and sought to pacify my concerns. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend." Once settled, she said, "I had no idea that adventuring was such a competitive field. I understand completely though. Trapping worgs in the heart of the hills here is no better than bear hunting back home, not unless we find something impressive. I see this white stag as my big chance too."
And like that, my fire was gone, and we secured our partnership for this fool's hunt. That was the start of things for me, realizing how differently our conversation would have run if she had risen to my heat. I already felt young around her; I didn't need to reaffirm that opinion any further by acting like a child.
With that said, even at my most humble I cannot say that I was a mere boy following the lead and guidance of an older, traveled lady. My ambitions ran deep, and they drove me hard to ensure I was good at what I did. My failures with the sword-dancer did not arrest my training with the blade. I practiced on my own for hours at a time, seeking the meaning of his words as I did, and I made progress on my own.
Because of this, I was adept at fighting, even without class. When we ran into trouble, Amber was only good for a shot or two. Don't take that wrong – her aim was sharp, but we are only human and our foes never stationary. Even a Northrend trapper was only so good at direct encounters. When things got hairy, I was the one in front and wrestling it down.
I was so driven to be a storybook hero that I didn't see what I was doing all along. Facing beasts and fiends, protecting the lady... Don't ever be fooled by what others say: Those were my real hero days. Everything that came after was only the blundering of a proud fool.
Back to that first day, there was actually little in the way of combat. Even in that grey overcast world, I had Amber show me how to track beasts and how to avoid stumbling over a family bears. Those were simpler times, just moving about and talking – learning the person that was Amber and, I suppose, showing her who I was too.
You might ask why I'm not telling you what we said and shared then. It's because I don't remember. We spoke and laughed, and that's what I do remember from my first day traveling with her. Then the grey sky began to darken with the coming night, and we prepared for our hunt for the stag.
Amber chose a high vantage point for it. We were up a high bluff astride the river, hoping it would come to drink, and she further climbed a great tree for the greatest viewing distance. On a cloudy night like that, I can assure you the land became impossibly black, and my eyes expecting nothing. Still, looking up I could see the silver glow where the moon hid behind, and I knew the cloud cover was thinning. Amber expected that even without the moon, a white stag should be stark obvious to her trained eyes.
I was left sitting at the base of the tree, feet hanging over the edge of the bluff and my arms crossed before me. Or perhaps that's too typical. I polished my sword in the dark too. Even with my patience, I was fond of the practice while expecting a long wait. I enjoyed cleaning the leather of the hilt, wiping the dust from the guard, and ensuring the blade shined.
That better explains why my sword was already in my hands when I saw it. As it goes, my weird day was followed by a weird night.
A forest never really goes quite, though I suppose you already know that well. For the sake of setting, I still would like to start with sound. Crickets are the true civilization of a forest, and you can hear the chatter and hawking of the marketplace all around you. The sounds go far back, deep into the forest, quieter and quieter until those immediately nearby overcome all the distant chirps. So near to the river, the clamor of frogs rose up the bluff to meet my waiting ears, accompanied also by the distant screeches of owls and bats.
The ever-present wind cannot be skipped over either. It gives sound and motion to the trees, shivering the pine needles and allowing for the steady creaking of the trees as they rock back and forth. Northrend winds bite hard though, and my cloak could do little against its teeth with my arms out to polish. Still, it carried all the pleasant scents of the woods and nature, and even the river below did not stink of stagnation. There was something of wildflowers in that breeze too, I remember clearly.
But by then, the cloud cover had thinned enough to allow pockets, and from the pockets, thick shafts of moonlight pierced the earth beneath the heavens. They moved and shifted, appeared and vanished, as the clouds moved. It was a beautiful sight, matched only by its counterpart in the day, when the sun first pierces a dark sky with all its brilliance, often accompanied by wonderful rainbows.
Alas, I took pleasure in its watching, and once I looked up just before another opened only on the other side of the river, down below. And as my attention followed its direction, I realized the moonlight pooled around an object, for I quickly noticed a dark shape retreat from its bright gaze. It was no beast either, for I could see it walk on two long legs and upright.
I knew it to be a woman right away, though I don't recall why. I never suspected her to be Amber either. She was hooded, dressed in dark, and her steps came with a certain confident prowl that fascinated me. Despite my distance, she was very distinct, and it took me quite some time to realize that was because this woman was about twice the height of a normal woman like Amber. A giantess – vrykul was their name.
And I... Well, she... What is there to say? She was there, but even the memory has taken my words away...
Alas, let me try to find myself, like I sought to then... She captivated me like a moth drawn to firelight. Or is that not enough? She enthralled me like a moon does a night elf. Like magic does the high elves. I did not know vrykuls outside of the rage and heat of savage combat, and even then, I knew enough to widely skirt their villages and towns. She was the first I actually studied without lines of battle drawn, and I drank in her visage like a fish does the ocean.
It was no idle show either. I realized how well this huntress kept to the shadows even with her size. I watched the subtle flitting around the betraying moonlight, dancing in sight for only a fleeting moment, and each glimpse burned- no, branded that brief image into my mind. Or is that too much this early in? Can there be too much with her?
I suppose I should keep it simple. I watched a vrykul huntress out hunting from the safety of a high bluff. I did not know the plans of fate then, but I remember watching her for as long as I could, from the first illumination by the moon until her path returned her to the woods and she disappeared within. I remember straining to catch another sight of her, but she was gone. I realized later that I should have been afraid, that Amber and I might have run into problems later if we crossed paths, but in that moment there was only boyish curiosity. So we can conclude that where Amber made me older, she made me young again.
I don't know how long I sat there, craning my neck like a boy at a parade, but then Amber was tapping my shoulder, and I nearly swung at her in my shock. Before I could even apologize, her finger pressed my lips shut, and I noticed the serious look in her eyes. And the excitement. She breathed nearly under her breath, "Let's go," and I remembered the demand for total silence.
She undid the safety for Buck and drew back the hammer until it clicked. I'm not sure how keen the Fae are on guns, but that is like having a bow at full draw. All it takes it one good squeeze of the trigger to send an inch-thick ball of a lead rocketing towards its target with lethal force. It was a Northrend game hunting musket, so I can't tell you how fast the bullet is fired, but I can tell you it was enough to go in my chest, shatter my ribs, and go out back with a hole big enough for my fist left behind.
Needless to say, she was careful to always have her finger off the trigger until right when she fired – that's just gun safety – but it told me she was ready, and I grew excited to match. We took off with her at the lead, continuing along the river in the same direction the huntress had gone. Amber did not retreat into the woods though, keeping by the water.
I remember that run. The river bubbled and gurgled beside us, joined in sound by the chorus of basso frogs and treble crickets. We strove for quiet, saying nothing and our footfalls softened by wild grass. I knew nothing of where she was leading me, only the excitement of the opportunity at hand, and the anxiety made the run seem farther than it was.
We were perhaps two hundred yards upstream when she stopped me and changed pace entirely. I don't know what she had heard or seen, but one second we were running over the grass right beside the river stones, and in the next, she seized my arm and lunged into the shrubbery beside us. Thank the Light she was always so careful of her gun, for it never jostled or, Light forbid, banged against the nearby tree or ground. Accidental discharge would have been the death of us, in more ways than one.
The moment we were hidden, I noticed her lean towards the far side – that is, the side opposite of the river – of the tree, while staying crouched low so the shrubs kept her covered. I followed her lead, pressing close to her so we both could look without exposing the other. There was an anxious silence for a few moments as I saw nothing, but then I noticed Amber tense up, just before I saw the object of our hunt walk out from behind tree about thirty yards from us.
I think it bears repeating that the forests of Grizzly Hills are thick. The average viewing distance around you is about twenty yards in any directions, so it wasn't like the great white stag hid behind a single tree and suddenly showed itself. It was likely walking the whole while, but that was our first chance to see it. So again, I still don't know what Amber had heard or seen to know when to jump aside and hide.
Those weren't my thoughts in that moment though. The great white stag just revealed itself, and it was everything it was said to be. The crown of its head was a good twelve feet above the ground, and several more feet of antlers went above that. Its fur coat was more than just white – it showed with the same bright luminescence of the moon above, and I realized that the moon itself had finally punctured a good enough hole in the sky to no longer be covered.
It was a majestic beast. Tall, proud, moving with the same confidence of the gods. Such was a beast that had no fear for hunters, and those that intruded on its solitude would only face its wrath. My chance had finally come. Amber beside me readied her musket, and my only anxious thoughts were if her first shot would actually kill the beast and deny me its power.
Just as she was about to fire, another beat us to it. We watch, stunned, as the white beast staggered suddenly, a thick spear in its neck, and then heard a powerful bellow across the river, seizing the attention of the stag. Amber and I both looked over, and she turned livid as she hissed, "Flaming vrykul!"
Indeed, it was the huntress again, storming through the river as she loaded her heavy crossbow with her bare hands. You might assume I was excited to see her again, but frankly, my mood fared no better than Amber's. See, there is a difference between seeing a lion behind a cage and facing one in the wild. And it is another matter entirely to watch the lion try to claim the prize I was so set upon.
At the loud challenge, the stag reared itself up and built up its own fury. No steel coat prevented that bolt from piercing its hide, and it began to charge the huntress. Ivory horns of healing split off its head with great cracks as a second bolt grew caught in them, and then the beast crashed them against the woman...
XxX
He trailed off and did not pick up the story again. Lady Sylvian remained poised forward, intent and wide-eyed, and he started as if just noticing. With a sheepish smile, he said, "Give me a moment to collect myself. I have never known combat like in storybooks, where each swing and step and hit can be recited clearly and accurately. When I fight and witness fights, it is... an emotion, I could say. Instinct and emotions drive every part, seeking opportunity as frantically as possible, hoping my years of training guide my motions. Sometimes I can swing and hit, but I can't see if I scored a wound or only glanced off the leather or was deflected. Combat is not a clear thing, and even viewing from afar is not much better.
"To add, this was some time ago, and bias heavily clouds my hindsight of her battles. I have something of a heroic opinion of her, but I must remember if that was the case even back then, in our first encounter... I know that I was furious that my chance was in risk, and that I was baffled that the stag was wounded, and that her actions impressed me even then. Perhaps not slack-jawed, but it was clear that she and Amber were on whole separate levels as hunters."
If anything, his break in the story only seemed to amuse the Fae. "Don't play coy. You admired her even then."
His arms lifted helplessly. "That may be, but it was not a matter of desire. It was nothing more than a breath against an ember, driving it bright and hot, but catching no flame and dimming again soon after."
"So we are still in the silver. Well then, speak from the heart, Fellion. Let me see this vrykul from your eyes, before you knew what she would drive you to do."
He sighed and ran a hand through his black hair. "You'll forgive me if I sound a fool then, like a boy watching his first hero. Even years after meeting her, she... Fah, I need to stop stumbling over my own tongue. The white stag. Her. Let us go back...
XxX
This nameless, certainly unknown vrykul of the female variety leapt aside from that first charge, still in the river. She went down in a splash and a roll, but on her way up, a long knife was already drawn in her hand, and her dark hood had fallen from her face. Red is her hair, a crimson so deep that even in silvery moonlight it kept a sheen like dark cherries. Then, it was cut short and wild – a ritual for when she begins a challenging hunt, so it would not interfere with her vision. She also did it to prevent distraction, to not be bothered with such frivolous things like braiding it for beauty.
Well, I did not know that then, but short red hair was the first thing I noticed from her.
Patient as a spider, she waited for the stag to come again. I remember that tense moment, how it shook its head, then regarded her again and thundered through the shallow river for her. The scuffle though, that is less clear. Like the wind, she remained ahead of its attacks. I did not think a vrykul, being of such size, could move so swiftly and so gracefully. The knife gleamed silver in quick flashes, and once or twice it bit into white fur, but neither the power or fury relented in the beast.
The huntress was swift and ferocious, as wild and untamed as the stag. I recognized in it a savage beauty. Her combat was an art of showmanship, even deep in pitch of true battle. I remember the splashes of water from their stomping about, I remember it streaming from her blade in scything arcs. I remember the way her wet hair whipped about her head, not nearly so short as a boy's. At times, they would part for brief moments, and she would collect herself with the same patient readiness, holding her long knife ready, dripping with water and her cloak heroically positioned behind her.
Even so, the end came with the same quickness of the scuffle. A hard buck sent her stumbling back, and the deadly horns of the stag scored a quick, powerful blow against her torso while she staggered. A normal human would have been left as an impaled, dangling ornament on the rack after such a blow, but it only sent her reeling back, raked painfully by the antlers, and she fell against the riverbank.
While I remained caught motionless, watching that fight, Amber crept from the tree and finished leveling her musket. I noticed her controlled kneel, barrel lined and her hands steady, and I saw the stag advancing on the downed huntress. Then there was a sound like lighting striking only inches away, where the thunder shatters the ears and shakes the earth beneath your feet.
But I saw the white stag jolt, and dark blood sprayed out of its hindquarters. Its right leg was lamed, and so it floundered about for a second, then faced Amber with a loud bray. The beast had the look about it of an angry god. The notion that it was nothing more than a powerfully blessed animal was dispelled by the clear loathing on its face, and it leveled that look on Amber and I.
She also noticed and yelped a curse. Her gun took too long to load for another shot, and already the stag began a limping prance towards us. Dismayed, Amber cried, "Run for it!" and she bolted into the woods.
I was left behind. To understand, I was still in shock over the turn of events here, and Amber's bold attempt at its life only added to that. And then, my ears were still ringing something fierce, to the point where I'm surprised I even heard what she told me. Still, it was no miss-recollection, as I know what I heard next.
While I stood there with my sword in my hands, facing down the charging god and clinging to the hope that I could take it alone, there was the loud shout from the river, "Ég er hér! Koma aftur!"
I barely caught sight of the huntress standing again, looking quite a bit worse but with all the same fierceness. Her words couldn't distract the stag, however, and I leaped aside just before its antlers shattered the tree I had been partially behind. Practice guided me, and I made a clean roll, sweeping up and turning my momentum into the beginning of my first swing.
Such is the way of elven sword-dancing. I will only explain this once, so listen close. It is the conservation of momentum or a redirection of force. Any build up of force can be translated into attack. The body too can use its own elasticity, rather than strength, to redirect one swing into another. Muscles can work like springs with the right approach, using the tightness of the extremities to propel into the next attack as a counter-force. The key is to keep from the limits of the joints, where there is no elasticity to store the...
Well, the theory looks nice on paper, but explaining its application is beyond me. And beyond the man who trained me, which is why I could only employ a rough form. To call me a sword-dancer is to call a breath the wind or a pool a lake. Same to my understanding of elven arts.
Still, a sword was not foreign to my hands, and putting it into proper motion could be as easy as breathing. Sometimes easier.
My swing was true, but the white stag was not content to sit in place after knocking aside the tree, still sprinting after Amber, and my iron caught only a superficial stroke across its lamed leg. A dark line of blood was quick to show along the flank, a good foot in length. Despite it, the stag gave it no notice, not even slowing, and it disappeared into the woods soon after.
What was left but my own breathing? I remained kneeling with my sword held vertical before me, a thin smear of blood along its end. My heart beat heavy and strong, still expecting a desperate pitch, and adrenaline drove me mad with desire to act and move. Yet the stag was gone, and the forest was quiet outside my breath.
Then I heard a sound like a falling boulder behind me. I lowered my sword and looked with my eyes still wide. The vrykul women had fallen again, motionless against the crest of the river bank. Despite myself, I found myself in a dilemma. The smart choice, and certainly the right one, was to pursue the white stag after Amber. She was my trapper and quickly developing into my friend, to add to the very obvious fact that the white stag, the object of our hunt, was that way.
Yet behind me was the wounded huntress. She was vrykul, the blood-hungry savages that praised the Lich King as a god and would sooner see my head fastened to a chain at her hip to bounce with the skulls of other fallen foes. She hunted my trophy, proved herself a risk to my goal. I would be better off by seeing her dead. My blood was certainly hot enough for that.
Instead, I remembered the woman weaving by beams of moonlight. I recalled the beauty of her fight. In my mind, there was only a sentient being, a woman who clearly devoted years of her life to combat, and just letting her die seemed an impossible choice. I knew better by then, but vrykuls are not boorish in looks or evil in their eyes. They are painfully human in all appearances but size, and it is so easy to lapse into the idea that she was just a woman who lay bleeding her life into the river steam.
So I made the greatest bad decision of my life. One that even a clever me would repeat.
I sheathed my sword and walked to the river. I found the shards of ivory antlers that had fallen before, and I brought them to her. I won't have it be told any differently: those were my real hero days. If there was ever to be a Fellion the Great, he is right there, nineteen and still able to set aside all his great ambitions to tend to a wounded lady.
With that said, I wish I could use this opportunity to describe my huntress as I see her. I must hold my yearning tongue yet, for my eyes had not the pleasure against her grievous wounds. So neither shall yours.
I sometimes like to think a vrykul's size is easier to forget when they are laying down, like a tall man seated. The truth is, that is not the case, and that struck me then as I walked astride her long body to where her head laid tucked into her elbow. She was face down and curled in, and I could not tell if the dark beneath her was her shadow or the pool of her blood.
It bears mentioning her clothes were doubled-leather, thick and well molded, but they stopped before her shoulders, where an armband and bracers completed her covering. So when I stooped to roll her to her back, my hands touched her skin. It was like seizing fire.
The heat surprised me, reminding me of a burning fever, but I knew it was too soon for such to be the case for her fresh wounds. I put the trait behind me, finding a solid grip and turning her over as tenderly as I could with one of such weight. I could add her skin is soft, pleasantly so, and the hardships of her life gave firm muscles just beneath. There is no such thing as a dainty giantess.
A stifled grimace told me she was still conscious, but my attention was not upon her face. Before, I used the word "raked" to describe the damage done to her, for that is what it had seemed then. Seeing her close, however, I realized that was not the case at all. She may not have been impaled clean through, but the many leaking holes upon her leather cuirass had all the appearance as if she had been bound to a pole for a spearman to practice with.
I was not new to the gruesome, and the revelation stalled me none. With surgeon efficiency, I brought the antler pieces to bear, hoping at least that part of the legend was true. Magic remained beyond my grasp, but I was glad to see it was not necessary. As the first shard came close, I watched it begin to break apart and dissolve into a brilliant white dust, and it seeped like a vapor towards and into the closest wound. The vrykul made a deep sound, but it was not one of pain, and I continued swiftly.
One by one, the antler shards turned into the dust that filled the wounds, and I was glad to run out of holes before shards. Realizing I was finished, the urgency to continue after Amber and the stag returned to me, and I closed my hand around the last two shards and rose. Before I could turn away from the vrykul, a massive hand clamped down on my arm, and I met her eyes.
Her eyes... They are blue even in the moonlight. Wide and clear, like flawless gems, and in that moment, the pupils were black marbles for the night light. Their stare is intense, arrestive even, like it can see through your skin right to your heart's intentions, and my heart leapt into my throat when I was first caught in their attention.
I was shocked out of this unwitting trance by the movements of her lips. She said only one word, but it didn't come in the angry growls I was used to from vrykul. Her words come from deep in her belly, the kind that can fill a room and catch the attention of everyone in it, and they seem to settle in your chest more than your ears. This effect is only amplified by close proximity. Even so, it is a feminine throat that says them, and her accent is... well, sultry. Like a guttural, dwarven flair.
"Debt," she said. It took me a moment to hear through the clip from her accent and realize she meant the Common word.
Alright, fine, it was not the accent. I was staring. I broke from the enthrallment of her eyes only to behold her face, and I was no better for it. She is beautiful, not just in an exotic way. Hers is a timeless beauty, her features strong, mature, and proud. Her cheekbones made strong impressions and would have set a heart shape for her face, if her jaw had been of delicate glass. Her jaw was not, and wide, plump lips matched it perfectly. A mouth made to grin, and lips to...
I struggle to keep this view chaste, so let me bull my way out of this before I fall into a fool's poetry. Picture a face so proud and regal you would give half your soul to see carved eternally into stone. That is hers. But hers is not stone, it is of flesh and soft skin – skin colored bronze, and painted over in blue tribal patterns along her left cheek. I can never decide if the face paint covers up that timeless beauty, like painting over marble, or if it gives her exotic appeal. So I just decided to fall into the opinion that matches her choice to wear it or not. Exotic and better when it is there and flawless and better when it is gone.
Does it seem like I have fallen off track? That is good, because that is how I felt then.
But as I said, even after her word had left my ears, it remained in my chest, and I recalled that she had said, "Debt." A debt for saving her.
And I called it in right there, because I was a fool with his heart set. "My stag," I told her.
She laughed. It was a woman's laugh, deep as drumbeats but sweet and rolling and pleasant. It ended too soon. Fresh from her defeat at the white stag's hands, she gave me one firm nod, adding, "Glory."
Then I left. The combined total of our words shared was four, and nothing special took place. I saved the life of a vrykul, and she did not try to crush me beneath her fist once healed. It was proof there is more to the blood-crazed barbarians than we saw in the war. I left with knowledge, something I did not learn to appreciate until much later. It can be argued that finding a vrykul beautiful was noteworthy, but it is not. A succubus is beautiful.
It was just a breath against an ember. Should we never meet again, it would fade to nothing in time.
Though I searched for Amber with what meager tracking skills she had taught me only hours earlier, it was she who found me first. I was relieved. Even knowing I had no hope to match the speed of the stag or a trapper moving through the forest, I feared my choice to briefly stay for the vrykul might have cost the precious time needed to prevent Amber from coming to harm. I still had two shards of the antlers, but I knew that would help none if she was dead on arrival.
My fears were unfounded. I should have known better than to fear for her in a chase with a beast; Amber wrestled with grizzly bears on a near daily basis. A stag was nothing more than a warm up.
She told me the stag had ran off to lick its wounds early into the chase, and I showed her the two antler shards I had found in our brief parting. I did not tell her about the vrykul. An odd sort of shame held my tongue, and a guilt for aiding one of humanity's largest threats in Northrend. I was still young then, and though my tongue could be clever when it suited me, I didn't think I could appropriately argue a case for saving the huntress.
We set up our first camp together. We had our different ways, and she gave me tips on how to make brief shelters and keep out elements. I taught her how to turn a cloak into a sleeping arrangement, when not comfortably surrounded by bountiful nature. Once we had a fire up, our talk returned to our quest.
"Its fur is not steel," Amber opened sullenly. "That means I'm getting no king's bounty for it."
Even at my most hopeful, I had to agree. "It's a magical beast," I said, "but no reincarnated god or sanctified deity. There are more interesting things in the world than a twelve foot stag with white fur and healing antlers. I feel like a fool. I should have realized that if its coat could not be pierced, they would not know what its blood did."
She asked me, "Do you want to keep on? The antlers alone will fetch a decent sum and do some good to the frontier."
The question made me think of the huntress I had left behind and the agreement that it would be my beast to hunt. I knew I couldn't abandon it after that, so I told her, "I intend to. I'd appreciate it if you stayed too, but I understand if you would rather go back to your camp."
She only smiled that warm smile of hers, and her eyes twinkled as she said, "I'm not kicked to the dirt so easy, Fell. I still want that white fur. Mackey and the boys were getting stale anyways. I need a good adventure."
Even now, I cannot say I offered her the best round of it, but that moment ensured her place at my side for most of my supposed hero'ing days. And, as you will come to see, a reoccurring one in the time of the invasion that followed.
Well, I could continue this tale, but all the excitement has already passed. The next day, Amber followed the stag's tracks for half a dozen miles, and that night we caught it by surprise. She killed it in a single shot. She took the coat, I took the antlers, and we made our way back west to Amberpine, where they gladly cleared their coffers for the antlers and we split the money made. I took a hot bath for the first time since I had left there, and it was fantastic.
The End.
XxX
The elf had a stricken look on her pretty face as his attention settled on her. "I understand that your tale has a specific point other than the quest, but refrain from such flippant endings! If you will build it up, then you must finish it properly."
"I don't recall a promise for proper storytelling," he groused. He shrugged, though there was a nagging truth to her accusation. It did not feel right ending a story involving her without the flair she deserves, even that of the sham that was the white stag. He withheld a sigh. "I trust you will retell it with appropriate drama. I can't remember a word of dialogue between Amber and I after that at the campfire, but you are free to make it up. We ended the quest on a pleasant high note, that of success despite the truth of things. A magical stag was better than a plain one."
He paused, then added, "And that hot bath was amazing. Give it great detail."
The mask of disdain fell from the Fae at that, and she laughed. The sound was lyrical and enchanting, lifting a man's spirits with nothing more than its sound, and he smiled at it. Lady Sylvian followed it by catching his eyes with her delighted grin. "You can be sure of it, Fellion. But we cannot stop here. What is next? What is next? Three times I ask, what comes next?"
There was something deceptively childish in the eagerness of the Fae, and he knew of the dangerous ground he tread. The more riled she grew, the greater her demand, and so the further on course he was locked. To deny a Fae would be to incite ruin.
Yet telling the story reminded him of memories long since lost. He wanted to speak of her, to put to voice his strangling feelings of yearning. He knew that by the end of this, he would be left with an even fiercer, more desperate longing, but reliving just the memory set his weary heart alight, and he knew it would only get better the deeper into his history he went.
"Well, first look at what we have now," he said while rising to his feet once again. His arms went up high, stretching him out pleasantly. "An ambitious boy, a lovely trapper, and a mysterious vrykul. Fate tied them together for a purpose not yet known. But is that all the characters? In fact, has Mally's mother even shown up, or have we only begun to lay a stage for her first appearance?"
The drop of her jaw was worth an Azotha gold. With eyes round as the moon above, Lady Sylvian sputtered, "But I thought- I mean, she was just...!"
And Fellion laughed, deep and powerful, his voice once again like a brass trumpet. His grin spread wide, even mischievous, and his bearing possessed a new confidence. Or perhaps he had found an old one. "I jest, I jest. I am not saying she is yet to come. I merely wish to keep the matter in appropriate suspicion so that you may see through my eyes at the time. You must uncover the romance as I did, or else why tell the story at all?"
Lady Sylvian tightly crossed her arms before her chest and sat up entirely, keeping the shawl of moonlight fasted around her hips. She had a pout on her lips but no sincerity in the expression, and it soon fell for an eager smile. She delighted in the coy chicanery as he knew she would. "Well, we must keep on. Spin forth your sweet tale, of the happy days when the world did not creak under the weight of the Kvaldir, of brave Fellion, proud and foolish, and the woman he so loved with a devotion to bring down empires."
Perhaps it was the childish exuberance of the elf, seeming girlish and playful, or perhaps it was a return to his old bold foolishness. Maybe his returned confidence assured him that there was no danger. For whatever the reason, Fellion could not refrain from passing a wide, jaw-cracking yawn and waving her back. "A tale that must be continued tomorrow. I have a rapidly approaching courtship with a cold bed and empty dreams."
A second Azotha gold. Dismayed, the Fae woman cried, "The night is so young! You mustn't leave! I deny you. I deny you. Three times, I vow, your leave is denied!"
For a bare moment, Fellion thought about following through and challenging her thrice-bound vow. Instead, he barely withheld his laugh as he said lightly, "Well, I may just stay then. I suppose another story or two would not hurt."
Lady Sylvian's expression turned surprised. "You had no intention of leaving at all!" she accused. Her pout returned in force, and the notes of her voice turned sullen. "Why do you tease me so, Fellion? Truly, no mortal has your audacity, to so flippantly beguile a Fae. I see now the rumors that preceded you did not exaggerate."
His grin was her only answer. After a moment, he said, "Well, let us continue this story. I am torn between two parts, the tale of the beryl scale and the night of the storm crow. I do not know which came first."
Lady Sylvian's expression began to wane. "So soon? I know the night of the storm crow, but I had hoped it to be deep into your tale. You have not yet shared your first kiss with your lady love. It was the herald of the southwind, was it not?"
Fellion nodded. "The harbinger of the Kvaldir invasion, but you mistake the beginning. I remember now. Amber wasn't present for the beryl scale, because she took injury and rested in Frosthold. It was our first parting since our travels began. The storm crow came before, so I will start there. And lighten your heart, for the southwind was only an omen, and there was a calm before the storm. The tale of the beryl scale is a warm one."
He took a breath and realized he was thirsty. He passed to the pond and received a drink, dipping his hand into the clean pool and bringing it to his mouth. As he did, he noticed motion, and he saw the elf woman had returned to its depths, leaving her shawl behind on the rock. Just her head peaked above the surface of the pool, a dark shape against the bright glittering of the moon against the plane. Her attention remained latch onto him, an expression like a hungry cat coloring her face.
His eyes turned away from her and he took another drink, then returned to the willow tree and sat with his back against it. His pants were dirtying against the cool, damp soil of night, but it didn't bother him now. The firm wood against his back was a comforting, companionable presence. His hand came to one of its weeping branches and whittled small leaves away as he considered how to approach the next part.
Finally, he nodded, and his gaze settled back upon the Fae. She had drifted to the shoreline, still submerged in the water but resting her arms against the bank. He did not realize their new closeness until she spoke, her lyrical voice softer with the distance yet seeming louder than when they spoke across the water, "So you were there for the storm crow. It was assumed that that was an embellishment of gossip, after your later involvement in the invasion."
"You will see. It didn't begin with the storm crow. No, there was fame and glory and danger, and we all rushed headlong after it – her too – with hearts of fire and heads stuffed with wool. See, this might be called the tale of the broken talisman or the guardian rune or even just the Sleeper's Fiat, if not for the overshadowing of what followed.
"So let us go back to where my damning mistakes truly begin, and see how even with the best intentions, a fool hero can burn the world..."
