Olaf
Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE
Fear overwhelmed him. It was unnatural in its intensity. It blinded him and chocked him. Across from him, he could see Valdi felt the same. His amber eyes had grown large as he clawed at his throat. Olaf thumped his head against the table, hoping that the pain of it would rid him of the spell she had obviously thrown over them. The first hit did nothing, but the third or fourth hit had enough intensity to break the spell. He surged to his feet and heaved his greatsword over his head, intent on cleaving the woman in half.
As a warrior, Olaf was especially conscious of the movement of time in battle. For him a split second meant the difference between life and death. With the excess adrenalin pumping through his system, his senses went into hyperdrive. Perception was widened, and every detail of every battle became infinitely important. Time became measured in the slide of muscle and bone and in the ache of his limbs as they pushed themselves beyond limit and imagination; it was measured in the rumbling of his voice as he shouted his defense. It was in his in his periphery as he watched Valdi glide to his feet in an easy motion, bow already nocked with a broad poison tipped shaft. Everything moved in slow motion as his field of vision widened and his brain processed every detail of what was happening around them. He judged the conditions for his attack and knew he had scant minutes before Nero, the lodgemaster, intervened. In his heart of hearts he knew this would be a bad thing. Whoever sat behind him would have no qualms killing witnesses. How he knew this, he didn't know. He could feel it - the coiled malice emanating from her. He knew, not guessed, knew, that she looking for an excuse to exact violence upon them. Why else would she come and taunt them like this?
He breathed out, focused his attention on the glide of his movement as he swung around. His greatsword, Xanthia's Prize, cut through the air with precision and grace. Muscles bulged, swelled, tore and twisted as he forced more speed into his movement. The adrenalin he forced into his system was both a blessing and a curse. It could make him stronger, faster, more aware, and, as the battle wore on, his system would be flooded with more of it. The price would come in the morning when his body would present the bill for the misuse he had forced it to endure. Gylda always used to say that nothing in life was free. She was right of course. The thought bought a pang of guilt along with a shot of sadness. With adrenalin pumping through him and his bear pounding against his metaphysical flesh, he was reminded too much of the night she left him. As he spun, his chair fell to the floor with a clatter; he kicked it out of his way with enough force to disturb the table next to his. As Xanthia's Prize arced above him, he moved into a warrior's stance. His body braced itself for the meeting of flesh and steel. A poisoned tipped arrow brushed past him on its journey to subdue Madam Strange. Valdi would have already nocked another by the time it took him cleave her in half.
He felt the impact of Xanthia's Prize as it sliced through the hard wood of the chair she was sitting in. A shudder moved through him as the greatsword split the wood. He ignored the reverberation and focused his attention solely on the creature before him - she was fast. How she had avoided the trajectory of the greatsword was beyond him. Grey eyes roamed her frame while another arrow glided past him. Almost nonchalantly she snatched it out the air and tossed it to the floor.
At best, Olaf could describe her as womanoid. The term fit her only by the barest definition. There were aspects of womanhood about her person, but as a whole she was so other that sex didn't factor in. She wore a dress with skirts that looked like the decaying petals of a wetland flower. They shone like an oil slick in the flickering lights of the candles. Her flesh was the colour and texture of bracken left to rot in a stagnant swamp. What he assumed was her hair was twiglike in appearance and had dead or dying leaves clinging to their pointed tips. It was her eyes, however, that reinforced the sense of otherness. They were completely black. Not as black as night, or as black as pitch. No, those had shading and variants. Her eyes were the absence of light; they were cold and unyielding darkness. They awoke primal fear in Olaf. It wasn't the panicked oppression she had woven over them earlier, but the blind, hollow fear of the dark that all creatures that walked in light experienced when faced with its suffocating immensity.
The arrow she had caught hit the wooden floor with a clank. Her bough-like fingers moved to a painted bone china cup she held clasped in her other hand, her gaze unwavering as it held his. Slowly she took a sip of its contents, bringing into relief the intricate imagery that enfolded its surface.
Insult was added to injury. Valdi roared. His angered tones echoed through the crowded lodge, alerting the other patrons to their situation. The sound of it was enough to break his gaze from the Sylvari's. He swung around in time to watch Valdi's flesh melt off to reveal the amber gaze of his wolf form. Fur the colour of melted butter rustled softly to a preternatural wind. His maw opened and displayed a plethora of sharpened teeth. Clawed hands bit into the hard wood of the floor. His muscles rippled as he bought himself into a low crouch, a deep growl emanating from his chest.
Faster than he could draw his next breath, the tables crowding around theirs emptied. Patrons and employees alike made way for the upcoming confrontation. Money exchanged hands and bets were made on the outcome of what they perceived to be a bar fight. Nero sat straighter in his chair. He pulled his giant hammer across his knees in case he needed to intervene. His gaze sought that of his son behind the bar. Reading the look, the boy disengaged himself from the customers surrounding him and climbed into a safe box built into the bar for just such an occasion. The click of the box's inner lock rang through the too quiet room.
Olaf felt sweat trickle down the clammy flesh of his back and neck. His arms shook slightly as he pulled his sword from the remnants of the winged chair. Valdi leapt next to Olaf, crouched as he was his head brushed against Olaf's ribcage.
She cleared her throat.
"Oh child," she whispered, her clipped voice on a breath, "Look what you have done." She gestured to the patrons standing quietly around them. The movement of her twiglike arms encompassed all of them. Her black eyes glinted in the candle light.
"Why, after this I surely can't be held responsible for my actions…"
She smiled revealing the dark cavern of her mouth. Olaf clasped Valdi's shoulder. He felt the muscles tighten. Grey eyes met wolfen amber
.
"She has hostages." He whispered to the boy, hoping that he had enough presence of mind to heed her previous gesture to the other patrons. Valdi grunted, but didn't relax his stance. Olaf raised his eyes from Valdi's crouched form and met the malevolent glare of the Sylvari. He tightened his grip on the young Norn's shoulder.
"We tried to kill her and that failed." He whispered to the crouched Norn, "Time for option two."
"No." growled the boy, "I'll keep her busy. Get. Endenvar."
He didn't wait for a response from Olaf, and instead he literally sprang into action. His wiry form flew through the air towards the Sylvari; his sharp claws at the ready to rend her flesh. There was a savage beauty in his movement. It was coiled muscle and sudden violence given motion. As he flew towards her, Olaf hefted Xanthia's prize and sprinted to the open door. The last thing he saw before he fled the scene was the meeting of claw and her fibrous flesh. As he passed through the door, he absently noticed a black and white Charr picking its teeth with a curved dagger. Briefly their eyes met before he sped off. She smiled, row upon row of pointed teeth were revealed in the movement. Olaf shuddered, but continued onwards.
Without the deluge of rain hindering him, Olaf made good time. It helped that he didn't have a pack weighing him down. He entered a balanced stance and moved swiftly to where he had left his brother in arms. He encountered no foes while journeying, and for that he was grateful. With Valdi's leap a sense of urgency began to take route in Olaf's heart. A sense of urgency that had nothing to do with the twin bone minions that followed closely in his wake. They were just behind him; Olaf could smell the putrid scent of their decaying flesh. Their clawed paws kicked up sodden soil as they bounded after him. Desperately he kept his gaze ahead, not wanting to meet the hollowed caverns of their eyes.
Over the pitter patter of their clawed feet, Olaf heard the crashing of something larger moving behind him. He tried to pick up speed, not wanting to be held back by whatever it was. The sounds of it thrashing through the underbrush grew louder. Olaf's breath hitched, not daring to turn back he continued headlong into the mist. The mist soon devolved into a thick fog as he grew closer to Wolf's Shrine and his mother's grave. It curled around him with damp fingers and made his previously dry clothes stick to his sweating frame. His greatsword, harnessed to his back, rubbed and chafed against him with every step and his knees ached from running on the uneven terrain. The tall pines, already sparse, grew sparser. Collecting his resolve, Olaf broke through the scraggly trees. In the clearing before Wolfspaw Shrine, the fog had thickened and made visibility almost nonexistent. Without the comfort of growing things looming in the shadows, the clearing was desolate, empty and eerie. He paused in an attempt to gain an idea of where he was. He knew logically that the shrine was just ahead of him, but with the fog swirling about him, he didn't want to take the risk of losing his way. Madame Strange had said that Endenvar had twenty minutes. Olaf couldn't judge accurately, but he suspected that that was more than twenty minutes ago.
Gasping to regain his breath a bearings, Olaf scanned his surroundings. With the fog pressing down on him like an oppressive blanket, it was difficult to know where he was. He was cocooned in its icy grip. It was so thick he couldn't even make out the soaring peaks of the mountains that surrounded this area of Lorner's Pass. He closed his eyes and attempted to regain control of his breathing. Breathing deeply of the cool wet air, he slowly cleared his mind of the fog that cluttered it. Images of Endenvar's broken body filled it. Using his willpower he banished the image. They had been through greater adventures than that small necrotic Sylvari could ever hope to match. They had survived worse, and with their trip to the Matriarchy they would survive worse still. The thought, though dark, bought him a measure of comfort. Finally his heart calmed in his chest, and his breath became even. Taking the panic and fear that had gripped him after meeting the Sylvari, Olaf mentally stuffed it in a box called Problems for Later, and focused on finding Endenvar. He took a deep breath and looked for one of the scraggly Pines that grew scantily about his area. When he found one, he ran his large hand over its surface looking for the telltale sign of moss. His hand brushed against its springy green surface. It grew high on the tree and along its thin trunk and was therefore a good indicator of direction. The side it grew on indicated north. Olaf positioned himself in a southerly direction and began jogging. He felt the need to run, but knew that if he made just one misstep it would cost him his direction.
Sound echoed hollowly with each step, the thick grass the blanketed the ground muffled his passage, but each breath he took resounded in the inclosing fog that surrounded him. Dully he could hear the shuffling, shifting movements of the minions behind him, and further still, the clamoring beast that followed him through the scant trees thundered laboriously in his wake. As he neared the shrine another sound was added the the soft susurration that enveloped him. An angry hissing filled his ears along with the panicked yelps of what he assumed to be the pups of Wolfpaw Shrine. The rancid stench of burning fuel and hair filled his nostrils. Coughing slightly, he moved towards where he assumed the smell and sound where coming from. Soon a gentle red glow penetrated the fog at varying intervals. Olaf ran towards the light, unsheathing his greatsword as he went.
The sight that met his eyes when he reached the shrine was enough to give him pause. The Asuran, small, malnourished, and a baby to boot, had jimmied a flamethrower out of the remnants of the golem that had held it captive. Its large eyes were bright, its blue tuft of hair slick with sweat, and its gums were bared in a crazed grin. Olaf was taken aback by the sheer amount of ferocity seeping from its small body. It was using the makeshift device to hold off the mother wolf and her cubs from Endenvar's prone body.
The matron of Wolfpaw Shrine was larger than the normal wolves of Lorner's and imbued with power from the shrine. Her thick grey fur was mottled and burned in more than one place from her encounter with the Asuran. She had attacked the small one thinking that she would be a bite before she could gorge herself on the tasty Norn behind her, little did she know that the child carried a devise of splendid pain hidden behind her back. She was crouched just short of the flames that spewed a fountain of pain. When the nozzle inevitably became too hot for the babe to handle, she would dart forward snapping her toothy maw, her pups close on her heals. Bright blue eyes would glare and a shot of hissing flames would fill the air once more. The smell of burnt flesh, burning fossil fuels, and blood filled the Shrines hallowed grounds. The Asuran trembled with exhaustion. Her hands had already been scrapped and cut before they found her, now blistering burns were added to the plethora of wounds that were interwoven up her small arms. Her face was grim, hard, and nothing like what you would expect of a child. A baby. Eyes that should show no comprehension were filled with a quiet intelligence, a flaring of knowledge. Olaf was completely taken aback watching her fend off the wolves. It was like watching a fight between a human and an ogre. The Asuran was so small that even with the added height of her upright ears; she was barely as tall as the wolf pups. The matron, already larger than normal, completely dwarfed it. Another burst of fire lit the air; it spluttered and then went out. Fear flittered across the Asuran face before salivating jaws descended on it. At the sight, adrenalin flooded Olaf's already overwrote system. He flew across the intervening space to interfere with the wolf's meal, roaring a warning.
Endenvar didn't move.
