Mabari War Puppies
As the bright dawn arrives it finds you in your study reading over reports. The informants you sent out have yet to send back any information, but it is not yet past the point you would expect some word, so you are not concerned. Still, you have been away for some time, and it is worth rising before the sun to catch up on work.
As such, it is into your study, shortly after dawn, that Nikolas bursts with dire news.
"The bitches are pregnant!" He yells at the top of his lungs.
Slowly, you place the paper you were reading down, and level a disappointed stare at the human. For several long moments silence descends on the room as you maintain your gaze.
When the youth begins to fidget and look guilty, you finally speak. "Could this information not have been delivered more quietly and at a reasonable hour?"
"No. I mean yes! I mean actually, uh can I start over?" The young man barely waits for your nod before launching into a speech. "Sorry to disturb you boss, and really we should have mentioned this earlier but most of the female mabari are expecting a litter."
"Yes, I gathered from your initial yell." You reply calmly. "I did not criticise your words, but rather your choice of delivery. While I applaud the restraint you have shown in reducing your volume, you have not explained why it is information so vital you have clearly run here in a panic."
"Right look really sorry but what I mean to say, that is it's maybe kind of potentially possible that the first one has gone into labour?" Nikolas trails off.
"That raises the question of why you are here and not helping the poor creature give birth." You reply calmly.
"Oh I've always been terrible around birthing animals." The young man replies entirely unashamed. "I panic, it's too much responsibility for me. So I got the job of letting you know about it."
"Which brings us to the point of why I am only just now finding out that the war dogs are having puppies." You state. "It seems like the kind of information that should have been delivered as soon as it was discovered."
"Um, well, promise you won't be mad?" The young man asks, wincing.
You raise a single eyebrow and give him another disapproving stare until he begins to speak once more.
"We couldn't think of a way to tell you that they needed something to do." Nikolas babbles out. "We didn't even realise that they would need something until we spotted the first pregnancy and then we had no ideas, but we didn't want to accuse you of being a bad dog owner and we panicked."
It takes a moment to process everything he has said, but once you have done so your response is obvious. "I am disappointed by this dereliction of your duties. Had you come to me earlier we might not have been in this situation. How long will it take for the last of the puppies to be born?"
"Some time next week, probably, maybe?" Nikiolas replies. "It's hard to tell, we've never raised Mabari before. We're guessing based on this first one and the uncle Paul's old hunting hound."
"Very well. It seems I must decide what to do with the puppies." You say, more to yourself than the human in the room.
"Shouldn't we decide what to do with the dogs, so it doesn't happen again?" Said human asks.
"That will keep until later, feeding and caring for the young dogs is far more pressing a concern." You reply. "We could keep them I suppose, though I know little of training such beasts and I understand they are likely to be dangerous."
The human shudders and grimaces, likely aware that such duties would fall to him and feeling woefully unprepared for the task.
"I suppose we could give them to one of the local nobles." You muse. "They are likely in a position to hire people to take care of them, and I hear that Ferelden is fond of them as a rule."
"We could give them away to the neighbours." Nikolas volunteers. "That's what uncle Paul used to do."
"Perhaps, but is it wise to give untrained war hounds to civilians?" You ask.
Nikolas shrugs. "They're supposed to be real smart and easy to train. Dalish could probably manage it, and them Chasind probably know all about it. Gladesville would have it harder, but they could manage."
It is a tempting option. For just a moment, you consider giving the puppies out as gifts to the humans and Dalish around you.
The notion is swiftly dismissed, if these hounds are as easy to train as the boy alleges, then it is possible you can do so here. If it still proves necessary or desirable, you may distribute the hounds as gifts later.
"You seem to know much of these hounds and their training, despite your self-professed lack of experience with them. Might I ask how you came by this knowledge?" You ask the young kennel attendant, hoping that he has a more capable source of knowledge you can consult.
"Eh?" The human blinks at you, confused. "Not really? I mean, they're the Mabari. Everyone knows about them."
"Clearly not." You gently reprimand the boy; such assumptions are what cased this problem. "Be about your duties, even if you cannot aid your fellows, you can at least keep the others from disturbing them."
Nikolas raises a flat hand to his forehead edgewise, then turns and leaves. For your part, you make a mental note to speak to Ranger about his experiences with such things, and head towards the kennels. It is time to meet the new hounds.
While you fetch a labourer to help with clean-up and fetching, you are not so arrogant as to burst in and disturb those with far more experience than yourself in the birthing of animals. Instead, the labourer assists you in fetching cleaning supplies and refreshments for the likely exhausted experts.
The two humans, the boy Philip and the sheepherder Fransis, emerge filthy and tired. They are thus immensely grateful to have someone else to do the cleaning, and to be presented with clean cloths and hot water to cleanse themselves.
While they do so, you take the time to ask questions. "Is there anything the pups will need?"
The two humans exchange a look and shake their head. "Most of it'll be taken care of by the mother, anything else we can do with what we've got. Biggest problem we have is what to do with them."
"I intend to keep and train as many as possible." You reply to them. "I suspect I will need to hire additional, likely specialised hands, to deal with them."
Philip nods. "Yeah, ya should also make sure ya come through when they're a bit older. Mabari imprint on people, who they'll be loyal to 'til the end. Kind of weird to see so many who haven't actually."
Your memory helpfully supplies the feeling of meeting the dogs for the first time, and the touch of the Lady of the Forest upon them.
"I suspect that there is more at work here than appears on the surface." You state cautiously. "I would not concern yourself with it. As to the new hounds, I shall take your advice."
Inspired by his words, you reach out your thoughts to gently brush past the animals around you. The adult Mabari emanate satisfaction and welcome, likely aimed at the children, and the pups are still too young to have much on their mind other than food.
Despite this, there are a few glimmers of recognition among the young dogs, nothing conscious but still present.
Turning your attention back to the humans, you say, "I understand that the hounds are in need of something to do. I myself obviously have some thoughts on the matter, but I hoped to receive your input on the matter."
Philip looks somewhat guilty, and Fransis shrugs.
"I could use a sheepdog, but they're a bit overkill for that." She explains.
"Very well, I will find Nikolas and then you he and I will have a more detailed discussion on the matter." You inform Philip.
Nikolas and Philip both have very good suggestions. A warrior paired with a hound is a formidable combination, as Tyelkormo and Huan would attest were they here. Matching hounds to your rangers is also a good option, hounds to track and fight that can run as swift as a horse sound like a fearsome combination.
Thus, many would be surprised when you reject both suggestions, instead you decide to create a unit entirely composed of Mabari. You have your reasons, obviously. There are administrative advantages in being able to assign the hounds to specific tasks, for example. These practical concerns are however not the primary factor in your decision.
The Mabari were sent to you by the Lady of the Forest, the same spirit with an odd fondness for you who later contacted you to form an alliance. At this moment your rangers are carrying the Persilima to cleanse the forest enough to increase her influence. From your understanding of such creatures, these hounds may still be under her influence to some extent, and you do not begrudge an ally command of their own forces.
Even if you are wrong, there are still those other benefits: concentration of force, administrative ease and so on.
"Thank you for your suggestions, however I think it will be best if I have the creatures directed as a whole, and separate unit." You inform the two kennel boys.
"You're the fancy soldier guy." Nikolas shrugs. "Ain't never heard of Mabari bein' used that way, but you're the boss."
"I do have one concern." Philip interrupts his brother. "Neither of us are really suited to leading animals into a fight, so we can't really guarantee anything on that front."
"I had no expectations that you would do so." You assure the more responsible brother. "I have a number of possibilities in mind for their leaders, your responsibilities remain their care and feeding."
The two brothers nod and diligently listen as you ask them questions about the relationships within the pack.
According to the observations of the brothers you determine the Mabari before you to be the 'leader'. Not the largest of the hounds, though certainly among the larger ones, the animal has greyish dappled fur and a narrower face than some others. When he sees you approaching, he barks enthusiastically.
"I am told that you understand the tongue of Thedas, is this true?" You ask the hound, trying to fight down the impression that a prank is being played on you.
The dog nods his head, barking affirmatively.
"I am not certain whether I feel more disturbed by the fact that you apparently understand my speech, or that I seem to understand yours." You inform the hound leader.
From the way he tilts his head and wags his tail, you get the impression the dog thinks you are acting foolishly.
"I wish to organise yourself and your pack into a warband, I think it would be smoother if you were involved in the process." You explain yourself, feeling quite foolish.
The animal does not in fact understand what you mean through words alone, so you stretch out your thoughts to touch his. It takes some negotiating and impressing of ideas for the animal to understand, but you manage to explain what you want to the creature.
While you get the impression that the dog considers such things to be 'two leg business'; it seems to be a simple matter to assemble the hounds into a single pack. At some point in the future, you will need to give them a handler, but for now they are content to follow your direct instructions.
As the dog demands you play with him, you reflect that nobody has gotten around to naming the dogs as of yet.
You stare at the hound as its tongue hangs out from its mouth. For a moment you consider Ulfang, there is a sense of irony to giving the name of a traitor to a loyal hound; perhaps the hound can redeem it.
An image of your brother looking at you with venom in his gaze flashes through your mind. It would be an ill-fated name to give to an innocent, and the image has given you a better idea.
"Turco. Your name is Turco, be worthy of it." You inform the dog.
Chieftain is what he is, and it is a worthy name. Turko would approve.
From the Horse's Mouth
While you are in the stables, Orundómë's mind brushes against yours. As usual, there are no words between the two of you, only ideas and sensations. This time, you receive an impression of a request, of urgency and distance. It seems your horse has something he wishes your aid with.
It would be remiss to reward the horse's loyal service by ignoring his request, so after sending a sensation of agreement back to him, horse and rider depart from Endataurëo.
If you expected to find out what the request was after departing your home, then you are disappointed. Orundómë only asks to be given his head and, once that request is granted, surges forward with all his speed.
The mighty steed crosses ground in a flash, as swift as the lengthening shadows of evening. Away from the road he flies, swift and steady as he weaves through trees and ducks past spider web and Sylvan grove. Hours pass as he tears through the forest, ever faster.
From the tree line he bursts, streaking towards a distant town and the road that runs through it. Past cart and walking men he speeds, unrelenting in his pace, seemingly untiring. Down the road he thunders, over hill and past fields growing gold and ready for harvest.
As Orundómë splashes across a shallow stream, the rolling hills and wheat fields give way to plains and pasture. Sheep and cows by the hundred you spy, more importantly herds of horses in small but significant numbers.
"Is this what you wish me to aid you with?" You yell over the rush of wind in your ears. "Are these horses in trouble?"
Silently Orundómë thunders on.
From the early morning when you set out, the sun now stands proudly overhead, midday or thereabouts. Finally, chest heaving and sweat covering his body, Orundómë comes to a stop.
No more do you wonder what he might wish aid with, for the sight before you makes such questions moot.
In a pasture stands a horse like none you have seen before. Its hide is the colour of the night sky, an inky blue that might be mistaken for black in the dark. Its mane is the colour of copper, and waves like flames in a breeze you cannot feel. Red eyes seem to faintly glow in deep sockets, and its gaze carries malice like no animal you have before seen.
Your senses scream of the wrongness within, much as they have before the creature of desire that possessed Merrill. This time it is something akin to the Lady of the Forest, a spirit of the plains, so warped and distorted that it would have not seemed out of place among the hosts of Morgoth.
All about the creature masquerading as a horse lies the bodies of a herd of true specimens. Blood pools on the ground and flecks the creature's lips and hooves. Reflexively you grimace, this would not have been an easy or gentle death for the innocent equines.
Once more Orundómë's thoughts touch yours. The sensation of family, and in particular a feeling you associate with your own mother, and a name; Calaternén- Light Through Water. The horse follows it up with an image of a dappled grey with excellent lines.
A glance at the fallen reveals the absence of said mare. The worst case scenario you had been assuming must be discarded for a worse reality. By process of elimination, and given Orundómë's distress, the demon of the plains has possessed Calaternén and Orundómë wishes you to free her as you did Merrill.
With this new information, your immediate plan of striking down the loathsome creature must be cast aside. You dare not hurt the horse, unless all other options have first been exhausted.
Briefly, you consider extending your thoughts to the creature, perhaps you could determine the root problem that transformed the creature and deal with it. Unfortunately, even that little thought takes more time than you have and the possessed mare charges at you.
A dive carries you to safety from the initial charge, but as fleet of foot as you are, you cannot match Orudómë's mother. For a moment all you can see is the possessed beast bearing down on you, then Orundómë is there.
Rearing on his hind legs, the lord of horses drives the possessed creature back with flashing hooves. For a moment, all looks like it might resolve, then the demon lashes out with teeth grown razor sharp.
Your horse dances to one side, moving in to shoulder check his mother's body. When that fails to do much to the 'abomination', as you believe such things are called, Orundómë attempts to sink his teeth into the flesh of its neck.
Even without Eldarin eyes you could tell something was wrong with the hide of Calaternén. Her son's teeth deflect away and the lord of horses whinnies in pain. The demon within takes advantage of the pause to drive the stallion back with hooves that glint like steel in the sunlight.
The exchange, brutal as it has been, has been more than long enough for you to rally your thoughts and create a plan. Magic and muscle will serve to tame the creature, long enough to do something more meaningful at least.
For a moment, you reach for long strains of grass, but at the last moment you realise that you have a better base for the song you plan. To your own head you reach, and from atop it you pluck several strands of copper red hair.
In familiar motions, you plait the hairs together into a single strand, as softly you begin to sing. The notes weave a tale, of weavers and crafts never seen Thedas, of rope and thread that endures for centuries. Your voice slowly swells as your song invokes the image of the skilled ropemaker, bending and twisting hair into a mighty cord.
Beneath your fingers, the bright red hairs lengthens and thickens. You continue to weave the strands into a rope, adding more hairs when necessary, and though it all you continue singing.
To your words you call forth all the skill of the Noldor, every scrap of artifice and cunning that your people have wielded through the ages. The song swells yet further touching more concepts, tying, binding, holding and restraining. The final strands enter the weaving as your song crescendos.
In your hands is a rope of bright red, with individual fibres seeming to glint and shine like copper wire. A quickly tied knot forms an impromptu lasso and a quick tug tests the rope's strength, and you are satisfied. The spell will hold, and the rope is strong.
An equine cry of pain draws your attention to the contest between Orundómë and the demon puppeteering his mother. Bright red blood flecks Orundómë's flanks, and the possessed horse seems unaffected.
You spring to your feet, rope unfurling as you begin to swing it. Drawing on past experience, you judge your moment with care and consideration for the additional factors brought about by the possession.
When Calaternén next rears up to strike at Orundómë, you cast the open lasso out to catch both her hooves. When the rope touches the flesh of the horse, the demon within screams. The tightening rope brings hooves crashing together and unbalances the possessed mare. After a few seconds of wobbling, the horse hits the ground.
The demon within does not give up easily, and you find yourself fighting with all your might to not lose your grip on the rope. Were you alone, it is likely that it would have succeeded, the sorcerously enhanced might of a horse exceeding your own.
However, you are not alone. Orundómë lends his own strength to the task, flopping down atop the rope to prevent the demon escaping. It gives you just enough time to form a second loop, close and make a second throw.
With both fore and back legs bound together, simple physics ensures that there is little chance of the abomination freeing itself soon. Orundómë looks upon the scene of the thrashing mare forlornly, but you turn your mind to how to cast the sprit forth.
Now that Orundómë's mother is safely immobilised your earlier thoughts of reaching out to the spirit within her resurface. While it is impossible to tell whether there is anything you can do for it, you feel compelled to try.
Orundómë whinnies questioningly as you stride to the fallen mare. A quick sign has him, if not relax, at least untense slightly. Calaternén thrashes powerlessly in her bonds, striving to strike at any who dare come close. Fortunately, she cannot reach her back, and from that direction you approach.
A hand laid on the mare's head is not strictly necessary to reach into her mind, yet with all such magic, metaphor and simile are potent tools. Given the struggle you had against Merrill's demon, you want every advantage you can find.
You take one last look at Orundómë, who is hovering nervously nearby.
"We will return shortly." You inform the horse.
Then your thoughts reach out to touch Calaternén's.
The thoughts of the possessed are a whirl and a blur. Already there are parts where one identity blends into another, fragmentary ideas begun by one and ended by the other. As always, it is a sensation impossible to describe without metaphor.
The malformed twisted idea of wide rolling expanse, twisted by foul sorcery into something unrecognisable, so enraged by its own suffering that it only seeks an end to all it once protected. Beneath the shadowy bulk of the demon lies the true Calaternén, struggling weakly and ineffectually.
The monstrous attention of the entity of the Beyond turns to answer your challenge. Its eyes land upon you and its glee is almost palpable. Like a rushing flood it moves towards you, seeking to crush you beneath its bulk.
It does not expect to be met by the might of the Noldor.
The first moments of the exchange are nothing you can control. The demon rages, corrupted power lashing about it blindly. For your part, the Light of Valinor, and the Flame Imperishable meet it in a display of blinding Power. Throughout your very being you feel the echoes of something so far beyond you as to be incomprehensible stir.
Then the moment is gone, and all that remains is the power that has accompanied you all your life. Whatever stirred to your defence has not won you the fight, merely bought you time to rally your own defences.
That is all you need.
Your strength roars like a fire, blaring like a host of trumpets. Tendrils of iron will reach out to ensnare and entrap, while slivers of intent sneak behind to cut the ties that bind Calaternén. For several moments, it seems you have succeeded and the demon is trapped, then with a soundless roar the creature bursts free.
Your attempts to free Calaternén are cut short by a focused attack, or perhaps defence, from the demon. Unwilling to strike directly, you are forced onto the defensive as the dark power strikes at you, not to control but simply destroy.
How long the two of you are at deadlock, you cannot say, for all that you have a clear advantage in your ability to focus and direct your power, without a willingness to destroy it cannot overcome the sheer difference in power.
'I am not here to hurt you!' You cry.
'Doubt, mistrust, Hate.' The demon replies. 'Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!'
With fiercely gritted teeth, you take a risk. From within the depths of your soul, you call forth the Light. With implacable purpose, you forge it into something more precise. With a heave of will, the lance of light strikes the dark bulk of the shadow.
The creature screams, tries to flee, to fight, but it is all pointless. Even if you were not certain of your eventual victory, you could delay it for hours if necessary, which is more time than your lance needs to work.
Images of the light of the Trees, or the love of family, and yet more that is Good, flash past the two of you. Light burns and tears away at the darkness. The heat within you grows and grows as you hold the might of the demon in place. Finally, slowly, the struggles cease.
At first, you think that the creature has been destroyed, but a quick inspection reveals otherwise. Like gold in a crucible the impurities of the demon has been stripped from it, though it seems that the spirit is greatly diminished.
With an echoing sigh, the spirit of the plains vanishes into the Beyond.
Calaternén carries you back to Endataurëo, you hope her owner will not be too angry, but you fear what might happen. Besides which, you doubt Orundómë will allow his mother out of his sight for some time. Xandar needs a mount to visit that beloved of his, Calaternén will carry him to her with all speed.