[spoiler]apologies for being so late on the next one, but family's been keeping my busy with the holidays. Next one will be on time, probably.[/spoiler]
Nona didn’t realize how much preparation it took to make even a short journey. In some small way, the whole tow contributed to his quest: the lycan tailor fitted him to an old set of traveling wools, the goblin tanner and quilter worked together to make him a rough pack, bedroll, and waterskin, the orcish butcher and the toadish baker made him Olstead (a nutritious bar stffed with dried meat), the dwarven blacksmith lent him a dented pan, and the pixie foragers offered him extra kindling and berries. Many of Nona’s own chores helped prepare for the journey. Condi traveled lightly, carrying no pack, but hanging necessities off of naturally evolved hooks around his carapace. He split his spiked arm back into a normal hand, flexing his fi-blam!- in the Grinning Wolf as he waited for Nona to finish getting ready. Reke carried nothing, since Nona’s pack had a specially made pocket for all his gear. In addition to the pack and new clothes, the human also wore a “saddle” for Reke on his shoulder: it was nothing more than a thin pillow that sat on his shoulder, held in place by a chest strap. Nona didn’t see the point in wearing it; his shoulder wasn’t that uncomfortable, but Reke insisted on having it. They said their goodbyes: No-blam!- thanking everyone for their kindness, and Reke swearing not to return without Lusahn the Healer. Condi led them out the wide front gate, meant for wagons, and they set off on the road.
The town was situated in the middle of the Iffet Plains, a vast expanse of grass as far as the eye could see. They did travel on a road, but it was little more than a slightly more tramped version of the knee-length bladed grass that dominated all directions. Condi set a brisk pace, not too fast, but not leisurely either. They took breaks only for eating meals, in which they stepped off the road, sat, and ate, leaving room for any other travelers that might have been passing by. Not that they found anyone else traveling, the journey was pleasantly quiet. After the first few nights, Nona learned to relax, with no shrieks constantly reminding him of the Underrealm threat. Even if there were beasts out at night, they’d have difficult time finding the travelers curled up in the grass among the nothingness that surrounded them. Still, Condi had them taking turns keeping watch at night, just in case.
Once, they passed a herd of bavren, grazing on the long grass, paying the travelers no mind. They were funny creatures: six short, thin legs that barely reached above the grass supported a thick, barrel shaped body draped in heavy fur. Their heads sat on their shoulders, necks too small to be seen, and were adorned by horns that made one corkscrew, then continuously grew upward. Two huge, perfectly circular eyes dominated the top of their faces, and their long snouts hung down, ending with the tips of pink, lolling tongues that licked the air and grass constantly. A few of the curious of the herd looked at the travelers but paid them no heed. They were virtually harmless creatures, unless one was unlucky enough to be caught up in a bavren stampede, which were usually reserved for running away from threats anyway. Locals usually hunted them for their meat and furs, but strict quotas were kept in local villages to keep populations relatively stable. Nobody really knew how many bavren there were; finding them was often a stroke of luck in the Iffet Plains, where hints were scarcely found. Most folk still worried about rampant poaching, lest there was less bavren then estimated, so Condi was determined to put an end to the rumored bavren-murderer.
…
A lone, cloaked figure sat in the middle of a pile of slaughtered bavren, contemplating his next move in the waning dusk. A silver claw consumed his right arm, and he picked at the matted, blood-soaked fur of the nearest bavren with it. He hated these creatures, as he looked at his handiwork: sagging tongues hung out gaping mouths, blood and entrails leaking out from underneath huge bodies, and their dumb, massive eyes stared at nothing. His strategy of tracking a herd, killing as many as he could, then searching he corpses for a Golden was not working. Even if one of the herds had a Golden Bavren, most of the herd got away as soon as he attacked, leaving him with only a few corpses to examine. He’d attacked dozens of herds, but nothing was found.
From the sea of voices swirling around in the madman’s head, one, a person who was once a renowned hunter, drowned out the others, repeating the description of a Golden Bavren for the hundredth time. Wrapping his tattered, black cloak around himself, he told the voice to shut up. He needed to clear his mind, regroup, and reform a new strategy if he was going to bag the Golden. But the hunter would not let him. He spoke louder in the confines of the man’s mind, causing the other voices in his head to clamor for dominance, and soon, as had happened so many times before, the voices screamed inside his head, all vying for incomprehensible dominance. He clenched his jaw, feeling the veins in his neck muscles tighten as he struggled to calm the voices. But the hunter wanted more, he wanted to take control. He could feel the tingling sensation in his silvery claw, the feeling of a voice trying to break through, trying to wrest his body away from him. No. He rocked back and forth, trying to latch on to something of himself: a name, a memory, anything. But the voices had already strangled any semblance of individualism a long time ago, and now he could barely stave off their desire to take control of his body. Tension mounted as the man started to shake under the pressure, before he finally slammed his claw into the ground, sending a gout of blue, roaring flame in all directions around him.
The voices quieted but did not fall silent. They never fell silent. Still, he could finally try to think, even if the acrid smell of burnt fur, flesh and bone seared his nose. He contemplated a new plan, reaching down and rubbing the ashy fur of a nearby corpse between his fi-blam!-, letting it trickle down through his fi-blam!- like sand. Then, he looked up and saw that his little outburst had not gone unnoticed. Two shadowy figures raced towards him in the distance. This was good. Dealing death would be a welcome distraction.
Next Chapter: https://www.bungie.net/en/Forums/Post/260342332?sort=0&page=0
Previous Chapter: https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/260230188/0/0
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2 RepliesEdited by John Marston: 12/29/2021 11:42:23 PMso whens nicholas cage come in?