[The Bronze Wood] A Dark Day (Dusk)

[Sturlin]

Timestamp: 19th of Spring, 510 AV

The sting of blood in his left eye brought Sturlin's mind into sharper focus. Panic had threatened to overwhelm him, but he was in control now. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar trees in the darkness of the late evening. He had no memory of this place. Somehow his flight from the beast had led him off the trail and into the shadow. Welts were beginning to rise on his face and arms from the whipping of branches as he had burst through the undergrowth in an attempt to escape.

The hunter was not wearing his armor. He had not anticipated trouble, and had departed his camp wearing only his customary leather vest and breeches with high leather boots. His pack hung from his shoulder but his bow remained hidden in his camp. It had been his plan to travel lightly. This had been a mistake. On the bright side, he thought to himself, at least he was not as defenseless as the average archer without his bow.

Sturlin calmed his shaking with deep breaths as he wiped the blood from his eye. More immediately ran down, obscuring his vision. A light scalp wound such as this was not serious, but it was surprising how much blood it could produce. Reaching into his bag he ripped the hem of his spare cloak and wrapped the torn fabric around his skull as a bandage. It would do for now. An indistinct noise in the darkness made him jump.

He had been ranging deeper into the trees of late, searching for a suitable cave to make shelter in. His recent companions and security had made him careless. The hunter did not know what beast stalked his tracks, but whatever it was one thing was certain; it had claws. It had burst from the trees with a swiftness he could not match and marked the top of his bald scalp with those claws. Unable to see for the blood in his eyes, he had panicked and fled through the underbrush until he had found his way to this spot.

The first step toward finding your way when lost was searching the sky. Sturlin would have to climb a tree, or find an area where they were not quite as thick. As he heard a bulk shifting in the shadows he made his decision. Bark was rough on his fingers as he wrapped his arms around the tree and climbed up its surface with his feet. Moving as quickly as he could, he soon found his fingers wrapping around a lower branch. Reckless in his haste he cut and scraped his arms and hands.

Scanning the earth below him he paused only long enough to regain his breath before forging onward. Rocks and branches far below became smaller and smaller, until he was able to push his head out and above the canopy. The blinding light of dusk on the horizon disoriented him. Sturlin had just enough time to register where he was before his hands slipped and he tumbled backward. It turned out that he should have listened to Miharu and continued working on the elasticity of his left hand. The scarred fingers had failed him, unable to open widely enough to catch his one chance of salvation.

Falling out of a tree is a nasty business. Twigs spring from branches and attempt to cut and gouge one's flesh. Branches spring from the trunk and attempt to break any bone which comes into contact with them. The trunk moves faster and faster with each passing second, slipping from grasping fingers like the scales of a snake. Worst of all is the ground which rushes to welcome you with open arms.

Recalling what his uncle had once said of falling through the haze of pain, fear, and humiliation, Sturlin extended his arms to each side and attempted to strike the ground with the trunk of his body. While the pain was literally breathtaking, the force was spread throughout his body as he made impact. This was meant to help prevent the twisting and breaking of bones, but the hunter was unsure if it had worked or not. If his life and career had a high point, this day was well on the way to becoming its opposite.

Gasping for breath and choking on what came, Sturlin rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself to his knees. His left arm gave out and he slipped into the leaves and dirt face first. Minutes passed as he lay there cataloging his pains and injuries, working up the strength to lift himself. If he was correct he had sprained or otherwise injured his left shoulder. His stomach was bleeding where his vest had flapped open during the fall, allowing a twig to gouge him. The toes of his right foot were tender, but thankfully he did not think they were broken. Above all he felt that the entire back of his body and much of the front of his body was bruised painfully.

Forcing himself to his knees with a great effort, he knelt on the ground and looked around in the fading light for his bag. It had been thrown free in the fall and rested some ten feet away. Ten feet had never felt as long. Flipping the bag open he searched for the cloak he had torn, ripping it further to provide wrapping for his stomach and a crude sling for his left arm. That was the end of that cloak. Yet another thing he would have to replace after this horrible misadventure.

The snap of a twig echoed through the twilight. The hunter froze, eyes widening. His fear of the beast was what had sent him up the tree and caused his tumble down. It was foolish of him to have forgotten it. Pain can confuse the senses temporarily. Willing away the fog from his mind, Sturlin slowly stood and rested his bag at his feet. It was important that he made no sudden movements. Gradually he began to master himself, though the tension grew so thick that it seemed to solidify in the air.

Another rustle broke the silence, and he knew that it was time. Whatever he must face this day, it was clear that flight was no longer an option. Perhaps if he had been brave enough or clever enough to stand and fight in the first place he could have avoided this many injuries, and faced his adversary at full strength. Something had circled around behind him. Taking in a deep breath, Sturlin whirled on the spot with arms stretched wide to await the beast's coming.

[Dusk]

Sturlin had been unbelievably lucky in the time since he'd set up camp in the Bronze Woods. The outside world was not a safe place, by no means welcoming and often just the opposite - which was why people huddled together within the walls of Syliras, terrified of what lurked in the night.

And well they should be.

When Sturlin turned to face his aggressor, there was nothing to see. The branches of the trees, covered in newly budding leaves, obscured what light remained as Syna descended to earth. Only darkness and shadows, and the quiet hum of insects that didn't care whether he lived or died.

Hissing, that was the first thing he'd hear, after a moment or two to listen to his own breath panting in his ears.

Then something plummeted at him from the treeline. Charcoal feathers blotted out what little light there was, the wingspan nearly eight feet across. It looked much like a vulture; where a raw pink head and beak would have been, though, was a hard plate of bone with ridges around the eyes and razored edges visible when it opened it's mouth and let forth a piercing, angry cry.

It swept towards him, and as it closed it lifted it's two back legs, flexing the talons that had nearly split his skull when he'd first walked under the beast's tree, and prepared to finish him.

[Sturlin]

Where was a giant wolf who transformed into an attractive young woman when you needed something killed? As he heard the blood rushing through his ears he continued, silently, gathering his strength and bringing his focus to bear on the situation. In his good hand a steady but minuscule stream of Res was trickling into his slightly cupped palm. While he was not prepared for where the animal erupted from the trees, he was prepared for the eruption itself. The only problem now would be matching its speed when he was already injured.

Key points. The beast is feathered, taloned, and beaked. The first was good, the second two were bad. As he limped and lurched out of the way of those slashing talons he launched a palm-full of Res at the beast and angled it toward where the creature's ear hole should be. At this range his control of the Res was near perfect, but it was hard to see the details of the creature and so it was hard to be sure he was closer to the ear than to any other part of the head itself.

As the black gas moved with the creature's head Sturlin converted it into a rapid and powerful slash of air, swirling outward in every direction. Not a very powerful spell, nor a very difficult one. However, it was useful for making a loud bang in a pinch. When air is made to move with enough force it can produce as much noise as the Shale Storm he had created weeks earlier. The sound, rather than the force, of a detonation next to the creature's head might disorient it. Birds were often susceptible to loud and startling noises. In the darkness the creature's eyes flashed as its entire skull rang with the sound of the spell. With an angry screech it finished the slash of its talons. While they lightly grazed the magician's injured arm the blood they drew was nothing compared to the death stroke he had narrowly avoided.

Now he was on his side in the dirt. The amount of time he had bought himself was not enough for him to stand in his injured condition. He would be forced to press the attack in what way seemed best to him. A dagger, though he bore one on his waist, would be of little use here. Perhaps a more seasoned warrior could have felled the beast with such a simple weapon. No, the only real option the magician had available to him was his Reimancy. It seemed that the day in which he would require speed as well as accuracy had approached more rapidly than predicted.

There were ways to protect against overgiving but none were fool proof. Such was the ever present danger of Personal Magic. When in a dangerous situation Sturlin's main priority was maximizing the effect of a minimal amount of Res. It may require several spells, but he considered that preferable to risking the failure of a large scale expenditure. When you invest that much power into a spell the greatest danger is missing and ruining your efforts. As Sturlin used his injured arm and foot to slide himself backward he gathered the strength for another spell. Many practitioners, especially those of greater skill than himself, had produced an effect too great and powerful to perform twice without dire consequences. While it was an awesome sight to see a firestorm devour a copse of trees it was not the sort of sight a magician could create without consequences.

Meanwhile the unidentified monster was shaking its head to clear the ringing in its ears and savaging the turf around it with powerful legs. Its pupils contracted when it saw its prey slipping away, and then they dilated in preparation for the kill. With feathers ruffled and wings spread for balance the creature charged. Damage to the hearing could temporarily affect balance, but not enough to save him. Talons gripped the ground as it stumbled for the first two steps, but then it gained its stride and had no trouble in sprinting toward him. Perhaps this time the magician's luck had run out.

Having hoped that the sound burst would have bought him more time, Sturlin forced more Res into his palm and then angled what he had up through the air and above the magician to hover there for what seconds remained before the animal reached him. The creature halved the distance, and the outside surface of the sphere of Res solidified into a ball of shale the size of Sturlin's fist as it moved nearly two meters behind his back and away from his foe. The creature quartered the distance and the sphere began to fly forward, using those two meters to gain speed. As the creature opened its beak to screech its triumph, Sturlin resolutely stood his ground to angle the shale into the open mouth with all the force he could muster. Just before impact, the fist sized sphere of thin fragmented shale was filled with highly compressed air as the Res was converted.

For a man about to die, it sometimes seems as if the actions of all those things which surround him slow to a crawl. Dim light reflected off the talons descending upon him, suspended mid-air after the predator's leap. The bird's eyes opened wide in alarm as the shale struck its beak. Sturlin's arm, bound in a sling, raised to shield his head from both the talons and any shrapnel should his spell succeed. He was in the act of tucking his body into a sideways roll away from those feet which sought to disembowel him. It felt as though he had an eternity to consider the situation.

[Dusk]

The creature was in the midst of his victory screech when the little ball of rock went flying into its mouth - and that was, perhaps, the stroke of luck that saved Sturlin's life. Had it exploded while it's beak was closed, the bone-plating covering its head would have protected it even from the rock, and it would have finished him in the next swipe of talons.

Instead, it exploded in it's mouth, sending sharp jags of rock through it's palate and into it's throat and brain. It was, perhaps, the fastest anyone had killed one of these beasts in the last hundred years.

But just because it was dead didn't mean it was over for Sturlin. He'd waited too long, let it get too close, and when the shale exploded and the bird died, it's momentum twisted it and carried it forward anyway. Though his roll helped to keep his guts where they belonged, the beast still slammed its full weight into him. A flurry and spin of oily, rank feathers, weighing at least a hundred pounds, tumbled him ten feet away before both he and the corpse crashed into the trunk of a tree.

The world settled again, and left him tilted around the trunk, half the beast's body underneath him and one of its wings tangled in his legs. There were gouges and scraps covering most of his body, for the tips of the wings had claw-spurs as well and had cut at him as they rolled. Most were shallow, though there was one on his thigh that would likely need stitches. He also had at least one bruised rib on his right side, and his previously-strained shoulder was screaming in pain that could only come from dislocation.

Worse even than the pain, though, was the stench of the creature - rotten and overwhelmingly strong, as if the thing was in the habit of dragging carcasses back to its lair and sleeping in them while they rotted. It was sickening, and cloying, and would likely take a week to wash off.

[Sturlin]

Fortunately pain was nothing new to Sturlin. The impact of the beast was still enough to send his mind reeling. Once he regained his senses he painfully pushed himself free of the beast. Resting on his good hand and both knees he vomited into the grass until his stomach was empty. Victory did not seem to relieve him of the shaking. If it were not for the adrenaline he may not have been able to go on without rest.

Taking his belt in his hand he wrapped it around the injured thigh. He was not a healer and that was the best he could do. Cinching it tightly he realized that he would need to collect what he could from his camp and try to find his way back to Syliras. Limping back toward the bird he removed the dagger from its sheath and collected several trophies. Even as he did so he was forced to pause, more than once, and dry heave near the corpse. This beast was disgusting.

In the feeble light he gathered feathers from the plumage, choosing only those oily feathers which were least damaged. These were not difficult to collect one handed. Refusing to leave this area without something to show for it he then wormed his dagger into the creature's neck and searched for a way to separate the head from its shoulders. Perhaps what was left of it could be examined later. He'd be damned if he would leave it behind after proving that his Shale Storm worked.

Many minutes passed before he shoved the oily, bloody head into his pack with a cramped hand. The pain in his shoulder caused him to throw up again, though very little came out. Once the dagger was back in its sheath he heaved himself to his feet and began limping out of the clearing. All he had to do was examine the tree he had climbed to determine the direction he must travel. He had seen the direction of the setting sun before he had fallen.

Moving through the underbrush was difficult and painful. His entire body was scraped, cut, and bruised after his fall and subsequent battle. The magician's dislocated left arm was in a sling, his scalp and stomach were oozing blood through their bandages, at least one rib was bruised, the toes on his right foot were injured, and his thigh was held together by a leather belt. It was darkly amusing to him that he couldn't even be sure yet if he or the bird had come off worse for the encounter, for he could still die of his injuries before he found safe haven.

Just as the light day slipped completely below the horizon Sturlin found a familiar animal trail. The finding may have saved his life. Had he been forced to wander through unfamiliar terrain in the dark, with such heavy injuries, it could have taken him a day or more off course. Even with the guiding knowledge of the area he was unable to make good time. Soon he was forced to pause by a tree and relax the belt.

A movement in the darkness caught his attention. He felt his ears perk, so closely was he paying attention. Every hair on his body stood on end. Surely there could not be more than one of them? If this creature was not a solitary animal, then there was no hope in sight. Another rustle froze him to the tree. He would be damned if all of his efforts would lead to death in this forest. Heeding the call in his mind he mustered his strength again.

Perhaps subconsciously he still understood that in his condition additional casting was ill advised, or perhaps the sound of an indistinct hiss spurred him to immediate action before he could muster enough Res for a more powerful spell, but what he produced was only a small crescent wave of Res no thicker or wider than a dinner plate. With a dismissing wave of his hand he arced it toward the noise and sneered at whatever might attack him now. If death came, it would not come with him vomiting and quivering in fear against a tree.

Unable to see he let the Res gain speed for only the space of a few feet before changing it to an edged obsidian arc of death. Wet sounds of rock on flesh splattered the trail ahead of him. Nothing moved. His blood and breath seemed to roar in his ears and his eyes strained against the shadow. When finally he moved forward to investigate he found a small feline scavenger, neatly cleaved into two uneven pieces. It had probably been attracted by the sounds of blood and labored breathing, hoping for an easy meal. He had wasted valuable time and energy for nothing more than paranoia.

Ignoring the stiffness and pain in his leg he tightened the belt around his wound and redoubled his efforts to reach the camp. Once he did he would have water. The shelter there would be useless, if he lay down to sleep he would never get to safety. An experienced healer would say that such wounds were not life-threatening, but that same healer would admit that they spelled death for an exhausted man in the wilderness of the Bronze Wood. He had no protectors to which he could turn. No, he would have to reach Syliras himself.

When at last he staggered into the camp he moved to the fire pit immediately. Taking his tools he struggled until he could produce a small fire, and then he fed it until it glowed. Now he could tend his wounds one last time before breaking down the camp and returning to the city. Francis rolled his eyes and whinnied uncomfortably at the smell of blood and predator. Mr. Pickles waddled sleepily out of the tent to see what was going on.

Sturlin's time at the camp stretched on through most of the night. He boiled water to clean the bandages and wounds before wrapping them again. It was the best he could do by himself. For two agonizing hours he phased in and out of consciousness as he struggled to relocate his shoulder. It was the closest thing to rest that he found. Once his shoulder was forced back into its place the arm went back into the sling and Sturlin ate a cold meal of jerky, bread, and water. Chewing the tough and salty foods helped keep him awake.

Breaking down the camp was even more tedious. With the light from the fire he could see his way around the area, but packing a tent was a chore even when one possessed two able hands. His bow, arrows, and gear were all stowed on Francis by midnight. By morning, the tent had joined them and the camp had been cleared away. Sturlin took a fitful nap propped uncomfortably against a tree to prevent him from slipping too deeply into sleep.

In his current condition it would take him two days to reach Syliras. Limping was not as fast as walking, and walking was not as fast as a brisk hike. It could very well take three days. Mid-morning was as long as he could give himself before hobbling to his feet and gripping the lead of his horse. As they staggered together out of their home, Francis supporting his injured master and the cat trotting along at their heels, Sturlin did not yet count himself lucky. It would be lucky if he saw this glen again while living.

[Sturlin]

The 20th day of spring, he thought. If he had been told twenty days prior to this where he would be today, would he have still made camp here? It was a question that he pondered as he stumbled through the forest and jumped at every sound. Something about the smell of death and magic upon him warned the lesser scavengers and predators of the forest away from his path. His only interruption had been an upset squirrel who had chattered at him until the magician was no longer in its territory.

His only hope was that his injuries would be treated well enough that he could return within the week to collect his snares from the campsite and rebuild. If he had to move his camp before he was ready, or if he was trapped in a bed in the city, it would delay his plans greatly. "This is why we hate birds, isn't it Mr. Pickles? Dirty, oily, nasty things. Biting and clawing and flapping. Make a note Mr. Pickles, we will tolerate no birds within our campsite."

As the cat looked at him he laughed in spite of the pain it sent radiating through his chest. Perhaps that would be an over-reaction. It was unlikely that he would make the same mistake twice. He would redouble his efforts both with the bow and his experiments. The next creature which attacked him in this forest would not injure him this severely, if at all.

Travel through the forest was hampered by caution and injury. Every time he saw any sign of entering a large predator's territory, he would go out of his way to circle around or avoid it entirely. There were not many such creatures this close to Syliras but there were enough to slow his progress. He did not want to risk any creature observing him as weakened prey when his greatest guardian was a pack horse.

Signs such as scat on the trail or claw marks on bark became omens which elicited quiet cursing from him and emphatic pain from his injuries. Honeycombing your way through the Bronze Wood is a long and arduous trek. A broken branch would need to be inspected to determine what manner of large animal had moved through recently. If it were determined to be dangerous, he would alter his course. The bandaged areas of his body were throbbing painfully by mid day and by evening they were filled with an aching numbness.

What meals he ate were small and sparing. Eating was a necessary evil to keep his energy up. If he ate too much at one time he would begin to feel sluggish, or at least more sluggish than he already was, and he could not afford that. After each meal he would be sure to drink water from his flasks and share some with the cat and the horse. They would run out shortly before they reached the city. If they did reach the city, that would not be a problem.

Wobbling, limping, staggering, and mumbling angrily to himself was the norm for the remainder of the day. As night fell he continued to force their pace. Twice during the night he paused for napping and to rub down his horse. As far as he knew, from here on out, the trails would be clear of danger. Now he had more to fear from other people than from monsters and beasts. Woe to any man who would attempt to halt this trio's progress.

~Thread Closed

[Dusk]

XP Award! Sturlin XP Award Medicine: 3 XP Climbing: 1 XP Falling: 1 XP Reimancy: 3 XP Tracking: 1 XP Lore Award Standing Your Ground Syliran Kriital Fighting with Magic Surviving Extreme Injuries Prizes Kriital Boneplate Kriital Feather x 10 Additional Note The woods are a scary place, my dear. Tell your friends.