10th of Summer, 510 AV; Morning
Vadim woke to the relentless flap of canvas against wooden pole. The sporadic beat intensified as the drawing wind surged through his tent and whined at its exit, a pressurized screech that was melodic but monumental on scale. Much in likeness to the ocean the sea of grass lapsed against itself in turbulent weather and made the crisp swoosh echo throughout Ironfoot pavilion. A meshed conundrum of sound was enough for the young man to concede rest, who in futile attempt to keep himself warm had withdrawn himself in the comfort a blanket. He threw it to his side and stepped from his tent, his half lidded gaze focused on the sky above.
"We meet again, Whistling Dragon", Vadim murmured from lips that weren't truly ready to part in full flavored speech. His words were lost in the reciprocated gesture, a sudden gust which sent him stumbling into the back of his tent, a fire erupting in his lower back as he slammed against its wooden frame. He spat upon the ground with a mused grin and stood up with aching gesture. To his side was Fetig, curled into a white mound of fluff which every so often stirred to accommodate the incoming winds. Otherwise the fox was unmoved except from the slow rise and fall of its heaving chest. A sharp whistle had the fox up and bounding to his side, and he went forth deeper to the plains, a single javelin held in his hand.
They stopped in a clearing that had little apparent value safe for a rickety hay target that shook uneasily in the coming gale. Its rickety frame groaned and crackled under the pressure of its own weight but it was unmoved for stakes had rooted it deep in the ground. Vadim saw this and grinned, for he'd had created the target himself. The task, he remembered, was short enough, but to a degree that its stability remained in this weather was a testament to his patience. He imagined, with a smirk the archery range of Ironfoot pavillion and how the targets must have been blown for leagues across the plains, swept up by the will of the Whistling Dragon. Riders had priority there, and though it was likely isolated in the vicious storm he wanted to extend the principle he was a self-sufficient being.
It was entirely cloudy that morning and no sun bore its rays upon the plains, but instead silver streaked fog shadowed over the plains and sent wind roaring through the heavens to tear any unfortunate man from his spot in these grassy lands. With no restrictions Vadim felt the surge of the gods course through him and send his hair wildly flying upwards against the sky, and his clothing, which tapered against his skin and stretched outwards was but a flapping blur against the man who every so often had to bend his knees and brace and lower himself even to provide maximum stability.
Fetig remained, his tail swishing elegantly in controlled flicks and his beady black eyes never falling from his master. The wind forced his ears back against his head but otherwise his placid gaze remained upon the man who drew his javelin from the ground and stabbed it passionately into the air, a whiplike whir emanating from the opposing forces of sleek metal against the caustic forces from above. The fox watched intently, as he had many times before his master challenge these adverse conditions to relay his dominance, to show that the speck of his frame defied the imposing powers that be and sought to drove the tip of his javelin into it to relay this message.
"1. . 2 . . 3. . 4!" Vadim shouted in rhythm to counted thrusts, his hands now firmly planted and his knees bent in position. Now the distraction of wind became but an embedded feature of his environment that he'd accounted and adapted for.
A pleasure to read!
