7th day of Fall 513 AV
There was a stillness in the air, a quiet as if bad news had been delivered at a once jubilant feast. The host is dead, uttered from quaking lips and as the reverberations echo and enter the ears once filled with laughter and merriment a sudden hush returns, bit by bit until the last few that remain silence themselves merely because others around them have done so as well.
Varka Iceglaze did well to note the stillness, for truly bad news had come to the wilds as he gripped his bow testing it's string once more. Good and taut as it should be. For many days now he had been hunting, his legs telling him to cease and his stomach bidding him forward both in similar desire to aid his survival. All the while his prey felt those same compulsions, they wanted to live, even if it meant to live in fear to constantly flee, to never truly be calm.
It was a harsh life and a half life for both hunter and hunted, so Varka was quite glad to be the hunter for the days of his trek, that was until the stillness came. It was a pervading calm of heavy air, not a relaxation of sound, but a suppression of it. Something trekked in these wilds that filled the air with a murky mask of discontent. Varka growing tired and noting his quarry was slowly slipping away this day ceased his chase with a knock upon his horse Icetamer's side. As the horse ceased with a small whinny, the Vantha lifted his leg and dismounted taking the reins over the large beasts head before leading it to a nearby pond.
Looking down the hunter saw himself, a reflection on the icy blue surface below, blinking a few times as he soaked in the entrapped water below the hunter produced a hammer, a tool from his childhood he had used many times over the years both to repair and to kill. It was a small hammer meant for young hands, but the maturing grip of Varka did nothing to slow it's swift descent upon thin ice. Smashing through it while still gripping Icetamer, he led the horse to the icy water and watched as it drank heavily, it's hide steaming from the effort matching that of it's master.
As the horse drank Varka broke another hole and produced his empty water cask to fill. As bubbled bloomed and the thirsty sack took it's fill, the hunter used his other hand to scoop up water, drinking it hungrily in a way that reminded him of another pressing hunger, that for food. Noting it as a failure he produced his rucksack of stored food items from his hold in Iceglaze, dried jerky of varying sea creature and a great deal of now extremely hard bread. Taking a hunk of dried meat the hunter bit into it heartily his hunger masking the putrid stench that had been leaving the old fish for a few days now.
As he swiftly robbed the dead creatures of their essence, extracting every calorie he could from their thick tasteless dry scales he sat, the only sound his chewing and his horses continuous slurping. Except that wasn't the only sound. A light growl, fainter than a whisper to a deaf man traveled across the pond, it did not reach Varka, but his horse heard it well enough, it's slurping stopped as it waited, tail twitching for another sign, another warning.
None came before the cat did.
Crashing upon Icetamer, a Talderan Sabertooth took down the animal in an instant, the horse issuing a singular cry of pain before the high powered killing predator began to tear into its neck, deep gushing red issuing forth marring the pure blue of the water with a sickening dark red of death intertwined into a bitter sweet purple whose tragic beauty came at a great cost to Varka, not only the loss of a steed, but a cherished friend.
That friends parting gift was a few moments time to slip away from the beast into the deep snow, but the greedy cat was not satiated with it's warm large meal of horse as it licked its crimson lips clean. relishing in the taste of the sleigh horse it looked up to see the retreating figure of Varka. Bounding from it's downed quarry it began to rush at the Vantha in hopes of enjoying it's more tender flesh.
Varka, hearing the pant of the wild cat at his back noted a bare tree just before him, leaping into the wispy branches he began to pull himself up with all his vigor, his body depleted of nutrients and tired from the hunt wailing at him to cease. As he climbed he heard the crackle of branches below him, growing louder and louder with the massive cats growls until the being grew too excitable, swiping at Varka, it's claws nearly tearing into his flesh led to the beast flying off the tree, falling back onto the ground in a harsh heap.
As Varka climbed to a sturdy branch high above he looked down to see he could not return as he had, all the branches below him had been broken by the massive hungry cat leaving a drop that would surely kill him and even if he didn't the enraged hunter below assuredly would. His lungs aflame from the maddening chase and his mind beset by confusion and grief from the sudden attack, Varka looked down at the Sabertooth, no pacing around the tree with a vague interest quickly fading as a chance of successfully catching this prey dimmed.
Having to run from his pack horse so swiftly, Varka had left many belongings behind including his bow, but what he did have was a small knife, one for eating rather than fighting of course and if he descended to fight the massive beat, Varka knew he would certainly not be the one doing the eating. Instead he produced a piece of wood, a nearby tree branch above his and broke it at both ends so that a large square remained. Taking the knife he gave it a few testing jabs and noted the material was malleable enough to work upon.
Slowly small bits of bark began to descend upon the curious cats head as Varka whittled the wood away with the time. Slowly the sun fell and the hunter was surrounded by darkness, his thoughts, his effort, and his artistic vision distracting him from the two red pools of hunger and hatred that lingered below him.
As he carved deep into the wood finally getting at the good soft wood he worked diligently, so focused there were times where he nearly fell from his perch, close calls most certainly noted by the beast below who gave a testing growl and a swipe at the tree as the Vantha recovered, as if out of frustration with the whole affair.
As he continued to carve he began to see the face only his mind saw, a common face, not a beautiful one, it was the face of his aunt, one of the many women who lived in his families collective home, it was the face she always wore, on it's exterior content, but with the depth of the thick wood Varka attempted to convey something more he always felt, a twinge telling him not all was well. This aunts husband had died, frozen to death while trying to get firewood for a home that had not stored enough themselves.
Every etch of hair, every flick representing a wrinkle on her brow, every small curve under her tired eyes, Varka worked it all to eventually convey a single form, a form he knew quite well now of all times, of all useless times. When he at last looked down on the face he felt a kinship with it. For it was a face he might soon wear. A face of absolute helpless desperation in which there was no helping or control.
There was a stillness in the air, a quiet as if bad news had been delivered at a once jubilant feast. The host is dead, uttered from quaking lips and as the reverberations echo and enter the ears once filled with laughter and merriment a sudden hush returns, bit by bit until the last few that remain silence themselves merely because others around them have done so as well.
Varka Iceglaze did well to note the stillness, for truly bad news had come to the wilds as he gripped his bow testing it's string once more. Good and taut as it should be. For many days now he had been hunting, his legs telling him to cease and his stomach bidding him forward both in similar desire to aid his survival. All the while his prey felt those same compulsions, they wanted to live, even if it meant to live in fear to constantly flee, to never truly be calm.
It was a harsh life and a half life for both hunter and hunted, so Varka was quite glad to be the hunter for the days of his trek, that was until the stillness came. It was a pervading calm of heavy air, not a relaxation of sound, but a suppression of it. Something trekked in these wilds that filled the air with a murky mask of discontent. Varka growing tired and noting his quarry was slowly slipping away this day ceased his chase with a knock upon his horse Icetamer's side. As the horse ceased with a small whinny, the Vantha lifted his leg and dismounted taking the reins over the large beasts head before leading it to a nearby pond.
Looking down the hunter saw himself, a reflection on the icy blue surface below, blinking a few times as he soaked in the entrapped water below the hunter produced a hammer, a tool from his childhood he had used many times over the years both to repair and to kill. It was a small hammer meant for young hands, but the maturing grip of Varka did nothing to slow it's swift descent upon thin ice. Smashing through it while still gripping Icetamer, he led the horse to the icy water and watched as it drank heavily, it's hide steaming from the effort matching that of it's master.
As the horse drank Varka broke another hole and produced his empty water cask to fill. As bubbled bloomed and the thirsty sack took it's fill, the hunter used his other hand to scoop up water, drinking it hungrily in a way that reminded him of another pressing hunger, that for food. Noting it as a failure he produced his rucksack of stored food items from his hold in Iceglaze, dried jerky of varying sea creature and a great deal of now extremely hard bread. Taking a hunk of dried meat the hunter bit into it heartily his hunger masking the putrid stench that had been leaving the old fish for a few days now.
As he swiftly robbed the dead creatures of their essence, extracting every calorie he could from their thick tasteless dry scales he sat, the only sound his chewing and his horses continuous slurping. Except that wasn't the only sound. A light growl, fainter than a whisper to a deaf man traveled across the pond, it did not reach Varka, but his horse heard it well enough, it's slurping stopped as it waited, tail twitching for another sign, another warning.
None came before the cat did.
Crashing upon Icetamer, a Talderan Sabertooth took down the animal in an instant, the horse issuing a singular cry of pain before the high powered killing predator began to tear into its neck, deep gushing red issuing forth marring the pure blue of the water with a sickening dark red of death intertwined into a bitter sweet purple whose tragic beauty came at a great cost to Varka, not only the loss of a steed, but a cherished friend.
That friends parting gift was a few moments time to slip away from the beast into the deep snow, but the greedy cat was not satiated with it's warm large meal of horse as it licked its crimson lips clean. relishing in the taste of the sleigh horse it looked up to see the retreating figure of Varka. Bounding from it's downed quarry it began to rush at the Vantha in hopes of enjoying it's more tender flesh.
Varka, hearing the pant of the wild cat at his back noted a bare tree just before him, leaping into the wispy branches he began to pull himself up with all his vigor, his body depleted of nutrients and tired from the hunt wailing at him to cease. As he climbed he heard the crackle of branches below him, growing louder and louder with the massive cats growls until the being grew too excitable, swiping at Varka, it's claws nearly tearing into his flesh led to the beast flying off the tree, falling back onto the ground in a harsh heap.
As Varka climbed to a sturdy branch high above he looked down to see he could not return as he had, all the branches below him had been broken by the massive hungry cat leaving a drop that would surely kill him and even if he didn't the enraged hunter below assuredly would. His lungs aflame from the maddening chase and his mind beset by confusion and grief from the sudden attack, Varka looked down at the Sabertooth, no pacing around the tree with a vague interest quickly fading as a chance of successfully catching this prey dimmed.
Having to run from his pack horse so swiftly, Varka had left many belongings behind including his bow, but what he did have was a small knife, one for eating rather than fighting of course and if he descended to fight the massive beat, Varka knew he would certainly not be the one doing the eating. Instead he produced a piece of wood, a nearby tree branch above his and broke it at both ends so that a large square remained. Taking the knife he gave it a few testing jabs and noted the material was malleable enough to work upon.
Slowly small bits of bark began to descend upon the curious cats head as Varka whittled the wood away with the time. Slowly the sun fell and the hunter was surrounded by darkness, his thoughts, his effort, and his artistic vision distracting him from the two red pools of hunger and hatred that lingered below him.
As he carved deep into the wood finally getting at the good soft wood he worked diligently, so focused there were times where he nearly fell from his perch, close calls most certainly noted by the beast below who gave a testing growl and a swipe at the tree as the Vantha recovered, as if out of frustration with the whole affair.
As he continued to carve he began to see the face only his mind saw, a common face, not a beautiful one, it was the face of his aunt, one of the many women who lived in his families collective home, it was the face she always wore, on it's exterior content, but with the depth of the thick wood Varka attempted to convey something more he always felt, a twinge telling him not all was well. This aunts husband had died, frozen to death while trying to get firewood for a home that had not stored enough themselves.
Every etch of hair, every flick representing a wrinkle on her brow, every small curve under her tired eyes, Varka worked it all to eventually convey a single form, a form he knew quite well now of all times, of all useless times. When he at last looked down on the face he felt a kinship with it. For it was a face he might soon wear. A face of absolute helpless desperation in which there was no helping or control.
