An Unexpected Lesson
Lozik Dreadtaker was not the oldest, nor the most skilled of beastmasters, certainly he was not among the most wealthy in gold or blood relations, but he was hungry for more and in the realm of the True Elves that was what counted the most. Fortunes and glories came into the world as Khaine had given that his people did: screaming and covered in blood. But Lozik was not an infant, two hundred turnings of the seasons he had seen and many of his peers had he watched broken by their superiors for failed acts of treachery, or worse devoured by beasts beyond their skill to tame. A head on a spike still had eyes at least unlike a pile of manticore shit. So forging together raw ambition and the lessons of hard won experience he had decided to turn all his skills to raising a single great beast, even young as he was and train it to exemplary standards. All the might and viciousness of a hydra able to be used with precision, with skill, almost with artfulness. Ah he could see it now, they would call him something tasteful and subtle like Silk-Hand, something to make the ignorant question and the wise quake when asked.
Why Night Scale was better trained than some of the dogs at his parents estate growing up, certainly more so than some of the two legged beasts of the fields. Still he would not want the beast to think he had grown soft or forget the caress of the whip. He would have to conspire some way to get one of the more foolish of his compatriots to feed themselves to the hydra so that he could punish it. A dare maybe... No, he would offer an apprenticeship to anyone who managed to feed the hydra while losing no more than half a hand. The implication being that the beast was more likely to maim than kill. One would think no one would be stupid enough to believe that but sometimes Lozik wondered if some of these bumpkins weren't more stupid than the beasts he wrangled.
"Slave!" he shouted to one of the ragged barbarians that followed the army, poor service, but better than none at all and at least no one would object if there was one fewer of them when their masters' wrath came upon it. "Slave! More wine!"
The wine tasted like shit, but victory would be sweeter.
***
Hunger... All it had ever known was Hunger since it had crawled from the wet place onto the dry place since it had eaten its siblings and made them a part of itself. Long it had feasted under the twilight skies under the mountains where the distant northern sun never reached, but it had not been cold, not then. The heat of the earth rose up in bubbles of brimstone and pitch and It-That-Was-Many had bathed in the warm waters and the Hunger was less. Then the two-leg had come with the whip and the silent voice, then it had learned pain that was greater than the Hunger, for it could not eat the two leg, but the two-leg could drink its pain. It learned wrath.
Night Scale, that was what Him-of-the-Whip called It-That-Was-Many who in solitude had not needed a name and he brought it to the pit and raised it to bear cruel barbs of iron and Night Scale ate some of the two legs which tasted sweet. But the pain was bitter and sharp, it lingered. It-That-Was-Many learned to eat them less, feeding the Hunger instead with other things, fur-things and mental-things and bright-things too, they tasted of the Bright Beyond where the Hunger bloomed so Night Scale learned cunning.
Out from the shadow of the mountain it was driven, until it could almost be said to regret the pit of pain. At least that was warm. Towards the Bright and away from the sun it was driven. Into the cold lands, the dry lands it was driven. So its wrath grew and some of the two-legs it devoured even knowing the pain that would come, it spread the pain.
Why? Why drive it here? What was here that was worth feasting? Night Scale wondered dimly, for in its long years of captivity it had learned that the two-legs were not just smaller than itself, but also weaker, to the Bright and the ones that lived in it, to the cold. Only the dry they seemed to love and that it could not understand. Were they not made of meat and blood in its mouth? So they tasted at least. It-That-Was-Many learned to wonder.
There was a song on the wind, teasing at its thoughts, a song in the Bright as leaves were on water, but not
of the Bright, floating atop it. It spoke of many things warmth and water over scales running, meat red and filling. The song promised an end of Hunger, but It-That-Was-Many did not believe in such things. It promised vengeance. The screams... the screams of the two-leg who ate pain, it would be eaten. It would be good.... good for the singer as well? So It-That-Was-Many learned to bargain.
Yes... yes... Pain and death and feasting upon Him-of-the-Whip and those all about him and then sleep until more come. Thus the Huger would be less. It-That-Was-Many found that it could believe in less Hunger. So It-That-Was-Many learned to hope. In its dreams the sun rose, the warmth sank into its bones and it became other than it had been.
OOC: Since Hydra terminology may be a bit obscure above the Bright-Beyond is the Aethyr, as a creature born of Chaos in the Far North of the world the Hydra has a vague sense of the magic around it and where it is thicker.