Turn 11 Results
Voikirium
#1 Voltaire Hater
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 11 Results
Heaven Servant 1: 67
Heaven Servant 2: 60
—VIII 97, 1, 17, 33—
A bonfire burns inside the small smithy you have made your own, the small place that is your fasthold, your strong spot. Indiron and Indrast contentedly chew on boar flesh, the crunching making a rhythmic song of life, the cycle of predator and prey. You, for your part, sit, legs outstretched, arms crossed over your chest. Torches flicker as well, offering an eerie light to the ancient mosaics that stretch overhead, in shockingly bright tile. The Cadai, armed for war, living out the stories you have heard a thousand, ten-thousand, a hundred-thousand times.The flicker of light, and the occasional burst of sparks as it crackles, offers the entire place an eerie air, as the Gods of the Heavens take on a more imposing air, their visages warped; sometimes it even seems as though their appearance itself has changed. But that would be…madness. Wouldn't it?
It is a painful irony in your life. That for someone who so loves Ghur, the very Wind of instinct and action and performance, you spend so much time thinking.
Looking closer, you see one of the stories depicted in closer detail by your examination. One of Asuryan. The Judgment of Asuryan, after Anath Raema killed Draugnir. He did not hunt Her down, for He did not need to. First She sought to hide in the trees and in the forests and in the copses; but She could not. For the Eagles themselves betrayed Her, eager for revenge against one who so hunted them. Then She became the Merwerym, and flew under the sea, hoping to hide with Mathlann below. But the stars themselves exposed Her, for they were His. So She sprang into the skies above in the shape of an eagle. But the Sun revealed Her, for it was a thing of truth. He took up His bow, Avalthrai, and a silver arrow, and He whispered his judgment into the metal.
A moment later, He loosed; and two things certainly happened. Anath Raema, the Wild and Savage Huntress, was, undoubtedly, bound. Bound by His edict, by His ban, more strongly than any other of the gods; for Her sin was great indeed. Never would She know the Heavens, never again be free of Mirai and the pit.
Secondly, She landed on Ulthuan itself. Asuryan had accounted for this; for He knew such savagery would be needed in the wars to come. And that is why the Reavers of Ellyrion, in spite of pretensions to the contrariwise; and indeed all the members of that host; are more like the Wild Huntress than any of the rest of Ulthuan, even as they have the audacity to claim to be the favored land of Kurnous. For their part they claim that is why you have an affinity, for among other animals, the eagle, favored bird of Anath Raema, whose form she took in flight; and why you have sprung so readily to battle against the Druchii. Bah.
But that, that is not why your thoughts journey as they do. Not as you examine the Mark of Asuryan touched upon your hand. It is Asuryan's of course, the Asun remains the same; you would recognize it half drunk on Druchii ice wine. But the Onun? The Onun are like—they are like someone has written Quul and Cadaith incorrectly, except that Asuryan can write how He damn well pleases! If He desires to invent a new Rune that is His choice; but damn if it does not make your life harder.
Damn it all. You are a mind steeped in Ghur, you are a mind steeped in instinct, you are a mind steeped in doing. It is good and well for a mage of the White Tower to be steeped in the mind, to be caught in their thinking. But you? You are made odd. You are made for instinct, for deed, for the making and the doing. You were not made to sit, idle and mindless, watching and waiting for the world to pass you by.
You lean forward, outstretch your arm, and begin threading magic into the mark. It begins to glow in prismatic colors under your Windsight. At its core it is brightly threaded Azyr and Ghur, forced into balance by a will vast beyond your understanding.
Distantly, you note the wind outside has gone absolutely still.
You examine the threaded together Winds with one portion of your mind, even as another examines those Winds which are not threaded even as they are located within the mark. Runes of power, written on the Winds, repeating themselves in fractals, running from the largest layer to the most minute surface possible, etched and etched and etched further by the will of something truly transcendent, and all in a single, glorious moment. Secrets of the Winds, separately and together, tickle at your mind, touch at the deepest parts of your soul, where magic lies coiled, like a spring, waiting to loose. Relations…you have not considered, forced? No, not forced. Shaped, carved, into the very thing of the Aethyr; but adroitly, with care. Not a harsh, chopping thing; but newness?
Ulgh. Questions for later. For now instead, you decide to examine the Winds themselves, threaded into the mark as they are, for knowledge. You pry at the Hysh first. It has been, cut, almost, like a jewel, as have all the Winds so captured, to resemble its Rune, the serpent of knowledge. However it has also been altered, threaded, worked with Ceyl and Dromui, respectively.
Hysh brings hope and justice?
Ascent by knowledge and justice?
Order is the result of knowledge and hope?
All of the above?
Hmph.
Hmph.
Hmph.
The construction of the weaving, the mark, the Dromeldoi, is and is not the most impressive thing in terms of sophistication. Refinement, certainly, but it has none of the sorts of compromises, artful work-arounds, and just plain clever tricks you might expect of a Mage bold enough to try and design such a thing themselves. Because they would have to be bold, since the negative possibilities begin at crippling themselves with an Arcane Mark, forever lessening themselves but at least still alive; at worst…
That's not to say there is no subtlety in how it was done. As you said, an infinitely repeating pattern of arcane Runes, language and script combining in intricate fractals, scaling up and down several (thousand?) levels, as great or as minute as need be; or at least, that's what your Windsight translates it to, grasping at straws to translate the knowledge of the Aethyr to something more comprehensible to mortal minds. Yngra elthrai, then? As above, so below.
But to return to the main thrust for a moment, it reminds you of a lion striking a beast dead with a single strike of its paw where an elf might have to forge or a sword. Or, perhaps, more fittingly, a phoenix lighting a fire as a great pillar, where an elf would have to either learn all the subtle intricacies of magic or prepare a great platform all soaked in oils and rags and gods only knows what else.
Except of course that in this case, the phoenix can—and will—learn magic too if it wants, and not just a little magic but the kind of magic that shakes the world. Can, and has, and will show it, extensively if it wants. That same simplicity, however, is actually oddly convenient for you. You aren't stupid enough to think that, as you are, you should and try and grasp at the deeper mysteries laced within—yet. That sounds like a very good way to end up going mad and taking your own eyes out. But it is simple enough that there are portions of the magic woven within you can study and integrate into your own magic, and your own understanding of spellcasting. Ways to shape and move the Winds that they did not teach you in the White Tower. A new path opening, a new way forward. For your magic, at least. You don't doubt there are others who have enriched their magic by their connections to the gods, how else would the Shadow Weavers perform half the Ulgu oddities they do if not for their relationship with Loec, but this is not one of which you are familiar. It is curious and curiouser, the more and more you poke and prod at it.
Most concretely, aside from giving you new arcane…synonyms? Terms? Vocabulary? The language is difficult to parse and translate out to more mundane (and isn't that a thought) Eltharin, itself useful in understanding the Winds as Winds, the Winds being themselves, but also the Winds bound into fullness and health. Qhaysh, and not simply the Qhaysh of magic flowing healthily and free, but magic that has been actively worked and shaped. It crackles with a divine will, moved gracefully but powerfully into place, as a Prince may, for all he listens to his subjects and considers their demands, is still a prince. It is his will that brings harmony, if his will be wise—
"This way!"
You hear your brother and his…friend…walking through the halls above as they return from their hunting trip.
Wait.
Wait!
Hunting!
Perhaps it is not Khaine you need to worry about after all.
But that also tells you exactly how to solve this problem.
—VIII 99, 2, 13, 30—
Indiron and Indrast sit, transfixed, staring at the statue of Kurnous in His form as the horned hunter. The torches have all been lowered to a dim glow, only just enough to see by. Your skin prickles, bare chested in emulation of the god. Censers, filled with the vine of vitality, slowly burn the planet, opening your mind to the god's touch. "Kurnous, hear me. Your lands are stalked by a thing of evil, a servant of the Savage Huntress."
Distantly, you hear the cry of the deer and the phoenix and remember the murder; remember the banishment.
"Grant me strength to run." You place the brush, constructed of deer horn and lion mane fur, into the paint, getting a generous layer of it on the tool and then delicately begin to run it over your chest in swirling, intricate patterns. Influenced by your broadened connection to nature and to Kurnous by the vine, they are the Asun for various hunting terms, as He guides your hands in the ways and means which he desires. Never quite full sentences, here Indrast, there Harathoi, over your heart Hadri. And on your forehead, Kurn-ath: Kurnous' bow.
By the end of it there's precious little of your bare torso that hasn't been covered in one Asun or another. Sometimes you swear you can even see them move and shift.
You take the bottles of oil and eagle's blood and daub your fingers in it even as the smoke gets thicker and thicker, and you begin to hear the sounds of all the braying, screeching and crying wild things, all the servants of Kurnous. Pungent stuff, thick and heady.
First you place some on your eyelids. "Let me have eyes to see."
Next you place it on your nose. "Let me have nose to smell."
Finally you work some onto your ears. "Let me have ears to hear."
Then you take up the horn you carved, and your walking stick, and with a long low note you are gone, bolting from the lean-to and out into the wilderness. Indrast and Indiron howl and follow, their massive paws slapping the earth and raising up a great cloud of dust as the three of you race for the forest, passing by travelers, soldiers, farmers but it does not matter for it is your time to hunt.
Your senses race, even as you hear a menagerie follow you. Bears, deer, lions, eagles, spiders and snakes, it seems all the natural world has decided order and balance must be restored. For minutes that are hours you simply race, wild and free, followed by the spirits of Ulthuan itself seeking to make the world right again, always seemingly just out of your vision but you can sense them as surely as you can sense anything in this world.
And then you smell it. The thick iron odor of blood on the air, coating your throat, your nose. The sickly sweet smell of a decaying corpse, wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing. The silence of animals that have fled a predator, and a cruel, vicious one at that. For hours that are days and days that are hours you run, only stopping to drink and to eat what nature itself gives you, berries and prey and water, to sleep under the starry sky without worry or concern. Only focus, only commitment, only will. A drive fills you as you carve a path straight through the forest, ever followed and ever guided by the beasts and by nature and by the father of hunters, until at las you reach it, you see it, you find it.
In a clearing, hidden in the deepest woods where few ever trek, bodies. Not Asur bodies, small mercies, but bodies nevertheless. Elk, eagles, bears, owls, foxes, wolves, badgers, lions, all manner of things that climb, swim, fly, run or burrow. Heaped up in great piles without care once their trophies were taken in emulation of their savage goddess, left to rot and decay and spoil. You can't—no, you don't want to—count them. The smell is thick, blanketing the area like a fog, each moment your nose aching, crinkling, as the worst smell you've ever suffered fills it to the brim like a water skin filled too deep. Even the lions refuse to pick at the food, and you've seen them eat some truly desperate things in your time with them.
All missing their heads, their paws, their feet. Taken as trophies, no doubt, and strung up along some psychopath's belt to soothe the aching void where a heart is supposed to go. Where some love, some affection, some honor, some hope, some anything should be. Instead there is only a mindless urge to dominate, to take, to control, all to try and fill something the Druchii can't, or won't, fill by themselves. So they take it out on the rest of the world. A part of you pities them, even as the greater portion, if anything, redoubles its dedication to fighting these creatures before they can ruin even more of the world, hack apart more noble beasts, slay more things.
You blow the horn once more, a few times, even as the spirits and nature and will and whatever else finally fade away and you return to the relative mundanity of Ulthuan and the material world. Your limbs are exhausted but in the best way, and a sheen of sweat covers you. Still shirtless, still covered in symbols of Kurnous, fortunate for that will make explaining what happened all the easier. Again you blow the horn, hoping to draw hunters here.
Headless bodies don't, necessarily, mean a Cult of Anath Raema. They don't mean Druchii infiltrators—an absurdity to many, who believe your depraved cousins on the path to extinction—have violated the sanctity of Ulthuan, worming through it like parasites in the lion. They certainly don't mean Antheus is secretly a Druchii infiltrator, here to ensure a threat to her people is dealt with before it can ravage Naggaroth's bleak country even more. But all three notions become more credible, less an absurdity, for their presence. As far as the Cult of Atharti goes, yes it's possible it's poachers only looking for specific parts. Possibly even trying to cause some confusion by imitating a cult to the Savage Huntress. But when in Avelorn, you can see hoof prints and imagine a unicorn. And of course, while you for obvious reasons are hardly going to try and argue that there are no Cytharai worshipers in Ulthuan—for one you'd prefer Tethia not get testy with you—they are an absolutely minute portion of the population. The Asur seek to shine bright and ascend like the sun, not descend into the depths and accept the evils of the world. And if there is a cult of Anath Raema, and if it is Druchii infiltrators, and if as you expect when you start examining the bodies, they only at roughly the time Antheus arrived, well. It's not conclusive, but it sure is something, isn't it. Not something to be brushed off, either. Enough that you are, at worst, rationally wrong, rather than a paranoid madman, striking at shadows only he can see.
Of course, you'll need to use magic to determine how old the bodies are. You'll need to do magic for a lot of things, in fact. And there is always the small issue that the cult may have noticed that you have discovered their dumping ground for what remains of their rituals. So you make a decision, and bring Ghur into your throat, shaping it, working it, until…
"Indrast, Indiron."
"Aye, food sire?"
The Talking Beast settles on their forms, and so they speak with your voice. It will not last forever; but it will last long enough. "Go north five miles, find the Thurion farm, tell them Vardanis has located a site of Anath Raema, and to come quickly. Let none stop you my friends; but make sure you announce your presence quick and well, lest that they should think you are there to eat their sheep."
"With all haste, food sire."
Indrast looks back over her shoulder even as she lopes off following her brother, "they couldn't stop me from claiming their cloud-food if they wanted and you know it," and she is gone with a huff before you can so much as reply. You let it flow like water off of your back even as you begin pecking through the corpses like some scavenging crow. Not looking for food of course, but searching for the oldest bodies, the most decayed, to learn exactly when this started. Picked at, rotted, and decayed corpses. "I mourn what has been done to you, brother bear, sister wolf. Guide me, lead me, show me, let me know where what I seek may be found so I can begin to make things right."
There is a flash of Ghur, a flash of Shysih, a flash of Azyr, and you turn, tapping your walking stick on the ground. In a quick few strides you find it, the skeleton of a wolf, head and paws missing but all else still there, laden with Shyish, the Shyish of age, the Shyish of decay.
There are rituals to prepare…
Results:
The Oddity: 0/5->4/5
Druchii Hunting: 0/5->3/5
The Art of the Armor: 0/5-> 1/5
Mastery of Four: 0/5-> 1/5
Okay so. I have made the executive decision to get this posted now and the social turn up later, since I already feel bad I missed the Tuesday deadline I set for myself (I don't even really have an excuse except yesterday was fucking awful).
[X] Plan Windsight and Hunting
-[X] The Oddity 0/5 - 3 AP + 1 AP (Heaven Servant) + 25% chance for 1 AP (Heaven Servant)
-[X] Druchii Hunting 0/5 - 2 AP + 1 AP (Primeval Fire) + 25% chance for 1 AP (Heaven Servant)
-[X] The Oddity 0/5 - 3 AP + 1 AP (Heaven Servant) + 25% chance for 1 AP (Heaven Servant)
-[X] Druchii Hunting 0/5 - 2 AP + 1 AP (Primeval Fire) + 25% chance for 1 AP (Heaven Servant)
Heaven Servant 1: 67
Heaven Servant 2: 60
—VIII 97, 1, 17, 33—
A bonfire burns inside the small smithy you have made your own, the small place that is your fasthold, your strong spot. Indiron and Indrast contentedly chew on boar flesh, the crunching making a rhythmic song of life, the cycle of predator and prey. You, for your part, sit, legs outstretched, arms crossed over your chest. Torches flicker as well, offering an eerie light to the ancient mosaics that stretch overhead, in shockingly bright tile. The Cadai, armed for war, living out the stories you have heard a thousand, ten-thousand, a hundred-thousand times.The flicker of light, and the occasional burst of sparks as it crackles, offers the entire place an eerie air, as the Gods of the Heavens take on a more imposing air, their visages warped; sometimes it even seems as though their appearance itself has changed. But that would be…madness. Wouldn't it?
It is a painful irony in your life. That for someone who so loves Ghur, the very Wind of instinct and action and performance, you spend so much time thinking.
Looking closer, you see one of the stories depicted in closer detail by your examination. One of Asuryan. The Judgment of Asuryan, after Anath Raema killed Draugnir. He did not hunt Her down, for He did not need to. First She sought to hide in the trees and in the forests and in the copses; but She could not. For the Eagles themselves betrayed Her, eager for revenge against one who so hunted them. Then She became the Merwerym, and flew under the sea, hoping to hide with Mathlann below. But the stars themselves exposed Her, for they were His. So She sprang into the skies above in the shape of an eagle. But the Sun revealed Her, for it was a thing of truth. He took up His bow, Avalthrai, and a silver arrow, and He whispered his judgment into the metal.
A moment later, He loosed; and two things certainly happened. Anath Raema, the Wild and Savage Huntress, was, undoubtedly, bound. Bound by His edict, by His ban, more strongly than any other of the gods; for Her sin was great indeed. Never would She know the Heavens, never again be free of Mirai and the pit.
Secondly, She landed on Ulthuan itself. Asuryan had accounted for this; for He knew such savagery would be needed in the wars to come. And that is why the Reavers of Ellyrion, in spite of pretensions to the contrariwise; and indeed all the members of that host; are more like the Wild Huntress than any of the rest of Ulthuan, even as they have the audacity to claim to be the favored land of Kurnous. For their part they claim that is why you have an affinity, for among other animals, the eagle, favored bird of Anath Raema, whose form she took in flight; and why you have sprung so readily to battle against the Druchii. Bah.
But that, that is not why your thoughts journey as they do. Not as you examine the Mark of Asuryan touched upon your hand. It is Asuryan's of course, the Asun remains the same; you would recognize it half drunk on Druchii ice wine. But the Onun? The Onun are like—they are like someone has written Quul and Cadaith incorrectly, except that Asuryan can write how He damn well pleases! If He desires to invent a new Rune that is His choice; but damn if it does not make your life harder.
Damn it all. You are a mind steeped in Ghur, you are a mind steeped in instinct, you are a mind steeped in doing. It is good and well for a mage of the White Tower to be steeped in the mind, to be caught in their thinking. But you? You are made odd. You are made for instinct, for deed, for the making and the doing. You were not made to sit, idle and mindless, watching and waiting for the world to pass you by.
You lean forward, outstretch your arm, and begin threading magic into the mark. It begins to glow in prismatic colors under your Windsight. At its core it is brightly threaded Azyr and Ghur, forced into balance by a will vast beyond your understanding.
Distantly, you note the wind outside has gone absolutely still.
You examine the threaded together Winds with one portion of your mind, even as another examines those Winds which are not threaded even as they are located within the mark. Runes of power, written on the Winds, repeating themselves in fractals, running from the largest layer to the most minute surface possible, etched and etched and etched further by the will of something truly transcendent, and all in a single, glorious moment. Secrets of the Winds, separately and together, tickle at your mind, touch at the deepest parts of your soul, where magic lies coiled, like a spring, waiting to loose. Relations…you have not considered, forced? No, not forced. Shaped, carved, into the very thing of the Aethyr; but adroitly, with care. Not a harsh, chopping thing; but newness?
Ulgh. Questions for later. For now instead, you decide to examine the Winds themselves, threaded into the mark as they are, for knowledge. You pry at the Hysh first. It has been, cut, almost, like a jewel, as have all the Winds so captured, to resemble its Rune, the serpent of knowledge. However it has also been altered, threaded, worked with Ceyl and Dromui, respectively.
Hysh brings hope and justice?
Ascent by knowledge and justice?
Order is the result of knowledge and hope?
All of the above?
Hmph.
Hmph.
Hmph.
The construction of the weaving, the mark, the Dromeldoi, is and is not the most impressive thing in terms of sophistication. Refinement, certainly, but it has none of the sorts of compromises, artful work-arounds, and just plain clever tricks you might expect of a Mage bold enough to try and design such a thing themselves. Because they would have to be bold, since the negative possibilities begin at crippling themselves with an Arcane Mark, forever lessening themselves but at least still alive; at worst…
That's not to say there is no subtlety in how it was done. As you said, an infinitely repeating pattern of arcane Runes, language and script combining in intricate fractals, scaling up and down several (thousand?) levels, as great or as minute as need be; or at least, that's what your Windsight translates it to, grasping at straws to translate the knowledge of the Aethyr to something more comprehensible to mortal minds. Yngra elthrai, then? As above, so below.
But to return to the main thrust for a moment, it reminds you of a lion striking a beast dead with a single strike of its paw where an elf might have to forge or a sword. Or, perhaps, more fittingly, a phoenix lighting a fire as a great pillar, where an elf would have to either learn all the subtle intricacies of magic or prepare a great platform all soaked in oils and rags and gods only knows what else.
Except of course that in this case, the phoenix can—and will—learn magic too if it wants, and not just a little magic but the kind of magic that shakes the world. Can, and has, and will show it, extensively if it wants. That same simplicity, however, is actually oddly convenient for you. You aren't stupid enough to think that, as you are, you should and try and grasp at the deeper mysteries laced within—yet. That sounds like a very good way to end up going mad and taking your own eyes out. But it is simple enough that there are portions of the magic woven within you can study and integrate into your own magic, and your own understanding of spellcasting. Ways to shape and move the Winds that they did not teach you in the White Tower. A new path opening, a new way forward. For your magic, at least. You don't doubt there are others who have enriched their magic by their connections to the gods, how else would the Shadow Weavers perform half the Ulgu oddities they do if not for their relationship with Loec, but this is not one of which you are familiar. It is curious and curiouser, the more and more you poke and prod at it.
Most concretely, aside from giving you new arcane…synonyms? Terms? Vocabulary? The language is difficult to parse and translate out to more mundane (and isn't that a thought) Eltharin, itself useful in understanding the Winds as Winds, the Winds being themselves, but also the Winds bound into fullness and health. Qhaysh, and not simply the Qhaysh of magic flowing healthily and free, but magic that has been actively worked and shaped. It crackles with a divine will, moved gracefully but powerfully into place, as a Prince may, for all he listens to his subjects and considers their demands, is still a prince. It is his will that brings harmony, if his will be wise—
"This way!"
You hear your brother and his…friend…walking through the halls above as they return from their hunting trip.
Wait.
Wait!
Hunting!
Perhaps it is not Khaine you need to worry about after all.
But that also tells you exactly how to solve this problem.
—VIII 99, 2, 13, 30—
Indiron and Indrast sit, transfixed, staring at the statue of Kurnous in His form as the horned hunter. The torches have all been lowered to a dim glow, only just enough to see by. Your skin prickles, bare chested in emulation of the god. Censers, filled with the vine of vitality, slowly burn the planet, opening your mind to the god's touch. "Kurnous, hear me. Your lands are stalked by a thing of evil, a servant of the Savage Huntress."
Distantly, you hear the cry of the deer and the phoenix and remember the murder; remember the banishment.
"Grant me strength to run." You place the brush, constructed of deer horn and lion mane fur, into the paint, getting a generous layer of it on the tool and then delicately begin to run it over your chest in swirling, intricate patterns. Influenced by your broadened connection to nature and to Kurnous by the vine, they are the Asun for various hunting terms, as He guides your hands in the ways and means which he desires. Never quite full sentences, here Indrast, there Harathoi, over your heart Hadri. And on your forehead, Kurn-ath: Kurnous' bow.
By the end of it there's precious little of your bare torso that hasn't been covered in one Asun or another. Sometimes you swear you can even see them move and shift.
You take the bottles of oil and eagle's blood and daub your fingers in it even as the smoke gets thicker and thicker, and you begin to hear the sounds of all the braying, screeching and crying wild things, all the servants of Kurnous. Pungent stuff, thick and heady.
First you place some on your eyelids. "Let me have eyes to see."
Next you place it on your nose. "Let me have nose to smell."
Finally you work some onto your ears. "Let me have ears to hear."
Then you take up the horn you carved, and your walking stick, and with a long low note you are gone, bolting from the lean-to and out into the wilderness. Indrast and Indiron howl and follow, their massive paws slapping the earth and raising up a great cloud of dust as the three of you race for the forest, passing by travelers, soldiers, farmers but it does not matter for it is your time to hunt.
Your senses race, even as you hear a menagerie follow you. Bears, deer, lions, eagles, spiders and snakes, it seems all the natural world has decided order and balance must be restored. For minutes that are hours you simply race, wild and free, followed by the spirits of Ulthuan itself seeking to make the world right again, always seemingly just out of your vision but you can sense them as surely as you can sense anything in this world.
And then you smell it. The thick iron odor of blood on the air, coating your throat, your nose. The sickly sweet smell of a decaying corpse, wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing. The silence of animals that have fled a predator, and a cruel, vicious one at that. For hours that are days and days that are hours you run, only stopping to drink and to eat what nature itself gives you, berries and prey and water, to sleep under the starry sky without worry or concern. Only focus, only commitment, only will. A drive fills you as you carve a path straight through the forest, ever followed and ever guided by the beasts and by nature and by the father of hunters, until at las you reach it, you see it, you find it.
In a clearing, hidden in the deepest woods where few ever trek, bodies. Not Asur bodies, small mercies, but bodies nevertheless. Elk, eagles, bears, owls, foxes, wolves, badgers, lions, all manner of things that climb, swim, fly, run or burrow. Heaped up in great piles without care once their trophies were taken in emulation of their savage goddess, left to rot and decay and spoil. You can't—no, you don't want to—count them. The smell is thick, blanketing the area like a fog, each moment your nose aching, crinkling, as the worst smell you've ever suffered fills it to the brim like a water skin filled too deep. Even the lions refuse to pick at the food, and you've seen them eat some truly desperate things in your time with them.
All missing their heads, their paws, their feet. Taken as trophies, no doubt, and strung up along some psychopath's belt to soothe the aching void where a heart is supposed to go. Where some love, some affection, some honor, some hope, some anything should be. Instead there is only a mindless urge to dominate, to take, to control, all to try and fill something the Druchii can't, or won't, fill by themselves. So they take it out on the rest of the world. A part of you pities them, even as the greater portion, if anything, redoubles its dedication to fighting these creatures before they can ruin even more of the world, hack apart more noble beasts, slay more things.
You blow the horn once more, a few times, even as the spirits and nature and will and whatever else finally fade away and you return to the relative mundanity of Ulthuan and the material world. Your limbs are exhausted but in the best way, and a sheen of sweat covers you. Still shirtless, still covered in symbols of Kurnous, fortunate for that will make explaining what happened all the easier. Again you blow the horn, hoping to draw hunters here.
Headless bodies don't, necessarily, mean a Cult of Anath Raema. They don't mean Druchii infiltrators—an absurdity to many, who believe your depraved cousins on the path to extinction—have violated the sanctity of Ulthuan, worming through it like parasites in the lion. They certainly don't mean Antheus is secretly a Druchii infiltrator, here to ensure a threat to her people is dealt with before it can ravage Naggaroth's bleak country even more. But all three notions become more credible, less an absurdity, for their presence. As far as the Cult of Atharti goes, yes it's possible it's poachers only looking for specific parts. Possibly even trying to cause some confusion by imitating a cult to the Savage Huntress. But when in Avelorn, you can see hoof prints and imagine a unicorn. And of course, while you for obvious reasons are hardly going to try and argue that there are no Cytharai worshipers in Ulthuan—for one you'd prefer Tethia not get testy with you—they are an absolutely minute portion of the population. The Asur seek to shine bright and ascend like the sun, not descend into the depths and accept the evils of the world. And if there is a cult of Anath Raema, and if it is Druchii infiltrators, and if as you expect when you start examining the bodies, they only at roughly the time Antheus arrived, well. It's not conclusive, but it sure is something, isn't it. Not something to be brushed off, either. Enough that you are, at worst, rationally wrong, rather than a paranoid madman, striking at shadows only he can see.
Of course, you'll need to use magic to determine how old the bodies are. You'll need to do magic for a lot of things, in fact. And there is always the small issue that the cult may have noticed that you have discovered their dumping ground for what remains of their rituals. So you make a decision, and bring Ghur into your throat, shaping it, working it, until…
"Indrast, Indiron."
"Aye, food sire?"
The Talking Beast settles on their forms, and so they speak with your voice. It will not last forever; but it will last long enough. "Go north five miles, find the Thurion farm, tell them Vardanis has located a site of Anath Raema, and to come quickly. Let none stop you my friends; but make sure you announce your presence quick and well, lest that they should think you are there to eat their sheep."
"With all haste, food sire."
Indrast looks back over her shoulder even as she lopes off following her brother, "they couldn't stop me from claiming their cloud-food if they wanted and you know it," and she is gone with a huff before you can so much as reply. You let it flow like water off of your back even as you begin pecking through the corpses like some scavenging crow. Not looking for food of course, but searching for the oldest bodies, the most decayed, to learn exactly when this started. Picked at, rotted, and decayed corpses. "I mourn what has been done to you, brother bear, sister wolf. Guide me, lead me, show me, let me know where what I seek may be found so I can begin to make things right."
There is a flash of Ghur, a flash of Shysih, a flash of Azyr, and you turn, tapping your walking stick on the ground. In a quick few strides you find it, the skeleton of a wolf, head and paws missing but all else still there, laden with Shyish, the Shyish of age, the Shyish of decay.
There are rituals to prepare…
Results:
The Oddity: 0/5->4/5
Druchii Hunting: 0/5->3/5
The Art of the Armor: 0/5-> 1/5
Mastery of Four: 0/5-> 1/5
Okay so. I have made the executive decision to get this posted now and the social turn up later, since I already feel bad I missed the Tuesday deadline I set for myself (I don't even really have an excuse except yesterday was fucking awful).
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