Post by Deleted on May 31, 2022 15:01:45 GMT -5
As the sun slowly rose over and into the sky, creeping its way up to a sunrise, the nightly frost of the southern autumn slowly began to melt away. Of course, it would be some time until summer blessed the land with warmth and the snow departed from the forest, but the glow of Ryvon was a welcome sight to the denizens of the tundra. Pine trees swayed with the rhythmic thumping of the wind, the sun's rays splitting and pouring through the branches and pines onto the snow-laden ground. Mostly barren of life, for this time of year, a brave heron flew overhead, surveying the ground for prey. It flew for some time, to you and I only a moment, but to the heron, an eternity, before spotting a lone hare, carefully crawling its way through the snow and to the safe canopy of a pine tree. Its crawl was too slow, however, as the heron dove, through the trees and drove its beak square into the hare's neck. Not a painless death, as the hare struggled for a moment against the beak of the heron. It bashed the hare into the ground for a moment, caving its bone structure in before the hare chose to give in to the cold embrace. Pleased with its victory, the heron began to feast. It began to tear open the abdomen, gorging itself on the innards of its prey.
The cold tundra of central Toboralsk was not inviting for the faint of heart or the arrogant. If one did not fall to the frost, one would fall to those who walked, flew and swam around you. The heron was reminded of this rule when it felt the piercing of a sharpened stone arrow impaling it from its left side. It drove through it, pushing him off the hare's corpse and onto its side, some distance from its original position. The heron turned its head with its last thoughts before death would bring its scythe down, and saw a man of large frame, wearing furred clothing covering most of his body, two large horns protruding out of each side his woollen headgear. His face was covered with a rudimentary mask, crafted from wood and intricately engraved with runic lettering, sprawling from the top of his forehead down to the bottom of his chin, around his eyes, mouth and nose. From around the sides of his head, long, black hair flowed in braids down to his chest. His breastplate and arms were mostly covered with fur, with the occasional armoured plating on vital areas. His furred boots trod through the snow lightly, displacing the ground where he walked underneath his immense weight.
He crouched down next to the heron, placing his bow in the snow directly to his right. The heron felt its final moment approaching, and as such, the man brought his leather-gloved hand over its head, pushing it into the darkness. He pushed down his left hand onto the heron's head, and bring his right to pull the arrow out of the creature. It was a clean shot, that he had fired from some distance away, but by far not his cleanest kill from such a distance. Such is life, he pondered. From his back, he pulled a brown-leather satchel's strings from across his chest and next to the carrion of the heron, pulling the produce from his hunt into the bag. He pulled it shut, slinging it across his back once again. He took a moment to observe the hare's corpse, evaluating its worth as food, or an offering. He chose that it would be suitable for the latter, and once again pulled the satchel down to level with the ground, bringing the hare and some snow into the bag.
The giant of the tundra began his trek back to whence he came, leaving a bloody scene where he had killed the heron, and where the heron had killed the hare. He mostly stuck to the pine trees, staying underneath their protective canopy less an eagle were to spot him. As fierce of raider he was, and as much protection his armour and weapons did provide, it did not change Чуй's rule of survival. 'In life, only those who may beat their opponent's speed, strength and wit will survive. Nothing less is death.' He could best the strength of an eagle or bird of prey, but not its wit and speed; with a sufficiently swift strike from behind, he would become the prey. His travels took him not far, eventually to a clearing, his home. Around the log cabin built into the side of the hill, it sat, tree trunks freed of their better half littered the (now) plains. A well crafted, if not rudimentary, wooden fence surrounded its perimeter, albeit showing its clear age around the edges. Every few posts or so sat a wooden torch, now extinguished by the snowfall of the night before.
A staircase led up a story onto a porch, supported by wide log supports, which followed the porch in arcs around its edges. Atop the roof of the house, which covered the porch and hung over the sides, a stone chimney protruded from the right side, billowing smoke out from the still-going flame inside. Underneath the porch, behind the staircase, and hidden from the snow, was a small pen, illuminated by torches at its fences corners. Inside, on a bed of hay that covered the ground, his passel of hogs huddled around one another for warmth. He treaded lightly onto his stairs, attempting not to arouse the animals from their slumber. As he approached the roofed floor of his porch, he set his bow just outside of his doorway, leaning against the sturdy wall of his cabin. He pushed the hearty wooden door with his left arm, bringing it to eventually open all the way. Just as quickly, he allowed it to close on itself, to preserve the heat his fireplace produced.
He turned, pulling off his headgear by the left horn, then taking off the mask he wore over his face and setting them down on the nearby table. A wolf of considerable size, white in colour with brown and grey spots littering the pigment of her fur sat on top of a bearskin rug directly next to the fireplace. As he stepped into the domicile, which was illuminated by the subtle glow of the fireplace, she brought her head from its resting position and her eyes opened to see what she saw as her only true friend in this barren, snow-laden wasteland. She took no time in stretching before running towards the now crouched man, bringing her front paws onto his shoulders and licking his, now plastered with joy, bearded face. He brought his arms up to the wolf, scratching its abdomen and behind its ears. She relented her hug and rolled over onto the floor, inviting more attention. He obliged her, rubbing her stomach as she turned over.
Standing up once again, he began to strip himself of his armour. First, his heavy boots were replaced with woollen socks, tearing off the armour on his arms and torso, then his legwear, setting them all aside on his bedframe. Taking his bag of carrion, he laid out his haul from the night on a table in the back corner of his room, his wolf watching him separate the food inquisitively. Two hares, one of which was from the heron, the heron itself, two salmon he had speared in the nearby river, and a large assortment of berries he had collected from various bushes- some red, some blue. All safe to eat, he imagined. He began to prepare them, starting by hooking the animals overhead a bucket to drain them of blood. He began to skin the hares and salmon, plucking the heron and sparking a flame in the stove just nearby.
The stove lit with roaring passion, heating its top with considerable speed. As the final drops of blood were drained from the creatures, he started to prepare the hares. Separating the meat and bones, he set the meat onto the stove, the satisfying sizzle confirming the process of cooking had begun. He offered the bones to his wolf, who accepted without any pushback. He repeated this process with the heron, stripping it of its meat and setting it aside in the cooking hare. As those two cooked, he sliced down the centre of the salmon, laying it next to the other meat in strips, flipping the heron and hare.
As he prepared his meal, he snacked on the berries he had collected. He had tasted the blue berries before, but not the red. A near sour, yet sweet flavour, he thought it to be quite incredible. He tossed one of the red berries to his wolf, who caught it midair and seemingly went through the same process as he had, as she approached him, asking for more. He denied it with a simple ruffling of her fur on her head. Defeated by such rejection, she laid down once again in front of the fire, awaiting the completion of their meal. She wouldn't wait long, as the hunter, now cook, raised the cooked hare and heron onto a wooden plate. He offered one serving to the wolf, who accepted it with grace. He smiled gratefully and began to gorge himself on the remaining food. He sat down in a wooden chair, made more comfortable by the leather covering the top of most of its surfaces and enjoyed his meal. He sat up and repeated his serving with the salmon, taking the four strips and offering two to the wolf.
After the two had sufficiently been fed, he made his way over to a wooden cabinet above his cooking station, putting out the fire within the stove with a bucket of water. From inside the cabinet, he produced a single iron-rimmed wooden mug, adorned with similar runic lettering to most of his other possessions. He approached the door of his home, the wolf peering inquisitively, he opened the door and beckoned her outside. He closed the door behind her as she walked onto the porch, following her down the stairs and taking a sharp right when he reached the ground floor. Underneath the stairs, a large wooden keg, clearly well aged, sat dormant. He approached it, holding his mug underneath the nozzle and turning the valve to pour beer directly into the mug. When the mug was filled to the brim with the foaming liquid, he turned to walk back up his staircase, but he was stopped short as he rounded the corner of the staircase's banister by an unusual sight.
There were three figures, wolves accompanying each at their side. They wore similar clothes to that he wore during his hunts, their wolves of the same breed and just as sizable. They differed in their weapon of choice and the runic engravings on their masks, however. The first chose two war axes as his choice, holstered around their waist at both sides. The second chose a sword, or what he assumed to be a sword by the large hilt that peered over their right shoulder. The third favoured a mace, slung around their left hip. Their weapons were not drawn, and their postures relaxed. He knew the three well. Not foes, but allies. Not allies that he had wanted to see, until next winter.
"Maksim." The middle hunter said, in an objectively feminine voice. "It has been long since last we spoke, but it is an honour to meet once again."
"But there is little time for pleasantries." The leftmost hunter spoke up, she continued her companion's thoughts in a deeper female voice. "Toboralsk calls for your aid- no, the kingdoms call for your aid." Maksim made an attempt to hide his confusion and shock, but little could be done for them to pick up on the inquiry swirling inside his thoughts.
The rightmost hunter stepped forward, their wolf companion following suit. He spoke in a deep voice, answering the obvious question on Maksim's mind. "From the north, a greater threat comes than our petty wars all combined. They've stopped our raiding, and our trade and have begun to move south. A horde, unlike what we have seen. It stretches across the landscape, enveloping the kingdoms in a purple banner of destruction, fire and death."
"All of the kingdoms, from Tikhovropol to Kalinirga have united under one banner." Continued the leftmost hunter. "We know not the name of the invaders, but it matters not as much of Korosinsk has already been lost. At every turn, our armies find themselves outnumbered and surprised. We have sustained little in terms of losses, their advance has been costly for them. Yet, we still lose land by the day."
Maksim had remained almost completely still until this moment. He tapped his wolf on her side, signalling for her to move forward. She approached the other wolves, greeting them before running off towards the forest together, panting and enjoying themselves.
"We thank you for listening, Maksim." The middle hunter replied to the gesture in a thankful tone. "We ask you to return with us, to Sarakhov, to speak with Tsarina Afanasiia and lead our armies against our fast-approaching doom."
Maksim opened his mouth, speaking for the first time in what felt like forever. "The banner we fight under, by what name will it be?"
"Salvokja."
The cold tundra of central Toboralsk was not inviting for the faint of heart or the arrogant. If one did not fall to the frost, one would fall to those who walked, flew and swam around you. The heron was reminded of this rule when it felt the piercing of a sharpened stone arrow impaling it from its left side. It drove through it, pushing him off the hare's corpse and onto its side, some distance from its original position. The heron turned its head with its last thoughts before death would bring its scythe down, and saw a man of large frame, wearing furred clothing covering most of his body, two large horns protruding out of each side his woollen headgear. His face was covered with a rudimentary mask, crafted from wood and intricately engraved with runic lettering, sprawling from the top of his forehead down to the bottom of his chin, around his eyes, mouth and nose. From around the sides of his head, long, black hair flowed in braids down to his chest. His breastplate and arms were mostly covered with fur, with the occasional armoured plating on vital areas. His furred boots trod through the snow lightly, displacing the ground where he walked underneath his immense weight.
He crouched down next to the heron, placing his bow in the snow directly to his right. The heron felt its final moment approaching, and as such, the man brought his leather-gloved hand over its head, pushing it into the darkness. He pushed down his left hand onto the heron's head, and bring his right to pull the arrow out of the creature. It was a clean shot, that he had fired from some distance away, but by far not his cleanest kill from such a distance. Such is life, he pondered. From his back, he pulled a brown-leather satchel's strings from across his chest and next to the carrion of the heron, pulling the produce from his hunt into the bag. He pulled it shut, slinging it across his back once again. He took a moment to observe the hare's corpse, evaluating its worth as food, or an offering. He chose that it would be suitable for the latter, and once again pulled the satchel down to level with the ground, bringing the hare and some snow into the bag.
The giant of the tundra began his trek back to whence he came, leaving a bloody scene where he had killed the heron, and where the heron had killed the hare. He mostly stuck to the pine trees, staying underneath their protective canopy less an eagle were to spot him. As fierce of raider he was, and as much protection his armour and weapons did provide, it did not change Чуй's rule of survival. 'In life, only those who may beat their opponent's speed, strength and wit will survive. Nothing less is death.' He could best the strength of an eagle or bird of prey, but not its wit and speed; with a sufficiently swift strike from behind, he would become the prey. His travels took him not far, eventually to a clearing, his home. Around the log cabin built into the side of the hill, it sat, tree trunks freed of their better half littered the (now) plains. A well crafted, if not rudimentary, wooden fence surrounded its perimeter, albeit showing its clear age around the edges. Every few posts or so sat a wooden torch, now extinguished by the snowfall of the night before.
A staircase led up a story onto a porch, supported by wide log supports, which followed the porch in arcs around its edges. Atop the roof of the house, which covered the porch and hung over the sides, a stone chimney protruded from the right side, billowing smoke out from the still-going flame inside. Underneath the porch, behind the staircase, and hidden from the snow, was a small pen, illuminated by torches at its fences corners. Inside, on a bed of hay that covered the ground, his passel of hogs huddled around one another for warmth. He treaded lightly onto his stairs, attempting not to arouse the animals from their slumber. As he approached the roofed floor of his porch, he set his bow just outside of his doorway, leaning against the sturdy wall of his cabin. He pushed the hearty wooden door with his left arm, bringing it to eventually open all the way. Just as quickly, he allowed it to close on itself, to preserve the heat his fireplace produced.
He turned, pulling off his headgear by the left horn, then taking off the mask he wore over his face and setting them down on the nearby table. A wolf of considerable size, white in colour with brown and grey spots littering the pigment of her fur sat on top of a bearskin rug directly next to the fireplace. As he stepped into the domicile, which was illuminated by the subtle glow of the fireplace, she brought her head from its resting position and her eyes opened to see what she saw as her only true friend in this barren, snow-laden wasteland. She took no time in stretching before running towards the now crouched man, bringing her front paws onto his shoulders and licking his, now plastered with joy, bearded face. He brought his arms up to the wolf, scratching its abdomen and behind its ears. She relented her hug and rolled over onto the floor, inviting more attention. He obliged her, rubbing her stomach as she turned over.
Standing up once again, he began to strip himself of his armour. First, his heavy boots were replaced with woollen socks, tearing off the armour on his arms and torso, then his legwear, setting them all aside on his bedframe. Taking his bag of carrion, he laid out his haul from the night on a table in the back corner of his room, his wolf watching him separate the food inquisitively. Two hares, one of which was from the heron, the heron itself, two salmon he had speared in the nearby river, and a large assortment of berries he had collected from various bushes- some red, some blue. All safe to eat, he imagined. He began to prepare them, starting by hooking the animals overhead a bucket to drain them of blood. He began to skin the hares and salmon, plucking the heron and sparking a flame in the stove just nearby.
The stove lit with roaring passion, heating its top with considerable speed. As the final drops of blood were drained from the creatures, he started to prepare the hares. Separating the meat and bones, he set the meat onto the stove, the satisfying sizzle confirming the process of cooking had begun. He offered the bones to his wolf, who accepted without any pushback. He repeated this process with the heron, stripping it of its meat and setting it aside in the cooking hare. As those two cooked, he sliced down the centre of the salmon, laying it next to the other meat in strips, flipping the heron and hare.
As he prepared his meal, he snacked on the berries he had collected. He had tasted the blue berries before, but not the red. A near sour, yet sweet flavour, he thought it to be quite incredible. He tossed one of the red berries to his wolf, who caught it midair and seemingly went through the same process as he had, as she approached him, asking for more. He denied it with a simple ruffling of her fur on her head. Defeated by such rejection, she laid down once again in front of the fire, awaiting the completion of their meal. She wouldn't wait long, as the hunter, now cook, raised the cooked hare and heron onto a wooden plate. He offered one serving to the wolf, who accepted it with grace. He smiled gratefully and began to gorge himself on the remaining food. He sat down in a wooden chair, made more comfortable by the leather covering the top of most of its surfaces and enjoyed his meal. He sat up and repeated his serving with the salmon, taking the four strips and offering two to the wolf.
After the two had sufficiently been fed, he made his way over to a wooden cabinet above his cooking station, putting out the fire within the stove with a bucket of water. From inside the cabinet, he produced a single iron-rimmed wooden mug, adorned with similar runic lettering to most of his other possessions. He approached the door of his home, the wolf peering inquisitively, he opened the door and beckoned her outside. He closed the door behind her as she walked onto the porch, following her down the stairs and taking a sharp right when he reached the ground floor. Underneath the stairs, a large wooden keg, clearly well aged, sat dormant. He approached it, holding his mug underneath the nozzle and turning the valve to pour beer directly into the mug. When the mug was filled to the brim with the foaming liquid, he turned to walk back up his staircase, but he was stopped short as he rounded the corner of the staircase's banister by an unusual sight.
There were three figures, wolves accompanying each at their side. They wore similar clothes to that he wore during his hunts, their wolves of the same breed and just as sizable. They differed in their weapon of choice and the runic engravings on their masks, however. The first chose two war axes as his choice, holstered around their waist at both sides. The second chose a sword, or what he assumed to be a sword by the large hilt that peered over their right shoulder. The third favoured a mace, slung around their left hip. Their weapons were not drawn, and their postures relaxed. He knew the three well. Not foes, but allies. Not allies that he had wanted to see, until next winter.
"Maksim." The middle hunter said, in an objectively feminine voice. "It has been long since last we spoke, but it is an honour to meet once again."
"But there is little time for pleasantries." The leftmost hunter spoke up, she continued her companion's thoughts in a deeper female voice. "Toboralsk calls for your aid- no, the kingdoms call for your aid." Maksim made an attempt to hide his confusion and shock, but little could be done for them to pick up on the inquiry swirling inside his thoughts.
The rightmost hunter stepped forward, their wolf companion following suit. He spoke in a deep voice, answering the obvious question on Maksim's mind. "From the north, a greater threat comes than our petty wars all combined. They've stopped our raiding, and our trade and have begun to move south. A horde, unlike what we have seen. It stretches across the landscape, enveloping the kingdoms in a purple banner of destruction, fire and death."
"All of the kingdoms, from Tikhovropol to Kalinirga have united under one banner." Continued the leftmost hunter. "We know not the name of the invaders, but it matters not as much of Korosinsk has already been lost. At every turn, our armies find themselves outnumbered and surprised. We have sustained little in terms of losses, their advance has been costly for them. Yet, we still lose land by the day."
Maksim had remained almost completely still until this moment. He tapped his wolf on her side, signalling for her to move forward. She approached the other wolves, greeting them before running off towards the forest together, panting and enjoying themselves.
"We thank you for listening, Maksim." The middle hunter replied to the gesture in a thankful tone. "We ask you to return with us, to Sarakhov, to speak with Tsarina Afanasiia and lead our armies against our fast-approaching doom."
Maksim opened his mouth, speaking for the first time in what felt like forever. "The banner we fight under, by what name will it be?"
"Salvokja."