He barked in surprise; only by dint of an arm thrown hastily over the taut chain did he avoid falling altogether. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the icy steel as the great beast above him beat its wings and screeched. Tittering laughter echoed down throughout the cavern from above, and a small face peeked out over the edge.
"My, my, Os, how'd yous ever get up there, Os?" The Keeper's eyes traversed the frozen corpse of the great wyrm even as Osric scrambled down the chain to avoid the raking talons of the griffin. "Oh ho ho! I see, I see! Up hup hup to the tail, aye aye, and from there up hup hup to the top top top! Clever lad, yous!"
The midlander managed to spare Khuja'ya a brief glance. The kneeling Crow shifted his grip on the spear he'd planted buttfirst into the snow and leered down at the sergeant, even as the beast screeched again and with one concerted effort surged up and over to the other side of the chain, beak and talons now perilously close. The turbulence from its passing buffeted against the Hyur, who took a moment to consider how preferable a two dozen fulm drop to the stone below might be to a proper mauling.
"Ansfrid," barked Ortolf's voice, and the griffin screeched for a third time and paused as it turned about in midair to throw a glance down at the approaching highlander. Khuja'ya groaned and scratched at an ear, his manner suddenly surly.
"Spoiling him, Forgie, old soft git, soft git! Old too. Lad was makin' a break and breakin' a make for it, sure and sure, he was! Thinking we was alls guarding just the tunnel. Idiot. Showed him, Ans and I did, showed him good."
"Nevertheless, he is needed. Don't test me on this, Zhwan." Ortolf came to a halt and crossed his arms as he squinted up at the griffin. "Ansfrid," he called again, more warning in his tone this time.
The griffin eyed him again as it beat its wings, then thrummed and called out, a keening that proved far more gentle than the harsh cries of moments past. The beast's head swiveled and its beak closed upon the back of Osric's collar. One swift tug tore the midlander from his tenuous, slippery grip on his lifeline. He cried out in surprise.. and then the beating and buffeting ceased. Beast and man plummeted as the griffin's wings folded only to unfurl a moment later to slow them both as their weight impacted the stone below.
The beak opened and dropped Osric to the stone in time for Ortolf to walk up and scratch at the ruff of the beast's neck. The griffin thrummed and keened again. The highlander whispered a few words, all foreign to the midlander's ears, and suddenly the living symbol of Ala Mhigo took off again and flew up and out past Khuja'ya Zhwan, who looked on wistfully. Forgehand sighed, then reached down and dragged Osric back onto his feet.
"You are supposed to be resting, not making daring attempts at escape. Your wounds will not heal if you strain yourself."
The sergeant shrugged off the man's grip as best he could manage, then slowly made his way to the nearest wall.
Weak. Tired. Aching. Muscles I'd forgotten I have. Piss, this hurts.
"Easier... if... you all hadn't... ssssss."
"I thought I made it clear," Forgehands replied as Osric put his back to the ice and slid down to the ground, "we are not here to coddle you. You are here to be prepared, and we are here to prepare you. The abomination you must face will offer no quarter when the time comes, bairn. So we must press you and threaten you and run you through if need be. Only then will your reflexes anticipate the worst."
"Still leaves us... with me injured... and our 'schedule'... delayed."
"We've administered what medicines we have. What remains is up to you."
"Chakras," muttered the midlander.
"Chakras," echoed the Ala Mhigan as he hunched down before the other man.
"Been drawin' on the Sacral all night. Shite, I been doin' little else! Ain't like this'll heal overnight, not with wounds this deep--"
"--you understand so little." Forgehands seemed unphased by Melkire's sudden glare. "Whose disciple were you, that your training is so flawed, your knowledge so incomplete?"
"As if I'd give y'names, Crow."
The highlander snorted. "Not of the Order, then. Not of the Fist."
Osric bristled. "They're the finest o'--"
"Not. Fist." The highlander's denunciation was absolute, and his tone brooked no argument. "I should know. I was there for the massacre. I stood with the last of them, when our Order died."
The undead man shrugged.
"Young lads, then. Bairns, looking to live up to the legacy of their fathers. What they remember, they pass on. Not a one of them would know the truth."
The midlander squinted. "What truth?"
"That not all men are the same. That not all men walk the same path. That for some, certain emotions are a liability. That for others, those same emotions are power."
Ortolf Forgehands sighed again. The gesture was clearly for Melkire's benefit.
Abominations like 'im don't need t'breathe, after all.
"Rotunda would not have me teach you this lesson. To do so is to hand you too potent a tool that you might turn it on us, once we've parted. But I see no other way. You must recover. To withhold this from you is to delay. Therefore, I will say only this."
Ortolf drew his arms up from where the rested on his knees and held his thighs.
"One man walks by moonlight. The moon shows him the forest trail, leads him to water, grows him berries. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the radiance of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."
The Ala Mhigan struck, right hand sliding off his leg before powering into the rock below. Osric jolted, startled, then watched in fascination as the ancient monk withdrew his fist and began gathering shards of stone in his other hand
"One man walks by sunlight. The sun shows him the valley road, leads him to water, grows him wheat. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the darkness of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."
Ortolf laid one hand over the other, encapsulating the bits of rock he held within... and then clamped down, ground his hands together, squeezed, twisted, pressured. When he at least ceased, he lifted the hand on top to reveal a small, round sphere of stone, perfectly smooth, an orb with no cracks or imperfections to be seen.
"You are one of the night, yet you have taken instruction from one of the day. You have been taught to steel yourself, to bask in your own confidence, to shut away fear and revel in the knowledge that you will survive."
The highlander passed the marble over to the midlander, who took it with awe and rolled it around in his hands, examining it closely from all angles.
"This is wrong?"
"This is wrong," intoned Forgehands as he stood. "For one such as you, bairn, fear is a tool. Fear is a tool that draws your eyes, that heightens your awareness, that calls to the most primal instincts in you. To move, to flee, to strike out, to fell your foe before they fell you in turn."
The Crow turned to go, only to pause halfway down the tunnel that led outside. He looked back over his shoulder at Melkire.
"Welcome fear."
"My, my, Os, how'd yous ever get up there, Os?" The Keeper's eyes traversed the frozen corpse of the great wyrm even as Osric scrambled down the chain to avoid the raking talons of the griffin. "Oh ho ho! I see, I see! Up hup hup to the tail, aye aye, and from there up hup hup to the top top top! Clever lad, yous!"
The midlander managed to spare Khuja'ya a brief glance. The kneeling Crow shifted his grip on the spear he'd planted buttfirst into the snow and leered down at the sergeant, even as the beast screeched again and with one concerted effort surged up and over to the other side of the chain, beak and talons now perilously close. The turbulence from its passing buffeted against the Hyur, who took a moment to consider how preferable a two dozen fulm drop to the stone below might be to a proper mauling.
"Ansfrid," barked Ortolf's voice, and the griffin screeched for a third time and paused as it turned about in midair to throw a glance down at the approaching highlander. Khuja'ya groaned and scratched at an ear, his manner suddenly surly.
"Spoiling him, Forgie, old soft git, soft git! Old too. Lad was makin' a break and breakin' a make for it, sure and sure, he was! Thinking we was alls guarding just the tunnel. Idiot. Showed him, Ans and I did, showed him good."
"Nevertheless, he is needed. Don't test me on this, Zhwan." Ortolf came to a halt and crossed his arms as he squinted up at the griffin. "Ansfrid," he called again, more warning in his tone this time.
The griffin eyed him again as it beat its wings, then thrummed and called out, a keening that proved far more gentle than the harsh cries of moments past. The beast's head swiveled and its beak closed upon the back of Osric's collar. One swift tug tore the midlander from his tenuous, slippery grip on his lifeline. He cried out in surprise.. and then the beating and buffeting ceased. Beast and man plummeted as the griffin's wings folded only to unfurl a moment later to slow them both as their weight impacted the stone below.
The beak opened and dropped Osric to the stone in time for Ortolf to walk up and scratch at the ruff of the beast's neck. The griffin thrummed and keened again. The highlander whispered a few words, all foreign to the midlander's ears, and suddenly the living symbol of Ala Mhigo took off again and flew up and out past Khuja'ya Zhwan, who looked on wistfully. Forgehand sighed, then reached down and dragged Osric back onto his feet.
"You are supposed to be resting, not making daring attempts at escape. Your wounds will not heal if you strain yourself."
The sergeant shrugged off the man's grip as best he could manage, then slowly made his way to the nearest wall.
Weak. Tired. Aching. Muscles I'd forgotten I have. Piss, this hurts.
"Easier... if... you all hadn't... ssssss."
"I thought I made it clear," Forgehands replied as Osric put his back to the ice and slid down to the ground, "we are not here to coddle you. You are here to be prepared, and we are here to prepare you. The abomination you must face will offer no quarter when the time comes, bairn. So we must press you and threaten you and run you through if need be. Only then will your reflexes anticipate the worst."
"Still leaves us... with me injured... and our 'schedule'... delayed."
"We've administered what medicines we have. What remains is up to you."
"Chakras," muttered the midlander.
"Chakras," echoed the Ala Mhigan as he hunched down before the other man.
"Been drawin' on the Sacral all night. Shite, I been doin' little else! Ain't like this'll heal overnight, not with wounds this deep--"
"--you understand so little." Forgehands seemed unphased by Melkire's sudden glare. "Whose disciple were you, that your training is so flawed, your knowledge so incomplete?"
"As if I'd give y'names, Crow."
The highlander snorted. "Not of the Order, then. Not of the Fist."
Osric bristled. "They're the finest o'--"
"Not. Fist." The highlander's denunciation was absolute, and his tone brooked no argument. "I should know. I was there for the massacre. I stood with the last of them, when our Order died."
The undead man shrugged.
"Young lads, then. Bairns, looking to live up to the legacy of their fathers. What they remember, they pass on. Not a one of them would know the truth."
The midlander squinted. "What truth?"
"That not all men are the same. That not all men walk the same path. That for some, certain emotions are a liability. That for others, those same emotions are power."
Ortolf Forgehands sighed again. The gesture was clearly for Melkire's benefit.
Abominations like 'im don't need t'breathe, after all.
"Rotunda would not have me teach you this lesson. To do so is to hand you too potent a tool that you might turn it on us, once we've parted. But I see no other way. You must recover. To withhold this from you is to delay. Therefore, I will say only this."
Ortolf drew his arms up from where the rested on his knees and held his thighs.
"One man walks by moonlight. The moon shows him the forest trail, leads him to water, grows him berries. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the radiance of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."
The Ala Mhigan struck, right hand sliding off his leg before powering into the rock below. Osric jolted, startled, then watched in fascination as the ancient monk withdrew his fist and began gathering shards of stone in his other hand
"One man walks by sunlight. The sun shows him the valley road, leads him to water, grows him wheat. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the darkness of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail."
Ortolf laid one hand over the other, encapsulating the bits of rock he held within... and then clamped down, ground his hands together, squeezed, twisted, pressured. When he at least ceased, he lifted the hand on top to reveal a small, round sphere of stone, perfectly smooth, an orb with no cracks or imperfections to be seen.
"You are one of the night, yet you have taken instruction from one of the day. You have been taught to steel yourself, to bask in your own confidence, to shut away fear and revel in the knowledge that you will survive."
The highlander passed the marble over to the midlander, who took it with awe and rolled it around in his hands, examining it closely from all angles.
"This is wrong?"
"This is wrong," intoned Forgehands as he stood. "For one such as you, bairn, fear is a tool. Fear is a tool that draws your eyes, that heightens your awareness, that calls to the most primal instincts in you. To move, to flee, to strike out, to fell your foe before they fell you in turn."
The Crow turned to go, only to pause halfway down the tunnel that led outside. He looked back over his shoulder at Melkire.
"Welcome fear."
