9th Day of Fall 513 AV
Awaking without a dreams end seemed strange to Varka. Yesterday he was gripped with horrid visions of an unending labyrinth, yet this night there was only darkness, a pure heavy grip of nothingness beset upon the man like a rock tied to a persons leg as they try to struggle to the surface of a frozen pond. Speaking of frozen, Varka gripped what little blanket he had closer to his shivering form as he smalled the faint scent of ash.
Slowly rubbing his tired eyes he popped his head outside his tent and noted the bare remains of his campfire. Looking about he noticed the continuous snowfall had left a uniform of white on nearly everything around him leaving only a glittering pure alabaster to stare back. Shielding his eyes from the continuous glimmer, Varka retreated back into his tent, rubbing his hands together to create warmth as he thought of what to do next.
The year had not been kind to him, not at all. This recent incident with a Saber tooth had only been the icing on the frozen cake of things that had slowly driven the hunter into despair. Speaking of hunting, the Vantha had to do that and soon as his rations were down to less than a weak after his long dry spell made worse when he lost his horse and saddle to that massive behemoth cat. Still he could have lost his life as well so clapping his hands three times and putting on his gloves and scarf, he ventured out into the endless cold.
The winds were whipping like a dominatrix without the pleasure, but Varka founds his own piece in the piercing veil of white. There was a sense to it, a simple understanding that the environment demanded you earn your stay while it seemed harsh at first it was in every way a simply stern parent who wished the best for it's child.
Parents, Varka thought of them often, he didn't leave them on the best terms, but what made it worse was that his reasons for leaving hadn't even come to any sort of fruition. To be an architect like that was some crime, but when leaving your small clan as one of the youngest and aspiring hunters to perform a task that didn't involve shooting animals with pain it certainly did seem like a slight it seemed. Yet three years after that fact and Varka was no closer to his goal than when he left besides giving himself the surname Iceglaze because when he mentioned his quest to a roaming trader who bought a few owl feathers off him the man said something about a hold that was filled with prolific builders.
What kept him from Avanthal, Varka couldn't quite place as he walked through the forest dense with prickly pine needles his thoughts turned to trees and how he saw them, but perhaps not the forest. True there was that dream still creeping in the back of his mind, but the wood was immediate it was hungry and so was he. Yet it was something more than a mere hunger which kept him at bay from his goal, it was a fear a lingering fear. He knew nothing of architecture, he could build a fire and a tent, but that was the extent of his building skill. So his mind shied away from the future like a sheep from a wolf shaped something, it may be harmless it might even be a delicious bush filled with nourishment, but if it turned out to be a wolf there would be nothing and Varka would be dead.
Noting a rustle in the brush the hunter instinct in Varka remembered one of the advantages of death, that being that life was quite a bit more expensive as a prospect. One expense was heat, constantly fleeing him in puffs of smoke in shakes in spats and currently in effort as he noted the small streak of white darting past him. Diving onto the ground it streaked past he found the only white left was snow which he spit out bitterly shaking the half melted cluster from his face, standing and watching the creature run he went after it with reckless abandon.
His arms swinging as he went off the trail his legs digging deep into the snow, Varka found himself unable to continue as the light beast scampered across the top of the snow away from him. After a moment of stopping the alabaster rabbit did as well, turning his eyes filled with fear and terrible wonder as it looked upon it's pursuer. Varka panted as the creature looked him over before turning about and continuing on slowly into the brush. Mankind in its many forms would not have gotten on very long without ingenuity and persistence and also a bit of luck. Varka borrowed the inventions of his ancestors as he produced his short bow, used his Vantha blood, tough in the snow and most strong in times of great weakness as he drew it taut producing a small arrow to fit into the stringed arc.
The hunters experience with the bow was limited, often the hunt was brutal affair in the Reach with many men with clubs beating down a walrus to drag it back to camp or leaving many traps for the smaller creatures to eat piecemeal to get by day by day. So as Varka aimed his arms shook, his shoulder sagged where it should not, he breathed freely only worsening the situation as his bow itself was improperly maintained for the inclimate weather. So it only made sense that he missed, his arrow slapping a tree like an unfaitful husband, the rabbit starting into the brush never to be seen again. Or so Varka thought, for he forgot that oh so essential equalizer which acts as generously as it does cruelly. Luck. As it struck the tree it's pine covered boughs did shake heartily letting go of their heavy burden of snow which immediately enveloped the hare in a deep entanglement of icy cold.
Moving deep into snow Varka dug slowly, meticulously, until at last he found a bit of fur which moved weakly at his touch. Pulling out the helpless creature he saw it on the verge of deaths door, thanking Morwen for her blessing of winter in finding this food he produced his eating knife and cut it's throat so this small beast would suffer no more.
Awaking without a dreams end seemed strange to Varka. Yesterday he was gripped with horrid visions of an unending labyrinth, yet this night there was only darkness, a pure heavy grip of nothingness beset upon the man like a rock tied to a persons leg as they try to struggle to the surface of a frozen pond. Speaking of frozen, Varka gripped what little blanket he had closer to his shivering form as he smalled the faint scent of ash.
Slowly rubbing his tired eyes he popped his head outside his tent and noted the bare remains of his campfire. Looking about he noticed the continuous snowfall had left a uniform of white on nearly everything around him leaving only a glittering pure alabaster to stare back. Shielding his eyes from the continuous glimmer, Varka retreated back into his tent, rubbing his hands together to create warmth as he thought of what to do next.
The year had not been kind to him, not at all. This recent incident with a Saber tooth had only been the icing on the frozen cake of things that had slowly driven the hunter into despair. Speaking of hunting, the Vantha had to do that and soon as his rations were down to less than a weak after his long dry spell made worse when he lost his horse and saddle to that massive behemoth cat. Still he could have lost his life as well so clapping his hands three times and putting on his gloves and scarf, he ventured out into the endless cold.
The winds were whipping like a dominatrix without the pleasure, but Varka founds his own piece in the piercing veil of white. There was a sense to it, a simple understanding that the environment demanded you earn your stay while it seemed harsh at first it was in every way a simply stern parent who wished the best for it's child.
Parents, Varka thought of them often, he didn't leave them on the best terms, but what made it worse was that his reasons for leaving hadn't even come to any sort of fruition. To be an architect like that was some crime, but when leaving your small clan as one of the youngest and aspiring hunters to perform a task that didn't involve shooting animals with pain it certainly did seem like a slight it seemed. Yet three years after that fact and Varka was no closer to his goal than when he left besides giving himself the surname Iceglaze because when he mentioned his quest to a roaming trader who bought a few owl feathers off him the man said something about a hold that was filled with prolific builders.
What kept him from Avanthal, Varka couldn't quite place as he walked through the forest dense with prickly pine needles his thoughts turned to trees and how he saw them, but perhaps not the forest. True there was that dream still creeping in the back of his mind, but the wood was immediate it was hungry and so was he. Yet it was something more than a mere hunger which kept him at bay from his goal, it was a fear a lingering fear. He knew nothing of architecture, he could build a fire and a tent, but that was the extent of his building skill. So his mind shied away from the future like a sheep from a wolf shaped something, it may be harmless it might even be a delicious bush filled with nourishment, but if it turned out to be a wolf there would be nothing and Varka would be dead.
Noting a rustle in the brush the hunter instinct in Varka remembered one of the advantages of death, that being that life was quite a bit more expensive as a prospect. One expense was heat, constantly fleeing him in puffs of smoke in shakes in spats and currently in effort as he noted the small streak of white darting past him. Diving onto the ground it streaked past he found the only white left was snow which he spit out bitterly shaking the half melted cluster from his face, standing and watching the creature run he went after it with reckless abandon.
His arms swinging as he went off the trail his legs digging deep into the snow, Varka found himself unable to continue as the light beast scampered across the top of the snow away from him. After a moment of stopping the alabaster rabbit did as well, turning his eyes filled with fear and terrible wonder as it looked upon it's pursuer. Varka panted as the creature looked him over before turning about and continuing on slowly into the brush. Mankind in its many forms would not have gotten on very long without ingenuity and persistence and also a bit of luck. Varka borrowed the inventions of his ancestors as he produced his short bow, used his Vantha blood, tough in the snow and most strong in times of great weakness as he drew it taut producing a small arrow to fit into the stringed arc.
The hunters experience with the bow was limited, often the hunt was brutal affair in the Reach with many men with clubs beating down a walrus to drag it back to camp or leaving many traps for the smaller creatures to eat piecemeal to get by day by day. So as Varka aimed his arms shook, his shoulder sagged where it should not, he breathed freely only worsening the situation as his bow itself was improperly maintained for the inclimate weather. So it only made sense that he missed, his arrow slapping a tree like an unfaitful husband, the rabbit starting into the brush never to be seen again. Or so Varka thought, for he forgot that oh so essential equalizer which acts as generously as it does cruelly. Luck. As it struck the tree it's pine covered boughs did shake heartily letting go of their heavy burden of snow which immediately enveloped the hare in a deep entanglement of icy cold.
Moving deep into snow Varka dug slowly, meticulously, until at last he found a bit of fur which moved weakly at his touch. Pulling out the helpless creature he saw it on the verge of deaths door, thanking Morwen for her blessing of winter in finding this food he produced his eating knife and cut it's throat so this small beast would suffer no more.
