The Whistling Dragon (Self Mod)

[Vadim]

10th of Summer, 510 AV; Morning

Vadim woke to the relentless flap of canvas against wooden pole. The sporadic beat intensified as the drawing wind surged through his tent and whined at its exit, a pressurized screech that was melodic but monumental on scale. Much in likeness to the ocean the sea of grass lapsed against itself in turbulent weather and made the crisp swoosh echo throughout Ironfoot pavilion. A meshed conundrum of sound was enough for the young man to concede rest, who in futile attempt to keep himself warm had withdrawn himself in the comfort a blanket. He threw it to his side and stepped from his tent, his half lidded gaze focused on the sky above.

"We meet again, Whistling Dragon", Vadim murmured from lips that weren't truly ready to part in full flavored speech. His words were lost in the reciprocated gesture, a sudden gust which sent him stumbling into the back of his tent, a fire erupting in his lower back as he slammed against its wooden frame. He spat upon the ground with a mused grin and stood up with aching gesture. To his side was Fetig, curled into a white mound of fluff which every so often stirred to accommodate the incoming winds. Otherwise the fox was unmoved except from the slow rise and fall of its heaving chest. A sharp whistle had the fox up and bounding to his side, and he went forth deeper to the plains, a single javelin held in his hand.

They stopped in a clearing that had little apparent value safe for a rickety hay target that shook uneasily in the coming gale. Its rickety frame groaned and crackled under the pressure of its own weight but it was unmoved for stakes had rooted it deep in the ground. Vadim saw this and grinned, for he'd had created the target himself. The task, he remembered, was short enough, but to a degree that its stability remained in this weather was a testament to his patience. He imagined, with a smirk the archery range of Ironfoot pavillion and how the targets must have been blown for leagues across the plains, swept up by the will of the Whistling Dragon. Riders had priority there, and though it was likely isolated in the vicious storm he wanted to extend the principle he was a self-sufficient being.

It was entirely cloudy that morning and no sun bore its rays upon the plains, but instead silver streaked fog shadowed over the plains and sent wind roaring through the heavens to tear any unfortunate man from his spot in these grassy lands. With no restrictions Vadim felt the surge of the gods course through him and send his hair wildly flying upwards against the sky, and his clothing, which tapered against his skin and stretched outwards was but a flapping blur against the man who every so often had to bend his knees and brace and lower himself even to provide maximum stability.

Fetig remained, his tail swishing elegantly in controlled flicks and his beady black eyes never falling from his master. The wind forced his ears back against his head but otherwise his placid gaze remained upon the man who drew his javelin from the ground and stabbed it passionately into the air, a whiplike whir emanating from the opposing forces of sleek metal against the caustic forces from above. The fox watched intently, as he had many times before his master challenge these adverse conditions to relay his dominance, to show that the speck of his frame defied the imposing powers that be and sought to drove the tip of his javelin into it to relay this message.

"1. . 2 . . 3. . 4!" Vadim shouted in rhythm to counted thrusts, his hands now firmly planted and his knees bent in position. Now the distraction of wind became but an embedded feature of his environment that he'd accounted and adapted for.

[Vadim]

The Whistling Dragon had been given many names by a variety of people who'd once inhabited the Cyphurus plains. It was an ominous windstorm that accredited much of its ferocity to the shrieking tone of the wind as it passed through the plains in unbridled rage. An accompanying fog often deluded those caught within it, and, mixed with the seizing winds it was not uncommon for people to disappear forever within the vastness of the region. In likeness to the steam which escaped from a dragon when it whistled, the fog swirled about in a fluency of its own, enshrouding patches of land, and oftentimes blinding stretches for miles on end. Only the bravest riders did stir from their pavillions in its coming, and the foolhardy did approach it as well in their own initiation to manhood. Drykas who knew it gave it no name, for they knew its power and feared that giving it character would incite bad luck.

Vadim was one who'd endured the gale force winds of this storm with a bravado all his own. Many times had they met, and he trained in it to strengthen his resolve. Sanity tottered on the brink. It was rare that he maintained composure for longer than a minute before the winds became overwhelming and he was cast unto the ground, often into unconsciousness. There he would lie for a time, sometimes until the storm passed. On occasion he'd awake to a completely different location than where he intended. There was no defense to this except to embrace its coming and leave your fate to those of a higher power.

"1. . 2. . 3. . 4, 1. . 2. . 3. . 4!", Vadim sung at such a pitch until his voice was hoarse and then his words became whispers which melded into his environment. He struck the air a good many times, a feverish pace augmenting his already rigorous regiment. When his arms were numb from bracing against the winds and exerting force, he continued. When his javelin flew from his hands he took several minutes to search for it and then continued, at a faster pace than usual to compensate for lost time. Over the course of an hour he was knocked to the ground thirty two times. His face and arms were covered in a colorful spectrum of violet hues. Still, his aching swollen body continued, fueled only by the anger which his pain generated. When that depleted he collapsed to the ground, a tired wreck with a fox curled gently at his side.

"Fetig. . my loyal companion." Vadim whispered. He was not heard but the fox looked in understanding manner and backed away slightly. It watched, mildly amused at the laborious task his master had set upon himself. Vadim wrenched himself free from the ground with a veritable thrust with his arms. From his knees he stood, wobbling until rigid. His prone, outstretched figure faced the strongest wind it had in a long while and he dug his heels into the ground to endure. The wind tore against him and it seemed his flesh was being torn from his body. Marginally holding, he expelled a sigh as he slumped forward, his lazy eyes looking to see a cleared patch where once fog stood. There in an isolated clearing stood his hay target, glistening with dew.

"Target practice, then."

[Vadim]

Conditions demanded a mastery of technique. Winds which whipped violently against the stretch from Vadim to his target would submit no ground to error. There was a serenity to him as the raging storm gathered strength, and even as he physically struggled to maintain the calm in his eyes was prevalent. Laboriously he lifted his legs from the ground so that his feet faced an intersecting direction to his target. A solid crook of his neck shot a glance towards his direction, preceding a quick hand movement that had his javelin in the flat of his palm. Index finger and middle curled along the top of the notch. In assuming this stance there was retaliation.

The Dragon made itself known in ethereal wisps of fog that streamed across Vadim's features at such felocity that the condensed water which hit his heated skin cut it like razor blades. Streaks of pink lapsed against his hardened features and an overwhelmingly shrill cackle rose above all other noise and plagued his soft ears.

Vadim grimaced as he bent his knees to hold ground. They were weak and unreliable, though, and quavered at the smallest of efforts. He knew his energy had been drawn from him at an accelerated pace so he hastened his efforts. While his left palm teetered forth towards the blur of circular painted hay, his right lifted the javelin above his head, the tip drawing parellel to eye level and falling in line with his left. He succumbed to the weakness of this open posture eventually, when another gust threw him back several feet, his staggering steps desperately trying to keep his body from falling, for he knew he would not stand from another fall. And, with his last vested bits of energy he sprinted forth, a ragged exhalation marking his stride.

He sought to capitalize momentum, and when his speed reached its virtual pinnacle he let fly! His shoulder swung forth and the rest of his arm responded. Suddenly his elbow came through and locked, all rudimentary practices that were accentuated by a very touchy point of release. Given he was not trying to maximize distance and trying to hit a target, there was invariably need for adjustment, much like as it is when trying to throw at a prone target. He aimed a low, swooping arc with a high velocity to account for the distance covered, and as he released his fingers uncurled in a spinning motion to augment acceleration.

Suddenly there was a defeaning roar! A flash of white blinded Vadim and he instantly fell into darkness dropping to the ground in a lifeless thud.

[Vadim]

Cast in ebony silhouette, a white glowing shaft was illuminated by speckled rays of sunlight which dappled on the lush greens below. A serene breeze stirred massive plains and wavelike rustles rippled throughout the environment, curling in semicircular arcs that drew upon this particular point of interest. In the wreckage lay the scattered pieces to a testament of fortitude, an attributed sweat and patience leaking from the moistened remains of stained wood and fleeting stray pieces of hay that dotted the ground in shining gold and an assortment of various hues. There lied the sad wreckage of Vadim's once prized craft, and from it there lied no javelin to be found.

Yards away it sprawled gently from the glimpsing red fingertips of a still man. In the peace of a caressing sun it shuddered in vicious breaths. Wild spasms transcended actual thought, and only time cause him to rise. For, in the waning midsts of a crimson sun he woke to the a rough red tongue and a powerful neigh. He cast his sight to the wreckage aforth and wept in bitter silence. The fruition of his efforts stood, a fragile javelin which pointed its tip to the foot of his owner. In all he'd sacrificed there was little to gain and more to lose. A quivering hand shook violently as it lifed, snapping suddenly at the ushering of several rigid joints which slid uneasily and extended forth so that his bruised hand could fall upon the shaft and drag it to him against the even flat of the ground.

Words were not spoken for he'd realized the error of his challenge just by glimpsing on the wreckage which told of devastation to the blind eye. In a pivotal moment when the iron fist of Whistling Dragon raged Vadim threw hopelessly, expelling the last bit of energy he had while subsequently facing such turbulent weather that he blacked out from a number of adverse factors. That melding moment spoke doom to those trapped within its breadth, and the training target which weathered many storms finally gave under the pressure of it all. There was bitter sadness to the tale of a man who created much to ensure isolation, for now it seemed he was being drawn ever closer to the people he spited. The few options that remained pointed to a collective facility which he'd avoided much of his life.

"Bravo!" He called simply, his voice an empty canvas of flat tone and sluggish bravado.

[Tundris]

Vadim +3 Javelin Lores: Spearing Against the Wind Conditioning the Skin for Harsh Weather Javelin: Still Target Practice Notes: I can tell that you love to use embellished and descriptive language, and that shows so much creativity on your part. But there is a way that you can give your metaphors even more of an impact, by letting them stand alone without being repeated redundantly. For instance instead of choosing three different ways to describe one thing, pull out the important aspects and challenge yourself to work them into one sentence without a huge run on sentence! This is a writing tip that I learned and it has helped me get my point across without clogging the reader with too much descriptive information. You want to get your best ideas across, like getting rid of weeds so that your flowers can grow and be noticed! But seriously amazing job, some of your descriptions were just beautiful A pleasure to read!