[Epic Quest] Oddities (Wrenmae)

[Phoenix]

50th of Summer, 511 AV Wretched Sprite bound for Syliras It was hardly rough sailing. In fact, the entirety of the crew had commented at one point or another on the sheer simplicity of this journey. Normally, winds buffeted from the wrong directions, causing the ships to veer off course. Or swells taller than a full grown man would sweep over the deck, making the footing treacherous for even the most seasoned sailor. However, as the Wretched Sprite grew ever closer to Syliras, the calmer the waters and air became. It was unnerving. "Oi, get back ter work! There ought not ter be any of ye standin' doin' nothin'!" The gravely bark of the captain took the huddled group of sailors by surprise. They jumped apart, some looking around in panic for the source of the voice. Stumping over with a huge coil of rope slung around his shoulders, the captain twitched the end at the heels of the slower moving crew members. "Get ter it! Don' let me catch any of ya yakin' again, ya hear?" They heard, though they all pretended the be busily consumed with their work. The Wretched Sprite had the reputation of being a reliable vessel, safely carrying it's cargo and it's passengers alike to safety. The luck they were having with the weather had the captain in a surprisingly good mood. Passengers were being allowed on deck, rather than kept to the confinements of their cabins. Trust was one thing the Captain lacked. He didn't share his name for one, and he also refused to let the paying passengers anywhere near the cargo he transported. Only he and his crew knew what was contained in those mysterious boxes, but they also kept tight lips on the matter. Hence the strange fortune of said passengers allowed to wander about. "Land!" Cried the sailor in the crow's nest, as all movement below ceased immediately. It was not the joyous cry that one would expect after weeks surrounded by endless expanses of water, but held a note of panic. "LAND!" Came the shout again. Having gone below deck to take care of captain-y things, Captain came charging on deck at the second shout "WHAT!" He bellowed, flying to the railing "We're not due to port for another week even with the good weather!" All of his gruff seafarer slang had disappeared in his panic. "Seeing glass!" He called, holding out his hand. Raising to his eye the glass handed to him by his first mate, Captain peered silently at the mass that appeared before them. It was a huge green-brown mound that definately did look like land. However, unless the sailor in the crow's nest had been sleeping, why hadn't he called out sooner? There was no possible way to miss anything that size... "I don't....STARBOARD!" Gesturing wildly, Captain had pulled the seeing glass away from his eye. There was no need for it. An identical green-brown mass had appeared not fifty meters away to their right. Screams rippled along the deck as the passengers began to panic. "Get back to your cabins! NOW! PORT!" The last was a shout to the man at the wheel, who needed no instruction and was already attempting to heave the ship away from the mysterious landmass. There was much panic and confusion as passengers ran back and forth, forgetting themselves in their fear and effectively inhibiting the sailors from doing their jobs. There was much slamming of cabin doors and shouting of instructions, and though most of the passengers has managed to tuck themselves away it was no good. The ship swung wildly in the water, veering sharply to the left, while the once calm water erupted in waves that crashed violently over the deck, sweeping a few unsuspecting crewsmen overboard. Having avoided the mass on the right side, the crew then focused on keeping the ship from capsizing as they they tried recover from the sharp change in direction. They would have succeeded, except for giant green-brown mass that erupted from the waves directly in front of their bow. Hard as rock, whatever it was, the wood splintered and the ship crumpled against the...thing. Passengers and cargo was flung out into the wildly churning waters with the few scraps of ship that remained afloat. OOC : Wren is going to survive and wash up on shore. He can get a close glimpse of whatever is in the water, but it isn't going to stick around for long. It can pretty much be any kind of unbelievable sea creature that he might have come across in any of his stories. You also have the option of having him fight to shore or wake up there. Take as many posts as you want, and let me know what you're ready for the next bit. Enjoy!

[Wrenmae]

In the days since he'd left Alvadas, Wrenmae had taken to standing near the railing. Despite numerous warnings from the crew about the danger of being so close to the edge, the wide waters had called the storyteller with growing need until he could no longer stay still within his cabin. Now he stood at the edge of solid reach, watching the waters roll against itself like some ponderous creature. It reminded him of how very young he was, how used to the uneven and jagged teeth of the Unforgiving. This world, this reality of fluid...water and sky, it seemed almost a forbidden state. He rode upon a beast of wood, mankind's half-hearted attempts to traverse as the birds and fish did.

Shoddy fragility. Everyone hoped on a prayer that the sea did not notice the insects crawling across his back. If the depths rose against them, they would all be drowned.

His grip tightened on the railing. He imagined what the fall would be like, to hit the water and be immersed suddenly in the air that was not air. Turning away from the briny darkness beside the boat, he started back to the cabin.

Lately he'd been keeping fish, not for long, tossing them overboard before they began to smell. It wasn't too much out of his food, but he tried to keep the head, to observed the gills there. With the gold he'd paid, Wrenmae was afforded a small cabin in the back. It smelled of old water, of sweat and fish oil, but it was different than cold mountain air...and he couldn't be more happy for the change.

The crew had been amiable to him, even overly interested. Wrenmae was the kind of person who exuded welcome. The world around him seemed to enjoy his presence, unaware of the death seeding his form. Even he forgot, sometimes, more oft than not since he got to the ship. The sailors were hardy men, used to various climates and illnesses. They carried their suffering with a quiet pride, as though they were too big to let on their weren't feeling optimal.

So it was that Wrenmae had forgotten he was a plague bearer.

Shouts carried surprisingly well between the cracks of his door, alerting him not by the words, but by the alarm they carried. Leaping up, throwing the door open even as he gathered what weapons he had, what scant belonging he still called his own, he expected to see pirates...the hardy sea folk balancing from boat to boat.

Instead he saw islands, luminous, glistening islands surrounding the boat and rising like unlidded eyes from the surf.

Wrenmae was awestruck, unsure what to think of these strange apparitions. Around him, the ship buckled as it tried to turn, men were thrown into the sea with tragically brief screams. The ocean roared louder, woken from its dreaming by intrusion and swatting absently at the humans on his back. Careening, Wrenmae fell with the others, sliding along a slick deck to the side of the rails and was hurled roughly against the wood. He saw red, his vision swimming slowly as thoughts froze. Shouts sounded distant now, the world seemed to swim.

There was the sound of something breaking, some unimaginable bone splintering into nothing. Gravity reversed itself, directions became confused. He was flying, he was falling, he was floating.

Surf met his face like a fist, hurling the air from his lungs as he dropped beneath its embrace. Above him, the ship listed, disintegrating at the prow and ebbing outward. Bodies fell around him, twisting an eerily beautiful dance as they sunk toward the greater unknown below. The islands were not islands.

The islands had been their backs, tentacled things with eyes like sparks of wildfire, glimmering in the liquid gloom. Each tentacle ended in some vicious pronged claw, claws that reached and tore into men and supplies in explosions of color. They were without description, spreading out like jellyfish before pushing the water from their bodies and vanishing like unlit fireflies into the turbulent blackness.

Wrenmae was alone with the dead, drowning.

No

Some piece of him, the piece of survival alive and biting still, tore through his barriers of acceptance and forced his Djed to mold. His neck felt itchy, skin warping and twisting with desperate need to breathe, to force meaning and understanding into an otherwise stupid body.

He tried to breathe, choked, lost his air in swarms of white bubbles. Grasping and twisting he reached for the surface, for that glittering certainty of life that slipped farther and farther away.

Skin blossomed and shrunk, reshaped and boiled. It forced the gill shape to form but did not know how to breathe. Desperately Wrenmae remembered how fish moved, how they swam and how their gills flopped in the open air.

Always moving.

Twisting himself in the water his arms were marionettes of misdirection. He didn't know how to swim, how to propel himself properly. He sank like the rest, trying desperately to catch something.

As luck would have it, some god of fortune perhaps, the wreckage of the ship released barrels bouyant with air. One brushed close to Wrenmae and he grabbed it, feeling the rough wood bite into his palms and send him toward the surface.

His vision swam, his chest burned, his legs kicked discordantly.

His face and neck malformed, Djed still trying to work out the basics, Wrenmae popped from the surf to gasp in the wreckage of what once was his ride to Syliras.

Water was worse coming out than going in, and the wretching left him sore, tired, exhausted. Barely clinging to the barrel, he floated from the wreckage, unsure of which direction he drifted...nor what his fate would be. Vayt maintained only the strongest survived, and though he was certainly not the strongest, he had lived so far, yes?

Drifting away, he slept, or passed out, and by chance remained fixated to the barrel as it meandered through the Suvan sea.

Behind, the sea swallowed up her kill.

Not even a ripple remained where once a ship had been.

As though it had never been there at all.

[Wrenmae]

He was hardly aware of his passage, floating really, more like drifting. The sun scorched his skin, thirst ravaged his body, and hunger prickled from the depths of his stomach. He hadn't the strength to move, to hunt, to even try to decide how to survive. The Suvan sea was infinite, everything stretching for miles beyond his comprehension. In the time after the monsters, after the darkness had taken his transportation, Wrenmae was left without a clear path. Sometimes time simply didn't exist, more the passage of breaths counting a scratchy rhythm in and out of consciousness. He may have prayed, offering pleas to any god or goddess, to any being that so desired to save a castaway child.

Maybe it was Laviku's way of cursing him, attacking Vayt's children in some strange cosmic battle. Pawns would be sunk and lost, but Vayt could always create more.

A few crates and bags containing gear and food had survived the wreck. In those beginning days, Wrenmae had gathered them with his body, fashioning a loose boat held only by his own structural integrity. A bit of rope he fished from a shred of sail, a bit of mooring line perhaps...or whatever the sailors called it. Attempting to tie a knot around hi raft was a failure dependent on time. Each new attempt of trying to thread it beneath the crates ended with a free floating rope or worse, a knot with no purpose.

Finally after years, or days, or maybe hours of night and day he managed a simple tangled web of rope and vestigial knots to hold his gear together. It was just as well, sharks circled in the water, curiously nudging his haven. Wrenmae had never seen their like before, huge fish with black eyes and hungry mouths. They frightened him like no predator in Kalea could. He could not run on water...and if they destroyed his boat, he would die.

Holding his knees near to his body he had allowed himself to cry, soaking his already damp body with the water he needed to keep, the water already greedily lapped by the sun.

The sharks followed, patient in an undying kind of way. Sometimes he saw them looming, dark shapes in darker waters, or they passed beside him, fins close enough to touch. He did not dare try to hypnotize, fearing what might happen if he thrust his head into the water long enough to meet their eyes. Those...eyes. They reminded him of the Void, of Seidaku's void.

At least he'd said goodbye.

For once, being alone was actually comforting. He couldn't have forgiven himself if Weaver or Ket had drowned in the destruction. They had suffered with him so long, it felt almost cruel to ask them to continue doing so on his account.

And to end in the belly of some giant fish.

He wouldn't fish for fear of the sharks, afraid of what might happen if he drew his gear from one of the crates and actually had a shark on the other line. In his nightmares, the fish crawled onto his makeshift boat and loomed over him, or he was falling into a whirlpool of gnashing teeth and empty sockets.

Part of him knew he was beginning to get delirious. That the sun stole sanity with his water, that it was an unforgiving god and just as deadly as the sharks...albeit far more patient.

It was only the passage of a seabird, some long winged creature of almost majestic wingspan and glittering eyes, did Wrenmae actually manage to survive on the sea till shore. Not knowing the significance of a bird in the sea, he instead fixated his eyes on it, brown meeting dark and yellow. He invaded the bird's bubble like a thief, layering ease and comfort into its mind, stealing away its ability to deny him...to deny what needed to be done. Wrenmae felt no pity for the bird, in another situation, it might have been here to eat him.

He felt it was only fair if he tried to eat it first.

The dagger was still with him, stowed in one of the crates he had lashed together. As Wrenmae kept the bird in a state of almost complete bliss, he gingerly drew the blade. It reminded him of the deer, that time in the mountains...but it had to be done.

Easing the bird, feeding it promises of food, relaxation, comfort...that universal language all creatures speak, Wrenmae reached up with the strength of a desperate man and grabbed the bird by the neck, planting his dagger into its breast.

The creature squawked once, dead before it realized what it had to fear. But Wrenmae was not simply interested in its meat. He put his mouth to the bird and drew in its blood, swallowed it as quickly as it would spray. It wasn't water, it was coppery and foul. But it was liquid and he quaffed it. No food tasted as good as it does to a starving man, and the same for liquid.

Amid torn feathers and broken bones, Wrenmae found the will to live...ironically enough, right when land appeared on the horizon. It floated there, a smudge in the distance. Beneath him, the eternal fish, hungry fish, roiled in their frustration, dancing off to darker depths and easier prey.

For the last mile into shore, Wrenmae was alone with the sun and the sky...and he was floating on the edge of consciousness.

He awoke on shore, waves lapping gently at his ill-constructed boat. Behind him the sea moved on, uncaring of its passenger. At first, there was only disbelief. The sun had stolen so much from him, his mind and his water, and perhaps it now sew discord, illusion.

He wanted to believe so desperately, hurled himself on the sand and clutched at it with sunburned hands. Desperate, desperate and alive, he had crossed the Suvan sea only barely, only vaguely.

He lived.

Stumbling into the forest, he took comfort in the thick trunks, the overlaying branches. The sound of water drew him to a stream, and he nearly drowned himself in its excess, filling his stomach with its cool bounty. His insides hurt, burned from malnutrition and the rigors of starvation, but somehow he had survived. Somehow he had lived. But where...where was he?

Returning to the crates, he gathered his gear into his backpack and stepped once more into the forest. It would seem imposing if not for the endless hunger of the place behind him, the hop in his step only afforded survivors, trading common sense for gleeful joy.

No matter where he was, it could not be worse than where he had been.

He took comfort in that fact, and began walking.

[Phoenix]

It wasn't long before Wrenmae would stumble upon the forest. It's cool, sheltering shade would be nearly irresistible to the starved and half drowned man. The forest edge was just that: A line of trees that stood as a barrier between the shadowy inner forest and the beach. The trees were tall and lush, their branches sagging with the sheer weight of the leaves. Some trees still flowered, though their pungent odor hadn't yet wafted towards Wrenmae. In any normal circumstance, a traveler would hesitate upon plunging through that fence of trees. The depths of the forest were a complete mystery. There was no sign of inhabitance, human or otherwise, anywhere for miles. Anything could be within the forest, and do an inexperienced travler, that could be deadly. The forest would be a shelter that Wrenmae couldn't deny. The shade called to him, and it was his thirst that lead him to the stream. But he would continue on, stumbling further into the leafy depths. There was a game trail next to the river, but it was old and overgrown from disuse. The dirt path, packed from it's once frequent usage, would lead him away from the river. Berry bushes were scattered along the edges with big, succulent berries so ripe they practically fell off the branches. Luckily for Wrenmae, none of these were poisonous, but he would have to take the chance that they were if he wanted to fill his stomach. It seemed as if the forest wanted the storyteller to survive. The game trail would also eventually lead him to an old rundown way-station. It was a good days journey from the beach, but if his strength persisted and he continued on he would be rewarded. The hut was barely standing, but there was enough of the walls left to provide shelter from the wind or rain, and the roof miraculously had survived all of the fallen limbs that were scattered about the clearing. All in all it was a suitable shelter. Inside, there would also still be the air-and-water tight lockbox that was left by each of the stations users. Inside would be a few strips of carefully preserved (Salted and smoked) meat, a water skin (empty) and a few other necessities like flint, tinder and a blanket. Enough to survive the night. It was courtesy to refill the box before one left the station, to help the next traveler who would stumble upon the hut in need.

[Wrenmae]

Groaning under the weight of his gear, backpack pressing down on his starved form, Wrenmae set one unsure foot after another on the uneven game trail. Life continued around him, barely inconvenienced by his clumsy progress. Sunlight grew red through the trees, the lifeblood of morning seeping into the horizon. Panting, he held his exhaustion tenuously in the trembling muscles of his stomach. One step interrupted another, stuttering his progress briefly beneath the canopy of an oak. He lay there, letting his body contour to varicose roots spidering from the tree base. Everything seemed so hard, so unreasonable. Ever since he had left Lhavit, his progress had been singularly marked with one hardship after another. Still, his survival alone seemed to suggest he wasn't meant to die just yet. Shaking his head, a low chuckle rattled his frame. A ship had sunk, all hands lost. Experienced sailors! Swimmers and men of salt and brine. Somehow he alone had survived the tragedy, survived to float among the flotsam. Even then he had not perished, scoured by wind and sun and dangled before the maws of giant fish! Certainly he had a story should he ever stumble on civilization again. The thought warmed him, at least. Somehow communicating his strange journey seemed the most important of his current thoughts...as though unloading this mixed tale would somehow justify it all, rationalize it.

It was a crazy thought, hardly worth dwelling on, but it gave him strength to carry on regardless.

Rising to his feet, Wrenmae shifted the pack into a better position. Elhaym had always held herself with such strength, poise, diligence...if he could muster even an iota of her resolve he might push through. Taking a deep breath, he pushed on.

The trees fell away from him, falling one by one back into their close knit forest. As though the footprint of some unimaginable creature, the small clearing almost seemed unnatural in such a dense area. The cabin quietly waiting for him shuttered a hello, wind rustling the peeling paint from its sides and dancing the shutters invitingly.

It was the first sign of sentient life he had seen in awhile, too long even. For a moment he couldn't believe in it, could not fathom it. Out here in nothing, it stood for everything he thought he might never see again. Swallowing against a dry throat, he pushed through the door.

The humble house had little, a practical haven for the frightened or determined. There was no sign of another resident, the dust speaking of ages past between former occupants. Sliding the pack off his back, Wrenmae slid down against the wall.

He did not eat, could not take the food offered so innocently for anyone to come through. There was doubt he could replace it, hardly the hunter Nisana was when he met her...and he knew nothing of preparing food for the long term.

Instead he only took the bed, climbing into its embrace willingly and using his entire body to absorb what it had to offer.

He was asleep before his body had completely settled.

[Phoenix]

Despite the trials of the day, Wrenmae was blessed in the sense that Sleep lingered overhead, just waiting for his eyes to flutter closed before it could sink it’s fingers into him, dragging him into the blissful unawareness that a deep, dreamless brought. He slept like the dead, sprawled across the tiny camp bed and oblivious to the waking world. Darkness fell around the hut as the stranded man slumbered on. The trees seemed to develop shadowed faces, as the sinking sun was no longer able to penetrate their leaf-laden branches; the fingers of darkness playing across the tree trunks, bark turning into twisted, angry features that all seemed to watch the hut. It was a trick of the light, but eerie none the less. The wind also seemed to pick up as the light fell, whistling through the trees with surprising force. The storm that wrecked Wrenmae’s ship was right off shore now, the winds being the very edge of the destructive force that had turned many lives on their heads. The low moan of creaking branches filled the clearing, a creepy counterpart to the glaring faces of the trees. When the rain fell it was well past midnight. The full moon had been obscured by the storm clouds, further deepening the darkness that descended upon the forest. It was pitch black now with the silvery glow of the moon hidden. Even the flash of lightening was muted as it struck down into a glade not far from where Wren slept; a lone tree was it’s victim, splitting in two with a resounding crack. As the broken pieces of wood lay smoking, there was movement in the shadows; the lightening had startled the lurkers into action. Thunder rumbled overhead less than a chime after the destructive flash; the eye of the storm was less than a mile away from where Wrenmae slumbered. But still, he slept on. When the storm hit full force less than half a bell later, it was breathtaking. The angry winds practically tore the leaves from their branches, debris flying from within the forest to swirl around the clearing. Rain lashed against the now sodden siding of the hut, a muffled staccato to Wrenmae inside. The glass in the single window shivered with the combined assults of rain and wind, only barely holding onto it’s place in the frame. It was when the glass finally did give up and jump out of it’s place, shattering on wood-and-dirt floor that Wrenmae woke. Rain poured in through the window, spraying everything in the immediate vicinity with the cold droplets. The window would have to be blocked if Wrenmae wanted to survive the night. As he got his bearings, the man realized that he was famished; he simply hadn’t had the energy to forage for any kind of food before sleep took him. Any traveller knew that was the first thing one did upon finding shelter but Wrenmae seemed oblivious to some of these unspoken rules as he also had no firewood to warm his hut; the drafty door had allowed a chill to creep into the single room, clinging to every surface that it could and chilling him to the bone. There were few things to burn within the hut: The cot, for one, was made mostly of wood as well as a single stool in the corner. If Wrenmae could coax a flame to life with little to no kindling available to him, he would have some warmth. Now all he needed was food. If the stranded man gathered the courage to brave the storm in search of sustenance, the shadows would be watching. OOC : Feel free to play everything as far as you want in as many posts as you want. If he sees the shadows moving, that’s fine. Just stop before he sees what any of them are.

[Wrenmae]

It was not the wind that woke him, nor the pelting rain drops...they were familiar now. Adrift on the open sea, wet was just another state of being. Wind always crossed the waves like zephyrs...Zulrav's messengers ignoring all but their faraway destination. No, Wrenmae slept as the temperature dropped and water lanced across his burned skin. Of all things, it was the wind smacking against the side of the wood structure, rattling the door that woke him. As though a thousand tiny fingers were prying at the entrance. Blinking back to consciousness, the boy raised his head on an aching neck and pulled the makeshift blanket of clothes tighter across his chest.

The cold was insistent, the sort of talking agony he couldn't ignore. His stomach howled inside his chest, rattling around with its own pouting indifference. His skin cried for warmth, his stomach cried for sustenance, and his head cried for sleep.

Wrenmae was paralyzed with the sheer gravity of his biological imperatives for a moment before rolling roughly off the cot and onto the floor. He met it with a rush of Djed, already pushing his eyes into the familiar shape of a feline's. It was dark, too dark to deal with normal human vision...so when he got to his feet, his eyes already were tinted the glimmering reflective of a predator's. Taking the cape from his pack and wrapping it around him, Wrenmae stepped out into the rain. He hadn't the means to block up the window as he was, there wasn't enough wood in the cottage. So against his better judgement, alone, and with no other recourse, the storyteller braved the storm.

He was alone out here, shadows drifted just beyond his perception, dodging between raindrops and taking shelter among the tree trunks. A tremor wormed its way into Wrenmae's stomach, the idea that something was out here...that something was watching. Stepping back into the cottage he retrieved one of his long daggers and returned to the outside, lightning catching the edge of the metal with a hungry glint. He kept it held out in front of him, stepping carefully across the clearing toward the edge of the forest. Even to his improved eyes, the dark seemed impenetrable...encompassing, wrapping around his vision and sensibilities.


Something moved.

Whirling, Wrenmae stabbed at the shadow, something too close and yet far enough away to miss the edge of his knife. He continued slashing at it, sheer fear motivating his desperate attack. But it was just a shadow, lurking beyond his vision and tempting his attention.

Kneeling, Wrenmae gathered as much wood as he could, filling his arms with a horde of dead sticks and limbs. Darkness seeped in at him, scuttling around him like hungry wolves. He slipped in the mud, rolling onto his shoulder as he stumbled back into the house and slammed the door. From the window he could still see them...somethings moving against the storm in shadowed patterns. Biting his lip, he started stacking the wood against the shattered window, grinding the wood against the opening to force the wood to stay in place. Taking one of his unused shirts, he laid it against the makeshift barrier, kicking the glass into a corner before settling back on the bed. Hesitantly he he took a bite of the dried jerky, casting away the cape to hang over the cot. He was cold, desperately so. Digging in his backpack, Wrenmae wrested out his flint and steel striking it against the dry wood still in the house, sacrifcing the stool against a wall repeatedly till nothing but splinters and other wood was left. Any fuel from the outside would be soaked by now...and those shadows filled the young man with an unrequited horror, a seeping revulsion.

Part of him hated this.

Part of him loved it.

He couldn't decide which was stronger.

Striking again and again he managed a small flame, nursing it as softly as he could and wishing he had the magical ability to sustain it...or that he could hypnotize it stronger.

Outside the wind howled and inside, Wrenmae worked on a sanctuary against the madness.

He would survive the night...but as he glanced up to the shattered window, now covered by haphazard wood and an old shirt, he wondered what waited for him outside.

What was toying with him out among the storm.

[Phoenix]

As Wrenmae carefully coaxed the lifesaving flame into being, the shadows that gathered 'round his weather beaten shelter began to snap and snarl, cowering away from the flame as if they were afraid of it, only the bravest inching ever closer to the hut. To his credit, Wren knew how to survive. Though it took the better part of two bells and an inexhaustible amount of patience, the boy managed to get himself a flame big enough to not only heat the tiny room but also cook by. But cooking required ingredients; ingredients other than the tough jerky that he currently chewed. The pitiful amount of nutrients that the dried meat offered would only stir the hunger that had gathered in his stomach, growing like his makeshift fire did until there was nothing else on his mind except food, how to get it and where. By the time Wrenmae worked up the courage to go back outside and face whatever lurked in those shadows, the wind had died down to barely a breeze. With nothing to drive it into stinging sheets, the rain was merely a drizzle; the storm had blown itself out but still lingered, barely a shadow of what had raged only bells before. Since there was no moon nor stars to light his way, Wrenmae would have to make himself a torch. Luckily for him, his shadowy stalkers would retreat back into the trees at his approach, though large paw prints in the mud around the door to the hut and leading away would easily give away their position. If Wrenmae decided to search the clearing first before going into the woods, he would find smaller footprints to the side of a tiny game trail. They lead directly to a rabbit hole,it's occupant startled from the brush by the thunder and huddled as far back in it's burrow as it could. Too good of an opportunity to pass up, Wrenmae would have to give into his hunger. It was then, as the boy finally captured and killed the rabbit, that the wolves attacked. They were massive things, bigger than any wolf should be. Dires had been seen around from time to time, but even those were rare. And compared to these monsters, they were runts. On all fours and with their bellies held low as they stalked, the beats' heads were level with Wrenmaes shoulder. Standing, the boy wouldn't be able look the canine in the eyes, but instead would have to tip his head back to even see past it's muzzle. Spittle dripped from their gaping jaws in a thick, lathering foam. They snarled and snapped as they slunk from the tree line to encircle the boy. In the darkness, Wrenmae could barely make out anything other than profiles with fierce yellow eyes; their fur was a black as ink and blended perfectly with the shadows that seemed to hug it's form. And they were all focused on him. All hungry. There were five of them, though only one would attack, but even then the odds were against him. If he could slay his attacker and make it back to the hut with his kill, he would survive the night. OOC : Don't forget about the torch. I don't think his little dagger can kill it

[Wrenmae]

Hunger was a strong motivator, it paled the fear of the outside world and protested strongly when the boy tried to sleep, dreams held at bay by the sharp pangs beating his flesh into submission. Groaning, Wrenmae rolled out of his bed again. By now the harried strength of wind had died to a low murmur, the storm passing by overhead and leaving little but the shattered pieces of its tail to waver in its wake. Wrenmae gathered what extra clothes he had, pressing them against himself as he peeked out into the drizzle. Water dripped and the land seemed to sag in relief after the passing. The house, miraculously, still stood strong. The only damage was apparent in the makeshift repairs he had made to the window, bent in slightly by the wind.

Sighing, Wrenmae grabbed the torch and long dagger from where they rested and stepped outside. He sniffed, aware that any discomfort was temporary. He had never been sick, not since the Unforgiving and not since Vayt. Even now the gods name sent a mix of emotions through the boy, most of them unidentified and some frighteningly close to adoration.

Alone he was strong enough to conquer this journey, alone he had survived where other men would not. It was...strange. Was he seeing eye to eye with the Plague god? It wasn't a thought he wanted to think much on, pulling the material closer to him and shifting his eyes once again. The shadows remained at the edges of his torchlight, but to his cat-eyes the fresh prints of rabbit tracks easily caught his attention. Wrenmae stooped where the hole was, a gunny between tree roots and filling with water. The rabbit was inside, woefully trapped between the sunken home and the outside danger. Kneeling, Wrenmae looked into the hole, barely catching the glint of frightened eyes. His stomach growled, protesting this waste of time between hunting and eating, and Wrenmae pushed out his influence into the creature, coaxing it from its hole.

No words needed to be spoken, only the calming peace of a brighter outside world, a safer world, one that wasn't damp and full of flooding ambitions. As the fat creature hopped from its den, Wrenmae snagged it by the years, lifting the limp creature up to his eyes. It looked back at him calmly, hardly afraid by its apparent danger.

There was innocence there.

Gritting his teeth, Wrenmae held up the dagger, prepped it to plunge into the rabbit, end its life and partake of its meat...but it did not struggle, did not screech. It wiggled its flecked nose at him, as if in playful greeting.

He couldn't do it.

Sighing, the storyteller placed the rabbit in his backpack, feeling its weight nestled with some of his other supplies. It didn't have a home anymore...much like him. Despite the easy use of manipulation, Wrenmae had found a strange kinship with the simple creature. Its blind acceptance of the outside world as safe, its willing hop into his power, it was reminiscent of everything else in his life...how people had done things for him till their health soured and their opinions fell. He remembered how he had been all but forced to leave, remembered how pointless his excursion to Lhavit was...how little an impression he made there.

Turning back toward the house, he questioned the possibility of eating his boots.

Livid snarls halted his passage however, the dark shapes of mammoth wolves loping out of the forest to surround him. He froze, heart beating wildly in his chest. He twisted the torch back and forth in his hands, keeping the monsters at bay that watched him with hungry and primal eyes. The rabbit struggled in his pack, released from the spell and suddenly all too acutely aware of danger. One of the wolves snapped at him, jaws narrowly missing his arm and Wrenmae leaped away from it, landing in the path of another wolf that snapped at his legs. Surrounded and afraid, Wrenmae felt his confidence wane.

He hadn't the ability to face this alone. Five of the monsters circled him, watched him, eyed him up like he was a deer or elk. The impossibility of their size nearly broke him, having faced nothing of that sort before.

The horde relented, briefly, letting in one of their largest to face the boy. Wrenmae felt his blood curdle, nearly leap away from his veins and flee. His grip was tight against the torch and dagger, his steps arrested by the location of the wolves. The alpha was to have the first bite of the prey, and Wrenmae was locked into a ring with the beast.

It dwarfed him, head nearly as big as his chest and eyes a rusty red. The ruff of fur along its neck was flecked with white, the hand of frost gently needling its prescence there. Drool collected at the edges of the monster’s jaws, and as if just noting it, a long tongue rolled out to capture some of the moisture. Wrenmae kept the torch between him and the wolf, flickering fire only marginally useful to deter the beast. As if in some silent agreement with its pack, it snapped forward head over paws as it descended on the boy. Wrenmae hurled himself aside, narrowly avoiding fangs and the heavy paws of the beast, rolling across the muddy ground and scrambling for his feet. His mind raced, the house just beyond the ring of wolves…but even that would not hold if the creatures wanted him. The monster was on him against fangs glinting by torchlight as they descended for his head. Wrenmae had no means to stand, his feet slipping in the wet mud. Instead he thrust the torch into the wolf’s mouth, forcing it down its cavernous throat.

The beast howled, or tried to, choking on the burning wood and jerking away from its intended prey. Powerful jaws snapped down on the wood, shattering it and choking up pieces as it hopped from foot to foot gasping for air. Wrenmae couldn’t let the opportunity to go waste, scrambling to his feet and charging at the monster. The skin on his hands warped and shimmered with concentrated Djed, nails lengthening into claws. Desperation forced the boy to recall the means of smarter predators, more prepared creatures. He leaped onto the wolf’s side, digging the claws of his left hand through its fur and into its back. The monster snarled through splintered torch, turning its head to glance at Wrenmae with baleful eyes. Wasting no time, he plunged his dagger fully into the monster’s back, twisting it, withdrawing it, stabbing again, and again, and again. The wolf choked out a snarl, swinging its back with such sudden ferocity that Wrenmae was hurled off and over the heads of the other wolves, rolling across the mud with a thumping sort of broken progress. The alpha followed, blood dripping from its jaws and hatred bright in its dark eyes. The long dagger was too small to pierce anything of severe note in the monster, not where he was stabbing. Wrenmae’s head swam, his vision twisted. Trying to access Hypnotism was like trying to swim in mud…the world was all turned about. Down came his adversary, the monster biting at the boy as though to swallow him up in one bite. Desperately Wrenmae thrust his dagger up, through the wolf’s open mouth. Its jaws, vice like mechanisms meant to tear and rip, came down instinctively, piercing Wrenmae’s exposed left arm and knifing through the skin. In the wolf’s jaws, the boy had turned the dagger upward and as the jaws came down, the knife went up, skewing the wolf to its brain.

The pain was sudden and agonizing, blood spewing from the teeth marks in his arm. Wrenmae cried out, his voice a strange discordant note in the open forest, yanking his arm from the jaws of death and holding it close to his chest. Blood pooled between his fingers and colored his skin a foul sort of crimson. The dagger was left inside and the wolf bit on it again reflexively, its mind firing the last of its knowledge with its instinct to eat. Collapsing on its side, only the left leg twitched, the soul taking that avenue to escape the beast and filter out into the night.

Pain was sudden clarity and Wrenmae bent his mind to the other wolves, piercing their aura with Djed as he snarled. He only promised pain, fear, and death, instilling panic into the remainder of the wolves and roaring at them to the best his limited lungs could. As if the fall of their leader was the deciding blow, the remainder of the wolves slunk back into the forest, watching the boy with fearful eyes…new respect for such small prey manifesting.

Wrenmae collapsed back onto his knees, tears forcing themselves along the corners of his eyes and out onto his sweat and rain soaked face. With his right, he reached into the jaws of the monster and retrieved his dagger, yanking it from the skull with a twist of exertion. Swallowing his pain, Wrenmae forced his back against the wolf’s still warm body and dug his feet into the ground. Around him the rain fell softly, the sky promising only the fingers of dawn as some far off illusion. Grunting, pushing himself, Wrenmae shoved the wolf toward the house…progress slowed by the blood still coursing from his arm. Eventually he managed to shove the wolf against the door, pushing it open and stumbling into the warmth of the room. Immediately his dagger went onto the fire, blade glimmering in the hot glow of coals. Using his other knife, Wrenmae cut a swatch of cloth from his cape and doused it with the remainder of wine from Lhavit, and a bit of the sailor’s grog from the wreckage. The rest he put on his wound, wincing at the pain shortly following. His knife was heating up, glowing a warm dawn color. Picking it up he pressed the blade to his flesh, snarling as the skin melted together. Immediately he cast the blade aside, wrapping the wound with the alcohol soaked bandage. It wasn’t the best fix, but it was all he had time to do…and especially with such limited means. Falling back against the cot, Wrenmae took a moment to breathe.

He had, once again, survived what would otherwise have killed another person. He was strong, or damned lucky. The rabbit had long since stopped moving, crushed by the storyteller in his frantic struggles. Pulling the blood thing from his pack, he placed it on the ground in front of him. Innocence could not survive in the face of strength and adversity. Even the warm hearted must steel themselves against the winter of loss and death. He had spared the rabbit, and then lost it in the same bell. Rather than staying where it might have survived, he had it die alone, crushed in a dark place. Good intentions only bred death.

Or at least it seemed to be that way.

He kissed the rabbit on the head, an apology for what he did…although it was far too gone to care at this point. Taking his dagger, he cut along its body, removing skin from flesh with messy efficiency, fashioning a stake from a piece of wood he had yet to throw on the fire and spearing the meat. As he held the dead rabbit over the fire, watching the flames leap and dance along the crumbling wood, he found himself alone with his thoughts, his ideas. He had tried, tried as hard as he could to be a good person despite his curse, his mark. Vayt seemed to know best when he marked him, the world itself was turned inward and lashed out at every attempt he made to do the right thing. Far away in Alvadas, they were better off without him. Here…wherever here was, he wasn’t hurting anyone.

But what did it matter?

Taking a bite of the steaming meat, Wrenmae gnashed it in his teeth, stealing the vitality and strength from the ligaments. He could live alone and away from everyone if he wanted, deny them the plague, but why? To him, it was the equivalent of denying his own life, forcing his days to remains cold and alone. No. Vayt had marked him, he had survived, he was strong. Petch the world for their fears and weakness, he would not lose himself simply because no one else could stand to live with a little plague.

Maybe he would kill Vayt one day, find a god slaying knife and stick it in his smug face…or maybe he wouldn’t. But to find the perfect story, a story that would even call the attention of the gods…now that was a quest worth having. Some part of him was shattered tonight, some piece of optimism that all would be well, that people would somehow help him carry on…help him survive…help him live.

That was dead, or close to being so.

Knife at his side, Wrenmae set upon the rabbit bones.

To the first bit, the leg bones, he carved the shaky circle with his dagger, again and again pausing to make sure the effect was perfect, before carving the word ‘Speed’ along the bones themselves. With hair from the rabbit’s body he gently wrapped and burned the edges till he’d made a string, gently pressing holes through the leg bones and looping them around the necklace. Malediciton was difficult work, but the rewards could be favorable. The finished product was a grim and grisly trophy, rabbit bones on a necklace of its own fur. Slipping the item into his pack, the sea of Djed inside him at last a simmering silence, Wrenmae lay back against the cot and allowed his eyes to close briefly. His wounds still throbbed, but he was alive.

He would continue to live.

Not even the sea and the forest could stop him.

Finally starting to his feet, he moved to deal with the wolf, perhaps there would be useful power in its bones he could make use of in his journey ahead. Struggling to his feet he pushed open the door, holding the knife in his hand and ready to deal with his kill...the one that had nearly cost him his life.

[Phoenix]

By the time Wrenmae was finished with his butchering of the rabbit and the preparation of it's bones, the rain had completely stopped; finally, after hours of fierce wailing and lashing of the vulnerable earth below, the storm that wrecked the young man in the middle of no where blew itself out. Everything was completely sodden and saturated. When he stepped outside the hut, every footfall accompanied by a squelching squish as the ground attempted to suck up and hold onto Wrenmae's shoes. The wolf was no longer in the doorway, but perhaps in the fog of pain, he hadn't rolled the body as far as he'd thought. A swift search of the immediate area left the boy covered in mud up to his ankles and body-less. If he was observant enough, Wrenmae would notice an unnaturally dry husk of paper hopping and skipping over the sodden ground, stolen by the wind as it was blown away from it's former place at his doorstep. In the blackness of this night, the strange puddle of ink that was slowly seeping into the mud and wood around the door to the hut was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. The wolf body had disappeared in a matter of chimes. There had been no snarling or scuffling to suggest that the remander of the pack that Wrenmae had run off had come back to steal the body; it's not like a wolf to try and reclaim the carcass of a lost pack member. No, it had simply disappeared. As for the wound, it would heal decently though Wrenmae would be left with a seared, half-moon scar on his arm as a testament to how close he'd gotten to losing the thing completely between those vicious jaws. The rest of the night would pass uneventfully. In the morning, the hut would be left behind as the young man struck out to find his way through the forest and towards any kind of civilization. OOC : Wrenmae now gets to wander around the forest and build up whatever skills you want in the meantime while he heads towards Sunberth. I'll surprise you with something cool happening, but I'm not telling you when. So take your time, but do tell me if you start to run out of ideas.