4th of Summer, 513 AV
Erratic steps hammered away at the snow, the dry powder giving way to the steady pistoning of Enoleus' ragged black boots. The rhythmless crunching and sloshing as Enoleus raised his feet back out of the snow with each step combined with his heavy, uneven breathing to form a disparate melody; holding no specific tempo or beat it broke the near dead silence of vast emptiness of the Northern Wastes as Enoleus made his way across the tundra. His steps grew more and more cumbersome, as if his feet grew heavier with each yard he traversed, and already haggard breathing grew increasingly shaken and raspy as a desperate dryness plagued the back of his throat. His bloodshot eyes, pried open wide by the adrenaline which clawed at the center of his chest from within, had picked up the outline of pines in the distance, and even as he closed the last few yards to them he felt as if a cabal of hostile eyes were boring into his back.
Reaching the thicket of trees, his left hand, as his right hand already was gripping uncomfortably tight to his shortbow, reached out to grab a low hanging branch. Using this point as a tether to bring his panicked momentum to a momentary stop, his eyes quickly darted around the patch of trees. Having precious little time to take everything in and act, he make a quick count of the number of trees and the relative area they covered, and rounding the first tree his hands would dart up for the clasp of his cloak. His hands, trembling uncontrollably from the same terror that made his veins feel as if they were constricting around his own body, fumbled trying to unclasp the garment, illiciting a near inaudible curse from Enoleus. With the cloak acquiescing to his efforts at last, he would lay it flat upon the ground, or as flat as he could with such unsteady hands, and, laying himself down on it, he would begin to pull snow up over is body. The cloak was black, but the majority of the clothing he was wearing was white, and the goal was to render himself completely invisible under the mass of white billowy powder.
The day begun much like any other in Enoleus' life; painfully and slowly. A trip to the stables to check on his horse, a quick breakfast, and he was out into the wilds to try and earn his daily bread. Lowly as his skills were, his goals were equally modest, and most days he was content to bag one or two hares out in the tundra. Easy, painless, and rewarding; these things could not all describe the reality of what he had found. Venturing far deeper in to the wastes than any rational thought dictated he should, he had chanced across peculiar tracks in the snow - human, by all accounts, and his natural curiosity had gotten the better of him. The bandit camp hadn't been particular hard to find - snapped twigs, discarded bits of foodstuffs - and perhaps most egregious, a billow of smoke emanating from their campsite.
Never had it occurred to Enoleus that the bandits didn't bother trying to hide their presence in the wilderness simply because they had no need too - as Enoleus blundered into their camp, they descended upon him like a spider would a fly caught in its web. Now, hastily concealed under a pile of snow which was rapidly beginning to soak into his clothes, Enoleus clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to bring his breathing back under control. Meatheads that they were, Enoleus couldn't begin to fathom that a panting pile of snow would fool anyone, but the adrenaline that had aided him in his escape now made it impossible to still the trembling which seemed to have overtaken nearly his entire body.
For a time, all was perfectly still. Enoleus tried to tighten all his muscles simultaneously to snuff out their incessant shaking, and found himself involuntarily holding his breath as the moments passed by agonizingly slow before him. Like patiently awaiting the executioners axe, each moment of seemingly abnormal silence clawed further and further at his nerves, and it began to feel as if the tension building up in his throat would burst out of him at the drop of a pin.
Then, he heard it. The bandits tried to soften their footfalls, but Enoleus was attuned to the silence of the tundra, and the distinctive crunching noise of several pairs of boots growing ever so closer to him was unmistakable. His entire time spent under the snow, Enoleus had been holding his breath, and now as the bandits grew closer and it became more and more imperative that he continue to hold his breath, his lungs feeling tighter and tighter. Managing to overcome the sinking feeling in his guts, he slowly peeled his eyes open, barely able to see out from under the snow which he had encased himself in.
Three there was, spread out just a few paces from one another as they cautiously entered the thicket of trees they had seen their quarry vanish into. Enoleus' eyes squinted involuntarily to focus his vision; if it were to come to blows, he would need to understand what he was getting himself into. All dressed in makeshift looking furs, judging by their white and grey color patterns they were likely cobbled from various fauna in the wastes. One held fast to a simple longsword; the one closest to Enoleus armed with a simple looking club. A few paces back, the last man had a shortbow, though not as well crafted as Enoleus', and had already knocked an arrow as they peered around the thicket of trees.
"Aye, He's a right gamey little snowman! Coulda sworn I didn't see 'im leave these here trees..." The bandit with the sword directed this commentary at his two kinsmen in such horrid dialect that it simultaneously made Enoleus cringe, and much less self conscious about his own admittedly unpracticed common. As he spoke, the swordsman seemed to lower his blade, a look of calm indifference passing over his face - much to the aggravation of his bow wielding comrade, who was carefully examining the upper branches of the trees. "You're a damn idiot iffin' you think he actually got outta here without us seein'. He's probably in or around one of these trees - so keep your guard up." The swordsman didn't seem to take kindly to being berated, and gave his kin a dirty glare before continuing to pace about the perimeter of the treeline.
The third man, who had remained conspicuously quiet, caught Enoleus' attention perhaps later than he safely should have. Taking slow, cautious steps toward him, his eyes seem rather fixated on on Enoleus' haphazard camouflage. Soon he is so close to Enoleus that Enoleus can hardly see more of him than his boots, causing Enoleus to grip tighter at his bow. Time seems slow down, Enoleus' mind racing with a jumbled mess of impulses and emotions. There's still a chance that he remains hidden perfectly, and that the clubbing to the skull he's expecting at any moment is purely a product of his damn psychotic mind. If that were the case, revealing himself now in some misguided attempt at a surprise attack would essentially be suicide, as the attack, while giving him slightly more favorable odds, would at best still result in him fighting alone against two opponents. At this point, Enoleus is grinding his teeth, feeling an uncomfortable warmth in his skin despite being essentially buried in snow.
For a brief, fleeting moment, the chaotic clouds of terror and fear swirling about his mind and causing his body to lock in place part like a storm, a single ray of perfect clarity entering his psyche. Contained in the span of a single heartbeat, his mind reaches back to the day his father died. He hid then, the fear too much for his body to overcome, and simply watched as his father was butchered and his sister was dragged off. He had done absolutely nothing but hide, as a scared child might, and his life had forever been broken because of it.
But a child he was no longer.
A bestial roar escaped from his lungs as he burst from the snow. The sudden shock of his emergence must have shaken the bandits at least somewhat, because they stared at him like deer caught in the eyes of a predator. Enoleus moved on instinct now, his mind having shut down completely - and as he stood up, he had drawn an arrow from his quiver and loaded into his shortbow. His target - the bandit who also wielded a bow - was close, no more than fifteen feet away, and the trees around them broke up the wind in such a way that the shot would be true. His left eye closed momentarily, and with his breath held just a moment - he released the arrow. With a short lived whizzing noise, it found its mark, imbedding in the bandits chest, and causing him to collapse into the snow - eliciting a cry of pain as he fell.
The other seemed to be snapped back to reality by the sight of their comrade falling, and Enoleus found himself stumbling back as the front of the bandits club passed uncomfortably close to the tip of his nose. As the bandit brought the club back, he raised it up over his head, preparing to unleash another, more weighted attack. Already reeling precariously backwards from evading the first swing, and possessing no meaningful close quarters combat experience, Enoleus did the only thing he could think of: Shifting his weight forward, he threw his shoulder at the bandits unprotected chest with all the force he could muster. The bandit let out a muffled grunt as he connected and they both went flailing down into the snow.
The other bandit, still on his feet, was on Enoleus in a heartbeat, raising his sword up and preparing to stake Enoleus to the ground with it. As he had hit the ground, Enoleus' hand had darted down for the Tamo Daggers he kept stuffed away in the lining of his boot - gripping them with his fingers, he pulled desperately, but from his prone position he didn't have the leverage to yank them out, and was forced to roll to the side to evade being pierced through the chest. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he turned to face his attackers. Having helped his kinsmen up, the two of them brandished their weapons and glared at Enoleus with malicious intent - and as Enoleus stared at them, he began to grow increasingly alarmed. Even that short burst of energy had taken it's toll on his body, and he found his breath short - scum that they were, these two were much quicker and skilled in close combat than he, and with both of them honing on him, there was little doubt in Enoleus' mind that he was about to find himself on the business end of a sword.
So, gripping tightly at his bow, he did what he done previously, and took off at a run in the other directon. His pace was ragged and his steps somewhat uneven as the exertion of the whole ordeal had taken it's toll. Behind him, the bandit with the sword cursed, and started to chase after him - but his comrade threw out his arm to restrain him. "Oi, hold it! The little icebloods not worth the effort. Not to mention, Gaius is still alive back there..." As if to accentuate the point, the archer whom Enoleus had managed to shoot down let out a groan, tiny amounts of his blood creating a stark red ring around him in the snow. "C'mon, it's not like he had anything worthwhile on him anyways. Let's get back to camp." The swordsman grimaced, contemplating giving chase to his prey - but decided to heed the advice of his kinsmen, and sheathing their weapons, they made their way to their wounded ally and picked him up, setting back off for their campsite...
Enoleus had made it roughly fifty yards, despite his fatigue, just on pure adrenaline. With no obvious sign that he was being chased, however, his mind calmed slightly, and the exhaustion caught up with him, causing him to collapse into the snow, gasping wildly for sweet, sweet oxygen. Alive he was, yes, but this ordeal has cost him his days hunt - and it was somewhat embarrassing, when he thought about the man he strived to be, how easily those bandits had made a fool of him.
Although his extremities were growing increasingly cold in the tundra, he decided to allow himself a brief repose. He wasn't sure what, but something had to be done to weed out his own weaknesses. Otherwise, next time, he might not come out of so unscathed.
by Enoleus Frostfawn on July 15th, 2013, 6:59 am 
