Re: Sunset reflections (open)
Posted: June 2nd, 2020, 10:45 pm
Malcym glanced sideways at the large Warder, his silver-blue eyes catching in the fading light. The silver flecks danced almost with a life of their own as the young soldier briefly ponded the other man’s question.
He almost fell back on an old habit of answering a question with a literal response. But the days when he did so had long since passed him.
It was of a similar tact to what he first took with his drilling officer when that man asked how a sword was used. “With the pointy end, and hope you don’t stick yourself in the process, ser.”
That comment had earned him a sharp laugh of appreciation from the officer ... and a week of latrine digging duty in his spare time.
Instead, Malcym murmured. “The wolves are ... complicated.”
“Our party saw no sign of the wolves initially on the travel from Caemlyn to Camden Corelle, but there were a few small packs that would shadow us for maybe a few miles in the wooded areas we traveled through before turning back to whatever wolves do,” Malcym said.
“The first one I saw directly was while I was hunting with some locals in the woods near Camden Corelle during our stay. I got separated from them when I caught sight of what I thought were stag tracks on an old game trail. That’s when I saw the wolf, a hundred pace from me.”
He recalled the sight vividly: stray bands of sunlight piercing the dense alpine cover, providing just enough light for the young soldier to see. He thought he heard the stag he’d been stalking, keenly aware that he had split from the other hunters. He turned, spear half-raised when he saw a gray wolf looking back at him, amber eyes sharp in the dim light.
“It looked at me for a moment, head tilted, as if I was a curiosity and then snorted before stalking off,” he murmured. “I hadn’t even realized I’d lowered my spear.”
Good thing, too, given that the only thing he could do with that flaming sharp stick was to throw it and hope not to miss too badly. He had a better shot of hitting something with a rock.
“Shortly after was when the dreams began, as we left Camden Corelle for here,” Malcym said. “Sharp, vivid dreams, as if they were real. I’d be hunting or running, or just watching as things unfolded. Always felt like I was being stalked. Completely out of my control and always felt brief.”
He paused, almost as if reflecting on his own words. It was a disconcerting feeling ... one he probably not even share with family, or at least with his sister, to whom he was closest.
“It was around the same time when the wolves would always follow us more and more, at a distance,” he murmured. “Then there were the strange ... sensations, as if something was nagging at the back of my skull. And things that smelled ... the other soldiers with their anxiety and caution, the nervousness of the horses near the end ... the scent of something wrong from the men who would be our deaths just before they attacked.”
He paused ... “The Asha’man ... death, sorrow, dread... something else,” he murmured. “Something I can’t put my finger on but demanded ... not respect, but caution.”
He knew some of the stories surrounding the Asha’man, had stated as much to the Warder who was responsible for deciding he would sign the rolls. A good man, Malcym had called him, but one that had apparently done things that inspired nightmares.
In comparison, the parents of the man next to him had done deeds bards would sing about, acts children could be proud about as they age.
“Then there was the wolf ... who saved me from being spun into the next life,” he murmured. “Two mercenaries stood over me ... one with a crossbow aimed at my throat and the other who drew his sword. I could hear the rasp of metal against leather as he drew ... the bitter odor of ... something I cannot recall.”
He smirked and muttered, “I may have at some point told those two that bigger girls than they had tried to kill me, but that was before they tried to execute me.”
If there was one element about Malcym Ashe that burst from all other details, it was that he could look death in the face and spit upon it. Or at get in one last vocal jab before his time came.
“A wolf came from out of nowhere, white as snow, and took down first one man and then the other as if he were a ghost sprung from legend,” Malcym murmured. “It happened faster than my mind could process. The wolf looked at me then ... boots crushing the underbrush as more attackers came ... and then he was gone.“
He couldn’t remember much after that, beyond the strange look the wolf gave him. His impulse had been to tell the wolf to run lest the animal join him in on the dying.
“Help from the Tower came, sent by the Asha’man after he reached the city gates,” Malcym said.
He pondered his own story, thinking it almost unlikely. But then again, given everything this place was about...
“Oh bloody flaming ashes, I hope it’s not a case of being a flaming channeler,” he muttered to himself. He looked at the Gaidin, immediately clarifying his remark. “No disrespect meant on channelers, but after overhearing a few Soldiers speak about their own training, I’d rather find myself on the receiving end of a training sword than in those flaming channeling yards.”
He almost fell back on an old habit of answering a question with a literal response. But the days when he did so had long since passed him.
It was of a similar tact to what he first took with his drilling officer when that man asked how a sword was used. “With the pointy end, and hope you don’t stick yourself in the process, ser.”
That comment had earned him a sharp laugh of appreciation from the officer ... and a week of latrine digging duty in his spare time.
Instead, Malcym murmured. “The wolves are ... complicated.”
“Our party saw no sign of the wolves initially on the travel from Caemlyn to Camden Corelle, but there were a few small packs that would shadow us for maybe a few miles in the wooded areas we traveled through before turning back to whatever wolves do,” Malcym said.
“The first one I saw directly was while I was hunting with some locals in the woods near Camden Corelle during our stay. I got separated from them when I caught sight of what I thought were stag tracks on an old game trail. That’s when I saw the wolf, a hundred pace from me.”
He recalled the sight vividly: stray bands of sunlight piercing the dense alpine cover, providing just enough light for the young soldier to see. He thought he heard the stag he’d been stalking, keenly aware that he had split from the other hunters. He turned, spear half-raised when he saw a gray wolf looking back at him, amber eyes sharp in the dim light.
“It looked at me for a moment, head tilted, as if I was a curiosity and then snorted before stalking off,” he murmured. “I hadn’t even realized I’d lowered my spear.”
Good thing, too, given that the only thing he could do with that flaming sharp stick was to throw it and hope not to miss too badly. He had a better shot of hitting something with a rock.
“Shortly after was when the dreams began, as we left Camden Corelle for here,” Malcym said. “Sharp, vivid dreams, as if they were real. I’d be hunting or running, or just watching as things unfolded. Always felt like I was being stalked. Completely out of my control and always felt brief.”
He paused, almost as if reflecting on his own words. It was a disconcerting feeling ... one he probably not even share with family, or at least with his sister, to whom he was closest.
“It was around the same time when the wolves would always follow us more and more, at a distance,” he murmured. “Then there were the strange ... sensations, as if something was nagging at the back of my skull. And things that smelled ... the other soldiers with their anxiety and caution, the nervousness of the horses near the end ... the scent of something wrong from the men who would be our deaths just before they attacked.”
He paused ... “The Asha’man ... death, sorrow, dread... something else,” he murmured. “Something I can’t put my finger on but demanded ... not respect, but caution.”
He knew some of the stories surrounding the Asha’man, had stated as much to the Warder who was responsible for deciding he would sign the rolls. A good man, Malcym had called him, but one that had apparently done things that inspired nightmares.
In comparison, the parents of the man next to him had done deeds bards would sing about, acts children could be proud about as they age.
“Then there was the wolf ... who saved me from being spun into the next life,” he murmured. “Two mercenaries stood over me ... one with a crossbow aimed at my throat and the other who drew his sword. I could hear the rasp of metal against leather as he drew ... the bitter odor of ... something I cannot recall.”
He smirked and muttered, “I may have at some point told those two that bigger girls than they had tried to kill me, but that was before they tried to execute me.”
If there was one element about Malcym Ashe that burst from all other details, it was that he could look death in the face and spit upon it. Or at get in one last vocal jab before his time came.
“A wolf came from out of nowhere, white as snow, and took down first one man and then the other as if he were a ghost sprung from legend,” Malcym murmured. “It happened faster than my mind could process. The wolf looked at me then ... boots crushing the underbrush as more attackers came ... and then he was gone.“
He couldn’t remember much after that, beyond the strange look the wolf gave him. His impulse had been to tell the wolf to run lest the animal join him in on the dying.
“Help from the Tower came, sent by the Asha’man after he reached the city gates,” Malcym said.
He pondered his own story, thinking it almost unlikely. But then again, given everything this place was about...
“Oh bloody flaming ashes, I hope it’s not a case of being a flaming channeler,” he muttered to himself. He looked at the Gaidin, immediately clarifying his remark. “No disrespect meant on channelers, but after overhearing a few Soldiers speak about their own training, I’d rather find myself on the receiving end of a training sword than in those flaming channeling yards.”