Post by Mrgrumble on Aug 9, 2023 20:55:37 GMT 10
The dark-clad rider slumped over the neck of his chestnut gelding as the horse trudged the last few miles of the forest track toward the trapper’s encampment. The waning autumn sunlight filtered through the evergreen boughs of trees above, casting dappled shadows over the needle-strewn forest floor. The gentle breeze that ruffled the rider’s cloak carried with it scents of pine and woodsmoke, indicating that they were close to aid.
The wound on the thigh had festered and infection had begun to spread, his sweat-soaked body wracked intermittently with chilled shivering and burning fire. He slipped back and forth from a state of semi-conscious delirium to darkness and fever-dreams of the past.
The boy held his little sister close, stifling her sobs with a trembling hand. The sound of screaming from above had ceased, replaced with the terrible sounds of the lycan creatures crunching and tearing as they fell to feasting on their victims.
The terrified little girl let out a whimper and the sounds of the werewolves’ gorging abruptly ceased, replaced by low, menacing growls and the sound of incessant sniffing.
Both children sat frozen, huddled together and too scared to move a muscle – the boy thinking the end was certainly near at hand.
Then came, from a not-too-far distance outside, the blowing of horns and the baying of approaching hounds…. the town militia and local huntsmen were coming!
The rider was jerked back to the present as his horse pulled up roughly and began to whinny anxiously. He sensed, rather than saw, strong hands take the bridle of the gelding and felt yet other hands lower him from his precarious position in the saddle.
Concerned voices…. a shout for the healer…. a muttered curse…. and blackness overtook him once more.
The grizzled hunter looked down at the dark-haired lad with an unreadable expression on his face. Grey eyes, flecked with silver studied the boy intently and regarded the small pouch of coin proffered before him.
The hunter considered the child’s earnest and tear-filled plea for several long minutes – saying nothing but flexing the muscles of his jaw as he deliberated. Finally, against his better judgement, the seasoned ranger grunted his assent and took the poultry fee from the boy’s trembling hand, before turning toward the stables where his horse and silvered weapons awaited.
He would waste no time finding the trail of his quarry and exacting vengeance on behalf of the slain tar-maker’s orphaned offspring.
The wounded man awoke in a small tent. The smell of the unguents used to treat his slashed thigh overpowered the smell of the smoke from the small brazier hanging close to his wooden cot.
He grunted in pain and felt his leg flare with a fresh spasm of pain as he attempted to sit up.
“Lie still fool!” barked a mature, female voice that held a tone of unquestionable command.
“You’ll undo the hard work I put into stitching up that shapely leg of yours!”
The man stopped his attempt to rise and instead lay back and turned his head to look at the matronly, grey haired woman who moved to stand beside his makeshift bed.
The healer reached out a tanned and calloused hand to feel his brow and after a moment grunted with satisfaction. “Good,” she said brusquely, “the fever has subsided. I thought that infection might have done for you. What got you? Gibberling?” she asked.
“Swamp troll” the patient replied hoarsely through cracked and parched lips.
The woman nodded curtly. “Filthy things, the immortals alone know what kind of bacteria live on those claws of theirs. You were lucky to have made it back here.”
“If y’ please m’am…..” the stricken man began before being cut off with a curt gesture and a shushing noise from the heavy-set healer.
“Questions later. You’ll need sleep to regain any semblance of your former strength.” Lifting the man’s head with one weather-worn hand, she placed an earthenware mug to his lips and bade him drink the foul-tasting draught within.
“Might taste like a devil-swine’s piss, but it’ll help your recovery.” She stated firmly. “Now, sleep.”
Without a word of protest, the man did as he was bade and, aided by the pungent elixir, fell back into the realm of dreams.
The youth grimaced and rubbed at his numb bicep, the latest spot struck by his sword-master’s wooden practice blade. The tall and rangy lupin before him snorted his disappointment at his pupils sluggish attempt to parry.
With a large, canine tongue lolling from an elongated muzzle set with ivory fangs, the lupin circled slowly and launched into the next in a long line of practice drills.
- - - -
Several hours later, Anton found the young man standing alone atop one of the Eyrie’s high, crenelated battlements.
Without a word, the lad’s father put a large hand on the shoulder of his apprentice and adopted son – giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
Wayland sighed turned his head to stare into his patron’s strange, silver-flecked grey eyes – eyes made more unusual by their glinting reflection of the waxing moon above. A moon that would soon enough be full, meaning Anton Kreese, Peregrine, would again fly from the fortified walls of the Eyrie atop his black destrier and return to the dark places where evil dwelt. To hunt.
Such was the life of a Falconer.
The wound on the thigh had festered and infection had begun to spread, his sweat-soaked body wracked intermittently with chilled shivering and burning fire. He slipped back and forth from a state of semi-conscious delirium to darkness and fever-dreams of the past.
The boy held his little sister close, stifling her sobs with a trembling hand. The sound of screaming from above had ceased, replaced with the terrible sounds of the lycan creatures crunching and tearing as they fell to feasting on their victims.
The terrified little girl let out a whimper and the sounds of the werewolves’ gorging abruptly ceased, replaced by low, menacing growls and the sound of incessant sniffing.
Both children sat frozen, huddled together and too scared to move a muscle – the boy thinking the end was certainly near at hand.
Then came, from a not-too-far distance outside, the blowing of horns and the baying of approaching hounds…. the town militia and local huntsmen were coming!
The rider was jerked back to the present as his horse pulled up roughly and began to whinny anxiously. He sensed, rather than saw, strong hands take the bridle of the gelding and felt yet other hands lower him from his precarious position in the saddle.
Concerned voices…. a shout for the healer…. a muttered curse…. and blackness overtook him once more.
The grizzled hunter looked down at the dark-haired lad with an unreadable expression on his face. Grey eyes, flecked with silver studied the boy intently and regarded the small pouch of coin proffered before him.
The hunter considered the child’s earnest and tear-filled plea for several long minutes – saying nothing but flexing the muscles of his jaw as he deliberated. Finally, against his better judgement, the seasoned ranger grunted his assent and took the poultry fee from the boy’s trembling hand, before turning toward the stables where his horse and silvered weapons awaited.
He would waste no time finding the trail of his quarry and exacting vengeance on behalf of the slain tar-maker’s orphaned offspring.
The wounded man awoke in a small tent. The smell of the unguents used to treat his slashed thigh overpowered the smell of the smoke from the small brazier hanging close to his wooden cot.
He grunted in pain and felt his leg flare with a fresh spasm of pain as he attempted to sit up.
“Lie still fool!” barked a mature, female voice that held a tone of unquestionable command.
“You’ll undo the hard work I put into stitching up that shapely leg of yours!”
The man stopped his attempt to rise and instead lay back and turned his head to look at the matronly, grey haired woman who moved to stand beside his makeshift bed.
The healer reached out a tanned and calloused hand to feel his brow and after a moment grunted with satisfaction. “Good,” she said brusquely, “the fever has subsided. I thought that infection might have done for you. What got you? Gibberling?” she asked.
“Swamp troll” the patient replied hoarsely through cracked and parched lips.
The woman nodded curtly. “Filthy things, the immortals alone know what kind of bacteria live on those claws of theirs. You were lucky to have made it back here.”
“If y’ please m’am…..” the stricken man began before being cut off with a curt gesture and a shushing noise from the heavy-set healer.
“Questions later. You’ll need sleep to regain any semblance of your former strength.” Lifting the man’s head with one weather-worn hand, she placed an earthenware mug to his lips and bade him drink the foul-tasting draught within.
“Might taste like a devil-swine’s piss, but it’ll help your recovery.” She stated firmly. “Now, sleep.”
Without a word of protest, the man did as he was bade and, aided by the pungent elixir, fell back into the realm of dreams.
The youth grimaced and rubbed at his numb bicep, the latest spot struck by his sword-master’s wooden practice blade. The tall and rangy lupin before him snorted his disappointment at his pupils sluggish attempt to parry.
With a large, canine tongue lolling from an elongated muzzle set with ivory fangs, the lupin circled slowly and launched into the next in a long line of practice drills.
- - - -
Several hours later, Anton found the young man standing alone atop one of the Eyrie’s high, crenelated battlements.
Without a word, the lad’s father put a large hand on the shoulder of his apprentice and adopted son – giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
Wayland sighed turned his head to stare into his patron’s strange, silver-flecked grey eyes – eyes made more unusual by their glinting reflection of the waxing moon above. A moon that would soon enough be full, meaning Anton Kreese, Peregrine, would again fly from the fortified walls of the Eyrie atop his black destrier and return to the dark places where evil dwelt. To hunt.
Such was the life of a Falconer.