brave_kreyu (
brave_kreyu) wrote2012-04-16 08:01 pm
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OOM: Elysium or Shephard's quest for an arm.
Even before the Combine came, Shephard's world had few places left that had never known the touch of men. This forest has no name, for no tribe of wanderers has ever dared to settle here, to harvest the mighty oaks that tower far above his head.
It is nearly noon on Midsummer's day, but little light reaches Shephard and Kreyu down here on the forest floor. The only thing of note in the clearing is a large ring of mushrooms, a formation sometimes called a faerie ring.
It is nearly noon on Midsummer's day, but little light reaches Shephard and Kreyu down here on the forest floor. The only thing of note in the clearing is a large ring of mushrooms, a formation sometimes called a faerie ring.
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Who the fuck is he kidding? He's already wielding the sword in his damned off hand, and he's supposed to fight backwards based on a reflection on an irregular surface? Fuck THAT shit. It's undershirt over the face time.
And then it's time to draw that bronze sword and run at the noise as best he can, and start slicing anything that doesn't tell him to point himself the other way.
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The angry hissing and the thwacking noises of his sword hitting scales and flesh suggest that he's hitting the enemy at least SOME of the time.
Eventually, all the hissing noises stop and Shephard can hear Kreyu panting a bit. "I think that's the last of them."
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Left to his own devices he'd skin the living daylights out of these things and take the hides home, but he doubts they'll have time.
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There's a wrenching, popping sound as Kreyu removes one fang from a particularly large basilisk's skull.
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"There are two more whose fangs are nearly as large as these," she remarks, wading through the pile of dead basilisks. "Will 5 more suffice for your troll friends?"
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Nothing tries to eat his face while he's cleaning up.
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When he returns he says, "I got to say, Kreyu, I owe you a fuckload for all of this. I ain't real sure how I'm even gon' start payin' you back for what you done so far, let alone the hand."
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"My brothers would say that I have tried to make all of humanity my brood, and that is....not entirely inaccurate."
"I have taken much from the years I have lived amongst humans, more than I could ever hope to repay." Old sorrow edges into her expression. "I do what I can for humanity, as all too often I am helpless in the face of their mortality."
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"The path from here spirals up and out. From the feel of things, I believe we are close to the dwelling of the Master Smith."
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"He is one of the Daea, which would make him fae," she explains. "He looks human, though no mortal has ever had irises that change color as his do."
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It's kind of a reflex, considering.
"Anything I ought to know not to do or say around him?"
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They emerge into an oak forest in autumn. In the air, they can hear the baying of hunting hounds that have scented their quarry.
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He pauses to listen to the sound of the hounds, and smiles a little. Not that he doesn't love Mrs. Wilson and her brood, but they're just not the same.
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This part of their journey is uneventful, and at long last they arrive at the home and forge of the Master Smith.
It doesn't look like much from the outside, just a house built of field stone and roofed with thatch. Milk white boar hounds with red eyes and ears lie in various states of doggy sprawl under the eaves of the building, faerie hounds.
The largest dog lifts his head to look at them, yawns, then stands up, stretching. He shakes himself a bit and trots over to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. He walks on through the doorway with the takka takka noise of dog claws on stone.
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Inside, the smithy is much bigger than it ought to be, with delicately carved wooden beams reaching high above their heads. Arranged along the walls are works of wonder fit to give the most jaded eye pause. Here a necklace made of pure sunlight, there a helm of smoke and shadow. Birds and beasts made of metal so realistic that they could almost spring to life at any moment perch upon the eaves.
And there, the ur-sword. The blade that all great craftsman will aspire to in their heart of hearts and never quite achieve.
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"Well, I'll be damned. Ain't that somethin'."
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The Master Smith is not a particularly impressive figure, although pounding metal with a hammer day in and day out WILL give you arm muscles. He nods his head in greeting. "I had wondered when you might arrive. Water and fire can show the Wise things that have not yet come to pass, but they care not at all for the turning of the years."
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Then he coughs, and draws himself up a little straighter. He's far from impressive right now himself, what with the infirmary recovery time in his immediate past. And the fact that even healed up by bug juice that stump of his still hurts like hell doesn't do his appearance any favors either. But he'll be damned if he lets that show any more than he absolutely has to. "I'll take your word for it, sir," he says. "That ain't my field, not by a long shot. I'm hopin' you'll be able to help me, regardless."
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"Please, come rest at my table and break bread with me." Kreyu relaxes at that, put more at ease. There are RULES about hospitality among supernatural beings. Anything trying to attack them now would bring the wrath of ALL of Faerie on their heads.
It's more than bread, as it happens. Venison stew, salt, and mead accompany the fresh bread. The dog that opened the door earlier looks up from his place near the hearth with the hopeful expression of dogs everywhere when there may be FOOD.
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The whole lot of it smells good, and Shephard- no offense to Kreyu's rabbits this morning- is hungry. He does, however, glance hearthward first. "Is it okay if I give him some of mine, sir?" he asks. "Been a while since I've seen a proper dog, 'n they remind me of home growin' up."
You don't hunt on another man's property without asking him first, and you don't screw around with another man's dog without asking the rules. What's okay by some owners is forbidden as hell by others.
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