Chapter II Lessons in manners

The sun never rose that day. The frozen peaks of the Kale Mountains in the distance to the north stood out vibrantly against the black clouded sky which enveloped the sun like sack cloth. An eerie calm seemed to grip the land like a prelude to terror. A foul and chill wind had blown in from the north eastern spur of the mountain range carrying with it the miserable, malignant moan of a banshee that bleed the body’s muscles of their strength and seared the skin with their icy burn. It had passed through the minds of the two hunters that the bizarre phenomenon occurring in the celestial bodies as well as the unusual cold snap in the weather could all be taking place because the Balvorian willed it to be so. In the mind of the hunters, it was as if these occurrences were a sort of landmark pointing to the way of things to come, or they were simply warnings from their enigmatic mark to follow him no further or he would blot out the world’s light by removing them from the very sky. Either way, the two companions continued to plod on and wonder.

Runningwolf had been grateful for Sylph keeping him warm in the drastic weather change since entering the human lands. He did not have the fur of his dire would brother, but he hailed from a people that were so in tune with the world and its natural cycles, that the chill that had begun to fall that morning was not minor consequence. He had completed his forth totem almost half a century before, before the dark times, and could shrug off all but the most extreme temperature and climate variations. Had he been able to learn his final fifth totem before the appearance of the Balvorian and the slaughtering of his tribe, he would no longer suffer the effects of freezing temperatures at all. He would simply shift into the form of a dire wolf like his companion and use his new coat of fur to keep himself completely insulated.

However, those rituals were dead now, laid to rest with the elders of the lost tribe. Those sacred birthrights would never move on with the world to future generations, they would die with him. Thinking about it only infuriated Runningwolf further, and while he welcomed the hatred he felt burning within because of the strength and endurance it endowed him with, it also fogged his mind, and these were foreign lands with a dangerous for. Runningwolf dismissed the thoughts and pressed forward.

He grits his teeth and endured the battering of the wind and sleet with a detached, grim sort of satisfaction, thanking the gods for these hardships which he beloved made him harder. Not only harder in cultivating a strong mental attitude necessary to survive the Luithinar, but harder in body as well. Sometime ago, he had begun to view these trials as Faeoria’s way of preparing him, making him as resilient to all things like the mighty oak trees for the inevitable encounter that lay at the end of his long road.

Smoke drifted up lazily into the dark and cloudy sky like a delta of black, languid waters, flowing silently up into murky ocean. The dark miasma hung low, and Runningwolf had spotted the stems of gloom easily. The elf and wolf made their way up and down the seemingly eternal grass imbued hills of the Sarothian plains. The terrain was difficult to traverse in the storm, not only from the prodigious torrent, but also the boggy mess that it made causing the ground to suction at their feet.

Cresting the top of yet another monotonous rise, immediately Runningwolf’s keen Elven eyes traced the streams of smoke down to the large copse of pine trees that sheltered the small frontier Hamlet of Clansdale. Many lights began to flicker on through the trees as the dismal day began to dim to what seemed like a lasting darkness, and even though the seasoned pair knew how to weather a storm and thrive, they also knew that the Balvorian would pass through the quiet community of craftsmen and provisionary. The Balvorian would need to gather his strength, and while he had become more discreet in his meal selection over the last decade, he was at his core a predator. It was two weeks travel to anywhere across the grasslands in these end of summer monsoons, and the hunters knew that he would not pass up this last opportunity to feed.

This gave Runningwolf a tinge of pleasure that took shape in the form of a sardonic smile that raised the left corner of his mouth. The fact that their mark needed to stop to fill his cup showed the driven elf that he was not beyond the limitations of mortality. In fact, it had been his only indication since the Balvorian was a human, or at least wore the skin of one. The two hunters had traveled a few months since his last slaughter with signs of stopping or slowing since. It had only been a few white tail deer, but Runningwolf knew that the settlement ahead could turn into a real stain, and he meant to attack the Balvorian before he could.

 "He reminds me of one of Siobahn’s Juggernauts" Runningwolf imparted to Sylph through their empathic bond. He was referring to a suit of plate mail armor he had seen come alive to the call of his good friend and mentor. In the years following the fall of the Runningwolf tribe Runningwolf and Sylph were taken in by a friend of his father’s known as Siobahn Tin’Falthus. The high Elven magus could then set the juggernaut to a task, and the automaton would continue along the wizards bidding and would not slow or surrender until its task fulfilled or it was utterly destroyed. It knew no hunger, thirst, nor conception of failure.

The dire wolf shook his great coat as if he were trying to shake off the very thoughts. "Strange magics, “was all he replied.

The simple fact that their enemy needed to eat every few months revealed to the hunters a chink in the Balvorian’s exceptionally resilient armor. He would stop in Clansdale like he had with all the campsites he had stopped at along the way. This had become routine every couple of lunar cycles and the brothers could expect carnage. They picked up their pace, they may not have been able to stop the Balvorian from killing their kin, but they could aid the people of Clansdale.

Just then Sylph’s ears perked up and the two noticed movement on the road. A cloaked figure was running up the road with four men in pursuit. Runningwolf’s keen eyes could see at half a league that the figure being chased was a woman.

"Siobhan warned us about intervening in human affairs" Runningwolf said but the large dire wolf was already moving off to the side of the road to meld in with the grass.

"Four to one little wolf, and the one is a female, those are the odds of cowards "Sylph replied as he belly crouched on the opposite side of the road in the tall grass, set to take the woman’s pursuers off guard.

"Very well, if we must.....just remember OUR oath to fill " the elf mentally replied.

The lone elf made his way forward on the road through the wind and the rain. The fleeing woman would not make it to him in time he knew, she would have to turn and fight or be overcome. It sickened Runningwolf to know that amidst all of the know monsters and evils that existed, men still harmed their own for gain like these brigands. The woman had gone from running to stumbling to staggering and now falling. The four men who had been pursuing her began to kick and beat her as she lay prone in the muck of the road. This act of barbarism seemed to give the men great satisfaction for they showed no sign of stopping.

So engaged were the men in savaging the woman that they did not notice Runningwolf close the last ten paces and were startled by the sound of his unexpected and foreign voice.

"A truly malicious and dangerous fiend indeed, it is good that four brave and upstanding men such as yourselves take charge of ridding this road of the vile creatures that prey upon it".

The four hooded men turned about instantly ceased their assault to face the newcomer that they had not heard approaching.

Runningwolf could not see their faces which were concealed by the masks they wore, black ones with white triangles where the eyes should be. Each one also wore a black cloak with the hood pulled up to shield them from the weather, "more likely to conceal their identities" Runningwolf speculated. The group looked at him taking a measure of his rugged, less than civilized appearance.

"Keep moving, houseless vagabond, this is not the concern of savages" one of the men said stepping forward.

"Nothing to see?" Runningwolf asked furrowing his brow in disbelief. "I count four men beating a defenseless woman to death on a rain soaked road. It is quite a sight to see. As a foreigner to your realm it fills my Elven heart with warmth to see how the men of the western empire treat the women".

The men looked to the elf and the spokesman for the group issued a curt and final "Be gone!"

"Or perhaps there is another possibility. Release the woman to my custody and go on your way in peace. Whatever her crime, surely it cannot warrant a brutal death face down in the mud" Runningwolf replied calmly.

"Do not listen to ’im, "the man on his right pleaded, "he will use faerie magics to bewitch your mind! Be gone from here elf, return to your foul woods!" he said turning to face Runningwolf’s direction.

"I am not a magus, it is as you stated earlier, I am a savage. And while we are not known for our patience, neither are we known for beating our women" the wild elf said.

As Runningwolf watched the spokesman draw his blade, life to the elf seemed to slow to a crawl as he entered a state of heightened awareness. The sound around him dulled and all he could here was his own heartbeat and his calm, steady breath. The blinking of an eye felt like a life time, but as Runningwolf’s eyes began to reopen, the hardened muscles throughout his body tensed as is became sensitive to the flow of battle and he exploded into motion.

The feral ranger dropped to his knees just as the man’s short sword passed within an inch over his head. Too far committed to his attack, the hooded man realized a moment too late that the elf was no longer standing in front of him, and could not reverse the direction of such a heavy swing. Overbalanced from the anticipation of beheading the defiant elf, the man stumbled forward into the attack range of the waiting ranger.

As the man planted his leg to stabilize himself, Runningwolf formed a loosely balled fist in an underhand strike to the inside surface of the man’s left knee. So keen were his senses in battle that Runningwolf waited until the split second of first contact between his knuckles and hide leather armor that girded the man’s leg before compressing his fist into a solid dense mass and driving it solidly through the man’s knee causing it to audibly shatter while utterly destroying it. The hooded man screamed in a cacophony of horror that mingled with pain as he dropped his sword and fell forward.

Runningwolf began to drop into a backwards roll as his opponent fell towards him. The nimble elf extended his arms forward and up grasping the man by his tunic and abruptly pulling downward abducting the man into his backwards roll in an effort to keep the man’s momentum moving him his direction. Runningwolf cocked back his right leg against his body halfway through the tumble before kicking out with the force of a wild stallion, firmly planting his heel into the man’s solar plexus, stunning his diaphragm and blowing the wind out of his lungs completely. Following through strong, the elf lifted the man off of his feet, sending him hurtling upside down and backwards over his head in a short flight that ended roughly on the muddy road many strides behind him. All Runningwolf could hear was his heartbeat and his calm, steady breath.

Sensing movement up head, Runningwolf used the inertia of his roll to plant his palms on the ground behind his shoulders to push off the ground and vault up in the air only to land in a crouch as a crossbow bolt sailed harmlessly over his head from one of the hooded man’s associates.

Runningwolf felt an intense chill shock its way up his spine warning him to keep moving. The elf sprang up vertically curling his torso back and snapping his knees towards his chest in a back flip. A slight breeze blew past his left check and he instinctively turned his head sideways as another crossbow bolt glides just a hair’s breadth past his face. Upon landing, Runningwolf could see the missile that was intended for him buried itself deeply into the right thigh of the group’s spokesman causing the man to howl in pain. Tuning back, Runningwolf could see that the crossbowman had already reloaded and was bringing his weapon to bear.

The crossbowman was stunned when the elf broke into a sudden dead run straight at him, closing the gap between the two. The man pulled the trigger squeezing off another deadly bolt. Runningwolf marveled at how slowly the missile progressed through the air towards him as he dove forward into a head long roll letting the bolt pass harmlessly over head, he than sprang up suddenly in front of the man like a striking pit viper as his enemy fumbled about trying to reload his crossbow.

The wild elf clutched both sides of the man’s cowl on his cloak with the iron clad grip of a mountain eagle  and snapped his knees forward slamming them hard into the man’s face splattering his nose, as well as forcing a few teeth through the flesh of his upper lip.

Both men lay incapacitated in the muddy, blood soaked road. Runningwolf looked from the highway man who would never walk again to the marksman with the shattered face lying at his feet. The man was clutching his face in one hand and feeling for his dropped weapon with the other hand. Without warning, Runningwolf dropped his knee down like a hammer onto the crossbowman’s hand resulting in a scream of the purest agony. He channeled all of his body’s weight into that knee, twisting, pulverizing the man’s finger bones into gravel, ensuring that the hand could never again hold a weapon.

"Remember this moment" the elf said calmly after his grim triumph.

"Every time you look at or feel your crippled limbs, let it serve as a reminder for you to make better decisions. You will remember the time you tried to murder a helpless woman on the road and how it was a turning point in your life. Or you will full of pride go down the path you are already on which will lead to your own destruction.  Your limbs are the price that you had to pay for your cowardly choices. Do not sacrifice anymore" he finished before turning to acknowledge the two remaining brigands.

The two who remained unmolested turned to flee the dangerous elf as his damning gaze fell upon them promising them a world of exquisite pain. They were not however, prepared for the sight of a silver wolf that stood a full hand taller than a bull elk cutting off their retreat. The mighty creature had his hackles fully raised, with a rigid standing tail. His nose wrinkled so much that his voracious fangs were born and a low throaty growl escaped his clenched teeth that rolled out slow and deep like the breaking of thunder. The wolf’s ears were forward in a clear sign of aggression as he slowly stalked forward.

"...My gods...it’s a demon wolf of the ancient world..." one of the men barely stammered.

Sylph leered at him with luminous yellow eyes that showed his intent and the man felt the blood drain from his face as it grew cold. He quickly looked over to his companion and could see the man deliberating internally whether he should rum or not. He stayed him with his hand knowing they would never make it more than five paces.

"Sylph, let them go, they did not try to harm us, and we are above the killing of cowards" the elf said.

“You have no clue what you have gotten yourself into, do you elf? “ Came a voice from behind Runningwolf.

He turned to regard the original spokesman of the group. “I know full well what I have gotten myself into".

The man propped himself up onto his elbows and began to chuckle "Do you have any idea who we are? Who we work for? You’re going to die choking on your own blood ".

"Is that a threat?"

"Oh its more than that boy, it’s a promise you can’t even begin to fathom". Runningwolf looked over the men sternly, ignoring that last comment of provocation.

"We will allow you to take you’re wounded and leave with your lives, and the woman will come with us" he said in a tone of finality.

" And if we hear of travelers being preyed upon on this road the next time we pass through, we will hunt you down without the mercy we showed you this day" he stated plainly.

As the two uninjured men assisted their comrades up and down the road, the thrashed woman began to lift her head. Runningwolf could see that she had blonde hair, though it was caked with mud from the road. In fact, she was covered more in mud than clothing after her tribulation this day. Her shirt hung in poor spirited tatters on her body as did her skirt. She tried to pick herself up, a fruitless effort, for her arms gave out and she fell back down to the mud.

"Are you still with us?" asked his smooth, melodic voice.  “You needn’t have fear, though we are ‘savages’ we are above the abuse of women".

Slowly she lifted her head up.  He could see that she was also an elf .Initially, her eyes settled on a pair of dark leather boots on well muscled legs that were garbed in leather of curious workmanship. As her eyes scanned higher, she noted that this newcomer was wearing a loin cloth of primitive make over his leather buckskin leggings. She could tell that the warrior was some sort of scout, for she could see he traveled lightly as her eyes followed the hard lean muscled bare torso up to settle on a single set of hunting knives held in place by a leather harness underneath each well muscled arm. The right arm carried the shape of a massive wolf’s paw tattooed black onto is firm, sculpted shoulder, and wore an armband under it around his bicep that was made of bone and beads as well as a pair of eagle feathers. His breath came out slow but steady in rhythm as his strong chest rose and fell. His copper colored hair tinted with a natural blonde highlight from exposure to the sun fell over his broad shoulders and down his back in prideful freedom.

He extended a hand down to her "Stand if you will".

As she clasped the offered hand, she could feel the warmth and strength freely flowing from the stranger as he took hold and picked her up off of the ground and into his strong arms. She gazed lazily up into the bottomless emerald wells in the elf’s almond shaped eyes, whose intensity and inner radiance broke through the darkness and rain that haunted the day to collide with her own gaze and stir something deep inside of her. She looked into his handsome angular face, never talk g her eyes from his. There was something in those breathtaking eyes, something strong and free, something kindred, something that would haunt Tyler for the rest of her life.