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More than kin, less than kind

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Lady_of_Rohan
Post subject: More than kin, less than kind
Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 3:22 pm
A maiden young and sad
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[Another site I'm on is having a short story competition for its Halloween events, and the genre is supposed to be "scary." I generally don't go in for the scary/horror genre, so therefore I don't know what's scary and what's not. :roll But anyways, this is what I came up with in about four hours last night. I haven't gone over it a second time yet, and it's already 200 words over the limit so there will be cuts later. Just looking for thoughts, comments, declarations that I suck at life, the usual.]



Blood-red footprints melted the snow, marking the trail to where Varlenya sat beneath the dark branches of a pine tree, both hands gripping a long, slender stick she had found during her wandering. She had left her village at noon this day, alone and barefoot, without food or blanket or anything thicker than the stained woolen coat her father had given her three years ago on her thirteenth birthday. She hadn't looked back at the cluster of buildings or the people shoveling snow from their roofs who were trying to ignore her unheralded but very well-known departure.

Now as she sat with her back against the rough bark of one of Frostback's many pine trees, she gathered her thoughts. She had hoped to make it to the summer sheep-shearer's hut on the north slope before night fell, but darkness came quickly to the mountain in wintertime. Her bloody feet, slashed from hours of walking on snow, had forced her to halt. Makeshift bandages, ripped from the hem of her coat, were now slowly absorbing the blood and providing a small comfort.

She shivered as the night wind moaned through the pines, causing their needles to shake and snow-laden boughs to break, sending showers of snow to the ground with hisses and dull thuds. She had lived her life on Frostback and was used to his winters, but his nights were lonely and ever cold. You have to keep moving, she told herself, her breath forming small puffs of mist that faded into the darkness. They'll find you if you don't keep moving.

“They'll find me anyway,” she whispered, her chapped lips cracking as her warm breath escaped. To her left, a snow rabbit hopped out into the starlight, its pale coat blending in with the snowy landscape. It leaned back on its hind legs, sniffing the air. In the distance, a long howl rose into the night. The rabbit fell to all fours and scurried back toward its hole, its red eyes wide. A second howl joined the first, and the cruel duet echoed along the valley. It also encouraged Varlenya's weary, nearly-numb legs to take her weight as she stood and leaned on her stick.

In most places, the snow only came to her knees, though she found too many hidden dips where she found herself in drifts up to her waist. Her will to live made her dig through these semi-solid walls. It would be easy to fall into a drift and simply lie there until a warm sleep took her, a false warmth and an eternal sleep, but painless and simple. Far more welcoming than what she would face later this night.

“One from within to save those within by going to those with-out,” she murmured, shoving aside a clump of snow. A few more feet and she found herself back on higher ground.

A gruff, guttural voice to her right said, “So you're the one the lot fell on.” Varlenya whirled, holding her stick up defensively. She peered in the direction the voice had come from, but she could see nothing under the stand of pines except shadows.

“Just one of you?” she asked, shifting her weight from one raw foot to the other. “I can take just one of you.”

From the shadows came the mix of a laugh and a cough, or maybe even a bark. “I'm not the one you need to worry about, girl. Morgalin is coming for you. Maybe an hour, two.”

The girl clutched her makeshift lance tighter. “Why are you telling me this?”

The hacking laugh came again. “Always fun to give the prey an advantage, especially if the old man's hunting. But keep standing here and you'll take the joy from the chase. Go!”

As though following one of her mother's orders, Varlenya found herself running through the snow, kicking up puffs of powder in her wake. Was it true? Was Morgalin himself, leader of the werewolf kin of Frostback Mountain, the werewolf, if the stories were to be believed, actually participating in this year's hunt? Morgalin, the cursed blacksmith bitten fifty years ago. Morgalin, the founder of the Frostback kin. Morgalin, the one who had attacked the Splitpeak kin when they dared step onto Frostback's slopes and decimated their numbers. Part of her said she should feel pleased that the one who demanded the blood price was a part of the hunt.

Another howl, closer than the first, split the night air.

“No!” she said fiercely, brushing a strand of her dark hair from her face. Morgalin had failed to uphold his part of the agreement summer, to protect the village of Oldbrook from attack. Three people had been killed and one had been bitten and driven away. Varlenya gritted her teeth at the thought. To be attacked by the kin of a rival mountain was one thing, but to face the snapping jaws of your own mountain's kin was betrayal.

When the time drew near for the blood price to be paid, some in the village argued that the agreement had been broken and therefore they were no longer obligated to send someone to die on the mountainside. Others claimed that Morgalin and his kin had driven off kins from Broken Ridge and Ice Cap mountains when they had strayed too far from their territories.

In the end, the village council decided to let the lot fall where it would. If it fell on no clan, or no family, or, finally, no individual, then it would be clear that the old agreement had indeed ended. If the lot fell as it always had, then they would still be bound to the terms.

“One from within,” Varlenya muttered. Well, the lot had fallen, and many had shaken their heads, murmuring about how terrible luck had visited the same family twice in one year. Let them murmur, she had thought then, walking back to her home for her last night there. She wouldn't break tradition, but she wouldn't go meekly to her doom either.

She trudged for more than an hour, lost in her thoughts, when she lost her footing and fell face-first into a snowbank. She lay there panting, a small pool of water forming where her breaths melted the snow. A pair of howls started up in unison and was joined by one, then two, then three more. Varlenya pushed herself into a sitting position, and looked at her surroundings. The tree line had broken here, leaving a clean open space covered in crisp white blanket. She would not make the north slope tonight.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Her heart struggled to keep her blood circulating, pumping life into fingers and toes that would otherwise succumb to frostbite. Frowning slightly, she tried to wiggle her toes. Numbness greeted her. She opened her eyes and suddenly blinked rapidly. Had those shadows by the pines moved? Where they the shapes of needled branches swaying in the night breeze or great shaggy bodies creeping close to the ground? She tried listening but could hear nothing over her own heartbeat.

She glanced at the pines again. Yes, those shadows were moving, and slowly the shapes could be discerned, bulkier than a normal wolf, long-legged, with eyes that occasionally glinted in the starlight. They were too far away and too dim for her to determine how many lurked in the shadows. She was certain, however, that they were watching her.

She tensed, sensing someone or something close to her side. She had barely begun to turn slowly when a sharp yelp sounded close to her ear, followed by the scritch-scratch of something running over the snow. She jumped, startled, and looked over her shoulder in time to see small clouds of snow floating in the air over large, clawed paw prints that had come within inches of where she sat. The watchers beneath the pine trees coughed and whined, or, Varlenya thought, snickered.

Furious, she forced herself to stand. “Is this how it begins?” she cried, her voice hoarse and hardly more than a whisper. “You mock me first?”

Six werewolves slinked out from under the trees, coming to sit in a line about fifteen feet from her. They ranged in colors from faded black to grayish-white, and all sat staring at her, unblinking. One tilted its head and sniffed the wind. Another, slightly smaller than the rest, trotted forward. Varlenya swayed, supporting her own weight instead of leaning on her stick. She was tired and weak, and she knew whatever bold plans she had made as she left the village were worthless now. As the werewolf drew near, she hurled the stick at it and watched as it bounced on the snow. The werewolf stared at her for a moment, then turned and picked up the long stick with its mouth and began dragging it back to her.

Varlenya blinked slowly. Truly she was dreaming now. Perhaps she had already died. The werewolf was only a few steps from her when it dropped the weapon and crouched, snarling. Varlenya swayed and sank to the ground, crying out as claws tore at her shoulder from behind. Growls and yelps erupted from the rest of the kin as they scattered from the two beasts now rolling and snapping at each other.

Varlenya watched them through blurry eyes. Sleep was calling to her. She had been trudging through the snow for nearly half a day. Perhaps if she fell asleep now, she would not notice when the dogs finished toying with each other and came to toy with her. She closed her eyes.

With a loud yelp, the two werewolves split apart, the larger limping. The smaller ran back to the girl's still figure and began nudging her with its snout, whining frantically.

In her dreams, Varlenya was a small child again, playing tag in the summer meadow with her older brother, Mirko. “Run, sister, run!” She heard him calling her, followed by an enraged howl. She opened her eyes to see the outline of a man with his back to her, challenging the great wolf. “Mirko?” she whispered. Her hand reached out, fingers searching for the stick she had carried with her all this way. She found the tip, sharp from where it had been snapped from its tree. As she wrapped her fingers around it, the great wolf charged his opponent, swerving to one side as the shivering man lunged. Varlenya screamed as the jaws tore at her arm, forcing her to lose her grip on the stick.

A moment later she felt the jaws loosen their hold as the man grabbed the wolf by the scruff of its neck and hurled it several paces away. He turned and helped her sit up. “Can you run?” he pleaded.

This was a dream, Varlenya was sure now. Otherwise, how could her brother be crouching here before her? Her brother, who they had driven out of the village after being bitten during Morgalin's betrayal? “Can you--” Mirko's words were cut short as Morgalin leaped upon him, tearing at his shoulders and throat.

Varlenya gasped as though waking up with a sudden start. Perhaps she had been dreaming, but the dream would not end this way. Drawing upon her last ounces of strength, she reached for her makeshift lance with her uninjured left hand and cradled it in her arm.

“Morgalin!” she rasped, her hoarse voice not much more than a bark itself. “I'm your blood price, not him.” The werewolf snapped once more at Mirko and lunged at her. She took a deep breath and waited. It was just like spear-fishing in the river. As the beast jumped upon her, Varlenya lifted her little lance and jammed it into the angry black eye, holding on tight as the werewolf's weight drove it through the socket and deep into the skull.

Varlenya fainted as the werewolf's crushing weight knocked the breath out of her.

***

She woke to the sound of crackling fire. As her senses became more alert, she at first wondered why the great wolf was still atop her, then realized that these were different skins piled on her, keeping her warm. Bleary-eyed, she turned her head as someone came to sit beside her. “Mirko?”

“Aye,” he said, running a hand across her forehead. “Most of me, at least. Morgalin took a nice chunk out of my shoulder at the end there.”

Varlenya tried sitting up quickly, then winced and fell back. “Morgalin? What happened? Where is he?”

“You killed him,” her brother said simply, pulling the brown bearskin up from where it had fallen. “Which, incidentally, also makes you leader of the Frostback kin now.”

Varlenya blinked. “Leader of the kin? But I'm not--” She looked down at her battered right arm, now wrapped up in what was left of her woolen coat.

“You are,” Mirko said softly.

“I mean to do something about the blood price,” she said grimly.

Outside the ramshackle stone hut, three werewolves stopped digging in the snow, turned toward the sunrise, and howled, welcoming the new day.

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Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness.

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Khorazîr
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:19 pm
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:banana:

First comment dance (although this is not Elfwood ... ;)). I very much enjoyed the atmosphere of this story. Although short, it hints at a lot of things that happened in the past, and so add depth to what is told, and indeed to the character(s), explaining some of their motivations. What I liked in particular were the names of the mountains. They were all of one kind, there was a certain logic behind them, which added to the atmosphere of the setting, and its credibility.

The only thing that left me with a questionmark over my head was the point were Varlenya's cut feet are described -- which made me wonder if she had no shoes on ;).

Good story, which cries out for a longer treatment. There's enough potential in here for an entire book. :)

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Lady_of_Rohan
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:22 pm
A maiden young and sad
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Quote:
She had left her village at noon this day, alone and barefoot...

:P


(Commenting on something in Checkmate thread, will come back to edit.)

Edit:
Quote:
What I liked in particular were the names of the mountains. They were all of one kind, there was a certain logic behind them, which added to the atmosphere of the setting, and its credibility.
Not bad for coming up with them on the fly, between 10pm and 2am.

I wanted the story to have a sense of history and depth, so I'm glad it came across that way.
Quote:
Good story, which cries out for a longer treatment. There's enough potential in here for an entire book.
Oh lord, just what I need, another major writing project. ;)

But hey, this one I could sell... hmm...

Last edited by Lady_of_Rohan on Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness.

Sweet home Indiana
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Khorazîr
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:36 pm
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Lalala, so much for reading properly ...

But why barefoot and only very thinly dressed, if she was hiking up into snowy hills? Or is this part of the ritual, and she did not expect to be in need of warm clothes before long?

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Lady_of_Rohan
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:39 pm
A maiden young and sad
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Joined: Wed 27 Oct , 2004 10:49 pm
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Khorazîr wrote:
Lalala, so much for reading properly ...
;)
Quote:
But why barefoot and only very thinly dressed, if she was hiking up into snowy hills? Or is this part of the ritual, and she did not expect to be in need of warm clothes before long?
Yes, she really doesn't need much other than something to keep her warm until nightfall. Maybe shoes are a valuable commodity in the village right now, so that could be why they didn't spare her a pair. Or something like that.

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Ithilien, the garden of Gondor now desolate kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness.

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Khorazîr
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:45 pm
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Makes sense. Now I have this weird image of her shoes being auctioned off in the village ...

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Lady_of_Rohan
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Posted: Sat 06 Oct , 2007 6:47 pm
A maiden young and sad
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:P Well, more like people can't afford new shoes very often, so sending a pair off with someone who's going to die isn't a bright idea.

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