The God of the Red Sky 1:1
Verick's troupe was left outside of the hut, as the Brigadier General was shoved curtly through the door flap.
A pile of furs and trappings lay about a bed roll, the inside of the hovel looked more the affects of a hunter than a warlord. No great weapons and trophies of fallen foes adorned the walls, but rather bones, head dresses, and carefully placed pelts dangled from the temporary walls. Verick thought for a moment that the boss was out, or maybe just imagined by the oafs in the camp, that is untill the pile of furs of many colors and varied bristliness rolled off the bed roll and stood eye to eye with him.
A man, not an ogre or wildman or orc.
Though he was dark paint-washed and nearly fully exposed under the trappings of the animals he wore as an elaborate hood and cloak. He smelled like animal urine and the stripes and camoflauge of his skin made him appear to be something that walked alive and bright eyed from the bark of a great tree, and he carried himself with confidence and sophistication? Or was Verick just used to seeing humans slouch defeated and tired? They stood like that for several long moments. Perhaps hours. Entranced by the oddities before them. A man with bejeweled metal skin, and another of living bark and forest.
Finally the furrer spoke. His breath stank of the wild. An earthy, bloody smell.
"You wan' t'peace?" His language rolled like the gentle earth during a hot summer storm on the hills. His s' hissed like wind through a branch, or a calculating viper.
"That is the wish of my kingdom, yes."
"Peace good." he rumbled. The hunter sat down and gestured for Verick to join him on the floor.
"I go back to the great home, and stalk the hart of 'the heart, But Daethos, not gon' take peace."
"He won't?"
"No. Daethos gon' take the land, he gon' fight till the weak man dead."
"What weak man?"
The noble hunter pointed at Verick.
"Your hearts not worthy, You forget the strength of sinew and land, you forget barefeet and broken leaves, you forget the scent of travel, and sleeping the bare ground neath the many eyes of heaven."
"But you want peace?"
"Ye-mon." He nodded. "Hunt the hart of the heart, walk the land, not hunt the man anymore."
"What is the hart of the heart?" Verick at least wanted to understand the langauge this wilder used if he was going to convince the wilder that he had to deliver his message to Daethos, despite most likely not being heard.
The wilder clasped a fist to his chest. A vague gesture.
"A spiritual journey?"
"Ye-mon." The wilder started drawing in the dirt with an arrow he plucked from under his fur cloak. A mosaic of what appeared to be the rolling plains, of a man with a bow, and crude stick animals came out in moments, as if this man dreamed of this life many times in his idle hours. He just wanted to go home. The time passed in silence. Verick doodling in the dirt floor with his finger, of the sun mark on his palm, one of the few symbols he put any meaning to, mostly just drawing squiggles and line, because Verick had never had time to dream in the dirt as this man did. The wilder had pictures of small people holding their hands in reverence or joy, other stickmen standing next to what Verick had interpreted to be the wilder, the one with a bow, this silence and idleness passed until dawn. Because they both knew, that they would have to bring Verick to Daethos, not to negotiate a surrender, but to be executed. But the hearts of man are a strange thing, sometimes a life's story is told in the dirt, in the eyes, in the silence of the elephant in the room.
Dawn nudged them first, then spoke clearly-
"It time we go." The wilder stood up, retrieved a bow and a set of skinning knives and daggers that he tucked into harnesses behind his back. He wrapped the fur cloak around his body like a protective and official natured banner. Verick sighed and placed his sheathed sword in the man's outstretched palm.
He just wanted to go home. They just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.
A pile of furs and trappings lay about a bed roll, the inside of the hovel looked more the affects of a hunter than a warlord. No great weapons and trophies of fallen foes adorned the walls, but rather bones, head dresses, and carefully placed pelts dangled from the temporary walls. Verick thought for a moment that the boss was out, or maybe just imagined by the oafs in the camp, that is untill the pile of furs of many colors and varied bristliness rolled off the bed roll and stood eye to eye with him.
A man, not an ogre or wildman or orc.
Though he was dark paint-washed and nearly fully exposed under the trappings of the animals he wore as an elaborate hood and cloak. He smelled like animal urine and the stripes and camoflauge of his skin made him appear to be something that walked alive and bright eyed from the bark of a great tree, and he carried himself with confidence and sophistication? Or was Verick just used to seeing humans slouch defeated and tired? They stood like that for several long moments. Perhaps hours. Entranced by the oddities before them. A man with bejeweled metal skin, and another of living bark and forest.
Finally the furrer spoke. His breath stank of the wild. An earthy, bloody smell.
"You wan' t'peace?" His language rolled like the gentle earth during a hot summer storm on the hills. His s' hissed like wind through a branch, or a calculating viper.
"That is the wish of my kingdom, yes."
"Peace good." he rumbled. The hunter sat down and gestured for Verick to join him on the floor.
"I go back to the great home, and stalk the hart of 'the heart, But Daethos, not gon' take peace."
"He won't?"
"No. Daethos gon' take the land, he gon' fight till the weak man dead."
"What weak man?"
The noble hunter pointed at Verick.
"Your hearts not worthy, You forget the strength of sinew and land, you forget barefeet and broken leaves, you forget the scent of travel, and sleeping the bare ground neath the many eyes of heaven."
"But you want peace?"
"Ye-mon." He nodded. "Hunt the hart of the heart, walk the land, not hunt the man anymore."
"What is the hart of the heart?" Verick at least wanted to understand the langauge this wilder used if he was going to convince the wilder that he had to deliver his message to Daethos, despite most likely not being heard.
The wilder clasped a fist to his chest. A vague gesture.
"A spiritual journey?"
"Ye-mon." The wilder started drawing in the dirt with an arrow he plucked from under his fur cloak. A mosaic of what appeared to be the rolling plains, of a man with a bow, and crude stick animals came out in moments, as if this man dreamed of this life many times in his idle hours. He just wanted to go home. The time passed in silence. Verick doodling in the dirt floor with his finger, of the sun mark on his palm, one of the few symbols he put any meaning to, mostly just drawing squiggles and line, because Verick had never had time to dream in the dirt as this man did. The wilder had pictures of small people holding their hands in reverence or joy, other stickmen standing next to what Verick had interpreted to be the wilder, the one with a bow, this silence and idleness passed until dawn. Because they both knew, that they would have to bring Verick to Daethos, not to negotiate a surrender, but to be executed. But the hearts of man are a strange thing, sometimes a life's story is told in the dirt, in the eyes, in the silence of the elephant in the room.
Dawn nudged them first, then spoke clearly-
"It time we go." The wilder stood up, retrieved a bow and a set of skinning knives and daggers that he tucked into harnesses behind his back. He wrapped the fur cloak around his body like a protective and official natured banner. Verick sighed and placed his sheathed sword in the man's outstretched palm.
He just wanted to go home. They just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.