Metha Ch1 - Coming Of Age
Metha crept through the woods with the stealth of his ancestor's training, his father's words of encouragement and harsh standards holding him up and simultaneously weighing him down. It held him under pressure -- this was his journey, his coming of age, his time and his chance. As he pulled one of his three arrows from the sheath and strung it to his bow, he looked down at it -- his arrow of courage, decorated with tiny engravings of tigers over the shaft and fletched with rare Katrin feathers collected with care by the villagers in preparation of his ceremony. It was his second favorite of the arrows they presented to him on the night of his sixteenth birthday, below the arrow of wisdom. Gathering his attention to the task at hand, he searched forward for his quarry, not yet drawing back his father's bow.
Through the woods he saw the tix beast, its lithe and heavily muscled form framed between two trees before a clearing and a lake. It was sixty paces out -- Metha could hit it from here. Drawing the arrow back, he waited until the tix's head dropped to drink, and then stood as quietly as possible and took aim. His father would have to be proud of him when he returned with this beast over his shoulder -- for tracking it all this far, for catching the fast beast despite its tremendous speed, and for the fact that the pattern on this one's back betrayed it to be the very one that tore apart the village's idol. How could his father find fault in that? A tremendous success for his rite of passage, and he was moments from victory. Breathing deeply, he could hear his heart pumping with anticipation. He had three arrows with which to slay the beast, and he had boasted that he would return it with the first. Metha had no desire to go back on his boast. His eyes sharp, he remembered his father's last words of advice -- to find the peace in his center, and fire from there. Metha wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew his father was believed by others to be wise (at least when sober; Metha knew better the rest of the time), and none would ever stop telling Metha that his father was a master hunter, so he swallowed his resentment, gathered his mind together, and visualized a small, heavy ball in his gut. He had to get this shot right. He let himself settle calmly into his stance, his arm beginning to tire from holding the bowstring so taut, and held still as the tix shifted, its menacingly fast form threatening to bolt at any time. Center.
As Metha was about to fire, the tix screamed in pain and thrashed about, startling Metha. The arrow flew, high, much too high, over his target and across the lake. His eyes wide, Metha realized how shameful it would be to lose his arrow of courage, and his father's disgust flashed painfully in his mind as he charged forward recklessly, bellowing at the tix to frighten it away. The tix continued to scream in agony and staggered into the lake, and as Metha surged out of the tree cover, he saw the tix's blood staining the splashing lake water along it's right side.
What? What is this?
Metha caught a glimpse of an arrow sticking out of the side of the tix that had been facing away from him, and his eyes widened in shock. Looking around quickly, he gripped his father's bow more tightly. Where was he? He didn't recognize this lake. He was far away from his village. He knew the way back because he memorized the landmarks, but he didn't know who could be hunting out here. Did the hunters from his village ever come this far? He pursued this tix over great distance, and was two days out from the village already. What else hunted out here? Goblins? Cannibals?
What am I thinking? I'm standing in the open!
Metha turned and fled into the cover of the trees, running in blind fear from what he did not know. He held the bow out in front of him to deflect branches and brush as he stumbled over roots and bushes. Panting heavily, he tripped and stumbled forward fell to his hands and knees, then scrambled behind the trunk of a large tree to catch his breath, his chest sore and his head light.
What am I afraid of? It could be nothing! It's just another hunter! Regardless, I must face this with courage, not just run like a coward! I will need courage to get my arrow back -- if I fail, I will lose the arrow of courage, and it will be through my cowardice. Everyone will know! I must get my arrow back!
Keeping still, Metha listened to see if he could hear anyone approaching. As his breath and heart slowed, he began to move to look back behind the tree toward the lake. He saw nothing. Placing a hand on the tree trunk, he drew himself up to a crouch and began to sneak forward, using the training passed down from his ancestors to move with silence amongst the brush, creeping ever forward toward the lake. As his heart began to beat faster and faster, he used his father's advice as a mantra, and visualized the heavy ball in his gut, but soon that lost all meaning it was ever going to have, and he fell back to simply repeating the word courage over and over again in his head, and thought of the arrow and the need to get it back to prove himself. Soon the fear overwhelmed him, images of goblins, cannibals, and gruesome death flushing through his mind, and all he could do to keep his mind from being completely subsumed by it was to focus on the word courage, and let his legs move forward by the rote training, all else devoted to his senses and preparing to flee at a moment's notice.
With a crash, something large rushed up behind him, and Metha turned, trying to run. He saw a naked man briefly before a heavy blow smashed across his face, and Metha's head was snapped to the side, staggering. He saw the man's arm moving forward to strike him in the gut, and smacked it aside with the bow, retreating backward blindly through the bushes to try to regain his footing. The man lunged forward again with his entire body, preparing to strike again, and Metha reached an arm up to protect his face, but the man grabbed Metha's arm and threw him to the ground, the bow falling under him. As Metha tried to pick himself up, something very hard struck the back of his head, and the world lurched, then darkened.
Through the woods he saw the tix beast, its lithe and heavily muscled form framed between two trees before a clearing and a lake. It was sixty paces out -- Metha could hit it from here. Drawing the arrow back, he waited until the tix's head dropped to drink, and then stood as quietly as possible and took aim. His father would have to be proud of him when he returned with this beast over his shoulder -- for tracking it all this far, for catching the fast beast despite its tremendous speed, and for the fact that the pattern on this one's back betrayed it to be the very one that tore apart the village's idol. How could his father find fault in that? A tremendous success for his rite of passage, and he was moments from victory. Breathing deeply, he could hear his heart pumping with anticipation. He had three arrows with which to slay the beast, and he had boasted that he would return it with the first. Metha had no desire to go back on his boast. His eyes sharp, he remembered his father's last words of advice -- to find the peace in his center, and fire from there. Metha wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew his father was believed by others to be wise (at least when sober; Metha knew better the rest of the time), and none would ever stop telling Metha that his father was a master hunter, so he swallowed his resentment, gathered his mind together, and visualized a small, heavy ball in his gut. He had to get this shot right. He let himself settle calmly into his stance, his arm beginning to tire from holding the bowstring so taut, and held still as the tix shifted, its menacingly fast form threatening to bolt at any time. Center.
As Metha was about to fire, the tix screamed in pain and thrashed about, startling Metha. The arrow flew, high, much too high, over his target and across the lake. His eyes wide, Metha realized how shameful it would be to lose his arrow of courage, and his father's disgust flashed painfully in his mind as he charged forward recklessly, bellowing at the tix to frighten it away. The tix continued to scream in agony and staggered into the lake, and as Metha surged out of the tree cover, he saw the tix's blood staining the splashing lake water along it's right side.
What? What is this?
Metha caught a glimpse of an arrow sticking out of the side of the tix that had been facing away from him, and his eyes widened in shock. Looking around quickly, he gripped his father's bow more tightly. Where was he? He didn't recognize this lake. He was far away from his village. He knew the way back because he memorized the landmarks, but he didn't know who could be hunting out here. Did the hunters from his village ever come this far? He pursued this tix over great distance, and was two days out from the village already. What else hunted out here? Goblins? Cannibals?
What am I thinking? I'm standing in the open!
Metha turned and fled into the cover of the trees, running in blind fear from what he did not know. He held the bow out in front of him to deflect branches and brush as he stumbled over roots and bushes. Panting heavily, he tripped and stumbled forward fell to his hands and knees, then scrambled behind the trunk of a large tree to catch his breath, his chest sore and his head light.
What am I afraid of? It could be nothing! It's just another hunter! Regardless, I must face this with courage, not just run like a coward! I will need courage to get my arrow back -- if I fail, I will lose the arrow of courage, and it will be through my cowardice. Everyone will know! I must get my arrow back!
Keeping still, Metha listened to see if he could hear anyone approaching. As his breath and heart slowed, he began to move to look back behind the tree toward the lake. He saw nothing. Placing a hand on the tree trunk, he drew himself up to a crouch and began to sneak forward, using the training passed down from his ancestors to move with silence amongst the brush, creeping ever forward toward the lake. As his heart began to beat faster and faster, he used his father's advice as a mantra, and visualized the heavy ball in his gut, but soon that lost all meaning it was ever going to have, and he fell back to simply repeating the word courage over and over again in his head, and thought of the arrow and the need to get it back to prove himself. Soon the fear overwhelmed him, images of goblins, cannibals, and gruesome death flushing through his mind, and all he could do to keep his mind from being completely subsumed by it was to focus on the word courage, and let his legs move forward by the rote training, all else devoted to his senses and preparing to flee at a moment's notice.
With a crash, something large rushed up behind him, and Metha turned, trying to run. He saw a naked man briefly before a heavy blow smashed across his face, and Metha's head was snapped to the side, staggering. He saw the man's arm moving forward to strike him in the gut, and smacked it aside with the bow, retreating backward blindly through the bushes to try to regain his footing. The man lunged forward again with his entire body, preparing to strike again, and Metha reached an arm up to protect his face, but the man grabbed Metha's arm and threw him to the ground, the bow falling under him. As Metha tried to pick himself up, something very hard struck the back of his head, and the world lurched, then darkened.