[Shujaa] - A Gift for the Zulfi
“Light-damned … not again!” Lothanor held the bag at arms’ length, sighing in frustration as he looked at the red streak along his thigh. He scrubbed briefly at it with his hand, and then pulled the hand away as the blood smeared.
The soft light of the forest filtered strangely through the pale red leaves, the Farstrider’s dappled armor blending in with the surrounding tree trunks.He tossed the bag aside, a mossy severed ear tumbling out. He glanced around, seeing the path back to the Farstrider Enclave winding up through the dim woods. He smiled, tossing his head back, hair swirling around his shoulders as he let out a relieved sigh. He walked over to the bag, hefting it carefully, face twisting in disgust as he picked up the loose ear, dropping it back into the bag.
“Maybe enough here to finally afford a decent blade,” he said to himself, a habit acquired from long patrols. His bow was slung over his shoulder, the wood well-tended and a series of sinew strings looped around his belt. His free hand travelled to a long knife hanging from a scabbard on the opposite hip, the grip covered with ragged leather.
He walked through the wood, bag hanging over his shoulder, thumping wetly against the small pack on his back. He paused suddenly, eyes locking onto a small clump of leaves scattered loosely on the path. He pulled off his bow, stringing it quickly as he carefully stepped over to it, brushing aside the leaves to expose a small hole with a sharp metal spike embedded into the dirt at the bottom. His eyes narrowed, nocking an arrow.
“Something new,” Lothanor said, grinning. His eyes scanned around, landing on a small, nearly imperceptibly bent branch. He moved over carefully, feet treading softly on the ground. He watched carefully for any change, the sickly-looking trees and bushes waving softly in the tepid breeze.
Soon the massive stone structures and carvings of Zul’Aman loomed overhead. The faint trail Lothanor had followed had been littered with traps of all kinds. He’d carefully moved around them; to set them off might alert whoever had placed them, and disarming them might set them off.
Won’t do to get myself mobbed by trolls. I’ll set up a nice little trap here for you, whoever you are. Lothanor’s face remained grim as he looked over the nearby trees. His gaze landed on a tightly-grown stand of trees, bushes clustered thickly around the bottom. He smiled as he slowly crept into the stand of trees, drawing his knife to cut away some of the plants in the middle. He pulled out a few arrows, thrusting them point-first into the ground next to him.
Time passed, the woods silent around the Farstrider. He kept his eyes on the small trail. The surrounding foliage rustled softly as Lothanor’s ears strained to hear any sound, knowing that his eyes would as soon reveal him to his enemy as they to him. He smiled, basking in the soothing sounds around him. He’d spent so much of his life here in the forests; he knew he would not be surprised.
He gripped the bow firmly, fingers rubbing along the ancient wood. Trueflight, his family was named, both for their skill and the heirloom bow. His parents always took pride in telling him the stories of the ones who’d held it before him. “Fast and far, Lo, but always it strikes true.” His father’s words he remembered briefly, shaking his head to keep alert and wary.
Suddenly the Farstrider heard a light, nearly-imperceptible rustling. He carefully swiveled his head, allowing his hearing to show him the direction of the noise. He kept his breathing deep and steady, listening for more footfalls than just the one pair. He pulled the string tight, feet and legs tensing.
Lothanor lifted his bow, legs straightening. Decades of training took over as he launched the arrow forward -- straight between two long pieces of rope hanging from a large tree branch. The ropes swayed, a large rock on the end of each thudding softly against the ground. So the footsteps-
A heavy blow struck his chest, knocking him back. He looked down to see an arrow sticking out of him. He gasped, trying to scream, letting out a weak moan as he felt his arms begin to grow heavy. His gaze followed the rope up to where a large, red-haired troll sat.
Shujaa leapt down from the tree, drawing a blade as he walked toward the fallen elf. He grinned, rumbling softly as he moved closer. “Ju too smart, elf,” Shujaa leaned down close, nose wrinkling at the scent of the elf’s blood and urine. “Kill many mah people, yah strength I respect.” The elf beneath him fumbled weakly at a long knife at his waist. The troll lifted his blade, slashing down and through the elf’s throat. The body slackened, the flow of blood slowing quickly.
The troll lifted the bag, peering inside it. He hissed, seeing the contents, shutting it and reverently placing it down on the ground. No more trophies, Shujaa would give them their rest. He stepped over to the elf’s head, gripping the hair and lifting it up, swinging his blade hard and fast, his hand jerking upward as the head came free. He turned it over in his hands. He thought of his mate Sheshafi, the musical sound the skulls hanging from her belt made as she walked, the tantalizing sway of her hips causing them to bump gently against each other.
He grinned, pulling out a small, sharp knife from his belt, settling himself down in the blind the elf had set up. “Have to get you ready to serve the Zulfi,” he said, rumbling happily as he began to carefully slice the skin away from th
e bone.
The soft light of the forest filtered strangely through the pale red leaves, the Farstrider’s dappled armor blending in with the surrounding tree trunks.He tossed the bag aside, a mossy severed ear tumbling out. He glanced around, seeing the path back to the Farstrider Enclave winding up through the dim woods. He smiled, tossing his head back, hair swirling around his shoulders as he let out a relieved sigh. He walked over to the bag, hefting it carefully, face twisting in disgust as he picked up the loose ear, dropping it back into the bag.
“Maybe enough here to finally afford a decent blade,” he said to himself, a habit acquired from long patrols. His bow was slung over his shoulder, the wood well-tended and a series of sinew strings looped around his belt. His free hand travelled to a long knife hanging from a scabbard on the opposite hip, the grip covered with ragged leather.
He walked through the wood, bag hanging over his shoulder, thumping wetly against the small pack on his back. He paused suddenly, eyes locking onto a small clump of leaves scattered loosely on the path. He pulled off his bow, stringing it quickly as he carefully stepped over to it, brushing aside the leaves to expose a small hole with a sharp metal spike embedded into the dirt at the bottom. His eyes narrowed, nocking an arrow.
“Something new,” Lothanor said, grinning. His eyes scanned around, landing on a small, nearly imperceptibly bent branch. He moved over carefully, feet treading softly on the ground. He watched carefully for any change, the sickly-looking trees and bushes waving softly in the tepid breeze.
Soon the massive stone structures and carvings of Zul’Aman loomed overhead. The faint trail Lothanor had followed had been littered with traps of all kinds. He’d carefully moved around them; to set them off might alert whoever had placed them, and disarming them might set them off.
Won’t do to get myself mobbed by trolls. I’ll set up a nice little trap here for you, whoever you are. Lothanor’s face remained grim as he looked over the nearby trees. His gaze landed on a tightly-grown stand of trees, bushes clustered thickly around the bottom. He smiled as he slowly crept into the stand of trees, drawing his knife to cut away some of the plants in the middle. He pulled out a few arrows, thrusting them point-first into the ground next to him.
Time passed, the woods silent around the Farstrider. He kept his eyes on the small trail. The surrounding foliage rustled softly as Lothanor’s ears strained to hear any sound, knowing that his eyes would as soon reveal him to his enemy as they to him. He smiled, basking in the soothing sounds around him. He’d spent so much of his life here in the forests; he knew he would not be surprised.
He gripped the bow firmly, fingers rubbing along the ancient wood. Trueflight, his family was named, both for their skill and the heirloom bow. His parents always took pride in telling him the stories of the ones who’d held it before him. “Fast and far, Lo, but always it strikes true.” His father’s words he remembered briefly, shaking his head to keep alert and wary.
Suddenly the Farstrider heard a light, nearly-imperceptible rustling. He carefully swiveled his head, allowing his hearing to show him the direction of the noise. He kept his breathing deep and steady, listening for more footfalls than just the one pair. He pulled the string tight, feet and legs tensing.
Lothanor lifted his bow, legs straightening. Decades of training took over as he launched the arrow forward -- straight between two long pieces of rope hanging from a large tree branch. The ropes swayed, a large rock on the end of each thudding softly against the ground. So the footsteps-
A heavy blow struck his chest, knocking him back. He looked down to see an arrow sticking out of him. He gasped, trying to scream, letting out a weak moan as he felt his arms begin to grow heavy. His gaze followed the rope up to where a large, red-haired troll sat.
Shujaa leapt down from the tree, drawing a blade as he walked toward the fallen elf. He grinned, rumbling softly as he moved closer. “Ju too smart, elf,” Shujaa leaned down close, nose wrinkling at the scent of the elf’s blood and urine. “Kill many mah people, yah strength I respect.” The elf beneath him fumbled weakly at a long knife at his waist. The troll lifted his blade, slashing down and through the elf’s throat. The body slackened, the flow of blood slowing quickly.
The troll lifted the bag, peering inside it. He hissed, seeing the contents, shutting it and reverently placing it down on the ground. No more trophies, Shujaa would give them their rest. He stepped over to the elf’s head, gripping the hair and lifting it up, swinging his blade hard and fast, his hand jerking upward as the head came free. He turned it over in his hands. He thought of his mate Sheshafi, the musical sound the skulls hanging from her belt made as she walked, the tantalizing sway of her hips causing them to bump gently against each other.
He grinned, pulling out a small, sharp knife from his belt, settling himself down in the blind the elf had set up. “Have to get you ready to serve the Zulfi,” he said, rumbling happily as he began to carefully slice the skin away from th
e bone.