A Falchion Stabbed In The Sand

[CosmicWhaleShark 2488]

The sun beat down in harsh rays over the tents that dotted themselves tightly within the walls of the trog. Within a tent toward the entrance sat a grizzled looking wood elf, with scars to bear along his face and knuckles, receding bruises, calloused and leathery skin punished by the sun and the sand. Hair a sunkissed brown beneath a pale, cream colored hood. Along with a determined look set by dark green eyes, as he stared across the tent toward an aged Orc whose flesh was covered more in scars and tattoos than actual clothing. The gruff and guttural Blah rumbled through the tent's canvas as the Orc spoke.

 

"Mrf, lat muzd travul tu da fur Zowff ob da Uruk lundz, akkroz da owzeun. Der, lat weehl fiynd aht dezzerd. Latz muzd trekk froow dat dezzerd uhnteel lat kum upon ah zhrien. Ah beleeb da zhrien ahm ob Ehnrohk, ur zum'skah, bud nub maddah."

 

The Orc pauses briefly to grunt before continuing.

 

Mrf, wen latz der, ah wund lat tu taek ash ob da zkullz... Bud beh warned, Ehnrohk will nub beh pleezed ib lat juzd taek id. Lat muzd konveenze heem tu gib eed toow lat. Gib heem zum'fin eehnt return. Ib latz nub konveenze Ehnrohk, den latz may hab tu klomp wid heem..."

 

The wood elf raises an eyebrow at this, clearing his throat before asking,

 

"What does Ehnrohk represent?"

 

"Wur, bluudluzd, awl da hozh skah. Lat weehl peep."

 

"Mmm... I may have something in mind then."

 

"Keeb id toow latzelf - ah mae nub helb lat awn dizz."

 

The elf nods a single time, moving to stand.

 

"In that case, I'll be off and get what I require. Farewell to you, Thurak."

 

"Mrf, gug'ye, Ffaydruz."

 

With that, Phaedrus exits the tent and treks to his own home. Inside it he opens one of the chests to reveal a finely made falchion. Within the break between the guard and black leather scabbard, a light purple glow peeks through the slit. He prepares his canteens, satchels his travel rations, and straps the belt of the falchion to his waist, setting off shortly after. 

 

After traveling as South as possible on the main continent, past the Dwarves' mountains, through the lush rain forests and making a point to avoid the bone chilling valleys of snow, Phaedrus reaches the beach. Across the narrow channel lies the desert island that he acquainted himself with before, he once lead an expedition to this place. He removes his outer robe and stores it away within his satchel, double checking how tightly packed it is before setting the strap back on his shoulder, and swims across the channel.

 

Phaedrus reaches the opposite beach, tromping and slushing through the ocean before coming onto a shallower point, spitting out saltwater the whole while and rubbing it away from his eyes. On dry land he prepares for the next stage of his journey, his hair damp and stained with streaks of salt, clothes sticking to him and his remaining bruises and cuts still unhealed sting in a dull throb with his pulse. He replaces his outer robe, pulls up his hood, and sets off into the desert.

 

 

 

It was subtle, but the island had certainly changed in ways unfamiliar to Phaedrus' last visit. Sand had shifted, ruins had been altered, and signs of recent occupation in some places were apparent. Most disconcertingly the pit within one ruin being filled with lava, as if sacrifices were now made there. Phaedrus never saw another soul, however. This did not comfort him.

 

During his search for the shrine he came upon the quarry for sand and clay, there he decided to rest, drink and eat. The sun beat down upon him, the saltwater had left his skin dry and the only true reprieve he had were his light clothes and robes that protected him from being in direct contact with the harsh rays. 

 

 

By the time he finally discovered the shrine, the sun was setting. Phaedrus decided it was best to simply rest for the night, now that he had found the place, and begin his first ritual in the morning.

 

 

Morning came and Phaedrus took his time to prepare. He was in no rush to potentially confront a spirit of war, the Orcish one at that. He rehearsed his words, practiced his gestures and made essentially a routine of it. Finally, at midday, Phaedrus was ready, and so he approached the shrine of Ehnrohk, spirit of war, bloodlust and savagery. The shrine itself was a mangled construction, with fires, cages and rotting wood hanging off the main structure like sickly limbs. Long dried blood stained the sand entirely reddish-brown, and around it skulls littered the ground as flowers do with the forests. Phaedrus' boots cracked the film of dried blood as he walked forward, drawing the finely crafted falchion from its scabbard, and finally he shouts to the shrine.

 

"Throm'ka, Ehnrohk! Spirit of bloodlust! Of war! I come before your shrine to make an offering of my own, in hopes of claiming one of your skulls! As I look around, I see sand, bones and blood! Mangled metal and rotten planks! What I do not see is a tribute befitting of the SPIRIT OF WAR! An instrument of savagery, a zult!"

 

Phaedrus pumps his falchion into the air over his head, grunting as he does so, his only response is silence.

 

 

"And since you are the spirit of war! Of bloodlust! I did not bring you an untested blade! A trinket to admire and hang over your hearth! This sword has chipped itself against steel, chewed its way through flesh, stained itself with the blood of those innocent and guilty, honorable and dishonorable, the skilled and the unpracticed all the same! It has had a taste for war at its most savage states!

 

With this blade in offering, I will also submit my blood for you to judge as worthy trade! Blood that has coursed through the veins of a Rex, and will now sink into your sand!

 

Phaedrus lowers his falchion down to his open palm, setting the blade's edge beneath the scar already made from his previous blood oath. He slides the falchion into and across his flesh afterward, rending it crimson in a single motion. He flexes his hand into a fist several times, getting the blood pumping through his hand, and finally holds it out as he watches a generous stream ebb from his fingers into the sand. Once satisfied with the amount puddled before him, he twists his body and screams while stabbing the falchion into the center of the fresh blood stain in the sand. He looks up to the shrine once more, shouting,

 

"My tribute to you! A weapon worthy of a warrior!"

 

 

Silence is the only response back to him.

 

After a few moments, Phaedrus begins to feel the uneasy sense of being watched. A presence observing him perhaps in the mountains, or maybe much, much closer. He goes to stand before a skull, taking in a deep breath before reaching down to pick it up. Nothing happens, but the presence still remains, a prickle on the back of his neck, a shiver down the length of his spine. 

 

Phaedrus departs back to the trog with his trophy, storing it away carefully as he begins to wrap his wound with bandage. The falchion left before the shrine, stabbed into the sand...

 

If one were to visit that shrine now, the falchion would not be there. Either swallowed by the sand or picked away by opportunistic thieves. Perhaps though, there is a slight chance that the wood elf's sword was seen as worthy make to the spirit of war itself, and was taken. But maybe instead the presence Phaedrus felt was simply his paranoia and fatigued state while within the desert. It will remain a mystery. 

 

[Dohvi 622]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.