Jump to content

When the Rochirran Weep


TwilightWolf
 Share

Recommended Posts

3d951e38-70e2-11e6-82d1-e222346e7468.jpg

It was all over the ground. Splattered against the back of the stable door and coagulated on the ground like some sick mockery of moss, the blood of the beloved Sire, Dam and firstborn of the line of the Rochirran's legendary steeds drench the ground and overflow over their bedding. Where there was strong, determined life in the eyes of their companions now there was only the reflection of fear in their final moments.  Butchered. Mangled. Nearly unidentifiable if it were not for the unfortunate stumbling of Aerendyl and Onas.

 

"...I found them like this, mal'onn." The younger elf stammers as the twilit elder turns the final key to the stables. The herd had backed into a corner, scarred and riled into a frenzy instead of proudly greeting the Rochir.

His senior's pipe dropped to the ground and extinguished in the sodden, bloodied earth beneath him. The veterinarian knew every bit of anatomy that was mangled in front of him... and the longer he looked to soak in the carnage the more pain tied knots in his core. It was too much, and it boiled up his throat into a rumbling cry that shook the upper knoll of Amaethea.

 

"RHOAM, ISHANTE... LADY BET!"

 

"I saw no signs of forced entry, or lockpicking..." Onas says lowly, grimacing at the thought of his next conclusion. "Whoever did this had access. What can Mali do against such reckless hate?"

Aerendyl listened indeed, but his normally golden voice was tarnished with the roiling anger and sorrow of his soul. He shakes beneath the hand of his brother poised atop his shoulder, and the elder falls to his knees in the puddle of gore with a sickening 'splish', abandoning his usual care for presentable attire. His trousers stain in the equine's blood and his hands snap to his scarred face in a poor attempt to cage the rare display of raw, tortured emotion.

 

"I... I haven't any babies of my own... These ARE my babies, Onas! It hurts so much..." He stammers nearly incoherently. He winces in pain and throws his arms into a hug. The Rochir's soul felt like it had been severed with a knife and thrown to a pack of wolves to tear apart, and all semblance of composure was futile.

 

"I should have locked the doors better... I couldn't protect them, I couldn't-" the scarred elf sputters, cut off by the guiding hand of his worried brother.

 

"Come." Onas murmurs, lowering himself to a knee and wrapping his arm around his elder friend to guide him out of the scene of death and carnage. "We needn't stay here in this... miasma of death."

 

"NO!" Aerendyl cries out in desperation, ripping himself from the embrace of his kin and nearly throws himself atop the body of his favorite companion. He splatters his body atop the puddles of blood and flesh, and weakly reaches for his knife to place it to the lifeless husk of his once proud and powerful equine companion.

"I'm so sorry, Rhoam... My friend," he says, sawing a length of the stallion's murky mane between sobs. He clutches the length of mane to his chest, wailing and grimacing at the pain in his chest. "My partner, my soul-warrior..."

 

The two linger in the stable as the twilit elder rocks himself to a state of being able to stand, finally. He shuffles to the door, glassy-eyed and unsteady like a poorly inhabited husk.

 

Onas speaks up with a frown, following after Aerendyl as he pushes past the doors with his shoulder, not daring to let go of the last piece of his equine friend. 

"Heya kae ern'omediere, Aerendyl?"

 

"Ito Machana kaean chul'maillerae." he responds, his hand and lock of mane glued to his chest as if it were literally a part of him. The pain overcame the Rochir in waves as he paced away from one of the last times he would ever see his beloved partner. Even still, a fire alight in his heart. One of hatred, confusion, and vengeance. He swore to himself whoever dealt such pain to him would have his body broken, mangled, and experience more fear in his last moment than those poor souls in the stable. He will feed his soul to Morea. 

Link to post
Share on other sites

Upon being alerted to the gruesome death of her young mare, Lady Bet, Lya collapsed into her brother's arms, weeping as though she'd lost a daughter. The tragedy of the slaughter left her bitter, angry, and vengeful. In private, she declared to Aerendyl that the murderders- for this was tantamount to murder in their eyes- would suffer the depths of pain and torment if she ever got her hands on them.

Link to post
Share on other sites

The elder sister Orison would slowly trail her way toward the stables, the oaken staff of hers thumping against the ground as she took her steps. She would look over the horrid scene with a deeply saddened visage, amber eyes falling on their corpses. Stooping to a kneel by the horses side, she began to speak a few reverent words over their bodies, in solidarity with Aerendyl's tremendous loss.

"O' Haelun, y'kae oerneh suliera.

ito suliera, iyul nae'leh illern'taynan ethere,

Iyul divhiuw ito hae'leh taliiynan, divcerun'ehya ito hae'leh hiylun.

Oerneh nae ito hileia hae myumiera, ciwn'ehya uell.     

 

O' Maln, y'kae oerneh suliera.

ito suliera iyul nae'leh illern'orran ethere,

Iyul leyun ito hae'leh iheiuhii, hae'leh ehya taliiynan feta lentera.

Oerneh nae ito Sirame hae myumiera, cerun'ehya uell.    

 

nae iyl'hiylun, tenna eth, myumierala karinte,

hae'ehya Meracahe narna.

taliyna ito nor, taliiyna ito vallei, tur ito malomii.

Ahernal ito."

When she was finished, the elfess bowed her head low, signing a slow, deliberate circle over her heart with two fingers.

Link to post
Share on other sites

Amaesil — formally known as Onas Vuln'miruel — watches with a deep frown. His grip tightens on his gauntlets as he leans back against the outer wall of the stables with his arms crossed. In the silence of the evening, Amaesil looks to his left. Across the dense woodland brush he sees the white tips of Amaethon's statue. He would close his eyes for a long moment in silent prayer. His heartrate increases and his breath becomes shallow.

 

Eventually, Amaesil reopens his eyes and stands tall. He would walk a few paces and look down the long, winding pathway toward the statue of the Horse Lord. There he sees Aerendyl Hawksong crouched and in mourning. The wood elf purses his lips and casts one final sidelong glance toward the shrouded tips of Amaethon's antlers.

 

"Mavallumn, kathiran'amemanor... Nae y ahkina'leh anohan'wy lle illerehane."

Edited by The Media Wizard
Link to post
Share on other sites

A lone man meanders about his newly-attained steed, peering upon the lands - taking upon ventures and whatnot with ardent fervor!

Link to post
Share on other sites

 Share

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.



×
×
  • Create New...