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Effort and Endurance


Keefy
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The First Month

 

 How many years had it been, since he'd received his hunting task. Scant past the age of fifty, give or take. Nearly three hundred years since he dropped a wyverns head before the pair that sought to try and guide him. How long ago that was, he thought as he stacked his tools neatly, securely tucked away in one of his many hidden nooks and crannies, leaving Vaki behind to keep mind of the Perch and resting his cleaver on the bedside. She would understand. He even slipped his boots off, leaving himself naught but trousers and a simple shirt as he took off running, north-bound.

 

 Dig deep. Pull it all in. Be not a druid in these woods, do not let the beasts and fauna treat you so courteously. Be foreign. Be man, isolated again. Let the deer scamper at the sound of you. The crows and vultures wish for you to perish and be carrion to feast on. Let your insides churn, your skin feel the sting of the snow and heat of the sun, like they once did. These changes made simply and internally, adjusting his unending form to fit the given task as he knapped away at a rock.

 

 A rock became a knife. Branches became the first spear, the first arrows, more rocks, the first of meals, the travel. Until his shoulders and feet were covered in the leathers of deer, their meat in reserves and bones found way. And he began searching.

 

The Third Month

 

  It wasn't hard to miss the beast. Finding one hadn't proven the issue. It moved. Scarcely sedentary for longer than it took to consume and move on, deer or some unfortunate farmers cattle likely, cleaved into pieces. The task at hand to wait for it to stop. With thanks to the Lords, it was a large creature, so tracking after latching onto the trail of one proved not hard, just a matter of concealing himself from becoming a carving by it and its hunger. The issue came in when to strike.

 

 Two options passed as ideal. As ideal as one could wish for, circumstances presented. One was to drop on it while it ate, but to interrupt a keen beast with its blood up from eating could go either way. And it hardly chose simple places to make such a attempt, or for trapping at that. Cliffsides, the tops of trees, not much for the man and his figure to be discrete.

 

 The other just as favorable, even less so, but with more options. Avian it was, and mating would arise at some point. With that a nest. Two of them would be present, but with the brief time-period to consolidate an area and plan, and a mate tired from laying eggs, a male busy providing for two, gaps would arise. 

 

 He stayed crouched by a meager fire, half-resting at dawn crested, and thought on this, his brought clothes all but replaced with crudely sewn replacements of roughly tanned leathers and furs. He watched the embers burn away, and upon hearing the rustling of his unawares companion leaving it's sleep, drew two signs in the ground far apart. He drew an arrow, and simply tossed it high. Whatever it pointed at, an x and o, would be his plan. X for a blitz during a moment unawares. O for biding the months, maybe years, and striking.

 

  The arrow had landed.

 

O.

 

The Seventh Month

 

 Mistakes. Just one but it was enough as he dashed for underbrush. The crags and cliffs of the north, and sparse forest life, made a hungry stomach a mistake. A deer was felled, but care was not taken, and a bear stirred and chased. Itself not the particular issue, but the noise it brought. It might call it to the location, and a man, upon snow and slick soil, could not outrun either. He had hoped the bear a mother when it first charged him, but to no avail it continued. He took to a mad dash toward the deer, previously a scant fifteen, maybe twenty yards, now perilously long, out of hope that the idea of a meal might dissuade the bear, as a roar echoed behind him and encroached. 

 

 Then nothing but a ringing pain in his ears, stunning the man, and a gust of wind strong enough to send him reeling into a nearby mound of snow. He laid there for what could have only been minutes but felt much longer, awaiting...anything, but heard nothing for a long, drawn out moment. It slowly came back to him, and the bellowing of the bear echoed from afar. A good sign, perhaps, before the bear returned. But from above, a sickening crack, its body nearly falling to pieces as it tore branches down. And a moment after, it came down, for its meal. He pressed himself deeper, as deep as he could, into the snow, and stayed starkly still. He was in no position to act. And the beast would likely simply shred him in this pensive moment.

 

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 The shadows moved, and after long enough, it finished and took off. The man didn't care at the moment, seeking shelter first after he was sure it had left. A rush to put up a small tent and a small fire. Disrobed to dry and warm from the snow, the gravity of his task increased. He had known of the shrieks but had not realized how intense it was. But he would remember this, and he would adapt apt. He would return for the deer on warming, and feast, and think. 

 

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The Ninth Month

 

They had started, as did he. Two different tasks. They began assembling their nest, the duo, and he began consolidating. Staying as far from them as he could justify whilst doing his work, checking on them and their progress when time allowed, he carved, and formed, weaved and felled. He tread carefully, and took to applying his knowledge where he could. Traps, as crude as they were, assembled from what he could hunt and forage, placed where he could, with hope, reach if a need to retreat became apparent. Any logs he could fell were repurposed, anything hunted was stripped of all usefulness and scattered to hide any trace of his scent when the Male took to hunt himself. 

 

 Two weeks had passed, and if any other descendant crossed these woods, they would have thought it was prepared for the crudest of battles. Their nest was finished, and while his work continued, the man waited for the moment the Female would lay. It could be two days, weeks, maybe longer. They were large beasts and he had little knowledge of them to base, just that of their smaller counterparts amongst the corvids. But any minute was a minute to be prepared. To have a sharpened blade. Any claddings he could made would likely do little. He'd seen the one he followed cleave trees apart to ****** prey. Leathers and furs would do nothing. His traps encroached closer to them, but it was a necessary risk. He could do no less. It wouldn't be acceptable.

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

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The Tenth Month

 

 Two weeks had passed and it seemed the day had come. Busy with birth, keeping watch, he had spent the previous three nights concealed slightly above their cliff-nest, scarcely moving for nothing but half-sleep, and the minimum of food and water. They had stopped moving, even hunting, so the time had to be close. And he was right. Nestled at his side, the bow he first carved along this path. A handful of arrows. A serrated bone 'sword' he hesitated to call such, made for a singular task he could not risk failing. A length of roughly woven rope that could not afford to break, hammered into the ground cautiously with a stake that would kill him if it failed. And this to simply take the female out, yet to come was the male, likely to be enraged. 

 

 Hours passed after the laying, and it left. The Male. To hunt and gather food to strengthen its mate once again, after producing five eggs whose size was enough he'd not be surprised if a halfling could snug into. He crept forward, and prepared, putting the bow around himself and grasping the serrated tool for this. A mound of grave-wax formed from the corpses of hunts roughly stuffed into his ears, it would not prevent all the shock, but hopefully buy him a modicum of safety.

 

 He dropped.

 

 The nape of its neck, he rapidly took to trying to gain purchase onto mounds of feathers. She immediately tried to move, but faltered. For the safety of her clutch, mayhaps? It mattered not. His legs mounted, and as its chest swelled, it's singular task was performed, the rough-shod sword. 

 

He carved.

 

 He pulled once. Twice. Three times. Enough until he was positive that the Females voice faltered, that its mantle of feathers could not keep it safe, that blood welled from the wound, and when he was sure, he tore the tool loose, lodged it in the joint of one of its wings and twisted, snapping it and ending its part to play, and began pulling the rope. And himself. Ascending rapidly, it would die but it was no waiting game to be played, and there was a chance it made enough noise to call the Male. His fingers stung as he pulled himself onto the cliff face, and cut the rope from him with haste. He could hear pained noises from the Female, a rustling of wings, and claws on stone. The ending play of the sword stalled enough, and it was weakening. So he ran for the woods, and in the evening sun, he could see the Male.

 

He would not hide or try to avoid its sight.

 

Come.

 

 The wax and distance proved somewhat effective as a shriek of shrieks, one he would not be surprised rattled the Lords themselves, filled the air. Presumably it stopped to the nest, but a glance showed its pursuit. He dived into the woods he had chosen, and turned over a cluster of treasures, for this moment, from the bottom of many lakes and rivers along the way, glazed and shining in the evening light. Naught but stones, but a birds eyes were keen, and he huddled near their location, and waited. He knew it was fast. He knew birds could not smell keenly as other beasts. He was one, as it was, so he would know. And more importantly, he knew how it would hunt. It never worried about what it dove into, its claws would sheer normal trees apart, flesh and more. 

 

It never expected the trees to hurt.

 

 Carved to a tip and propped up upon others, it dove down. None hit vitals, damned be all, but the man saw blood well up. A wing tattered. One pierced firmly by one of the half dozen logs made a pitfall for a avian. It would do, he had more. He dashed out and away from it, loosing a single arrow mid stride. No stance took, it wouldn't do anything, it probably didn't even make it past the creatures feathers, but it knew where he was. 

 

 It tried to fly, but its wounds hampered it. But it still had a beak, and it still had its claws. It tore through the base of that which still pinned it, and took to cleaving its way in his direction. It would not have surprised the man if he had soiled himself, but he dashed and zig-zagged through the woods. Pittances stalled its way. A snare of rope level for its neck snapped away by its beak. Others, for legs, ripped away with sheer force or cut away. The last would have to work though. Once more, he could not **** this up or it was all for naught. He ran down the way, into a clearing. Rope crossed through all manner of trees, but it had learned, even in its anger, and tore away at them all with its beak, and in that moment. The man cut a rope.

 

It bore down onto it, missing vitals, but sheered two logs into its back.

 

And as it faltered from the pain, he cut one more.

 

It swung in from its left, impaling it from the side. The greater lodged in its back, and the lesser log in its chest.

 

Tension Traps. Appropriately large ones at that.

 

 It began to try and rear the strength to scream, to wrench away, but it had been crippled. It's wings provided no help, its talons unable to cut it free without any build up, and it was losing far too much blood. It found the strength to drag itself forward, but this spot had been made for this task.  And two others as well. Time was an effective tool, in a hunt. In one as long as this. This man knew his strengths and used them. A third would careen down, both spikes missing, but slamming the Males head down. 

 

He looked the crowdrake in the eyes, and draw back an arrow from his bow. He had abstained from mixing poisons.

 

It wouldn't have felt right, however easy.

 

But this.

 

He loosed the arrow into its skull. Another into its eye, and a third next to the first.

 

He never looked away. 

 

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Spoiler

 

 

The Return

 

 A few days had passed. Mostly spent consolidating the two bodies, bleeding them, and taking great care to remove from the Male the traps laid. He began working on a cart. A rough one, but something to help him haul the two back. Nothing was without use on the hunted, and with the great talons they had, and great bones, light and large for bows, many would find use. He carved away, rudimentary axels and wheels carved out. It would probably need fixing three times over or more, as he pulls it back, but it would work. A few more days to undo the trapped forest, and scatter the signs of himself, before becoming unto a work horse, and pulling the cart.

 

 Their eggs made rations. There was no point in waste, nor in trying to hatch them. Great birds of prey, raising them would take from them, and so they made meals. As did meat of the crow drakes, and any preserved meat he had left. He thought about a great many things. He compared himself to the younger him, who rushed so brazenly up a mountain to slay a wyvern with almost no preparation, to the man he was now who spent such time considering and waiting. Learning. But mostly he emptied his head, and let it slowly eek back into him.

 

 It took a little while. The song grew a little louder, and he felt a little more himself. He felt nature relax more about him, and the weather grew warmer. He'd pass by confused human merchants along the way. Most said nothing, a few words exchanged with others, even a look of relief. Likely a fellow who had been near the torment of those similar to the pair. But eventually that came to an end.

 

He stopped before the Vale, and rolled his shoulders.

 

And pulled the cart inside, his Trial.

 

Done.

 

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Spoiler

OOC: Forum post for a trial in rp, plus i like writing and its been a hot bit since ive written anything but lore. Did alot of d20 rolls for this and I think I did it justice the best I could. Cheers!

 

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Sonna cleans the same self for the 5th time as she waits for her grandfather's return, doing her best to make the Tavern spotless!

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A silvery skinned 'ker with too bright violet eyes circled the Tavern, heading towards his own small home but looking inwards to seek perhaps sight or sound or scent of a friend who'd gone hunting. Ever patient he waited to greet...perhaps not today...but sometime before he'd turn away and head down.

 

(( Wonderful to read, always enjoy these perspectives! ))

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