Post by The Deserted Grail on Apr 7, 2009 10:46:35 GMT 1
(( It's been a bit quiet lately so I thought I should post this story written quite a while ago. I tried to write the story in as short format as possible, but it apprently still ended up rather long.
Either way, here's the reasoning for Haagen's extending absence and also a quick look into where Ayawamat comes from. ))
~Becoming of Wichiwah~
~Unnecessary Reasoning~
“I have heard much of you, good Chieftain.”
Dorn sighs slightly and returns his gaze from his lowered head at Haagen.
“I plead your sense of goodwill when I tell you not to go. Perhaps there is something to find out, perhaps there isn’t. You should not hear of your ancestors, good Chieftain”
Haagen returns the plea with a gentle smile.
“I’m not the Chieftain anymore, Dorn. This is something I have wished to see to for a long time. Don’t worry. I’ll turn back if the situation seems dire.”
Dorn looks at the former Chieftain directly into his eyes. Kind sadness and disappointment reflect from his eyes as he finds himself speechless. Haagen reaches out his paw.
“I finished the Rite, dear friend. May I have the bag?”
In combat, the tauren Chieftain is the first one to enter the fray. The first one to fight. The first one to fall. From his spear-driven, axe-torn and otherwise mutilated carcass, fire will again return to his eyes, and he will rise to fight again. To fight, to die. Again and again.
It was an honest gesture to soothe the old tauren’s mind. They both knew well that Haagen would not stand down against adversaries. Death was never regrettable were it to be attained through one’s choice – in combat against a greater opponent or in peace and tranquility after a great discovery. With the bag given to him by Dorn Plainstrider, Haagen gives his thanks and bids the old tauren farewell.
~Rite of the Spirit~
The wolf observes him as it circles around him. Faint growling. Would it attempt to sink its teeth into him or run away? It decides to do neither.
The astral wolf comes a few steps closer. Its mouth turns into a familiar angry grin. It is smiling. Or it would be if it had the ability.
“Speak.”
The voice rings in Haagen’s mind. He hesitates for a moment. How should he phrase his question?
“I am looking for my ancestors. I have been sent to confront you.”
The astral wolf turns and runs away. Haagen follows. They are surrounded by what seems to be a heavy mist. His sight does not reach far and he needs to continuously sprint to keep up with the wolf.
The ground breaks under them. Haagen finds himself lying on the ground. Familiar grass tickles his mane. The plains of Mulgore.
~The Only Way Up~
Haagen raises his gaze at the mountain towering before him. It is steep. Too steep for any tauren to climb. Yet he has to. He strikes his pick into the mountain, raises his left hoof on a small ledge and starts climbing.
The first hurdle is always the hardest. A little time is needed for body to learn and remember which muscles to use and in what position to hold his body and its outlets in order to keep moving without falling down to inevitable death. A lot of effort is needed to keep going.
Down here the wind is still warm. Up there it will turn cold. A quick moment of rest will lessen one’s flow of blood. Fingers will turn cold. The feel of the mountain that they attempt to grasp will disappear. They will let go. Death is inevitable.
Haagen climbs.
~Up There Things Are Looking Dire~
The green plains of Mulgore shine lust and green. Turning around opens the barren and dead Desolace. The wind blows heavy and cold.
The ground has holes. Past marks of signs and banners that have been taken out for reason or another. Surely this used to be a road. A high path, probably leading to a sacred site or simply meant for pilgrimage. Only three days and two mountains have passed since Haagen last stood on the grass of Mulgore. The only uncalculated problems thus far are that there seems to be absolutely nothing to eat on the mountains and that travelling downwards from the heights is nearly impossible. The long rope Haagen has with him wouldn’t reach even near the ground from here.
Reaching the northern end of the mountain range will take at least another two weeks. If Earthmother grants, Haagen will find what he seeks before that.
~The Reunion That Never Happened~
Death is inevitable.
With shaking hands Haagen tightens his last piece of cloth as a bandage around his leg. The bleeding will stop right in time, but there is no more room for mistakes. He grabs a dead twig from the small pile of brances next to him and starts chewing. Slowly. Every miniscule amount of nutrient is important. Part of the food goes to maintaining the campfire.
His rations finally ran out two days ago. It has been eight climbs, a week and a half, since Haagen last stood on the lush grass of Mulgore. The road goes on, further and higher into the mountain range. There seem to be old, protective wards placed along the road. Insurmountable amount of rocks and other debris make the travelling harder than it should be. The road is some times interrupted by a sudden mountain, with no way around it.
An’she rises. After another early breakfast of twigs Haagen’s journey continues. The long road finally comes to a halt as Haagen feels a swift wind pass his body. He comes upon a large but empty opening. The soil here is softer than anywhere else on the mountains but there are no signs of graves. Haagen takes a moment to close his eyes and breaths deep. The wind does not pass by him again, yet he feels sure of a presence.
He unpacks his items and opens the bag given to him by Dorn. With his remaining twigs he builds a campfire and empties half of the dust in the bag into it. Smoke rises and he inhales plenty. His mind foggy at first, clears slowly. He closes his eyes.
“It was about the damned time.”
Haagen’s eyes slam wide open. His vision is blurred, but he can feel an ice cold stare penetrating him. A figure stands by the ledge of the opening and begins to approach him. A tauren. His mane is white. White unlike anything Haagen has seen before. Not naturally white, not whitened by age. Yet it must have been differently colored before, a long time ago.
Haagen realizes this as he has his first quick chance to examine the figure’s fur close-up. In the form of a fist that rams straight between his eyes, throwing him back and onto the ground. The figure follows him, grabs him by his neck and raises him into the air. The punch brought enough shock to restore Haagen’s senses and his sight. The spirit stares at him with glowing blue eyes. His mane is indeed white and heavily scarred, and his horns black and cut. Other than the large two-handed axe hanging on his back, he is covered by nothing but a single piece of brown loincloth. The emblem on it has faded beyond recognition.
“An honest descendant.”
The spirit throws Haagen on the ground and returns to sit by the ledge. Haagen looks at him and finds himself confused.
“Honored ancestor.”
The spirit does not react. Haagen gulps as he approaches the spirit and kneels before him.
“I have come to hear of my ancestors. To find my roots. I plead that you tell me of my family. I have travelled a long way and my rations ran out quite some time ago. I beg your forgiveness, but I must ask if there is absolutely anything edible around this site, I would be most grateful if you could point me to it.”
The spirit lowers his head, still looking off the cliff.
“There is plenty to eat here.”
The spirit slowly extends his right arm and points at the ground.
“Dig.”
Haagen has raised his head to look at the back of the spirit. His blinking eyes shine with confusion and curiosity. The spirit’s mouth widens into a grin.
“This is the burial site of your ancestors. Nothing that we have touched has been removed from us. Dig. With any hope you will find clothes, rusted weapons and some roots to gnaw.”
Haagen finds himself momentarily speechless, but continues.
“Honored ancest-”
The spirit rises quickly and rams his fist into Haagen’s face, returning back to sit by the cliff before Haagen manages to raise his head from the ground. This time he faces away from the view and eyes Haagen sternly.
“Our tribe has our very own way of passing information. I want you to feel ashamed, for this ritual has never before required any words. Only, and only in your case, I can see it’ll require some dedicated persuation.”
His gaze is cold.
“I want to see you dig. I want to see you crush and gnaw on the bones of your ancestors. For ages we have been trapped here. Our bones buried to this forsaken land, our spirits chained to this barren place. Dig. Dig and crush. Only so, we will be freed, and you will find what you wish for.”
Haagen stands up and stares at the spirit in disbelief. Without words to further fuel his rage, he turns and begins looking for something to eat. Anything would do.
~The Calling~
Laughing rings in Haagen’s ears. The spirit mocks him without rest. He has proven his point. There is nothing edible in this part of the mountains.
Haagen stands before the spirit and glares into his eyes. He can feel that his strength is gone. It may already be too late. He may not be able to dig deep enough to find anything anymore. And this one would not help him were he to die up here.
Haagen takes a few steps away. He plunges his pick and fingers into the soil.
A root. It finds its way into his mouth.
A worm. It as well.
Haagen digs, and the mound grows bigger. After an unnecessary painfully long day the mound is finally deep enough. An axe. Leather. Bones.
“Crush.”
The word rings in his memory. He obeys. The ancestor spirits, sealed to the land, appear one by one by his side.
~The Rite of Acceptance~
Death is inevitable.
Haagen feels his ribs cracking and breaking. His jaw gets smashed. A river of blood flows from his nose, his mouth, onto the ground. The sky is grey and dark. Continuous flurries of punches strike his face, his body. Somebody is holding him up. A brown-maned tauren with horns darker than the night raises his hoof and strikes it high. Directly into Haagen throat. Haagen has little time to admire the perfect execution of such a high and steady kick before he feels his consciousness leaving him.
Even on the ground he can hear his ancestors’ fists slamming into each other’s bodies. Hooves penetrate carcasses of the fallen. Screams of combat and laughter echo in the air and his mind.
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. An old one stumbles back and is too late to avoid a horn penetrating his chest. The attacker throws an upper hook. The old one’s head slams backwards and he goes limp, but the horn is still stuck in his chest. A third one grabs the old one’s limp corpse and begins mashing the one with his horn stuck.
To his amazement, Haagen notices his finger moving. It is numb from the cold, but he can move it. Another finger, and the third one as well. He pulls his arm back and slowly places his palm against the ground. He pulls himself up.
He has barely managed to stand when he is already charged at. He leans heavily forward, grabs the opponent by his horns and stumbles but manages to regain his balance while keeping the opponent’s head far enough. His opponent must be tired as well. His right hand pulls back, clenches into a fist and he strikes. Downwards, on the opponent’s skull. Twice, three times, four times. The last blow is a heavy hook from the right. The opponent falls. Haagen feels somebody grab the midsection of his body from behind. He is raised into the air and thrown back on the ground. Kicks to his ribs ensue.
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. Slowly Haagen pulls himself up and finds himself in the middle of the fray. An old one before him is punched in the face and stumbles against Haagen who pulls him aside and walks to respond to the puncher. The two smash their fists against each other’s heads at the same time. Again and again. The other one drops. Haagen turns around. The old one comes stumbling towards him, just in time to run straight into his fist. Haagen grabs the old one by his horn and crotch, lowers his body under him and raises him on his back to throw him over and onto the ground. A punch from the side lands directly at his jaw. Was it not enough to break it once?
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. Slowly Haagen pulls himself up and finds himself in the middle of the fray.
He wakes up. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts.
He wakes up. The fight rages on.
~Reclaiming the Lost~
Haagen tosses his opponent against another. They both fall onto the ground. Another one charges at him. With a swift dodge, Haagen avoids both his horns and fists and grabs the attacker by his horn. A punch to the stomach, another to the head. He tightens his grip of the horn and lands a heavy blow squarely at the attacker’s jaw. Only a black, broken horn is left on Haagen’s hands from the falling opponent. He turns around to jam it straight into the next one’s eye. Another one staggers back-first at him. Haagen raises his hoof and kicks him down, trampling and crushing his skull under his hoof as he sprints to challenge the next one. This one is standing firm and dodges Haagen’s first punch, returning one to Haagen’s face. His second punch is dodged and Haagen retaliates. Their horns clash, eyes meet. Eyes widened, they glare, and they smile at each other. A punch to the face. Retaliation. Innocent laughter escapes. A punch. A punch. A punch. The opponent’s eyes roll up as he falls down, his mouth still smiling.
Haagen turns around to meet the next opponent.
His fist strikes air.
He turns around again.
Miss.
He turns his head franctically. Left and right. Left and right. It takes a moment for the feeling to settle in. The realisation that there is nobody left to hit, no punches left to dodge, no horns to grab. He raises his head up at the sky and breathes. It takes another moment for him to realize that he is smiling. How long has he been smiling?
Steady, slow clapping begins by the ledge of the mountain.
“Pathetic.”
The words are soothing. The spirit is smiling. It is a gentle, innocent smile. That of a mother watching her newborn play on the grass or of a calf who has just managed to catch his first fish. Haagen smiles back. Equally as innocently. The spirit walks to him.
“Your name, son.”
“Haagen Shieldheart.”
The spirit repeats the name a few times. He seems to be in thought.
“Such a pathetic and unfitting name.”
He eyes Haagen’s body, his hooves, legs, arms, fists, each visible and trained muscle, and finally into his eyes again. His shimmering blue gaze is no longer cold. It shines with respect. The kind of respect that a grand Chieftain has to a youngling who has performed his duties beyond all expectations.
“Wichiwah. An honorable name to a descendant of the Dreadhoof. An honorable name for an able fighter who carries blood of the great Ayawamat. From your smile, I can see that you can hear the call.”
The spirit’s eyes widen. He raises his hand and grabs a firm, fatherly hold of Haagen’s shoulder.
“We are not afraid of the whispers, Wichiwah. We laugh with them.”
They stare each other. No words are passed. Yet Haagen feels as if the spirit were telling him a story. Story of the Dreadhoof. A small tribe of the fiercest tauren ever to cross the plains of the Earthmother. Full-blooded fighters. They would fight by day and they would fight by night. When there were no opponents, they would fight amongst themselves. And they would laugh. The prints of their modified hooves on the ground, clipped and easily recognisable, were a sign of swift doom to all living. The memory of their existance. Too scary to pass out on the calves. Their mighty name. Banned from being mentioned. Their final resting place. In the mountains where no roads would lead. Buried as deep as possible into the rock. The area surrounded by spirit wards.
“Go and show him that I held my end of the bargain.”
~Exaltation~
A leather scroll is pressed tightly against the furthermost wall of the cave. A quill is dipped into black ink, raised into the air and then against the scroll. Words appear quickly. Yet it takes a half an hour for the entire scroll to be finished. Another one finds its way against the wall.
The flame in the centre of a circle of stones warms the cave and wards both the darkness and the dampness. It does it efficiently and without rest. It turns its gaze at the entrance and bows as a familiar creature enters the cave.
“Welcome back.”
The muttering is low, but the visitor is used to it. He can hear it well. Grail finishes the scroll and places it on the ground before turning to look at the comer. He has little time to react to the fist thrown at him. To his luck, the first one was for show, giving him a chance to dodge and escape past the attacker as a ghost wolf, leaving the cave. The flame from the centre of the circle of stones manifests itself into a more suitable form and hops to surround Grail’s mace as he runs past it. The attacker follows him quickly.
They halt by the entrance. A short chant. Lightning fills Grail’s hand as he transforms back. His timing, as fast as simply possible, still isn’t fast enough. The attacker’s tackle throws him off-balance and the lightning dissipates. With his mace sheathed, Grail attempts to block the following flurry of punches with his arms. A plan that with his skills would usually work well against any opponent who would attempt to attack him with their bare fists. But not against this one. Each punch flies forcefully through his blocks. The attacker is unfazed of the shocks of lightning he suffers every time his fist comes in contact with its target.
It was never like this before.
Grail is raised into the air and thrown on the ground on his back. He mutters a single word just as his opponent attempts to trample on him. Lightning strikes from the sky, sending the attacker flying against the wall of the mountain. Grail has barely enough time to get up and strike a totem into the ground before he is charged at again. With a blast of ice he manages to shock his opponent and escape as a ghost wolf. As he flees he mumbles another chant. The elements gather by him. He transforms back, lightning strikes from his hand at the same time as his opponent charges at him yet again. An orthodox uppercut lands perfectly on his jaw. The ground disappears under his hooves.
Grail coughs blood on the grass. His sight is spinning and inside his head is ringing, but he can feel that his opponent sees no reason to attack him anymore. He turns on his stomach, slowly pulls his staggering, shaking self up and turns around.
Painted on his face is an expression stupid but terrifying enough to thwart the most fearsome of fighters. His teeth are bared into a grimace, muscles pulled back, his eyes bulge out and point into separate directions. It is a face his opponent has seen before. Plenty of times. It is a smile only Haagen can recognise. He responds to it with a smile on his own. Both of them burst into laughter.
Either way, here's the reasoning for Haagen's extending absence and also a quick look into where Ayawamat comes from. ))
~Becoming of Wichiwah~
~Unnecessary Reasoning~
“I have heard much of you, good Chieftain.”
Dorn sighs slightly and returns his gaze from his lowered head at Haagen.
“I plead your sense of goodwill when I tell you not to go. Perhaps there is something to find out, perhaps there isn’t. You should not hear of your ancestors, good Chieftain”
Haagen returns the plea with a gentle smile.
“I’m not the Chieftain anymore, Dorn. This is something I have wished to see to for a long time. Don’t worry. I’ll turn back if the situation seems dire.”
Dorn looks at the former Chieftain directly into his eyes. Kind sadness and disappointment reflect from his eyes as he finds himself speechless. Haagen reaches out his paw.
“I finished the Rite, dear friend. May I have the bag?”
In combat, the tauren Chieftain is the first one to enter the fray. The first one to fight. The first one to fall. From his spear-driven, axe-torn and otherwise mutilated carcass, fire will again return to his eyes, and he will rise to fight again. To fight, to die. Again and again.
It was an honest gesture to soothe the old tauren’s mind. They both knew well that Haagen would not stand down against adversaries. Death was never regrettable were it to be attained through one’s choice – in combat against a greater opponent or in peace and tranquility after a great discovery. With the bag given to him by Dorn Plainstrider, Haagen gives his thanks and bids the old tauren farewell.
~Rite of the Spirit~
The wolf observes him as it circles around him. Faint growling. Would it attempt to sink its teeth into him or run away? It decides to do neither.
The astral wolf comes a few steps closer. Its mouth turns into a familiar angry grin. It is smiling. Or it would be if it had the ability.
“Speak.”
The voice rings in Haagen’s mind. He hesitates for a moment. How should he phrase his question?
“I am looking for my ancestors. I have been sent to confront you.”
The astral wolf turns and runs away. Haagen follows. They are surrounded by what seems to be a heavy mist. His sight does not reach far and he needs to continuously sprint to keep up with the wolf.
The ground breaks under them. Haagen finds himself lying on the ground. Familiar grass tickles his mane. The plains of Mulgore.
~The Only Way Up~
Haagen raises his gaze at the mountain towering before him. It is steep. Too steep for any tauren to climb. Yet he has to. He strikes his pick into the mountain, raises his left hoof on a small ledge and starts climbing.
The first hurdle is always the hardest. A little time is needed for body to learn and remember which muscles to use and in what position to hold his body and its outlets in order to keep moving without falling down to inevitable death. A lot of effort is needed to keep going.
Down here the wind is still warm. Up there it will turn cold. A quick moment of rest will lessen one’s flow of blood. Fingers will turn cold. The feel of the mountain that they attempt to grasp will disappear. They will let go. Death is inevitable.
Haagen climbs.
~Up There Things Are Looking Dire~
The green plains of Mulgore shine lust and green. Turning around opens the barren and dead Desolace. The wind blows heavy and cold.
The ground has holes. Past marks of signs and banners that have been taken out for reason or another. Surely this used to be a road. A high path, probably leading to a sacred site or simply meant for pilgrimage. Only three days and two mountains have passed since Haagen last stood on the grass of Mulgore. The only uncalculated problems thus far are that there seems to be absolutely nothing to eat on the mountains and that travelling downwards from the heights is nearly impossible. The long rope Haagen has with him wouldn’t reach even near the ground from here.
Reaching the northern end of the mountain range will take at least another two weeks. If Earthmother grants, Haagen will find what he seeks before that.
~The Reunion That Never Happened~
Death is inevitable.
With shaking hands Haagen tightens his last piece of cloth as a bandage around his leg. The bleeding will stop right in time, but there is no more room for mistakes. He grabs a dead twig from the small pile of brances next to him and starts chewing. Slowly. Every miniscule amount of nutrient is important. Part of the food goes to maintaining the campfire.
His rations finally ran out two days ago. It has been eight climbs, a week and a half, since Haagen last stood on the lush grass of Mulgore. The road goes on, further and higher into the mountain range. There seem to be old, protective wards placed along the road. Insurmountable amount of rocks and other debris make the travelling harder than it should be. The road is some times interrupted by a sudden mountain, with no way around it.
An’she rises. After another early breakfast of twigs Haagen’s journey continues. The long road finally comes to a halt as Haagen feels a swift wind pass his body. He comes upon a large but empty opening. The soil here is softer than anywhere else on the mountains but there are no signs of graves. Haagen takes a moment to close his eyes and breaths deep. The wind does not pass by him again, yet he feels sure of a presence.
He unpacks his items and opens the bag given to him by Dorn. With his remaining twigs he builds a campfire and empties half of the dust in the bag into it. Smoke rises and he inhales plenty. His mind foggy at first, clears slowly. He closes his eyes.
“It was about the damned time.”
Haagen’s eyes slam wide open. His vision is blurred, but he can feel an ice cold stare penetrating him. A figure stands by the ledge of the opening and begins to approach him. A tauren. His mane is white. White unlike anything Haagen has seen before. Not naturally white, not whitened by age. Yet it must have been differently colored before, a long time ago.
Haagen realizes this as he has his first quick chance to examine the figure’s fur close-up. In the form of a fist that rams straight between his eyes, throwing him back and onto the ground. The figure follows him, grabs him by his neck and raises him into the air. The punch brought enough shock to restore Haagen’s senses and his sight. The spirit stares at him with glowing blue eyes. His mane is indeed white and heavily scarred, and his horns black and cut. Other than the large two-handed axe hanging on his back, he is covered by nothing but a single piece of brown loincloth. The emblem on it has faded beyond recognition.
“An honest descendant.”
The spirit throws Haagen on the ground and returns to sit by the ledge. Haagen looks at him and finds himself confused.
“Honored ancestor.”
The spirit does not react. Haagen gulps as he approaches the spirit and kneels before him.
“I have come to hear of my ancestors. To find my roots. I plead that you tell me of my family. I have travelled a long way and my rations ran out quite some time ago. I beg your forgiveness, but I must ask if there is absolutely anything edible around this site, I would be most grateful if you could point me to it.”
The spirit lowers his head, still looking off the cliff.
“There is plenty to eat here.”
The spirit slowly extends his right arm and points at the ground.
“Dig.”
Haagen has raised his head to look at the back of the spirit. His blinking eyes shine with confusion and curiosity. The spirit’s mouth widens into a grin.
“This is the burial site of your ancestors. Nothing that we have touched has been removed from us. Dig. With any hope you will find clothes, rusted weapons and some roots to gnaw.”
Haagen finds himself momentarily speechless, but continues.
“Honored ancest-”
The spirit rises quickly and rams his fist into Haagen’s face, returning back to sit by the cliff before Haagen manages to raise his head from the ground. This time he faces away from the view and eyes Haagen sternly.
“Our tribe has our very own way of passing information. I want you to feel ashamed, for this ritual has never before required any words. Only, and only in your case, I can see it’ll require some dedicated persuation.”
His gaze is cold.
“I want to see you dig. I want to see you crush and gnaw on the bones of your ancestors. For ages we have been trapped here. Our bones buried to this forsaken land, our spirits chained to this barren place. Dig. Dig and crush. Only so, we will be freed, and you will find what you wish for.”
Haagen stands up and stares at the spirit in disbelief. Without words to further fuel his rage, he turns and begins looking for something to eat. Anything would do.
~The Calling~
Laughing rings in Haagen’s ears. The spirit mocks him without rest. He has proven his point. There is nothing edible in this part of the mountains.
Haagen stands before the spirit and glares into his eyes. He can feel that his strength is gone. It may already be too late. He may not be able to dig deep enough to find anything anymore. And this one would not help him were he to die up here.
Haagen takes a few steps away. He plunges his pick and fingers into the soil.
A root. It finds its way into his mouth.
A worm. It as well.
Haagen digs, and the mound grows bigger. After an unnecessary painfully long day the mound is finally deep enough. An axe. Leather. Bones.
“Crush.”
The word rings in his memory. He obeys. The ancestor spirits, sealed to the land, appear one by one by his side.
~The Rite of Acceptance~
Death is inevitable.
Haagen feels his ribs cracking and breaking. His jaw gets smashed. A river of blood flows from his nose, his mouth, onto the ground. The sky is grey and dark. Continuous flurries of punches strike his face, his body. Somebody is holding him up. A brown-maned tauren with horns darker than the night raises his hoof and strikes it high. Directly into Haagen throat. Haagen has little time to admire the perfect execution of such a high and steady kick before he feels his consciousness leaving him.
Even on the ground he can hear his ancestors’ fists slamming into each other’s bodies. Hooves penetrate carcasses of the fallen. Screams of combat and laughter echo in the air and his mind.
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. An old one stumbles back and is too late to avoid a horn penetrating his chest. The attacker throws an upper hook. The old one’s head slams backwards and he goes limp, but the horn is still stuck in his chest. A third one grabs the old one’s limp corpse and begins mashing the one with his horn stuck.
To his amazement, Haagen notices his finger moving. It is numb from the cold, but he can move it. Another finger, and the third one as well. He pulls his arm back and slowly places his palm against the ground. He pulls himself up.
He has barely managed to stand when he is already charged at. He leans heavily forward, grabs the opponent by his horns and stumbles but manages to regain his balance while keeping the opponent’s head far enough. His opponent must be tired as well. His right hand pulls back, clenches into a fist and he strikes. Downwards, on the opponent’s skull. Twice, three times, four times. The last blow is a heavy hook from the right. The opponent falls. Haagen feels somebody grab the midsection of his body from behind. He is raised into the air and thrown back on the ground. Kicks to his ribs ensue.
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. Slowly Haagen pulls himself up and finds himself in the middle of the fray. An old one before him is punched in the face and stumbles against Haagen who pulls him aside and walks to respond to the puncher. The two smash their fists against each other’s heads at the same time. Again and again. The other one drops. Haagen turns around. The old one comes stumbling towards him, just in time to run straight into his fist. Haagen grabs the old one by his horn and crotch, lowers his body under him and raises him on his back to throw him over and onto the ground. A punch from the side lands directly at his jaw. Was it not enough to break it once?
He wakes up. The ground is red from blood. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts. Slowly Haagen pulls himself up and finds himself in the middle of the fray.
He wakes up. The fight rages on. Dozens slam their fists against each other, their horns ripping out guts.
He wakes up. The fight rages on.
~Reclaiming the Lost~
Haagen tosses his opponent against another. They both fall onto the ground. Another one charges at him. With a swift dodge, Haagen avoids both his horns and fists and grabs the attacker by his horn. A punch to the stomach, another to the head. He tightens his grip of the horn and lands a heavy blow squarely at the attacker’s jaw. Only a black, broken horn is left on Haagen’s hands from the falling opponent. He turns around to jam it straight into the next one’s eye. Another one staggers back-first at him. Haagen raises his hoof and kicks him down, trampling and crushing his skull under his hoof as he sprints to challenge the next one. This one is standing firm and dodges Haagen’s first punch, returning one to Haagen’s face. His second punch is dodged and Haagen retaliates. Their horns clash, eyes meet. Eyes widened, they glare, and they smile at each other. A punch to the face. Retaliation. Innocent laughter escapes. A punch. A punch. A punch. The opponent’s eyes roll up as he falls down, his mouth still smiling.
Haagen turns around to meet the next opponent.
His fist strikes air.
He turns around again.
Miss.
He turns his head franctically. Left and right. Left and right. It takes a moment for the feeling to settle in. The realisation that there is nobody left to hit, no punches left to dodge, no horns to grab. He raises his head up at the sky and breathes. It takes another moment for him to realize that he is smiling. How long has he been smiling?
Steady, slow clapping begins by the ledge of the mountain.
“Pathetic.”
The words are soothing. The spirit is smiling. It is a gentle, innocent smile. That of a mother watching her newborn play on the grass or of a calf who has just managed to catch his first fish. Haagen smiles back. Equally as innocently. The spirit walks to him.
“Your name, son.”
“Haagen Shieldheart.”
The spirit repeats the name a few times. He seems to be in thought.
“Such a pathetic and unfitting name.”
He eyes Haagen’s body, his hooves, legs, arms, fists, each visible and trained muscle, and finally into his eyes again. His shimmering blue gaze is no longer cold. It shines with respect. The kind of respect that a grand Chieftain has to a youngling who has performed his duties beyond all expectations.
“Wichiwah. An honorable name to a descendant of the Dreadhoof. An honorable name for an able fighter who carries blood of the great Ayawamat. From your smile, I can see that you can hear the call.”
The spirit’s eyes widen. He raises his hand and grabs a firm, fatherly hold of Haagen’s shoulder.
“We are not afraid of the whispers, Wichiwah. We laugh with them.”
They stare each other. No words are passed. Yet Haagen feels as if the spirit were telling him a story. Story of the Dreadhoof. A small tribe of the fiercest tauren ever to cross the plains of the Earthmother. Full-blooded fighters. They would fight by day and they would fight by night. When there were no opponents, they would fight amongst themselves. And they would laugh. The prints of their modified hooves on the ground, clipped and easily recognisable, were a sign of swift doom to all living. The memory of their existance. Too scary to pass out on the calves. Their mighty name. Banned from being mentioned. Their final resting place. In the mountains where no roads would lead. Buried as deep as possible into the rock. The area surrounded by spirit wards.
“Go and show him that I held my end of the bargain.”
~Exaltation~
A leather scroll is pressed tightly against the furthermost wall of the cave. A quill is dipped into black ink, raised into the air and then against the scroll. Words appear quickly. Yet it takes a half an hour for the entire scroll to be finished. Another one finds its way against the wall.
The flame in the centre of a circle of stones warms the cave and wards both the darkness and the dampness. It does it efficiently and without rest. It turns its gaze at the entrance and bows as a familiar creature enters the cave.
“Welcome back.”
The muttering is low, but the visitor is used to it. He can hear it well. Grail finishes the scroll and places it on the ground before turning to look at the comer. He has little time to react to the fist thrown at him. To his luck, the first one was for show, giving him a chance to dodge and escape past the attacker as a ghost wolf, leaving the cave. The flame from the centre of the circle of stones manifests itself into a more suitable form and hops to surround Grail’s mace as he runs past it. The attacker follows him quickly.
They halt by the entrance. A short chant. Lightning fills Grail’s hand as he transforms back. His timing, as fast as simply possible, still isn’t fast enough. The attacker’s tackle throws him off-balance and the lightning dissipates. With his mace sheathed, Grail attempts to block the following flurry of punches with his arms. A plan that with his skills would usually work well against any opponent who would attempt to attack him with their bare fists. But not against this one. Each punch flies forcefully through his blocks. The attacker is unfazed of the shocks of lightning he suffers every time his fist comes in contact with its target.
It was never like this before.
Grail is raised into the air and thrown on the ground on his back. He mutters a single word just as his opponent attempts to trample on him. Lightning strikes from the sky, sending the attacker flying against the wall of the mountain. Grail has barely enough time to get up and strike a totem into the ground before he is charged at again. With a blast of ice he manages to shock his opponent and escape as a ghost wolf. As he flees he mumbles another chant. The elements gather by him. He transforms back, lightning strikes from his hand at the same time as his opponent charges at him yet again. An orthodox uppercut lands perfectly on his jaw. The ground disappears under his hooves.
Grail coughs blood on the grass. His sight is spinning and inside his head is ringing, but he can feel that his opponent sees no reason to attack him anymore. He turns on his stomach, slowly pulls his staggering, shaking self up and turns around.
Painted on his face is an expression stupid but terrifying enough to thwart the most fearsome of fighters. His teeth are bared into a grimace, muscles pulled back, his eyes bulge out and point into separate directions. It is a face his opponent has seen before. Plenty of times. It is a smile only Haagen can recognise. He responds to it with a smile on his own. Both of them burst into laughter.
