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+--- Thread: A Much-Needed Lesson [Stories - Closed] (/showthread.php?tid=11768)
A Much-Needed Lesson [Stories - Closed] - Flashhelix - 05-26-2015
The First Lesson
There were plenty of questions rushing through Oskwell's mind right about now. The biggest one, however, was why he was asleep in the back of a hay-filled wagon being dragged through the colder-than-hell highlands in the dead of night instead of with his wife in a warm bed heading absolutely nowhere. He knew the the answer to that question, though.
It was the letter. The way Oskwell figured, it was a sad misunderstanding at best and a really clever trap at worst. Either way, it wasn't something that could just be ignored.
The dream was the same as always. Skeleton with a spear, lots of screaming and no floor. Oskwell bolted up coated in sweat, as always, and started drying himself with a nearby cloth. He heard the driver speak up in front, now aware of his passenger's noisy sleep-talking. "Alright, we're gettin' about out that ways," he said, "The path goes further for a few malms, but this the furthest I can go." Oskwell had slept in a stitched-together hempen outfit, as the trip was long and the prospect of sleeping in plate was unnecessary and not too attractive.
After taking a few minutes to slip on the various layers of chainmail, leather and plate, Oskwell hopped off the back of the wagon with his spear at his back. He turned back to reach into the wagon and grab his leather satchel. He quickly yanked open the buttoned top, taking a quick inventory of its contents. The wagon pulled off at the sound of two knocks from Oskwell, heading back the way it had brought him, the lancer heading in the exact opposite direction.
Six bells of non-stop walking over some of the most uneven terrain that the region had to offer was taking its toll on Oskwell, who hadn't done any trip of such length and difficulty in a handful of years. He uttered a prayer to Halone under his breath when he saw the path end in a large, rocky clearing. It was at this point, Oskwell thought, that he'd be able to confirm that the trip was for nothing and make his way back. What he wasn't counting on was the sight of a robed figure resting on the edge of a large stone at the opposite end of the clearing.
Oskwell walked in the direction of the robed figure, stopping at the center of the clearing. "I'm here," Oskwell said, "And I've answered your summons. Now, who are you?" The hooded figure, without answering, stood up and began making its way towards Oskwell in turn. It stopped halfway between Oskwell and the rock, then pulled the hood down around its shoulders. As could probably be inferred from his general shape beforehand, the figure was a male elezen, long-faced with a pointed chin. His face had its fair share of wrinkles, and his hairline was slightly receded, a gray blanket of hair covering everything below his nose.
The elezen said nothing as he made his way closer until he stood merely a fulm away from Oskwell. The hyur didn't know whether to hop back and draw his spear or pull the man in for a hug, so he settled on the comfortable middle ground of dumbfounded staring, the elezen reaching up to un-buckle Oskwell's coif and slide it off his head to expose his face. "Mnh. More than I expected, yet far less than I'd prefer." the elezen said. He opened his mouth to let out another calm summation, but he was cut off by a cry of "Tournes!?" from Oskwell. "Yes," the elezen said, groaning and looking at the spear harnessed on the man's back, "At the very least you can still use one of those. Maybe this isn't a completely wasted effort."
Oskwell had a truly unhealthy amount of mixed thoughts running through his mind right now. As his jumbled mind attempted to sort through for any kind of expected response, Tournes continued to talk. "Handicapped. Unsightly disfigurements. Hair of a beggar. Smell of a... I don't even know. This a sight nothing short of shameful, Orsell," Tournes said, sighing, "At least you didn't show up with a dragon on your shoulder."
Oskwell nodded in response, thinking about the many better ways to respond to such a casual approach from a man that he both thought of as some kind of father figure and felt content with never seeing again.
Tournes bent at the waist to get a better look at the comparatively small hyur. Tournes may have been old, but the signs of a life of rigorous duty still showed in his body, toned and stocky, at least as stocky as an elezen could look. Oskwell returned the look, trying his best to read the face of his mentor. "I... can't tell whether or not you're happy to see me," Oskwell said.
"I am quite happy to see my former pupil," Tournes said, "the very same pupil that my time with was cut short, and the same pupil that actually showed a sliver of promise." Tournes continued, his face contorting into a disapproving glare in Oskwell's direction. "I am also disgusted by the sight of a deserter that now stands before me a speech-impaired brigand cripple, so right now those two feelings are clashing, as I'm sure you can imagine."
Tournes turned to walk back towards the rock at the end of the clearing, reaching over into a leather sack to pull out a hatchet. "The firewood isn't gonna cut itself."
Oskwell had forgotten how sore repetitive manual labor can leave the body. The activity took a toll on his body just as much as a heated session of spear training, which his body had long since adapted to. At least when it was a solid afternoon of skewering mites, Oskwell had some room for flourishes, something to make the motions less repeated. Tournes had some vague cut of meat impaled on a stick to roast, while Oskwell laid flat against his bedroll, eyes staring up into the night sky. "Orsell, I take it you're not much of a dog person," Tournes said, Oskwell replying with a mumbled "Eh, not terribly..." Tournes nodded in response, scarfing down the cooked meat, then looking over to the prone Oskwell. "Tell me, Orsell," Tournes said, "Did I ever teach you the first lesson?" Oskwell sat up, engaged all of a sudden. "Eh? Not that I know of. First lesson of what?" Oskwell said. "The first lesson of battle, of course," Tournes replied, "Know your enemy."
With that, Tournes pursed his lips and let out a high whistle. Standing in confusion, Oskwell looked at Tournes for a good few seconds, his head then turning to the west, where he heard the quick and closely-paced footfalls. Too quick to be anything on two legs. He had a feeling he knew. Looking back to Tournes, Oskwell didn't have enough time but to take a single step forward before he felt something heavy plow into his side, accompanied by the telltale feeling of sharp, curved teeth breaking past his skin. Wolves.
He'd brought wolves. Oskwell struggled to retrieve his knife from the underside of his discarded bracer before the second wolf sank its teeth into his thigh around the same time that the first's found their way easy past the tunic's cloth and into the skin of his shoulder.
Oskwell looked to his left. Besides the wolf currently hanging onto his shoulder by its teeth, he saw the other wolves, roughly five or six from what he could see, heading for him. In front of him was Tournes, the elezen giving Oskwell his best blank stare. To his right was where the clearing transitioned to a steep hill, and what he saw as his best bet, moving to sprint for the drop-off as best he could with one of his legs weighed down by a full-grown wolf.
On his way he reached down to grab his spear, as useless as it was in the situation at hand. As his foot hit the edge where the mostly-flat ground ended, Oskwell lurched back, then threw himself forward with all his might, catapulting himself out and down the hill.
With the first bounce, Oskwell hit the ground in such a way as to fortunately plow the wolf gnawing at his leg side-first against the ground, dislodging it, the beast's side scraping against a rough patch of sharp rocks. The pained cries of the first wolf disappearing into the distance as Oskwell tumbled further and further down the hill. Although his body was turning and spinning far too fast for Oskwell to get an idea of exactly where he was in relation to the hill itself, he heard the rushing of water growing louder with each painful impact against the snow-covered soil, and was able to make out just enough of a brown-and-white consistent streak to realize he and the wolf still lodged onto his shoulder were headed directly for a tree. It was at this point that Oskwell thought about how nice it would be if he hadn't been caught off-guard by the pack, and also how nice it would be if he didn't die a painful death here.
Luck was on Oskwell's side. Mostly luck, at least. With as much manuevering as the man could manage in his current flailing state, the impact against the tree came with the sickening-yet-victorious sound of the remaining wolf being caught inbetween the speeding hyur and the tree trunk. The beast's spine released an audible crack that was quickly drowned out by the far more audible whining and desperate screeches of the dying wolf.
The impact wasn't exactly easy on Oskwell either. The wind had been knocked out of him completely and utterly whilst his vision was a nonsensical mix of spinning colors still. The sudden stoppage by the tree, whilst it retired the wolf had also exasperated his current wounds, the bites left by the fangs wedging their way into his flesh ripped further open.
It wasn't over yet, however. As the ringing in his ears began to subside and his vision began to recover, he could hear the quickened footfalls, no doubt those of the remaining wolves. Though what dominated his hearing weren't the sounds of the wolves, but instead the rushing water next to him. He had come to a stop just a few fulms from the river. It was time to make a snap decision, and Oskwell knew this. Summoning the remainder of his strength, he rolled himself to the side, toppling over the edge of the bank and falling into the river water.
His assumption had been correct, the river was deep and quick enough to shield his form from his pursuers. He could see the vague shapes of the pack raising their heads over the water as he was swept downstream, the shapes disappearing from his vision as the water grew darker.