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| The Lifeless Grounds Chapter 2 Posted by: Trazor at 01-29-2024 13:21 PM, Last Modified 01-29-2024 13:21 PM |
"The wolf, only he can access the hidden depths of the artifact. If you are to have any hope of turning back the Legion of Iron Mane, you will need him," echoed the ancient voice through the boughs of the Aln Tree.
Tightening his paws on the ovoid sphere, shimmering with the dawning light of a new day, he felt a blossoming within his breast. Orathone knew they were running out of time, resources, and, most importantly, land. After such a lengthy occupation, there could be very little mistake in this final attempt at resistance. The murmuring ancient could not be mistaken in the slightest. Focusing on the sheen of silver over the artifact, Orathone muttered, almost to himself, "How will I know the wolf? Where I go, there will be so many."
"There will be no confusion. He who you seek, for I am certain in this Age, he is again a man, will draw you close, into his web like a spider. Your kind, the two of you, will feel a connection, the deep ties of old gods, forgotten forms, and dormant power. You mustn't let the artifact fall into any other hands, lest we lose our chance."
Orathone squinted against the glare of sunrise and broke his meditative posture to look to the lands beyond. Far west, where his people had fled, the camp he had remained at to buy the refugees more time was now the site of their foe. The Legion of Kammherit was long in coming, a spike-shelled snail meandering the countryside to become caught in the jaw of a nestling myter bird. There would be no chance of defending what little land remained. Orathone had seen firsthand what the Western horde was capable of when pressed.
The buck didn't glance east; he had seen from the skyscraping height of the tree how much of the dominion of the supposed savages appeared. There were no forts or walled cities, no towering structures that could serve to buffer from outside attack, nor great gulfs to take the high ground. What Orathone knew of the East was the savagery presented in tales from a grandsire's age. Among those myriad insults was the notion of mysticism in the mountainous regions of the wolves, but that was of little consequence. Thinking solely strategically, Orathone could concede it would not boil down into a war of attrition as it had in Okyna, but would meet its finale in aggressive tactics.
Once more, regarding the coming enemy front, Orathone estimated their arrival in the nearest village of the east. It had taken the collective of lions, leopards, tigers, and jackals most of a season to raze a city. They would destroy the army, wait out the city's defenses from beyond the wall, then break through as surrender became imminent. From there, it was a systemic breakdown of what the Legion could use and what would be done away with to make room for the soldiers. The spies in the resistance had made it clear these invaders hadn't a qualm with quashing sites of worship and anyone who could not serve their purpose.
There was no reasoning with the vicious Warlord at the helm of this endeavor, that was made clear to Orathone and his people before they were driven from the Divide. Orin Kammherit II was reported to be a merciless master of his men, with no mind for any captives he might take. This couldn't have been more apparent to Orathone after seeing the lion. Battle-scarred, rugged, and of an age with Orathone's mentor, Orin was antithetical to the deer's existence. Along that line, Orathone had to wonder if the Aln would still stand once he fled.
The great tree, the only of its kind, planted from a seed the buck didn't know he could reach at such depths in the soil, would be insurmountable to any but himself. What would take an experienced climber scores of days could be accomplished in an hour with his power. But that unconquerable nature could be the trappings of the Aln's destruction. Orin had forded impassable rivers, toppled impossible fortresses, and crushed the blood-cursed Yerra of Okyna. A tree would be trivial to him. Yet, Orathone had to consider how substantial the towering pillar of nature could be if used to skirt the tide of this scourge.
From high in the clouds, he could pull roots to block any conceivable path east or strike with boughs that would vanquish divisions of the Legion in seconds. However, word needed to be brought to his allies, the artifact delivered to the wolf. There would be no chance to return to the Aln after he had gone so far east, not without the potential of death before reaching the towering tree. If he could muster other defenders, he might, but that would be nigh impossible in such a short time and would draw away from their forces. No, he would need to abandon the Aln and pray that the ancient guardian spirit, the same voice which had bid him to summon the plant forward, would watch over the mighty obelisk.
"Can we truly turn the tide of this war with one simple sphere?" the question hung in the air, but no answer came. That distant voice had come before and vanished with equal ease. Wherever the unseen being spoke from, it was clear that their connection was fluid and inconstant, less they simply chose to be reclusive and cryptic. But for what bounty they offered, Orathone had to wipe such a prospect from his mind. They had not steered him wrong in previous ventures; he could not imagine a sudden change of hearts would come now.
Dropping the orb into the loose pack on his back, Orathone began his descent. The bark running the length of the tree, jutted out a span, enough for the deer to proceed down as though on a spiraled stair. This access could just as easily be forced back into the uniform surface of any other tree and would be once Orathone was on flat ground. Though it felt unnecessary as most of the Westerners were too large to use the narrow stair, Orathone felt the tree safer for that. As it was, the path permitting his descent was already of impractical dimensions. A buck with fuller antlers and not the diminutive points of a youngster would find the climb extremely uncomfortable.
As Orathone reached the base of the giant, he found what he had hoped but half-expected to be remaining from before his quest into the sky. In a crude cage of roots stood the myter Litheiuss had left him with. The bird looked well rested and had been augering its beak into the roots to suckle out moisture and gems of sap. She would have looked covered in the sap and a layer of grim, but Orathone had known her, chosen the hen for her dappled charcoal feathering. Between the two of them, their coats would act as camouflage were they tailed by a scouting party.
Using a gentle touch, Orathone opened the root wall enough to permit his myter to exit without issue. She waited as the buck pulled away a fist worth of the hardened knobs of sap. She'd need them to keep up any kind of pace. They may have been able to stop, take proper rests, and set up camp when needed, but Orathone wasn't about to give the Legion any more of an edge than they had already. Mounting the bird, Orathone allowed parting words to slip his lips before leaving the Aln, all but its nightshade shadow, behind.
In the long leering shade, Orathone felt something pumping and breathing, trying to keep pace alongside his mount. The edges of the silhouette ungulated with tendrils like monstrous worms of night. He furrowed his brow, glancing back at the Aln. It neither twisted unnaturally nor was blown by the western winds. No sooner than he had returned his gaze, front and center, did the buck run headlong into a massive, imposing statue of shade.
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