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Four Dragons, Book 1, Verse 1
🕑 Added 2023-05-29 05:00:57 +0000 UTCVerse 1, Wolf and Warrior
‘The life of an Adventurer is not what the stories make them out to be. It is a hard life, and a grueling one. We might have walked as far as ten leagues today and yet the others are no worse for wear. Meanwhile I, the least experienced of our cadre of campaigners, truly do begin to understand the life we lead, the calling we answer, and that not all in our trade is romance, danger, and mystery. The road is long, and hard, with little rocks to poke you in the side while you try and get comfortable. But all of it is worth it in the end, for the tales that we Bards live to tell.
We are Adventurers, and our home is the road. It, both the path we walk and the lives we lead, is not one for the weak of body, nor most especially of spirit, for those overly wary of the dark would find the everyday life of an adventure as wholly unappealing and far too frightening. Almost all of our time is spent traveling across foothills, flatlands, moors, marshes, mountain trails, forests, and ancient battlefields. Occasionally, we might come across a fellow traveler, a merchant, or a group of hunters with which to share a fire and songs.
Sadly, far more likely they might be rogues, bandits, or the occasional hungry, gruesome beast both mystical and monstrous, only ever read about in Monser Manuelle’s Manual of Monsters. What defines an Adventurer is not only Stamina but that most misread of motivations: Courage. Not to defy or deny fear, but to rise above, harness, and overcome it. And what better way, with wind howling as wolves, to defy fear than with a retelling of one such tale?
~Oborro Othello
“So,” Ajax Kherylon, whose name means Victory, narrated proudly. “There I was. A dozen wolves arrayed before me. Jaws snapping, teeth slavering, red eyes glowing in the light of the setting sun. Wolves, the likes of which not even hunting men of even the deepest forests could not ponder without terror. For these were Mountain Wolves, Wargs, Dire Wolves! But even such foes as they meant nothing to Ajax.”
With one great arm, bulging with powerful corded muscles that spoke of levels of strength not yet fathomed, he swept it in an arc as if wielding the ever-gleaming sword currently leaning up against a nearby rock alongside its accompanying, massive shield. Sparks and smoke were disturbed by the force that ghostly blow dealt in that claw-fingered, four-digit hand, more closely resembling a paw than anything human but still with a dominant thumb. “With a stroke of my blade, I cleaved the closest one’s skull open, and with my shield, I hammered the next just as it leaped for what it thought was my exposed flank. Smash!”
The hand not miming the sword tightened into a fist it clapped against the opposite palm, causing a resounding slap of impact to echo around their campfire. The Draach's huge frame filled the fallen log he was using as a seat. Firelight set his golden–red scales to gleaming, matching that of his similarly fiery eyes set deep into his draconic skull. The shadowy contours created by the flames and his angled, inhuman features accentuated the savage scar that was carved into and down through one entire, ridged brow and cheek, barely missing the eye socket. Whatever blow had caused such a gruesome injury would have to have been mighty indeed, not to mention the wielder of it an equally oversized specimen to reach, for Ajax was head and shoulders taller than even the tallest men Oborro had ever met, and Oborro was not an overly tall man himself.
“Off the cliff it went!” continued Ajax with a bellow, fire-agate eyes, a mixture of oranges and greens with a vertical pupil like a cat’s, glazed over as if he truly were reliving the battle with which he was regaling his traveling companions. This would make for perhaps the fifth time, always in great, if often varying detail. “Its fellows looked at me and even in their animal minds, they could feel the dragon-fear!” Leaning his head back, Ajax bellowed out a hoarse, mocking peal of laughter, setting the trees, rocks, and walls of the storm-washed gully around them to echo as if populated by the spirits of many, long dead but vivacious brawlers just like the Draach.
Wincing slightly, Oborro leaned back in his relaxed seat against a moss-covered stump, lute idly strumming in his long-fingered hands. He eyed the still guffawing Ajax with a look of both incredulity as well as sincere fondness. No one could tell a story like him, and from a Bard, musical masters of tales and epics, that truly was saying something. With their hulking cohort wrapped up in his own euphoric superiority, he chanced a look across the fire at his other two companions, raising an eyebrow and fighting back the urge to join in the laughter so he didn’t appear as to be mocking their friend. Ajax had rather a particularly prickly sense of pride.
They too, it seemed, were likewise amused by the antics of their martial companion, if by differing amounts. Artemesia, a dark-haired beauty of perhaps not pure but at least partial Sidhe lineage given her violet, almond-shaped eyes and pointed but not overly elongated ear-tips, met his gaze and grinned right back at him. Lifting a pale finger, she pressed it against her silvery lips, winking one of those starlight eyes at him cheekily. The motion drew immediate attention to the winding, vine-like patterns of her tattoos, inked directly below her eyes and winding down to her throat, appearing in the dim lighting as akin to black veins or roots against her pale skin.
In his whole life, Oborro had never met someone else who had naturally purple eyes like him, although only one of his counted, as the other was a pitch black that made his pupil seem overly large.
She then resumed leaning her weight gently against her carved, blackwood staff, covered in Druidic designs that made Oborro’s eyes water to try and trace. Similar designs were woven into her green brocade robes and lightweight leather armor, etched with glittering starlight thread by a hand of unearthly skill and grace. Like all of her, the threads almost seemed to produce their own light, a moonlight gleam that accentuated her pale complexion even more.
The eye could scarce follow a single design, cloth or staff, amongst the woven vines, flowers, and thorns detailed there before shifting to the next, all woven in and around her long, graceful limbs and slender feminine form. Fitting to her personality, the robes bared more skin that he would have imagined considered her modesty, but never overly lurid: equal parts fair Fey beauty with demure, feminine grace.
Panning his eyes across from the Elven-blooded woman, Oborro’s gaze then wandered to the edge of their campsite. There, barely still within the glow of their fire, seated in the fallen bough of a tree, washed out from its position high above the now-drained river channel, sprawled the fourth member of their company. Lykopis. In her tough, strong yet still feminine hands, she was polishing her great, double-handed, double-bladed axe, as reverently as if caring for a child. Like Ajax’s sword, Oborro would scarcely have been able to even lift such a weapon, let alone wield it in battle with the grace and fluidity that she did.
The entire haft was almost as tall as he was to the shoulder, broad as his forearm, and the pair of arching, broad-headed blades at either end of it’s double-headed affair could, as Oborro had seen her do, cut the head from a charging Ogre as easily as clipping a flower from its roots. Moonlight shone like twinkling beacons as the Orc woman slowly, methodically rubbed an oiled silken cloth across the battle-scarred but still ever-keen half-moons of her weapon, of material and craftsmanship that seemed more formed rather than forged, from blackened petrified wood and shimmering starmetal blades. It was a weapon unlike any Oborro had ever seen, able to change its configuration, even blade shape, seemingly at the will of its wielder. It perfectly suited a warrior such as she; adaptive, wild, and as deadly as it was beautiful.
Ever as if it were the first time, Oborro felt as if an enchantment had fallen upon him as he looked upon her. In the pale moonlight and gentle glow of the fire, the Half-Orc woman was utterly and serenely radiant in every way that could be possibly understood. Her currently long, unbound hair was the color of midnight that maintained its own dark, chromatic hue, almost seeming to shimmer in the dark around her.
She would have appeared, in combination with her near coal-black skin, as almost invisible in the darkness beyond their cheerful little gathering, save for the bright silver-white tribal markings that stretched from her head down to her collarbone and along her exposed forearms and calves. Those shone as if with captured starlight or moonbeams, much like Artemesia did, making her look all the more exotic.
Oborro knew enough about Orcs, that most primal, savage, and mystical race considered monstrous or barbaric in customs, to know that these were more than simple adornments; they were ritual clan markings, tattoos laced with Urcish rune magic to empower the bearer and signify allegiance and bloodlines. But no simple clan marking or ancient tribal name, no singular description could ever hope to match the complexity or majesty that was she.
Never in the world had there ever been a beauty, a strength of form or will, like hers. Here was a woman, a clan's strength wholly unto herself, brimming with a confidence as if she sat at the head of a ghostly army. To draw comparison would have been impossible, for she was as different from any other woman Oborro had ever met, and none of them as lovely and dangerous as she.
Artemesia with her long-limbs, slender build with modest shapely curves, graceful as birdsong, was as different an example of womanhood compared to her as Oborro was in masculinity to the towering Ajax. What strength yet untapped lurked in those powerfully corded arms, what scent was her raven-black hair now hanging in feral mane, unbound from its usual, intricate braids?
Oh, to be able to comb it for her, to brush fingertips across expanses of dark flesh marred and yet perfected by dozens of scars that on anyone else would have been deadly or crippling. Instead, they only added to and served as testament to the legend of the woman known as the She-Wolf, the Mad Queen of Rende.
Draped across the half-felled tree she used as a reclined seat lay a great, white-furred pelt that she wore as a cloak when on the march. The hood was a full-sized head of an over-sized wolf, eerily similar to the ones Ajax was still waxing on about in great detail of how he fought and slew them.
Her currently discarded armor, consisting of leather breastplate, belted scale-reinforced tassets, a mismatched pair of both metal and hide gauntlets, a singular shoulder pauldron, and heavy, plate-armored boots were propped up beneath her. The moon and firelight gleamed off of her muscular form, left only in the leather-wrapped bindings about her chest and dark leggings that clung to her trunk-like thighs, stopping just above her knees.
Seemingly as if able to always sense when his sight lingered upon her, the powerfully-built woman glanced up from her weapon and in one smooth movement, locked eyes with his own. There too was yet another of her most striking features, her eyes; although truly there was not an inch or singular detail about her that did not fascinate him. They were yellow, not amber, but true yellow upon black sclera, shining in the gloom like the eyes of the beast of whom she shared both name, manner, and temperament.
Feeling the weight of those eyes latching upon him, akin to the jaws of a trap, made Oborro freeze, as surely as if he were prey caught in the gaze of a predator. There was no looking away from Lykopis when she locked eyes with someone; almost as if there was some magical enchantment just to that captivating, near predatory stare of hers. It was a look that spoke of many things and yet nothing, a primal, animal intuition and curiosity measured equally with wariness.
Trying to save face in any possible explanation he might have for staring, other than and just like the same reason every time she caught him doing so, Oborro raised his eyebrows and tilted his head ever so innocently towards the direction of the still boasting Ajax. Lykopis glanced then from him, toward the Draach and their fair Sidhe-blooded companion who was humoring their giant friend’s retelling of battles past with rapt if amused attention, but so swift was the return of her gaze that he knew she was still not entirely convinced.
Then, like the breaking of the sun through storm clouds, she smiled back. An Orc’s smile was considered a touchy subject in most ‘civilized’ societies, as their sharpened teeth, black eyes, not to mention the thick tusks jutting from their lower jaw, often made the expression look more intimidating or leering than any peaceful gesture. On her however, it was a smile more radiant than any other he'd seen or heard of.
Above all the great, natural wonders in the world, her smile was his favorite; all at once with great cheer, wit, humor, and something else he had not yet discovered the intention behind. She had given him that same smile on the day they met, although admittedly he had been forced to earn it under what some might consider great duress. Playing a song to save a city from invasion; what more storybook meeting could exist than that? In his humble, not so terribly-biased opinion, there was none.
“Hey, Ajax,” she called then, voice rough but lovely just like all of her was. Only when the warrior paused in his flamboyant reenactment of his self-glorious battle, looking across the campsite at her, did she finally and fully break the trance-like gaze she had with Oborro.
“What now, Urkhalv?” he growled out flatly. “I was just getting to the best part.” The look he gave Lykopis was one of annoyance at being interrupted in the midst of his war stories, coupled with at the last second a gleam of his fangs. Only those close enough to him could recognize it as his version of a humored grin.
Supposedly, all Draach did not have a great repertoire of facial cues, what with their scaly reptilian muzzles, horns, and smoldering coals for personalities. Most of their expressions were subtle and minute, a bare shifting of a scale, the slight exposing of teeth, or the flaring of nostrils. It made them much more alien to the rest of the Urscal-Fel, or Scaleless, as they called the other Races.
Lykopis grinned even wider back at him, exposing more of her own sharp teeth. She set her axe down and crossed her arms across her chest, forcing the leathers and straps to stretch and strain ever so slightly more than they already were in a vain attempt to contain her muscular, well endowed feminine form. “Humor me a moment, and then you can get right back to it then.”
Rolling his fiery-orange eyes, Ajax rolled a great paw at her sardonically. “Very well,” he growled in a mock-suffering tone.
“Not that your retelling isn’t riveting as ever,” she began. “But I think I’ve lost count. How many wolves were you fighting again?” Artemesia and Oborro exchanged great, mirthful grins as they settled back to watch the show.
Ajax paused to consider her question, reaching up and scratching at a section of his scaly underjaw with a blunt-clawed finger. “Easily a dozen or so,” he responded a moment later, nodding with confidence. “Perhaps even fifteen. The Russland mountains are full to bursting with primal beasts, monsters, and challenges for warriors the world over.”
“Funny,” Lykopis chuckled, shaking her head and settling back into her seat, axe balanced across her lap. So diligent had she been in its polishing that it gleamed like moonlight on a still forest pond.
“What is?” snapped Ajax.
“The last time you told the story, there were only nine.” The playful twinkle in her eyes made the other two members of the party burst out with laughter, which she mirrored in shining once again that bright, play-feral smile at her warrior rival.
All at once, the smoldering embers of Ajax surged to sparks and flame and he rose from his seat on the log. He turned to face her, great paws clenched, lip raising to show yet more rows upon rows of fangs. It was a look that cowed peasants, merchants, lordlings, even some knights who were supposed to be made of sterner stuff. Oborro certainly thought it was plenty intimidating, but Lykopis just matched it with that beaming, toothy smile. “When I said there were fifteen Wolves,” he started to growl out.
“Twelve,” corrected Artemesia cheerfully. She too was fixed with Ajax’s characteristic glower, which she responded with only a giggle and raising her hands in mock surrender.
Turning back to face the Half-Orc, Ajax grumbled. The fire and tension left his body, replaced with a moody sulkiness. His arms lifted, crossing over the robust, broad-shouldered bulk of his chest. Unlike the rest of them, who had divested themselves of much of their protective gear as it was too uncomfortable to sleep in armor, Ajax remained in almost his full kit: a suit of battle-scarred platemail tinted red. The only part of his armor he was not currently wearing lay near to where he had been sitting whilst telling his story: his flanged, dragon-horned helmet, gauntlets, and massive shield.
“Perhaps I may, mind you, may have miscounted. Mnemonic recall is not my strong suit when it comes to the little details.”
“Oh of course, of course, and I meant no offense,” Lykopis chuckled, as did the other two if much more quietly. “Only that it takes away from the deep immersive recounting. Our resident Bard can attest to how being thorough can most help a recital to achieve its utmost oratory epic. Or however he puts it.”
To the unaccustomed outsider to their odd little troop, her loquacious and well-spoken turn of phrase often took many aback. It belied much of her fearsome appearance, let alone her well-earned reputation as one who carved a kingdom from the untamed expanse known as the Wilder Lands; a place of barbarians and bandits too savage for much of the civilized world. Even so, Oborro and the others had quickly grown accustomed to her skilled command of language; it only added to her charm, at least in his eyes.
All three of the oddly-assorted company abruptly laughed at that, ranging from deep chuckles from Lykopis, the delighted giggles of Artemesia, to the full-throated growling coughs of Ajax. Oborro alone did not join in, pulling a face at the lot of them. “I can tell when I’m being mocked, you know,” he sniffed haughtily.
“Oh, Oborro,” chided Artemesia, still laughing. “You know we love your performances. Just like Ajax, you need to sooth your prickly pride.” He met her glittering eyes and exchanged a playful wink with her, making it be known that he was just playing along too. “Ajax,” she then added, glancing over at their stoically, perpetually glowering Draconic companion. His glowing eyes panned across to her, a softening of his expression telling of his fondness for the sprightly, tiny seeming woman compared to his massive size. “Why don’t you let Oborro tell it?”
The Draach sniffed. “Only if he puts to it the proper amount of gravi…grav…”
“Gravitas,” Oborro offered hopefully, to which Ajax rumbled in assent. “Never you fear, my large scaly friend, It would put to shame my name as the Greatest Bard who Never Lived, were I not to tell of your many tales of battle and butchery without the proper dramatis personae, thematic lighting, and other such wonders of my craft.”
“In short, Ajax,” added Lykopis. “He’s going to sing it really fancy for you.” Again, the dried out riverbed echoed with the sounds of the companions’ laughter.
“No, no songs,” the warrior grumbled. “Stories of battle should be spoken only.”
“I cannot help but agree,” commented the Half-Orc, and the two rivals shared a knowing, what some might have called, teasing grin.
As ever, yet another pang of jealousy stirred within him for but a moment at the pair of formidable fighters; she never looked at him that way. Then again, she never smiled at anyone else it seemed the way she did towards him, so there was that to sooth his sensitive id.
All eyes turned then to the Bard. “Go on then,” Lykopis continued, locking her gaze with his once again, as she had the first time they met. It dispelled his jealousy utterly and at once, setting his insides to warm fluttering giggliness that he fought hard to keep off of his face, although he never let it show when he plied his craft for them all whenever he was asked to. Still, performing before the great auditorium of the Bardic College was nothing compared to the first time he had done so for her. “Tell us the tale of wolf and warrior.”
Rising from his seat and bowing at the waist with his most gallant air, Oborro plucked up his long-handed, silver-strung lute. Try as they might, the others could not contain the level of excitement they always had whenever he prepared to perform; the tightness of breath waiting in expectation, the slight clenching of fists, and the eager light in their eyes reflecting the campfire, the moon, and the stars far above. A better audience he could never have asked for, nor ever dared to imagine would be his; his friends, his companions, his fellow adventurers, his family. What more could a Bard ask for than that?
‘It was midnight when Ajax Kherylon came to what now locals call Wolfhead Gorge…’ he began, dropping his voice low. Talented fingers, calloused but dexterous, plucked a soft, low tune on the strings of his lute. Even as he did, small motes of silver light began to trickle and flow from the instrument; a simple illusionary spell meant to enhance the performance. The others were already entranced. Best not to disappoint.
‘Long had his road been and would still be, fresh from the battles of yesterday and year. Ever wandering is this lonely warrior, this paragon of fighters; the Red Carnage, Adamant Breaker, Firefear himself. Many know of his legend, but few have faced him and lived to tell the tale. For the path of the warrior is a long and winding one, full of danger at every turn. And tonight is no exception. Listen!’
Oborro paused for a second, craning his ears and eyes around their campsite as if seeing and searching for something not there. The glow of the fire began to shift as well, cheery flames turning silver as his magic told hold of them too. Before their eyes, the colors shifted even more, darkening around the edges and becoming almost mirror-like. Upon the surface of the fire, strode a lone, red-tinted figure in unmistakable armor. The details were hazy at best but it was clear who it was meant to be. The mini-Ajax came to a great ravine, stretching for at least a mile. The only egress forwards: a singular stone bridge that looked ready to give way at a moments notice. Down below lay the gorge, dark, expansive, almost like an entrance to the Underworld itself.
‘Listen,’ Oborro uttered again, voice soft, hushed, as if sensing great danger. The miniature Ajax below did the same, craning around dramatically. Then, out of the shadows on the borders of the vision, they came. Dark shapes, swirling shadows, that coalesced into loping, four-legged, bright eyed beasts of vaguely lupine shape. Whether Wargs or Worgs, the details were not clear, only that there were many, and Ajax was but one.
‘A trap!’ Oborro announced. ‘Cornered, surrounded, harried, pursued! Many a doomed traveler had come to this place, this feeding ground, only to become prey to these beasts that stalk and haunt the dreams of Common folk.’ Other shadowy, indistinct humanoid shapes crossed the bright flames, trying to flee the encroaching shadow wolves that pursued them, to no avail. To the ghostly plucking of his lute, thready, distant cries and screams came as they were encircled and enveloped by the swirling pack of darkness. Again the scene returned to where it had been; of Ajax alone, in much the same conundrum.
‘How many even were there?’ Oborro questioned, worried face imploring at his companions. ‘Six, no nine. A dozen. More!’ As he spoke, more and more shadowy wolves came into view. ‘Bright were their eyes, sharp were their fangs, hunger gnawing at their stomachs. Here was a fine meal, wrapped in heavy mail, but meat nonetheless. Tonight the pack would feast well. But would they? Swoosh, came Ajax’s sword from its sheath! See how keen it shines, how unmarred its edge, despite the countless battles it has carried and won. Here, tonight, the wolves would find no easy prey, no lone traveler, hunter, trapper, bandit, or peddler. Here before them stood a warrior, and not just any warrior, but war, incarnate.’
As Oborro went on, his eyes flashed to Ajax, the very subject and star of this late-night campfire story, using his very words that he often boasted of to best set the stage. He was delighted to see the Draach’s eyes riveted to the scene before him, teeth showing in an eager grin, heavy tail waving behind him; it was such raw, innocent wonder that it reminded Oborro, not for the first time, of a child, although he would never dream as ever describing Ajax aloud as such.
‘The wolves are wary, this meat smells different. Unafraid. As if it does not know fear. No matter, the pack is many, and the prey is alone. Better. It is already injured! Blood they smell on the armor, and blood means the kill will be slow and sure.’
“This is no eye of the storm,” came Ajax’s ominous rumble. The others turned to glance at him. He was not speaking to any of them it seemed however, eyes flatly fixed on the flames in the same, glazed look he had had earlier. He was not simply viewing the tale of his own exploits; he was reliving it once again, utterly enthralled. “I’ve not come from battles with men and monsters to die here against beasts. These injuries came from swords, and lances, and dozens of them besides. I’d call them scratches. No Wolves are going to be the ones to pull me down. No eye of the storm...”
A smell came then, close to that of hot iron, emanating from Ajax almost like a shroud. They had all smelled it many times: the smoldering building up of heat within a Draach that would eventually erupt like a volcano into a frenzy of battle and glory.
“Shh,” Artemesia cajoled him good-naturedly, scooting over to lean her slender weight against the massive bulk of her friend. She stroked along his exposed scaly wrist with her fingers. “The fights are over, and tonight is for rest,” she whispered up into his ear. Ajax calmed then, not moving save for the dance of his eyes as he followed every movement of both memory and performance. “Keep going, Oborro,” she cajoled softly over the crackle of the enchanted fire.
He nodded and did just that. ‘The first wolf charges, eager for the kill. It does not know the speed of such a huge foe, cannot understand the sharpness of the steel fang it wields. As it leaps, it meets its doom!’ A spectral wolf jumped into the air towards the tiny, smoky Ajax, fangs bared. Right as it was about to latch on, the warrior struck, swinging up and across with his weighty broadsword as if it were nothing as cumbersome as a willow reed.
Rather than blood, the wolf instead simply burst into smoky tendrils, vanishing from sight as if it never had been. The pack did not wait however. Another was quick to rush in, lunging for what it thought was Ajax’s exposed flank. Its fangs met hardened, flanged shield and it went up, over and behind the warrior in a brilliant deflection. The throns of wolves closed in, hungry and now angry for the slaying of one of their own. Their rage only intensified as Ajax, performing a maneuver that seemed improbable for one so large and heavily laden with armor, rolled back and over the fallen wolf, crushing it to smoke beneath his weight before coming to his feet again, maintaining his distance from the pack.
To Oborro’s narration, the battle played out exactly as Ajax had described many times. Each wolf surged to the front, trying to find an opening in the maelstrom of metal that was their supposed prey. Each was met with a cleaving strike of the sword, smoke trailing from its bright tip like blood as it rose and fell, dancing in the spectral moonlight.
All the while, Ajax continued an unhurried pace back, each step methodical and sure as he parried, blocked, and retaliated to each assault upon him, matching and outdoing the wolf frenzy with that burning flame of his own. One beast even managed to leap up in between killing strokes to its fellows and latched its claws and teeth onto the rim of the shield, weighing it down in the hopes of slowing the warrior. To a normal foe, the weight would have proven effective, but mightier than what seemed normal was the Draach, bearing the strength of seemingly three men. Ajax dispatched it by impaling it on his blade, then slinging the body up and away from him off of the stone bridge.
And still, more wolves were coming. Far more than simple illustrative license, the shadowy forms of the beasts filled the entire bridge in front of Ajax. There were too many to fight, too many even for him to kill on such limited ground. One wrong move, one fell-handed stroke too heavy or slow, and they would overrun him. Ajax was a wary fighter, a cunning one too.
“A soldier’s most valuable weapon is not the one in his hand but the battlefield itself,” he muttered once aloud more, “The stone…” said he then, eyes as wide as they had ever seen them, reflecting the firelight like lanterns. “The stone.”
At that exact utterance, the miniature Ajax panned around his field of vision. His back was up against a short but sheer rock wall, having crossed the stone bridge now overflowing with wolves. There, up on a ledge just out of reach, was a large boulder. It took less than a second for the Draach specter to whirl his blade out wide, staving off the encroaching, slavering animals that waylaid him and forcing them to hurry back a pace to stay out of his reach. Just as they recovered, Ajax’s jaws opened wide, and from between his fangs leapt a column of bright flame, just as they had all seen the real Ajax do countless times.
Several beasts were lit aflame immediately and they howled in pain and panic, pitching themselves off of the bridge. In the crucial second that his desperate, fiery maneuver had bought him, he stowed his sword, turned, and leaped up onto the ledge. His claws scrabbled at the shale, sending trails of smoke trickling down around him. One slip or loose rock and he would plummet to his doom. The wolves howled and barked and growled in rage, snapping at his tail as he just barely managed to get up out of their reach in time before they overtook where he had been standing.
The boulder was heavy, heavier than Ajax, and solid too. He threw his weight against it, trying to dislodge the stone where weather and wind had failed for years. Below, he heard the wolves trying to climb up after him. Just as the first furry muzzle crested the ridge, the rock began to give way. A shove more, and it was moving. With all of his prodigious, ghostly strength, Ajax hurled himself against it one last time. Too late, the wolves saw what he had intended, not to flee, but to fight them all at once. To win.
‘Smash, went the boulder as it landed upon the stone bridge linking the two mountain peaks together!’ narrated Oborro in a rush. ‘Crash, went the bridge, breaking, splintering, cracking. The wolves turn to flee but they cannot escape. The bridge topples, bends, breaks! Wolves and stone rain down into the gorge below, their howls filling the night until all is silent once again. Upon the distant cliff, Ajax Kherylon looks upon the ruins of his latest conquest with grim satisfaction. A pity no one else was around to witness such a deed, a victory snatched literally from the jaws of death. Our hero stands valiant and bloodied on the peak of what the locals will now forever call Wolfhead Gorge, for the numerous bodies of giant wolf remains they found buried beneath the rubble. He roars his battlecry to echo across the mountains, before he sets his sight on the next battle to come’.
With the ending of his tale, Oborro lowered his lute, letting out a deep, tired breath from his ragged-feeling throat. He felt much more drained than he already had after a day of marching, but one look at Ajax told him he had done well. The huge Draach had nodded off, still seated on the fallen log. His great, scaly, scar-riddled head bobbed against his chest, soft, growling snores coming from him.
Taking great care, the three of them helped to lay him back down on the ground behind the log so that he did not pitch forward in his sleep into the flames itself. Draach he might be, and supposedly resistant against heat and flame as he so claimed, but that would be a bad way to wake up. Lykopis handled the bulk of the lifting, as she was physically the only one of the three of them remotely capable of even shifting the now slumbering Ajax, but Artemesia and Oborro pitched in as well, taking care to cradle his spiny, horned head while the Half-Orc puffed steadily as she lowered him, shoulders last, to the ground.
Just as he was setting Ajax’s heavy skull to its most comfortable angle, Oborro felt a sudden sharp twinge of pain on one of his fingers. He must have nicked it on one of Ajax’s heavy, pointed spines, or even scraped it on one of his sharp-ridged scales. The droplet of blood gleamed silver in the moonlight, which he was quick to hide and wipe off as surreptitiously as he could as the other two began setting out their own places to sleep around the fire. He glanced around worriedly, hoping that no one else had seen him injure himself. Artemesia was busy unrolling her sleeping mat but when his eyes panned to Lykopis, he saw her gaze fixed upon him once again.
A cold weight settled into his stomach and for a long, seemingly endless moment, he wondered if she had seen. Moreover, he worried if she somehow knew. Those huntress eyes missed so very little. Then, to his great and utter relief, she simply smiled, a small one but somehow warmer than even the fire could ever be without burning him. Her yellow orbs never strayed from his heterochromatic purple and black orbs, flicking between them for several seconds.
“Good story, Bard,” she growled out softly, speaking low so that they did not disturb their already slumbering companions. Ajax was out cold, and Artemesia had curled up in front of the fire and already was sound asleep, as innocent as a doe. “I wonder if you’ll ever tell one of me that is quite so glorious.”
Oborro gave her his best mock-salacious smile. “I’d spend many sleepless nights learning all of your stories, Mad Queen,” he jested to which she responded with a wiggle of her nose and a half-wink.
“Maybe another time,” came her murmured voice, dark lips offset by the gleam of her sharp teeth, raven hair lit from above by silver moonlight. How and who else could ever have existed a woman as beautiful as her? If she sensed his inner thoughts, she did not give it away. “Get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.”
Grateful, Oborro nodded and laid down himself. Weary aches resounded all across his body as he tried to get comfortable; the telltale rewards and burdens of a life on the road, but he relished every one of them. Even the annoying little rock digging into his ribs before he extricated it and tossed it gently off to the side. All was quiet now in the dried out riverbed as the group of adventurers settled down for the night. The stars watched over them as they dreamed of lifetimes lived before coming together; lives of pain, of loss, of laughter and sorrow. Each of the four had their own stories to tell, but for tonight, it was enough to simply rest, to laugh, and to journey together. It was all Oborro had ever truly wanted; to belong.
He had always dreamed of telling his own story, but was more than happy to tell those of others as well. He was a Bard, after all. And this was but the start of what would be his most glorious of tales. What a beginning it was...
