(M? for gore?) - River of Blood

Chardonnay Chartreuse · 05-12-2011, 01:41 AM

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Free Table by Sie
Rated for blood.
Okay. This is officially my longest post ever, by two times.
* dies*

Date: May 11th
Setting: Halcyon Mountain
Time: Noon
Character Form: Optime
Word Count: 1231

Chardonnay Chartreuse

It was wander lust that had driven him to the lands far east of the plains of his birth more than than the reasons for his departure from his pack. Once having left the grassy fields, he was introduced to strange landscapes and ways. For instance, the foothills of the mountains dwarfed the largest of the hills from his homeland, and upon first seeing the craggy peaks his reaction was nothing short of awe at their huge size. Curiosity mixed with a more mature need to learn everything that there was to know about the mountains and systematically explore the region were the factors in his decision to cross the Halycon mountains. After a long venture up the rocky sides and barren cliff faces he crossed mountain range into 'Souls where he stopped to catch his breath. Even though he was fit, he was not accustomed to scaling mountains and the climbing used different muscles from those employed on flatter ground. His legs ached in places they hadn't before and his breath came quick and fast, more than he had expected. What he did not realize that the altitude had as much as an effect on his body than the actual climb, and the thin air did not offer as much oxygen as the air at sea level.

From his perch on a large boulder, his golden eyes scanned the beautiful horizon and the patchwork of territories that extended far beyond the foothills to the ocean. On a playful breeze, scents both strange and familiar wafted to his nose; including that, he noted with interest, of canines. Whether they were friendly or viewed newcomers as intruders he had no way of knowing and there was time enough to find out. After having spent a lot of energy to reach the top, his stomach's demands for sustenance was a more prominent concern. Chardonnay had yet to find signs of the deer, which were a favoured prey, but there were plenty of signs that a different herbivore dwelled on the slopes from the piles droppings scattered among the rocks and the numerous tracks made from hooves. With ears pricked and nostrils flaring to better catch his prey’s scent, he scanned the nearby slopes with precision and patience. The herbivore was white as snow and at a distance looked like just one more rock against the multitude. Earlier in the day, Chardonnay’s encounter with his first mountain goat was more by chance than anything else. Rounding the boulder and focused with finding the best route upwards, the coywolf found himself nearly face to face with a woolly creature with horns sprouting from its head. The goat, who was just as surprised, turned tail at the same time Chardonnay drew his throwing knife and speedily bounded away across the precarious cliff face with surprising agility to seek refuge where it could not be followed without great risk.

When Chardonnay spotted the white shape after a moment of searching, he was knew what to expect. Down slope, a small herd of mountain goats were navigating a nearby slope that was at an impossible angle. An effective means of defense against likely predators, Chardonnay planned to turn it to his advantage. It made them harder to reach but Chardonnay had no need to, at least until one of them was dead. A skilled archer, he knew the impact of an arrow shot from above could overbalance even a stable target, depending on how high was the arrow was shot. Satisfied that there was little wind, the coywolf reached over his shoulder to grab an arrow and his bow. Bringing them around to his front, he placed the arrow in the bow. Pulling the string back until it was parallel with his cheek, he trained the point of the arrow on the nearest goat and, adjusting for the height and play of the wind, let go.

As expected the goat emitted a loud “baaa” when the arrow struck its neck, and leaped forwards in a pain induced panic. Crazed, it landed awkwardly, twisting it’s leg in a crack while momentum carried the goat forwards. With an audible crack, the leg tore free, following it’s owner in a free fall through space that was punctuated more than once by inconveniently (or conveniently) place outcrops. Even before the body’s descent was halted permanently, Chardonnay ran downwards, keeping a watchful eye for loose rocks and paw sized holes. His eyes gleaming he slowed his approach when he drew near his kill, noting with satisfaction that the beautiful pelt, while worse for wear, was not stained in blood. Among his collection of furs, he had no pelts or hides that were fully white. That and the wooly nature of its fur made it valuable, for very few prey animals other than winter hares and rabbits, and the wool was relatively impenetrable from all but the coldest temperatures. As soon as he skinned and drained the carcass of it’s blood, he intended preserve both the hide and fur, rubbing the hide with the brains and smoking it over a fire to be made in a cloak or upper garment. Perhaps he could use it in trade with the locals if it was not “common” among them. His thoughts were interrupted when his eyes caught movement from the body and his heart fell in dismay. The fall was so great that he had been certain that the goat would be dead either from impact upon reaching it, but there it lay, suffering from numerous wounds and in great pain, and a wave of sympathy rose inside his chest. He believed that the hunted deserved nothing less than swift deaths without enduring torment, and here lay one who was injured beyond recovering but very much alive.

With controlled haste, he closed the gap between them and straddled the animal, placing one knee on it’s neck while ignoring the strangled bleats that pierced the silence. Taking one knife from its sheaf, he grasped a horn and roughly pulled the head back. Sensing its impending doom, the beast struggled wildly, it’s eyes rolling in fear. Chardonnay placed the long blade to the soft tissue of its neck and uttered, “Your death was not in vain and through your gift you will live onwards. May you be at peace my friend.” Without further ado, the coywolf swiftly drew the blade across the jugular vein. Blood welled out of the long wound and spilled out onto the ground into a growing puddle. When the eyes glazed and the light faded from them, only then did Chardonnay discover that his hands and knees were covered in blood. Faintly annoyed, but assured that there was no life remaining in his prey, he stood up from his kneeling position. Shading his eyes from the over head sun, he noted that the closest trees that were of size to hang carcasses were on some distance away. Just his luck that the execution of the hunt was not ideal, but he was not one to bemoan the circumstances, and certainly not when he was successful. Sighing, he took hold of the back hooves and heaved the body across one shoulder. It was only when he had taken a few steps from the site that he spotted the watcher.

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