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Logan had met a dog in the wilderness.
Wild dogs were uncommon on his side of Bytopia. The wilderness was too inhospitable for lone hounds. Dogs were usually too domesticated to force a place for themselves in the savage food chain of Shurrock, the more untamed of the two layers on the Plane of Twin Paradises. Nevertheless, he had met one during his travels.
Shurrock was a fruitful land, a hunter's paradise, full of fat game as well as massive and dangerous natural predators. Dire bears, regular bears, grey renders, gorrillon, mountain lions and hill giants roamed the dense forests and mountains. Tribes of wild humans and orcs and elves patrolled sections of the lands, though whether they helped or hindered intruders varied tribe by tribe. To a lone hunter like Logan, encountering a hostile hunting party could be a death sentence. Though even the kindly ones he had spoken to had never seen a black dog roaming the lands.
And that, more than anything, worried him.
Logan was no stranger to rare beasts. The elven Loweryntari tribe he had befriended had allowed him to study under their shaman, and so he had learned many tales of the strange and fantastic beasts which roamed Bytopia's wild layer. More than this, however, Logan had learned that the elven shamans had a near complete knowledge of the lands they lived in for, they claimed, they were the first species to have ever walked it.
Whether that was true or not, Logan didn't know. He did know that he'd yet to encounter anything in the wild that the elves did not already know about. Except, of course, the black dog.
The creature had come to him in the night. It had been wary of his fire, and only revealed itself for the first sleepless night as a pair of pale red eye hovering just outside of the fire's glow. Logan hadn't dared to shoot it. Minutes before sunrise, just as the gunslinger had begun to succumb to fatigue, the eyes disappeared. Though Logan searched, he could find no track or trace of the creature in the area surrounding his camp. He slept, then, through eon’s worth of fitful, frightening dreams. He ran down avenues, over hills, he leaped down ladders and through tunnels and labyrinths all night, all running from the same red eyes.
Halfway through the sunlight hours, Logan woke up exhausted.
It was not another week until he met the creature again.
Logan sprinted through the deep underbrush, long knife in one hand and revolver in the other. His feet pounded against the soft earth of Shurrock like a steady heartbeat. He was chasing a small hunting party of orcs who had stolen the meat of an elk he had killed the day previous. They knew he was in pursuit, though he was almost two hours behind them. They were not difficult creatures to track, but they were difficult to catch up to.
Logan knew what tribe they hailed from, the Krogg, and knew that their home was at least still another half a day's run north. He had the time to catch them when they made camp at nightfall, but he knew he would only get that one chance. He also knew the orcs would be on guard for him, and he knew further still that by the time he caught up to them, he would be exhausted.
None of this mattered. In the wild, weakness was punishable by death. If starvation and malnutrition didn't kill you, tribes who thought you were easy to bully would. It wasn't justice Logan was after; it was to answer a challenge against his right to live.
And so he ran.
His arms churned air at his sides. His knife slashed his way through thick vines and bushes. He wasn't moving stealthily, and he wondered if his trail hadn't already attracted the attention of other hunters in the area. The haste was necessary, though, to keep pace.
A leap over a fallen tree's trunk saw Logan plant his feet on the ground for a quiet moment, one long enough for him to hear a far-off scream. The sound came from the direction he was running. It must have been close to the trail itself. Logan pulled back the revolver's hammer and jogged on.
Ten minutes of searching the area led to a surprising discovery: the bodies of three orcs, all lain side by side, all without any sign on their bodies of what had killed them, nor even signs of any struggle at all. The only clue was the violent looks of terror on their faces.
In the face of this, Logan chose to take a deep breath and run away.
The gunslinger was no fool. These orcs had clearly been met with something which didn't need to harm to kill. Logan had no idea what could have done this, and he had no desire to discover it. He was a human; an exemplary human, no doubt, but nothing more. Humans lived by picking their battles, and Logan was good at living.
It wasn't long before the man realized he was being followed. Every few steps he would take a short leap, a quick moment where his running did not cover the footfalls of creatures around him. He heard the stampeding sound of a quadruped creature chasing after him almost a whole minute before he saw the creature itself.
This time Logan had no fire. Dusk had covered the land in twilight, and through the pale evening light the gunslinger saw what he could only describe as a massive hound, as large a dire wolf and with nearly circular red eyes. The creature kept pace with him, though maintained a safe distance to his right. Though Logan could only just make out its figure, he saw that something hung from its mouth, flailing limply against the dog's bucking.
Logan peeled away, slowly turning to run to the left. If the creature had already hunted for the night, it likely would not pursue him. He hoped it was simply as it looked, a big dog, and so had none of the malevolence which caused some creatures to chase prey purely for the sport.
Though if this creature were the one which had killed and left the bodies of the orcs, there wasn't much hope for that. Logan knew this, but he took its continual distance as a good sign. Unfortunately for the slowly tiring gunslinger, the beast maintained its distance. Wherever he ran, the creature kept to his right, occasionally releasing what might have sounded like playful growls had they had not come from a giant black canine with a dead animal caught in its jowls.
Logan stopped running. The dog flew past. He heard the creature's playful whines echo toward him and he realized that once the beast had left his sight it had begun to circle him. This was a common lupine tactic, though one that was only really viable if a wolf was hunting with a pack.
Logan ignored his confusion and began to gather wood. He quickly assembled a square stack of kindling and wood and was violently striking sparks at it with his flint and tinder when the dog breathed down his back. Logan leaped back and aimed his gun. The creature, every bit the man-sized canine he had feared, stood still and bored into Logan with its round red eyes.
"If you can understand my language, know that I will kill you to defend my life." he warned. The creature leaned its head down and stretched its legs before it, almost like a bow. From its mouth dropped an elk carcass. It then curled its legs under its body and rested where it had stood. Logan aimed his gun at it until his arm began to hurt. The creature simply watched him with vague interest. Its fur looked to be sopping wet.
Eventually, Logan started a fire. Thought the heat and light seemed to bother the creature, it did not retreat far, and would make a point of watching Logan any time the man was not directly between it and the flame. Logan retrieved the offered meat and roasted it over the fire. He tossed an undercooked leg at the dog who, after licking it, chose not to eat it. Together, Logan and the beast spent the night in tense silence.
The next morning Logan woke to find himself alone. He couldn't remember when he had dosed off. After kicking away the ash and covering the fire pit, the gunslinger continued on his way home. He had had an eventful enough hunt this summer, he thought. Despite this, he couldn't help but admit that the large dog had intrigued him.
That said, curiosity wasn't worth getting killed over. Detachment was an integral part of his code.
Logan ran toward his home until he reached the lands of the Loweryntari. Meeting fellow hunters near the border, Logan was convinced to return with them to their village and revel with them during the feast of Utirithi, the celebration and ritual to honor their spirit of fate and harvest.
The feast was an amazing event, the likes of which Logan had never before witnessed. The treetop village of the elves was set alight with fires of various colors; some blue, orange, violet, and even white. Choruses sang songs of their history from every corner of the village, while a massive bonfire at the center of the village hosted the most beautiful, elven dancers who spun and weaved across the ground like legged serpents.
Logan ate, drank and danced and made love in a drunken blur. The next morning he awoke refreshed and vital. As he prepared to leave, his shaman master, Ghaerli came to him.
"My son." he said, for such was the bond between a shaman and his student, "Your heart speaks to me in horror. You have seen something dark in your travels."
Logan explained to him the black dog, and the shaman grew confused, for no such creature roamed Shurrock.
"Perhaps it was fatigue. Perhaps a dark wolf?" he offered. Logan was adamant that it had not been either. In the end, the shaman swore to recall his people's stories and look for any evidence, and Logan left the village, and the summer, behind him feeling simultaneously satisfied and unnerved.
_________________
Logan's feet sunk into the snow bank. He fell forward, pushing the male human he was wrestling down with him. Snow crashed and slid away and both men landed on their sides. Logan wrested himself atop his opponent, sitting on the man's stomach as each tried to break his weapon arm, a knife at the end of Logan's and a hatchet for the barbarian, out of the other's grip. Neither man found much success, and eventually the barbarian bucked his hips and tossed Logan over his body. The pair rolled and stood alertly.
The barbarian waved his hatchet in front of him like a serpent about to strike, while Logan stood almost completely still. When the tribal warrior finally attacked, he found his sideswipe accounted for with a ducking charge which placed most of Logan's footlong knife through his stomach. With a shove, the gunslinger forced the convulsing wild man off of his weapon. The blood puddled underneath his fallen body, soupy with dirt and water by the time it had melted a way to the ground. In an hour, the heavy snowfall would cover the body completely. No one would find him until spring.
Logan wiped his dagger off and continued walking. He was wearing a thick, full bodied coat now, insulated with a bear's fur. He had managed to stay warm, save for his nose and cheeks, whilst fending off two other such random attacks. For all he had known, he had been walking through neutral territory too close to the Loweryntari lands to be as dangerous as it now was. Something drastic had changed since the summer.
Eventually, far later than he expected, Logan encountered elven patrols. They explained to him that human barbarians had come to claim this land as their own.
"We have lost much of our land, and much of our food, but we will endure." the said to him, "And you may take of our hospitality only what you can pay back in steel." they warned.
Logan understood. They needed warriors. He was a member of their tribe, having been formally adopted by the shaman, and it was a solemn part of his responsibility to help defend their land and lives. The gunslinger quickly found himself on the battlefield. Knife in one hand and gun in the other, Logan struck with gangs of elven warriors against the clumsy and ill-organized humans. His blade ate the flesh of his parent race and his bullets stupefied and confused the barbarian warriors. So long as he fought skirmishes, he was given food and water and a home.
Nearing the end of the war, after the human's vigor had faded and the timeless elves' were only just beginning to rise, Logan's shaman master came to him.
"I have recalled the stories." he said, "and I believe I know what you saw in the summertime."
The shaman led him to his tent, under which the two men constructed a fire. When the flames rose high enough, the shaman threw rare herbs and carved sticks into it, and the flames turned a wild blue. Though the shaman had never taught Logan how to conjure divining fire, the gunslinger new the look of the flame well.
"I had to pray," the shaman said, "to Utirithi, I had to beg for her to show me your destiny. It is good that you partook in her feast, for it led her to favor you. She showed me to an ancient tale of the Kitraechi. It is a creature not from his land, but another. My great, great grandsire wove the tale when he met a foreign man much like you. A terrible beast followed the man, and was thought to be an enraged spirit, though whether the beast was wicked or benevolent toward the man was uncertain. The man called it a 'barrow hound' and a 'Cu Sith'. My ancient sire said that he died only months after he first met it. My family has interpreted the creature as a death symbol for the one it follows."
Logan said nothing.
"I am sorry, but I believe this was the portent Utirithi wished for me to convey to you."
Logan helped the shaman smother the flame. The master halfheartedly handed the gunman some simple tokens to stave off fate's clutches in times of great need. Logan remained quiet. Though he was a member of the tribe, he had never completely ascribed to their spirit worship. Even so, he retired early in the winter to contemplate what he had been told.
Sometimes, between the footfalls of the horse he rode home, Logan heard the soft stampeding of a creature behind him.
 The Vansin · Sun Oct 30, 2011 @ 09:01am · 0 Comments |
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