Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="Greenfield" data-source="post: 6175951" data-attributes="member: 6669384">***A messenger appeared in the courtroom.  “Begging the Magistrate’s pardon, but there is a 12 foot tall Elf in the courtyard, accompanied by a pack of hounds.”, he explained, as the horn sounded a second time. The room began to empty, with half the crowd pressing forward towards the courtyard, and half seeking another exit. The companions quickly gathered their weapons and other possessions and headed out. Standing across the courtyard from the entrance was an Elf the size of a Stone Giant, dressed in hunter’s greens, and bearing a huge horn.  Beside him stood a midnight-black stallion, twenty-five hands tall if he was a finger, while grouped about the plaza were a pack of huge hunting dogs the like of which mortal man had seldom seen.  They were black and grey, the size of ponies, and the shadows seemed to congregate around them, so many could be seen only by the glint of torchlight in their yellow eyes. People had come out, awakened by the sound of the horn and the general commotion in the plaza, but found themselves unable to approach the dogs.  There was something about them that terrified. Seeburn and his companions quickly found themselves at the fore of the group, as the crowd drew back and spread out. The Huntsman drew breath and sounded his horn for the third time that night.  And Seeburn fell over, dead.  In his place stood, well, Seeburn.  His spirit was clearly visible, stripped of mortal imperfections, the silvery form stood free, the very essence of the man. “Seeburn Malhart of Dumfries, I have come for you.”, declared the Huntsman in a deep, rolling voice.  “Your time has come and gone, and now it’s time to move on.” Seeburn knew what this was:  The Wild Hunt was a well known tradition in his homeland, the call of horn and hounds on the moors during the nights of the full moon.  The Hunter’s moon, as it was called.  He knew who this was, and he knew the rules. “I Challenge!”, he cried for all to hear. The great Huntsman smiled.  “I was hoping for some true sport.  Well done.” The moment was interrupted by the High Priest who had attended the court proceedings.  “This cannot be.  You have no place here, no power in this land.  Be gone, foul apparition, back to your foreign lands and your foreign gods.” For the first time the Huntsman seemed to notice that there were others present, and chose to break tradition by addressing the Priest.  “There is a law that is older than you or I, a law so old that not even the greatest of gods dare to deny it.  Where ever a man falls, he falls, and his mortal remains belong to that land.  But his soul belongs to his gods, and none may bar them from their due.  I am Hern the Hunter, servant of Vandos, the master of the Wild Hunt.  We of the Hunt are the gatherers of souls for Arwyn, who is the god of the underworld, Tor.  I have come across the breadth of the world for this one, as is my right.  I will not be denied.” Turning to address Seeburn, Hern spoke again.  “You know the rules of the challenge?  After a brief head start, we will pursue.  You will run as a man runs, through the streets and across the land.  Walls will hold you and brambles can blood you.  You may take nothing of your mortal life with you though.  If you can stay free of the pursuit until the dawn, you will live again.  If you are caught however, you will become one of the Sluagh, the hounds of the hunt, and will never see the afterlife.  Are you certain that this is what you want?” “I made my challenge and I’ll live with it.”, Seeburn answered firmly. “If I may.”, spoke the Bard, when there seemed to be a break in the conversation.  “If he must run as a man runs, can he use things he finds along the way, as a mortal man would?” The Huntsman pondered this for a moment, then nodded his agreement.  Quickly Penn unhooked his own magic belt, with the pouch of spell components attached, and cast it down in the square.  “Do you think you can find that, Seeburn?”, he asked with a smile. Hern’s visage darkened for a moment, then broke as he laughed, loud and clear.  “Well played, little mortal.  But know you this:  If anyone actively interferes in the Hunt, for or against my prey, they become part of the Hunt, valid prey for my hounds.  So take care what other games you might play this night, or my arrows may just find you as well.” Then the Huntsman looked up at the perpetual overcast and, with a wave of his arm, swept the sky clear, revealing a blaze of stars, and a full moon.  “This night the world of men and the world of the spirits are as one.  The moon has risen, let the hunt begin!” “Enough of this!”, thundered the Magistrate.  “Arrest them all! I don’t know what’s going on, but I will not have this in my city!” “You have one minute, Seeburn Malhart of Dumfries.”, declared Hern, ignoring the Magistrate’s bluster.  “Use it well.” “Obscurus!”, intoned Markus, and immediately a section of the plaza was covered in thick fog. “Foolish mortal, you have interfered!”, thundered Hern.  “Run!” “I was just trying to stop the guards.”, the Jovian protested. “Then you would have laid that on the guards, or on yourselves.  The only ones cloaked are Seeburn and the Bard.  His head start is running.  You should be too.” Seeburn burst from the fog, running as no man had ever run before.  His body sculpted from moonlight, the muscles in his legs stretched like cords beneath the skin.  His hand swept low for a moment, scooping up the precious bit of magic that had been left for him to find, and then he was away into the night. Markus turned to Penn imploringly.  “Help me!” Penn had retrieved the spell component pouch from his fallen friend’s body and begun to conjure.  His plan had been to preserve Seeburn’s remains until his friend had use for them again, but he heard the pleading in Markus’ voice and knew that if he didn’t help, the Cleric would certainly die.  But if he did help… “Get in here!”, he called as the winged mount appeared.  Then, addressing the Celestial Hippogriff that had come to his call, he said, “Take them to the waterfront, south end.  I’ll follow.” The heavenly creature took Seeburn’s body in his front claws as Markus sprang onto his back, and then they were away.  Penn was already summoning again.  “Can I come with you?”, asked Imagina, watching as the guard began to gather. “Why not.  The more the merrier!”  And they were away. ***Seeburn ran through the streets, living moonlight in avenues of midnight.  He felt the cobbles beneath his bare feet, the wind through his hair, the cold night air in every breath he took and, though he was dead, he had never felt so alive. Behind him he heard the baying of the hounds begin, and felt the madness of the Hunt claw at his heart.  He knew that behind him they flowed through the alleys and avenues like cloud of smoke, spreading chaos in their wake.  All who heard the howls of the Sluagh were possessed by the pure primal essence of the Hunt, the madness that lives deep within all men.   Glancing skyward he saw the Huntsman mounting the heavens on his stallion, his bow nocked with a shaft the size of a javelin.  And he knew that if he could see Hern, then Hern had a clear shot at him.  He swerved down a side street. Into an alley he dove, up the slope of an unhitched cart, to a fence and then to a low roof.  If he had to run as a man, he was going to run where the hounds couldn’t follow.  And though he had seen many a smart hound in his days, he had yet to see one that could climb a ladder. His hand found the edge of a tiled overhang, and he hauled himself upwards.  Looking down he saw that he had come away with a few feathers left by an obliging pigeon.  “Avian”, he intoned, and felt the magic take hold.  And then he needed no ladders, carts or fences.  The wind bore him up, and upward he flew, then suddenly downward again as he once more spied the Huntsman. He heard the whoosh and clatter of the shot as he dodged through streets and alleys, a crooked path intended to deny his pursuers a clear shot or a straight run.  The hounds would have a merry chase indeed as he lead them over every fence and wall he could find.  Then, as his short lived magical flight began to fade, he recalled the spell pouch that had been provided for him, and after a few seconds his hand found what he needed. “Metamorphosis Persona”, he chanted.  Again the magic took hold, and he felt his form lighten and lengthen.  And again, he flew, this time on wings of silver and silence. He looked back and saw the nightmare that followed, leaving chaos in their wake.  Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, and across the city he saw small fires beginning.  He headed for the edge of the city.***Penn urged his mount forward, calling to the one ahead as he did so.  “To the western wall, quickly.” “I thought we were heading for the waterfront, where the Merchant’s barge is supposed to be.” “The Huntsman heard that instruction the same as you did. “, explained the Half-Satyr as he hunched low to speed their flight.  “And I hope he goes there.  I don’t plan to be anywhere near that spot.” Ahead he saw Markus calling down the wrath of his father, Jupiter.  Lightning struck from a clear sky, dancing all across the city.  “And confusion to my enemies!”, the Cleric cried in semi-mad glee, as appropriate for the scion of a storm god. “What are you doing?”, the Bard asked in dismay.  “Do you even know where those are going?” “No.”, replied Markus, “and I don’t care.  The Magistrate wants me in the salt mines, the priests want my head and the Huntsman wants my soul.  I’m not going to make it easy for any of them.” And then it was a race, a race against miles an minutes as the city walls approached, and the magic of the summoning threatened to fade.  They cleared the wall and then dove for the ground.  Markus’ mount faded first, it’s time of duty expired, and the cleric found himself summersaulting across the ground.  Penn and Imagina managed a slightly more decorous dismount, managing to land on their feet as their steed returned from whence it came, but their flight was far from over. “Run”, said Penn, as he grabbed Seeburn’s ankles and struggled to lift. Marcus grabbed the fallen hero’s shoulders, and together they manage a hobbling run away from the city walls.  Markus may have been able to continue for a time, but the load was more than Penn’s slight frame could bear for any distance, and soon he was ready to collapse. “This isn’t going to work.”, he gasped, as Seeburn’s body slipped from his grasp yet again.  “We have to do something else.” “Why do we need to carry him at all?”, asked Imagina.  “The guard aren’t worried about him, and the Sluagh aren’t after either his body or me.  Let’s just get his body and me to a safe place, then you two can run.” The simple wisdom of that was so wonderful that Penn could have kissed the priestess, then and there.  He took a moment to catch his breath, then began summoning one last time.  When the Hippogriff appeared, the Bard instructed it, “Take Imagina and my dead friend wherever she would go.”  Then, to her, “Look for a stand a of trees, someplace near the road but out of sight.  You have less than a minute before the mount is gone, so go quickly.” Then, without looking back, he and the Jovian cleric ran for their lives.***Seeburn cut an evasive course towards the northern gate, then swept up and over the city walls, clearing the ancient stone by scant feet.  Ahead of him stretched miles of farmland and forest.  To his right he saw the southern road shining in the moonlight, a canal beside it like a ribbon of silver.  He followed the two, his wings driving him through the night swift as an arrow.  Behind him he heard turmoil and chaos, and the baying of the hounds.  But ahead lay life. He stayed low, his wingtips almost touching the water on the downbeat.  Behind him he knew the Huntsman rode the night sky even as the Sluagh coursed through the streets and over the fields.  Rise enough to avoid the pack, and he’d be an easy target for the Huntsman’s arrows.  Still the exaltation of flight and the fear of the hunt a heady mix, and he found he was enjoying the chase..  He also discovered that, though he “ran as a man”, he didn’t get tired.  That weakness had been left behind, along with his other mortal frailties.  The canal gave him an idea. He was close enough to the ground that, even though he left no footprints, his scent would remain in the air, and the pack could follow wherever he went.  Normally, when so pursued, canny prey would take to water to try and break that scent.  While that would do him no good against this pack, the canal would slow them.  He began to sweep left and right, a long weaving path that would drag his pursuers back and forth through that canal, costing them precious time.  If they were going to catch him this night, they’d have to work for it. He snuck a glance over his shoulder.  There, silhouetted against the hunter’s moon, rode Hern, wondrous and terrible to see.  And the Sluagh, the hounds of the hunt, flowed over the city wall like a dark tide.  He drove on, hard.***Penn and Markus were almost ready to congratulate themselves.  The Hippogriff had left no scent for the pack to follow, and their abrupt change in course appeared to have fooled them, at least for a time.  The fleeing pair began to think they might have evaded them entirely.  Until they heard the echoes of their baying behind them.  “Do you hear that?”, Markus asked, suddenly alert.  “They’re between the city walls and us, you can tell by the sound.  They’re on our trail.  Can you call for more flying mounts?” “No, I used the last of that to carry Imagina and Seeburn out of harm’s way.”, Penn replied.  He knew that he could transform himself to take wing, but Markus had no such option.  He wouldn’t abandon his friend that way.  So instead, he ran. The pair pressed on, perversely staying on the road as much as possible.  Not only did it afford them easier travel, but they wouldn’t leave footprints on the hard cobblestone, and their scent might mix with that of the thousands who had used the road in recent days. Penn, whose cloven hooves made him the faster of the pair, took time to lay false trails, setting off to the side then doubling back on himself, to try and confuse the trail.  Their path took them past a low orchard, whose scent hung heavy in the night air, and the pair took the opportunity to take cover and rest.  The pack might be tireless, but their mortal prey had been up all day, and was quickly growing tired. “You are one of the most devious people I’ve ever met.”, declared Markus, without preamble.  “Can you think of anything to confuse our trail?” “I’m not a hunter or a tracker, but there may be something.”, the Fey said, after a moment’s thought.  Reaching up, he pulled down clumps of blossoms from the trees.  “First, a bit of magic.”  He sang a brief tune that became an incantation, then he began to gesture at the two of them, as if sweeping away dust.  “That will clean us, drying our sweat and lessening our scent.   Then we rub ourselves with the blossoms, to mingle our scent with the orchard itself.  Make sure you get the bottom of your feet.” Anything else?”, asked the Cleric as he busied himself with the aromatic herbs.  “Yes.  Run.” And the pair were off again, taking care to moderate their pace this time.  Like it or not, it was going to be a long night.***Seeburn pushed himself hard, his flight taking him over a vineyard, where the grapes grew in long, well tended rows.  “I wish they were brambles.”, he thought to himself as once again he set a weaving course, to lure the pack into fighting their way through the rows. Then, ahead, he heard a dreadful sound, one that chilled him straight to the marrow of his bones.  The baying of hounds.  Somehow the pack had split, and half had gotten ahead to cut him off.  He glanced back towards the road and saw an escape route.  His transformation was almost done, but he had another.  He headed for the road, and the canal that ran along side it. ”Metamorphisis”, he incanted again as he hit the water.  Now his form changed again.  Gone were the wings that had borne him so well.  Still he did not miss them.  In their place were webbed fingers, gills, and broad feet.  “Let them follow my scent under water”, he thought to himself as he doubled back towards the city. His legs drove him through the water faster than a man could run, faster than many birds could have flown.  He was almost chortling at his own cleverness when the first arrow plunged into the water scarcely a hand’s breadth from his side.  His trick might have fooled the hounds, but the Huntsman, riding high in the night, had seen him.  He cursed himself for a fool for forgetting Hern, for swimming so hard that he almost certainly left a foaming trail in his wake. He spied a side channel, a culvert that cut beneath the road and took it without hesitation.  The low stone bridge would provide him with some cover.  He’d wait here for a moment, then double back at stealthier pace, and resume his route back to the city. He waited a hundred heartbeats, then crept out, back to the main channel.  Almost at once, pain lanced through him as an arrow creased his side.  The water might be a refuge from the pack, but it limited his movements too much.  He drove forward, hard, then aimed upward like a salmon mounting a waterfall.  Momentum carried him up to the bank, where he landed on his feet, already running. He took refuge in a nearby orchard, where the thin canopy of leaves would shield him from Hern’s sight, then took a moment to examine his wound.    The magic of the Bard’s borrowed belt helped staunch the bleeding, but didn’t close the wound entirely.  And from the road, he heard the sound of the pack.  He ran. He saw that Hern had brought his horse in low, so he could peer beneath the edge of the trees, and the Sluagh followed their master.  The fleeing hero decided to take a chance.  It might anger the demi-god, but he had few options.  After all, what could Hern do to him for the offense, kill him?  “Infernus”, he intoned, rolling the odd bit of sulfur and droppings together.  Fire sprang from his hand, racing to a point beneath the rider, then erupting into a great explosion that lit up the night. To his surprise, the Huntsman fell to the ground, his flying mount slain. The field was scorched, and the smell of smoke filled the air.  He saw Hern rise to his feet and decided not to press his luck.  He dove for cover as the first of the arrows whistled his way. Through the trees he dodged, and over a low wall.  If he could reach that waterway again, with Hern grounded and on foot… He cut left, sharply, then dodged to his right, back towards the road.  And… pain. Somehow he couldn’t move.  A single shaft from the hunter’s bow had driven completely through him, pinning him to a tree.  He struggled to free himself, but his strength failed him, flowing away like water.  His feet fought for purchase, and he pressed against the rough trunk of the tree, to no avail. “You have run well, mortal.”, he heard Hern say.  “But it is over.”.***Penn and Markus were near the end of their strength.  The eastern fringe of the sky was lightening, showing that dawn was close.  But the hounds of the Hunt were closer, and the pair could barely stagger. “We’re not going to make it.”, gasped Penn, peering through the morning haze for sight of the pursuit. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”, Markus replied.  One impulsive moment had doomed them both, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Nonsense.  I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”, the Bard lied.  “We almost got to put one over on the gods themselves.  What more could a performer like me want as his final act?”  He paused to pant for a moment, the chill air raw against his throat.  “Still, we almost made it.  An hour more and we’d have won.” “An hour?”, panted Markus, a note of hope sneaking into his voice.  “Can you buy me one minute?  We may get out of this yet.” Penn dragged up his last reserves, hoping that his friend’s idea would work.  “Metamorphosis”, he chanted, changing form one last time. “What in Tartarus are you now?”, asked the Cleric, nearly choking on the sudden stench. “Trogdolyte”, the Bard smirked.  “If they’re going to follow our scent, I’m going to make them pay for the privilege.”  Then he began to move, managing a slow, staggering run.  He ran in a small circle around where they had stood, then spiraled outward, spreading the foul smell as far and as wide as he could.  Meanwhile Markus dragged himself to his feet and cast about, looking for a suitable site.  Spying a pillar at the edge of a lane, he headed over to it, measuring it with his eye as he moved.  Not the best, but it would have to do. “Come on, I’ve found it.”, he called, waving to the Bard. Penn resumed his own form, nearly retched from the stench he had left behind, and joined the Cleric.  “What are we going to do?”, he inquired. “Climb on my back.  We’re going to cheat.”  Then, nearly falling from the weight of even the Fey’s slight build, he began to incant:  “Petrous Morphus”, he intoned, and together the pair stepped into the stone pillar, becoming one with the rock itself.***</blockquote>

Verification