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Nov. 7th, 2013 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pegunicentFeeding Decimate and Zeke's book habit took most of the meager coin Zeke earned for doing odd jobs. Hunting became a skill they both learned out of necessity. Decimate, try though he might, rarely managed to catch anything more than the odd unlucky stray. Zeke on the other hand figured out simple snares and lure charms for water birds, rabbits, and the delicate legged Dwarfin deer that lived on the grounds of his parent's property.
On the road, those skills became increasingly useful, as so many small townships and villages refused to give food or shelter to Decimate.
What Decimate didn't devour, Zeke tried to put to use, though in the end there usually wasn't much.
Zeke arched a brow at the heads of the Circles, waiting for someone to do something that would get this farce over with.
"For the Color of Purity, you have applied, is this so?"
Zeke tried not to roll his eyes.
"It is."
"And also for the Color of Wisdom you have applied?"
"Yes."
"For the Color of..."
"All of them." Zeke broke in, interrupting the ceremony portion just to get things over with quicker.
A low murmuring rang throughout the room, several voices protesting loudly and then harshly silenced. Zeke tried not to fidget, nerves clanging and edging his anger and frustration higher. Theoretically the Trials were supposed to last for several hours, with lots of pomp and circumstance and very little actual display of ability from the seeking Wizard.
The Circle of the applied Color demanded three shows of mastery alone to gain their acceptance, but what those demands were, no student could be hazarded to guess before it came. Three demands from eight Circles? That was no less than 28 spells that had to be performed flawlessly in front of an audience who's very presence warped the mystic energies by existing.
"You apply for the Color of Harmony?"
The room fell silent. It couldn't be done. It was impossible. Who would even make hte demands, there was no Circle for that Color!
"Of course." Zeke looked up at the speaker, voice filled with resolution. "I said all of them."
"I'm doing nothing more productive than planning."
"You're complaining about having the time and space to plan? lack of planning has been the leading cause of young men getting themselves killed."
"I'm neither young, nor a man, and my time is usually spent *doing* rather than thinking about doing."
"Then perhaps your activities will be improved with a bit of forethought."
Zeke hates the cold. He cuddles into his Familiar's thick fur, hides under the heavy wings and sleeps peacefully in a hot musky cocoon safe from the fall chill. Decimate's huge forearm traps him close, his huge form curled around him as only something with a feline (or draconic) spine can manage. Breath like a butcher's shop courses down Zeke's back in hot, slow waves.
Zeke has learned not to sleep in his clothes with Decimate. Claws, horns and spikes are unforgiving of the material and his Familiar thoroughly disapproves of the feel of fabric chafing his fur and rubbing his feathers. That it gives his Familiar easier access to him is something he's taught himself to ignore.
There is no one, nothing, else Decimate can slack his lusts on. Zeke is his only unfortuante outlet, and Zeke can never deny Decimate what he needs. It's only fair.
Decimate is too big, too oddly formed, to *dangerous* for anything sane to be willing. When Zeke wakes in the mornings it is to a slick, hot shaft grinding into his abdomen. Nearly a match in length to Zeke's forearm, as thick around at the base as his wrist, tapered not unlike a canine, or perhaps rodent. Zeke knows better than to try and use his hands to help, his skin is too dry, to rough for flesh that's sheathed most of the day. He lays still and lets Decimate do what he has to, petting and stroking and murmuring words of praise until his familiar finally marks him with long ropy strands of release.
Owned. Zeke always feels branded with his Familiar's scent afterwards. Even washed and dressed the smell lingers, musk, salt and magic. Zeke's own spend often mats Decimate's fur, another fact of life Zeke has accepted by not thinking about it much. Hes grown very good at not thinking about things that involve his Familiar, as opposed to all the things which *endanger* him.
The oil is scentless and thickly viscous. Zeke doesn't know exactly what he's doing with it, or why, except that something in Decimate's routine has shifted.
Claws like daggers dig into the soft soil, gritty brown streaks clinging to the rough edges scales in abstract patterns. A quivering tension runs under the metal edged miniature shells, setting a soft rasping, chiming sound to life just audible as a whisper that makes Zeke's ears itch. The thin membrane that slides over shining silver eyes under the rough lids, it keeps flicking as if the dirt were in the air.
"Repeat that in words that make sense." The serpent's voice is a cart of fire stone being tossed down a hill, Zeke's spine wants to jerk the rest of his body out of the dangerous radius of the impending explosion and fire, but his feet refuse to respond, rooted through sheer terror to the ground.
Decimate growls but the sound is distant, coming from some strange point outside of Zeke's full awareness.
"The Lord of the Land has conquered all the grounds around this mountain, the mountain belongs to him and you are to leave his people alone while you pay tax upon these caverns or else leave the vicinity entirely." Andria repeats, unaffected by what she can not see. The serpent's voice resounds through the tunnels, but without being magically inclined she is blind to the horror and death that glare from just feet away.
Zeke has the briefest thought that to die in ignorance must be a gift.
"Thissss Lord of the Land issss mortal. Mortalsssss have no authority over *me*." The creature spat.
"He has authority over the Land, which you reside on." Andria argued.
Zeke felt his magic flicker and writhe, the enchantments he'd woven around Andria to protect her from the serpent's power were feeding directly off him, draining his focus and strength as testament to the brunt of wrath they were deflecting. The serpent didn't even seem to notice, which made Zeke sweat even more.
Mystic creatures were not his forte.
Decimate, wings bunched in tight and claws rending the earth of the cavern, could not be allowed to attack first. This place was a wellspring, hoarded and attuned to it's keeper over eons. Decimate might be able to wound it, out in the open air Decimate might even be able to get in a lethal strike, but not here surrounded by stone and dirt and dark scaled energies.
"Take it, it'sssss yoursssss little mortal." the serpent hissed, retreating further into the caverns.
Zeke stared at the sword. It was huge, almost as long as Zeke was tall and had to weigh as much as one of Decimate's wings.
"I'm a Wizard! We don't use these things!" He tried to argue, afraid the gleaming metal would somehow come to life with his refusal.
"It'sssss yoursssss."
"Your idea of gifts is very unhelpful!" leaning his walking staff against Decimate's side, Zeke stepped forward, over Andria's limp body, and placed one hand around the hilt. He knew that Knights used swords of this size sometimes, though not any Knight he'd ever personally met. The metal was a long sharp triangle etched in scrawling letter work he couldn't clearly read in the low light. This weapon was meant to take both hands, and most of the body, to swing. It was a hammer, a cleaver, nothing but violence waiting for the perfect bearer.
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I didn't want you to die."
"The Morthaine alphabet," he whispered, "You... but how?"
"We wrote it down of course," the Head Smith said, as though Zeke was stupid, "and then incorporated it into the final design. Don’t know what it means, but... there was a lot of writing in the sword. Didn’t want to lose it. Maybe it said something important. Maybe it was a recipe for stew. Who knows?"
"It's a vow. A... a promise." Zeke shook his head, surprised to find himself surprised. When he brought the Serpent's gift here he'd assumed it would be lost, the ancient creed and bindings of history sundered away with the flames of the forge. He should have known that something as unique as a Hell Lord's favor would not allow itself to be destroyed. Not after an eon, not with the hero and his blood line gone, not even with said Hell Lord long ash in his own domain.
"Well, it's yours now." The Head Smith pointed out gruffly, thick arms crossing belligerently over his broad chest.
Zeke carefully picked up the staff, testing it's heft and weight. Heavier, of course, than the walking stick Zeke had given them, but not much more. The smooth wood still shone under wrapped designs of dark gleaming metal. It spiraled around in strange curls, highlighting knots and whorls, the seams so smooth he could barely feel the transition from one material to the other.
At the base, instead of a leather pad of stuffed wool, was an open claw. Looking carefully, Zeke had to blink away strange wetness from his eyes as he noted the claw had six digits around a thumb, smooth metal etched faintly in an echo of fur. The head was a simple rounded knob, easy to fit in his palm and curl his fingers around.
On the road, those skills became increasingly useful, as so many small townships and villages refused to give food or shelter to Decimate.
What Decimate didn't devour, Zeke tried to put to use, though in the end there usually wasn't much.
Zeke arched a brow at the heads of the Circles, waiting for someone to do something that would get this farce over with.
"For the Color of Purity, you have applied, is this so?"
Zeke tried not to roll his eyes.
"It is."
"And also for the Color of Wisdom you have applied?"
"Yes."
"For the Color of..."
"All of them." Zeke broke in, interrupting the ceremony portion just to get things over with quicker.
A low murmuring rang throughout the room, several voices protesting loudly and then harshly silenced. Zeke tried not to fidget, nerves clanging and edging his anger and frustration higher. Theoretically the Trials were supposed to last for several hours, with lots of pomp and circumstance and very little actual display of ability from the seeking Wizard.
The Circle of the applied Color demanded three shows of mastery alone to gain their acceptance, but what those demands were, no student could be hazarded to guess before it came. Three demands from eight Circles? That was no less than 28 spells that had to be performed flawlessly in front of an audience who's very presence warped the mystic energies by existing.
"You apply for the Color of Harmony?"
The room fell silent. It couldn't be done. It was impossible. Who would even make hte demands, there was no Circle for that Color!
"Of course." Zeke looked up at the speaker, voice filled with resolution. "I said all of them."
"I'm doing nothing more productive than planning."
"You're complaining about having the time and space to plan? lack of planning has been the leading cause of young men getting themselves killed."
"I'm neither young, nor a man, and my time is usually spent *doing* rather than thinking about doing."
"Then perhaps your activities will be improved with a bit of forethought."
Zeke hates the cold. He cuddles into his Familiar's thick fur, hides under the heavy wings and sleeps peacefully in a hot musky cocoon safe from the fall chill. Decimate's huge forearm traps him close, his huge form curled around him as only something with a feline (or draconic) spine can manage. Breath like a butcher's shop courses down Zeke's back in hot, slow waves.
Zeke has learned not to sleep in his clothes with Decimate. Claws, horns and spikes are unforgiving of the material and his Familiar thoroughly disapproves of the feel of fabric chafing his fur and rubbing his feathers. That it gives his Familiar easier access to him is something he's taught himself to ignore.
There is no one, nothing, else Decimate can slack his lusts on. Zeke is his only unfortuante outlet, and Zeke can never deny Decimate what he needs. It's only fair.
Decimate is too big, too oddly formed, to *dangerous* for anything sane to be willing. When Zeke wakes in the mornings it is to a slick, hot shaft grinding into his abdomen. Nearly a match in length to Zeke's forearm, as thick around at the base as his wrist, tapered not unlike a canine, or perhaps rodent. Zeke knows better than to try and use his hands to help, his skin is too dry, to rough for flesh that's sheathed most of the day. He lays still and lets Decimate do what he has to, petting and stroking and murmuring words of praise until his familiar finally marks him with long ropy strands of release.
Owned. Zeke always feels branded with his Familiar's scent afterwards. Even washed and dressed the smell lingers, musk, salt and magic. Zeke's own spend often mats Decimate's fur, another fact of life Zeke has accepted by not thinking about it much. Hes grown very good at not thinking about things that involve his Familiar, as opposed to all the things which *endanger* him.
The oil is scentless and thickly viscous. Zeke doesn't know exactly what he's doing with it, or why, except that something in Decimate's routine has shifted.
Claws like daggers dig into the soft soil, gritty brown streaks clinging to the rough edges scales in abstract patterns. A quivering tension runs under the metal edged miniature shells, setting a soft rasping, chiming sound to life just audible as a whisper that makes Zeke's ears itch. The thin membrane that slides over shining silver eyes under the rough lids, it keeps flicking as if the dirt were in the air.
"Repeat that in words that make sense." The serpent's voice is a cart of fire stone being tossed down a hill, Zeke's spine wants to jerk the rest of his body out of the dangerous radius of the impending explosion and fire, but his feet refuse to respond, rooted through sheer terror to the ground.
Decimate growls but the sound is distant, coming from some strange point outside of Zeke's full awareness.
"The Lord of the Land has conquered all the grounds around this mountain, the mountain belongs to him and you are to leave his people alone while you pay tax upon these caverns or else leave the vicinity entirely." Andria repeats, unaffected by what she can not see. The serpent's voice resounds through the tunnels, but without being magically inclined she is blind to the horror and death that glare from just feet away.
Zeke has the briefest thought that to die in ignorance must be a gift.
"Thissss Lord of the Land issss mortal. Mortalsssss have no authority over *me*." The creature spat.
"He has authority over the Land, which you reside on." Andria argued.
Zeke felt his magic flicker and writhe, the enchantments he'd woven around Andria to protect her from the serpent's power were feeding directly off him, draining his focus and strength as testament to the brunt of wrath they were deflecting. The serpent didn't even seem to notice, which made Zeke sweat even more.
Mystic creatures were not his forte.
Decimate, wings bunched in tight and claws rending the earth of the cavern, could not be allowed to attack first. This place was a wellspring, hoarded and attuned to it's keeper over eons. Decimate might be able to wound it, out in the open air Decimate might even be able to get in a lethal strike, but not here surrounded by stone and dirt and dark scaled energies.
"Take it, it'sssss yoursssss little mortal." the serpent hissed, retreating further into the caverns.
Zeke stared at the sword. It was huge, almost as long as Zeke was tall and had to weigh as much as one of Decimate's wings.
"I'm a Wizard! We don't use these things!" He tried to argue, afraid the gleaming metal would somehow come to life with his refusal.
"It'sssss yoursssss."
"Your idea of gifts is very unhelpful!" leaning his walking staff against Decimate's side, Zeke stepped forward, over Andria's limp body, and placed one hand around the hilt. He knew that Knights used swords of this size sometimes, though not any Knight he'd ever personally met. The metal was a long sharp triangle etched in scrawling letter work he couldn't clearly read in the low light. This weapon was meant to take both hands, and most of the body, to swing. It was a hammer, a cleaver, nothing but violence waiting for the perfect bearer.
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I didn't want you to die."
"The Morthaine alphabet," he whispered, "You... but how?"
"We wrote it down of course," the Head Smith said, as though Zeke was stupid, "and then incorporated it into the final design. Don’t know what it means, but... there was a lot of writing in the sword. Didn’t want to lose it. Maybe it said something important. Maybe it was a recipe for stew. Who knows?"
"It's a vow. A... a promise." Zeke shook his head, surprised to find himself surprised. When he brought the Serpent's gift here he'd assumed it would be lost, the ancient creed and bindings of history sundered away with the flames of the forge. He should have known that something as unique as a Hell Lord's favor would not allow itself to be destroyed. Not after an eon, not with the hero and his blood line gone, not even with said Hell Lord long ash in his own domain.
"Well, it's yours now." The Head Smith pointed out gruffly, thick arms crossing belligerently over his broad chest.
Zeke carefully picked up the staff, testing it's heft and weight. Heavier, of course, than the walking stick Zeke had given them, but not much more. The smooth wood still shone under wrapped designs of dark gleaming metal. It spiraled around in strange curls, highlighting knots and whorls, the seams so smooth he could barely feel the transition from one material to the other.
At the base, instead of a leather pad of stuffed wool, was an open claw. Looking carefully, Zeke had to blink away strange wetness from his eyes as he noted the claw had six digits around a thumb, smooth metal etched faintly in an echo of fur. The head was a simple rounded knob, easy to fit in his palm and curl his fingers around.
