Emyuil: Chasing a Broken Dream, Part 2: Work to be Done

This page was imported from a forum post dated December 23, 2015 in the category Art and Fiction by Wanderer. Its content is likely to be out of date!

This post had 6 replies.

Wed, 12/23/2015 - 09:37

The plains stretched on as far as the eye could see in all directions, save for a small path of woods far to the west, on the edge of Emyuil's vision. It was towards this point that the young mouse was slowly progressing, his cloak being blown back behind him and his face scrunched up against the vicious wind that howled its way across the rolling hills and meadows of Tuscani. It'd been several days--two to be exact--since he'd come upon the mob of vermin at their campsite and slaughtered them while they were drunk. He had not killed again, or indeed seen any beasts at all, since then. This may have had something to do with the fact that he was bypassing most well-travelled paths in favor of cutting through woods and tall grass; while this slowed his progress somewhat, it kept him hidden from unfriendly eyes--in other words, the eyes of any beast at all. For as far as he could tell, he was alone against the world. The Half-Rat, the beast he was slowly becoming, was one who walked alone, eschewing the companionship of others both by choice and necessity.

He stood atop a hill now, gazing out across the eastern lands behind him, the burnt remains of the farmhouse and forge long out of sight now, as well as any other signs of civilization.

Yet this place was not barren of life. Crickets and cicadas, as well as various small birds, dwelt hidden in the bushes and tall grass. Small, pale yellow butterflies flitted from bush to bush, spreading the pollen that was so essential to the plant life here, wings straining against the high winds that sent wave-like ripples of movement through the seemingly endless grass.

The wind buffeted his ears and whiskers, sending tingles of cold across the skin beneath his fur. I could build a home on this hill, he thought to himself suddenly. I could make a new life here. There's good enough soil for the grass. It could be woven, dried, made into straw and sold or traded...

A lump rose in his throat, as images of woven bracelets, some of grass, some of flowers, like those his sisters used to make, danced through his mind.

He knelt in the grass, trembling slightly as the lump threatened to become a desperate sob. Lily...'rose--

A darker, almost snarling voice cut out the pleading and longing that were undercurrents beneath those two names. No. They are gone. There is nothing more for me here. Move on. The hunt awaits.

I'm just a child, the mouse thought pleadingly. I can't...I can't win!

I will win, the dark voice growled savagely. Whether I survive after my quest or not, whether Stormfeather is slain by my paw in battle or in cold blood...I will succeed. I will emerge from this nightmare, bloodied and beaten, but unbowed.

I must leave this place, and go forth to my destiny.

The beast who called himself Emyuil rose to an upright stance. He noted that between his footpaws, a patch of white lilies was growing, distinct for its pale, fragile beauty amidst the endless seas of rough, drab grass and brush. Seasons later, unbeknownst to him, the creature who would rise to legend on a tide of gore, who would become a fearfully whispered name amidst countless vermin, whose black sword would reap a horrific toll upon any and all who stood in his way, would return. But not yet.

The unknowable future lay ahead, in Mossflower's forests, and the unalterable past lay behind in a halo of ash, blood, and tears. Between them, along the path he would walk, lay an uncaring present. A foe like any other, to be cut down with brutal efficiency and ground into the mud even as he continued on his way.

The sound of screams and raucous laughter brought his attention to a copse ahead, where two paths intersected. He drew his pitch-black sword in one fluid, silent motion. There would be no rest tonight, not yet.

There was work to be done.

Top