|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sun Apr 15, 2012 11:02 pm
 Talon One1.. Tripping Over Treasures ..12.. Origin Stories ..23.. Methods of Survival ..3Talon Two4.. Cause for Alarm ..4
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu May 31, 2012 1:26 pm
Tripping Over Treasures
Bloody bits and all “That’s right you run you little s**t!”
Whoever assumed that being a butcher made you strong, Casca was quite sure he was proving them wrong with the innate feeling that he was dying every step that he took. Making it past the pathway of barren branches, everything opened up as the result of his fleeing led Casca to far beyond what he would usually go to avoid a beating.
It was just- the day had been so long. And hot. He’d been pulling more hours than usual; everyone was whining with the lack of their fresh game, his father left him by himself to run the shop- again- and whatever animal he caught he just dropped on the counter to leave all the knitty gritty skinning, hacking, and disemboweling to Casca while he hunted for more to bring back. Repeat horrible, revolting, stomach retching process.
Casca was all fine and dandy with being only the assistant. Why his father thought he should pick up the trade was beyond him. Only recently could he even stomach the bloody end of the job without adding his own vomit to the mix. Now Casca realized the ‘spending time with dad’ was only conditioning for him to eventually take over the family business. He knew he was way past the age where boys started picking up work in their intended careers. But he didn’t see the point in starting so soon when everything he wanted to do was out of his reach. Now it looked like his decision was made for him. He could fight it, and he would lose.
He’d been taking his frustrations out the proper way; tenderizing the hell out of a boar steak. But of course would appear Marsden in the worst of times. Bully extraordinaire and all around pain in the a** since primary school, enter stage left. One would think not to tease a boy handling a meat cleaver. But that was the thing about working in numbers: you assume no one would bother to fight against you. Which is usually true- especially true when dealing with Casca.
Except Casca wasn’t quite Casca in that moment. And when Marsden proceeded to take money from cashbox and walk out laughing, the Casca imposter made sure to remind the gang and Marsden’s shins that cleavers of the metal variety were quite as painful as they seem to be.
And then came the rushing of people to do equal harm to Casca’s face. Gone is the imposter and back is Casca Guryon, survival instincts and all.
Having to run only made true of the fact that he was weak. In everyone else’s eyes he would be seen as a coward. The butcher’s boy! A coward! The thought itself was ridiculous. But how was he supposed to fight back? Three on one was just an unfair number no matter what way you looked at it! But experience told him that no one would care about the details; thus it was quite the disadvantage he was put in.
Wrapped up in his pessimistic thoughts, Casca almost completely missed the blockade rushing towards him. A moment before impact his eyes drew to the obstacle and he jumped in a knee jerk reaction; but a second too late had his toes tripping on stone and his freckled skin lovingly colliding with the ground beneath him.
The ache was immediate. “Damnit!” He grinded his teeth as heat flared from his knees and cheek. On the ground for longer than necessary, Casca wondered if he should just lay there in wait. Maybe if he tried hard enough, the earth would hear his cry and allow him to meld with the landscape. Life as a boulder had to be less painful than this.
The sound of Marsden and his troupe searching the area grew in volume. As a shout became particularly close, Casca’s eyes snapped open and waiting for a fist. He was prepared to defend his face from the worst beat down in history of his life when he saw a crevice to the right of where he fell. The opening was large enough, but angled in a way that, in the direction he’d come from, it was easily missed. Hope filled his heart and Casca scrambled for the hideout. Turning his body sideways, the way in was easier than he figured besides a little shimmying here and there. In a flash he’d made it though and pulled free. His eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, but Casca could already tell that the inside was completely betrayed by how small the entrance was. The ceiling was high, and the darkness in front of him stretched into what seemed like forever; such a large cave had probably been the home of an animal before perhaps some rockslide covered the mouth of it. Stepping forward, he took in a breath of stale air that reminded him of his mother’s drying clay pots and sighed in comfort. Except that the sigh was really a choke. And the comfort was really fear. And his hideout was really a deathtrap.
Somehow he was inverted again. And as his feet caught up with his body his brain rushed to meet. With and ‘oomph!’ everything collided to the dirt. Casca had to grit his teeth to keep from curling in on himself while the pain wasn’t restricted to just his knees, but now on every square inch of his body. He wanted to laugh, only that it meant if he did he’d finally cracked. Go figure the world would throw him a bone only to corrupt even this small blessing.
It took effort, but he made an unsteady rise to his feet. In his eyes were very manly tears of manly frustration. And in a very manly way he turned to kick at the array of rocks that must have tripped him. Because he was a man. And men kicked things when they were upset.
“And you can just shove it you stupid, piece of-“ Casca stopped himself-mid stomp when light caught on whatever was below him to flash in his eye. Lowering his foot he peered closer. Nestled in a ring of rock was a little orb of light. Or, not quite light. A bottle?
He reached for it, and then jerked back when it suddenly flared at him. It grew and dimmed in brightness, seeming to pulse as he placed his skinned hands over it.
Footsteps brought him out of awe and back to the present. Clutching the object to his chest, he rushed to the edge of the entrance. He made sure to keep out of line of sight while watching figures pass and argue over his whereabouts. There was some grunting and insults until a voice that was distinctly Marsden’s nasally tone made a command of ‘this way!’ Finally the area became quieter, and Casca stopped biting his lip. Letting out a shaky breath, he took a chance to become distracted by the warmth in his lap.
It seemed to resonate with the thudding that his heart was doing at the moment. The darkness emphasized the small changes in light it gave off to appear as if an ethereal glow. Turning it between his hands, he squinted as a cloudiness was making whatever within unclear. After a few moments, the squint quickly turned into a grimace. He realized what was now flashing at him in time with his own heart was the dissected one of another’s. He wondered what poor creature had been unfortunate enough to be caught in some hunter’s clutches. And who the hell keeps the heart of a beast as the trophy? And then leave it in a cave of all places. The butcher looked around him in questioning, his brain churning:
He was in a cave. Possibly a dwelling.
An animal dwelling.
With a bottled heart.
On dragon’s peak.
“Are you serious?” He whispered to himself. Suddenly all the pain and anxiety of getting his a** kicked seemed worth it. He didn’t want to get too excited, what if he had been wrong? But the circumstances couldn’t be more perfect. No one had seen a dragon in decades. And even then, stories of the creatures were shady at best. Could he really be holding a dragon’s heart in his hands?
A giddy feeling trumped the complaining of his muscles as he stood up and listened to his surroundings. Hearing nothing, he made his way out of the narrow opening and peered out to confirm he was alone. No one was in the immediate area and Casca wasn’t wasting this chance. He held his treasure close and rushed out; hopping over the stones that tripped him previously and running back to the edge of Dragon’s peak and onwards. Like he did when he came, not once did he stop. Finally, he just might have done something right. His cowardice was worth something. Finally.
Finally.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jun 18, 2012 10:47 pm
Origin Stories
Are more faith than truth
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jun 18, 2012 10:50 pm
Methods of Survival
Survival methods
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
