Played by Painted Moose (Art by Elf Princess Flannery)
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Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 5:54 pm
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November 26th, 2017: Sylvirah's quest is accepted!
Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:04 pm
Sylvirah
Nicknames: N/A Race: Ice Gender: Female Future Class: Rider Significant Other: N/A Parents: Lakiza (NPC) & Grashni (NPC) Half-Siblings:Ergon & Kaygon (Dead/NPC) Children: None Physical Description: Please check out her quest for a detailed description!
3 Base Traits: Stubborn - Frank - Resourceful Personality: Once Sylvi has set her mind on a goal there is little that can deter her. Her dogged sense of determination has worked in her favor while trailing particularly evasive prey, but just as soon as it is to work in her favor the tides can change. Sylvirah doesn't seem to know when to back down; even if a task if far beyond her. She would rather exhaust all of her resources and bring herself to the edge before letting go. Sometimes when living so far up north, when the winters get so bad that contact with others isn't possible, your will just has to be strong enough to pull you through.
This girl isn't one for delicate situations; she's very much a 'tell it like it is' person, regardless of tact or any feelings she may hurt. Coming from such a small village, where each day is a struggle, words mean little to her and Sylvi straight up doesn't have time for B.S. She doesn't mince meat with fancy words and phrases, though she has been known to get pretty nasty when upset. Most of the time those rants are filled with some rather base, uncultured words, though, and each shoot straight to the point.
Sylvirah strives to the be most sincere, honest version of herself that she can be, and while that can sometimes cause conflict with southerners who don't like the way she talks she doesn't actively try to start fights.
She's a fast learner who is able to adapt to most situations relatively quickly. Since her survival revolves around successful hunts and the ability to provide for herself Sylvirah's clan spent the time to groom her into a quick witted young woman. It doesn't take her long to assess a situation before choosing the best path to act on; often the one she believes will yield the best results. Sometimes it doesn't always make sense to others (ex. cutting off a chair leg to use as dry firewood instead of seeking out wood from the forest) but to her it just seems to work (ex. seeking out that firewood in the middle of a winter's night and risking frost bite).
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Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:06 pm
History
Sylvirah was an accidental child; certainly never planned, but welcomed, just the same. Her mother, Lakiza, was a huntswoman in the far northern reaches of Zena who had traveled to the southern border with a few friends, chasing game and other sorts of tail. They were a strange group; one that was just as quick to scare others away with their gruff appearances as they were to draw them in by raucous jokes and laughter. It was that heady combination that caught the eye of the married Grashni, and inevitably drew him closer to Lakiza.
Grashni's relationship with his own wife had grown strained, if non-existent, in the years after their son's death. The accident that took Kaygon away seemed to have taken his mother's spirit as well, leaving the family in limbo. While the man still mourned, enough time had passed that Grashni felt the need to start healing as well, though Snowelle seemed resistant. It seemed that nothing could get through to her, and the pressure of raising his son 'alone', the very son that looked so much like his deceased twin, weighed heavy on Grashni's shoulders.
Lakiza was a passing fancy for him; she was warm, brave, and vibrant in all the same ways his wife had once been. She plied the man with drinks, hoping to get him to 'cheer up' a little and have a good night with them. What neither had expected was waking up, pressed against one another, in Lakiza's room that next morning. Guilt and shame overcome Grashni, causing him to flee the scene as soon as possible.
Grashni avoided Lakiza's group for the remainder of their stay, and never expected to see her again after they returned to the far north. It wasn't until several months later that he realized just how wrong he actually was. A large man in thick wool came southward seeking Grashni, and found the home where the iceling lived with his family. At first the wealthy iceling wanted nothing more than to shut the door in the man's face, possibly even call on an armed guard to shoo him away, until Grashni was presented with a little, wrapped infant.
The man, as it turned out, was Lakiza's father. His daughter had returned home from her trip south with more than just meat and fur. The news had come as a shock to the little village, but was quickly met with pure joy. They cared little for how the child was conceived; only that their clan was about to grow, and yet, when Sylvirah was born, the clan's numbers remained the same. Her father explained to Grashni that the long labor had simply been too much for his daughter to bear, and in gaining a grandchild he had lost his precious girl.
Now, he presented the babe to Grashni, hopeful that the man would take her to raise as he should. Grashni, however, vehemently declined. The iceling wanted to do right by his daughter, as....unfortunate as her birth had been, but he simply couldn't keep her, especially not in the same house with his wife and son!
And so Torval took his granddaughter back into the snow with a promise from Grashni; he would provide the family with anything they needed to raise her as long as they promised never to speak his name. As upset as Torval was of the spineless man's desire to hide his daughter away, to ignore the gift his own child had bestowed upon the world before passing, he did as he was bid. Better to raise her himself than to allow her to stay where she was unwanted.
And so, Sylvirah grew up alongside cousins and relatives in a little village, tucked away from the world. From her grandparents she learned hunting, tracking, and the necessary skills to survive in a frigid world. Stories of her mother's exploits were told often, either by family members or friends, with the hope of keeping Lakiza's spirit alive. It served to form a bond between the deceased huntress and her daughter, leaving the child with seldom a thought as to what her father might be like. In her youth she imagined someone closer to her grandfather, or perhaps even a more spry man, one who could outrun a chiavi in flight, but as she grew such thoughts started to fade, choosing to focus her mind on the more present tasks at hand instead of wondering about a man who had never been.
As she's grown, life in the village has become harder. Game has become harder to come by, the winters seem to take more and more lives, and with the majority of their youthful members fleeing for more stable villages, her grandfather has started talking about uprooting his home as well, leaving Sylvirah at a cross roads. She has no intention of going south, not if she can help it, but soon enough she may not have a choice....
Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:13 pm
RP Log
Prentice [Zena] Why is travelling so hard? - Zyphire
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Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:15 pm
Battle Log
Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:16 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:19 pm
Familiar(s)
Ada has been with Sylvi since she was ten years old. She's proven her skill in battle time and time again, making her an invaluable asset to the huntress.
Posted: Fri Feb 23, 2018 11:30 am
Prentice Solo One
When elder Yngvild’s body was found frozen in her bed there was no more denying that the Ild’vann tribe were fighting a losing battle.
It was snowing when Sylvirah helped raise the corpse atop a funeral pyre. She was far too light in her arms, and with as often as the elder had hunted, even in her older years, Yngvild should have weighed so much more. The lines in her cheeks were far too sharp, giving the jovial woman a ghoulish appearance even before her final ride. Sylvirah wanted to remember the fullness that used to make her jowls swell, but now that Yngvild was truly well and gone, Sylvirah knew she would only remember the waif she'd become. There was no way she could forget the stiff, unfeeling lips or the tip of a nose so cold it would never rot. The image of that frozen skeleton stood so presently in her mind's eye that years from now it would still remain, buried deep into her subconscious.
”I told her to stay with us, but she wouldn’t hear it…”
“...I’ll have to go south tomorrow….send a letter to her son….”
Without any way to close her eyes, a scarf was wrapped about them, and hidden beneath Yngvild’s weathered head. It was tribal tradition that the entire village aid in the preparation of the dead, regardless of age or relation. Those that helped her with the body were a scattered area of bodies; some younger, some older, but none as old as Yngvild herself. She had been the oldest, and should have been treated with the utmost respect, and yet... Now, however, it was a luxury none of them could afford. In her youth Sylvi would have helped to cover the body with prized furs and some of their greatest treasures to send with the departed into the netherworld. Those assets were better left to the living now, which cemented the feeling of wrongness straight into her very being.
Even as they prepared the body for Yngvild’s final hunt Sylvirah could hear the sounds of the elder’s yurt being disassembled. Her belongings would be divided among the surviving members of their tribe in the hopes that no more would fall this season. This winter had already proven itself to be formidable enough. Even before the elder’s passing, the death toll had risen to five and the Ild’vann couldn’t afford to lose anymore.
An unforgiving wind howled at her back, bringing with it a furious rush of snow. Sylvirah turned her bright eyes to the murky sky, and cursed the gods. What more would her people be asked to endure? Over the course of her fifteen years Sylvi had buried so many of her friends, and all because of the winters their gods forced upon them. In her youth it was simply an inevitability; the colder months would always take someone, but who that was remained up to the gods. Now, however, she felt tested. The herds had been far too scarce during the warmer months for them to gather enough food, and now they would either starve or freeze. What members of the Ill’vann that could hunt, herself included, had scoured the woods on a daily basis for weeks, but what meager offerings they brought back didn’t last long. Her frozen fox had been gobbled up so fast that Sylvirah had already forgotten the taste. Soon enough she would be able to count the members of her tribe on two hands, and if the herds didn’t return soon more would abandon the tribe or worse…
...follow Yngvild into death.
Torval placed a thick, gnarled hand upon his grand-daughter’s shoulder, bringing her gaze from the skies back to reality. Sylvirah couldn’t remember a time where she had ever seen her grandfather so thin, and the lines that mapped his face spoke of an exhaustion so deep it burrowed into his soul. How many nights had they stayed up til morning in the trees waiting for prey that never came? She could still feel a stiffness around his fingers that spoke of the frostbite that had come so close to claiming him time and time again. Looking to Yngvild, she had to wonder; how long would it be until the frost claimed him too? The teenager stepped away from her work to stand at his side, leaning her body against his as the others took over.
“Your grandmother found mammu tracks on her scouting run. It’s risky; there aren’t enough of us to tackle the herd, and we’ll have to be fast.” Sylvirah nodded. A hunt like that would take days of tracking, let alone the effort it would take to isolate and bring down a beast of that size. There would be no way they could come out of it with enough meat to see them through, especially if the struggle drew attention from neighboring predators. Only five of them, at the most, could afford to be away from the village that long, and they would have to get back fast to avoid being hunted down themselves for the meat they carried. Still, watching Yngvild’s body being burned and carried up into the ether was enough to harden Sylvirah’s resolve. She wasn’t about to die in her bed, shriveled up and half starved; not if she could help it.
"When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow; tonight we drink."
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before moving away, presumably to speak with her grandmother or possibly to tend to their mounts. Years past when their hunters had been great Sylvirah was told they had enough raptrix for two packs, maybe three! These days however they only had two; a mated pair whose fur was beginning to grey, and yet to raise a litter of pups to adulthood. It was disappointing, to say the least. At a time when they needed them the most their only remaining female was barren. Some said that was a sign that the Ild'vann were no longer meant to ride with the raptrix, that their time was over, but some had taken to other methods. They were nothing if not an adaptable people, and thus, a Chiavi had been introduced into their ranks.
It was to her side that Sylvirah went now. Torval had come across the struggling chick when his granddaugther was just shy of ten years in age, and as a test, he'd tasked her with raising Ada. She'd been small, sickly, and with a broken wing the creature's chances were slim. He'd wanted to see if Sylvirah had the tenacity to do what was right. Of course, what he'd meant was to put the beast out of it's misery, but Sylvirah hadn't taken it that way. She'd seen something akin to a baby that needed her help, so she'd powered through with all the stubbornness of a roatl to see her to health. Sylvirah had sacrificed her own meals to feed Ada, stolen from their reserves to cure her infections, and in the end was rewarded with a mount so loyal Ada would take on an army to keep her girl safe.
Sound drifted out of the main hall, and Sylvirah knew that celebrations were already underway. They would drink to her memory and share stories of her finest moments, just as the Ild'vann did for all that passed. Tears would no doubt be shed, but Sylvirah couldn't find it in her to cry. She was proud to have known the older woman, and wouldn't besmirch her memory like that. The best she could do to honor Yngvild would be to get as much rest as she could for the hunt ahead, because it may very well be their last chance.
You can do this; you have to do this.
Ada met her before Sylvirah had even reached the 'stables'. In truth it was just a larger yurt, one just shy of disrepair, that had been used to house their mounts. The chiavi must have seen her through one of the various holes lining the exterior walls, because Sylvirah didn't even make it to the door before being swamped in feathers.
She may have chided Ada in the past for being too 'clingy', but she didn't do it today. The large avian chirped around her, pressing her large, fluffy body against Sylvirah's smaller frame as her dipped beak picked at the braids in Sylvirah's hair. It was a grooming practice so well practiced that Sylvirah found comfort in it. She could wrap her arms around Ada's stomach and hold her close without saying anything. The snow continued to fall around them, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew they should go inside, and yet....why? They were both warm enough where they were.
Snow just smelled like bitter cold, and made it impossible to smell death. All of Zena smelled like snow, which was both a blessing and a curse. They had allowed elder Yngvild's body to stay in her yurt for two days simply because they thought she was too far into her drinks to be bothered. Even the raptrix hadn't been able to smell the decomposition because really, there hadn't been. She'd been far too cold for the body to even start breaking down.
She wouldn't allow her grandparents to die like that. Sylvirah was going to do her damndest to bring back a decent haul for her village tomorrow even if it killed her. At least then she would die doing what she loved with fresh blood in her veins.
(WC: 1590) [5]
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Posted: Fri Feb 23, 2018 3:00 pm
Prentice Solo Two
Sylvirah couldn't remember the last time she'd been so tired.
The stiff mountain air left her breathless. She gasped, trying to draw what oxygen she could into her starving lungs with little success. The altitudes in which they flew had saved them from being spotted, but in doing so most of their hunters were weak. Ada and the raptrix were perfectly accustomed to it; the Ild'vann, however, were failing. Many a time they had to descend for a hunter to catch their breath, and Sylvirah had felt a deep seated nausea since the beginning. She knew it wasn't health for them to travel that far into the skies, especially not as long as they had been, but what other choice did they have? She looked to her grandfather, who was currently standing with his knees spread apart, head hunched so he could dry heave.
They'd ridden two hunters per mount, and while the added weight was normally of little concern the extended flight, coupled with the faster pace, left their mounts exhausted. Ada was pushing past her limits with each stroke of her wings. Sylvirah reached up to bring the Chiavi's head against her chest. She stroked the large avian's head feathers with soothing platitudes, taking her best friends exhaustion into her own soul. It hurt, knowing she had to push her like this, but they were so close to finding the herd. Just yesterday one of their hunters had spotted fresh tracks which was something they had been dreaming about for days. Fresh anything at this point was a miracle; but hope was terrifying. It was so fragile that the least little thing could snap it in half, and they didn't have that option.
They were close enough now that everyone felt it was best to set up camp, rest, and plan their attack for the morning. It would do little good if they were too exhausted to make critical decisions, so with that in mind the Ild'vann hunters scoured the area for a cave large enough to house them all. When it didn't work out they split up; half of their group in one, and the other in a smaller location, just a few ticks south. They were still close enough to readily contact one another, but at least this way half of their group wouldn't have to sleep exposed in the wilderness.
The cave Sylvirah chose was the smaller of the two simply because out of their hunters she was the smallest. She and Ada crammed into the space, the avian choosing to go as far back into the cave as her large body would allow while her grandfather and another took up residence near it's mouth. The boy was just shy of sixteen years, making him Sylvirah's elder, but they both knew she was the better hunter. Gunnar was zealous and full of life, but he lacked her dedication. They'd known each other for the entirety of their lives, which made them an excellent match, as far as the village was concerned. Their bloodlines didn't intermingle, they were both skilled, both were easy on the eyes...
The trouble with the match was that neither were remotely interested in each other in that way. No doubt the other hunters had sent Gunnar down to the smaller gave to push him closer to Sylvirah, and even her grandfather was taking great pains to remove himself as much as he could from the situation while still remaining under the protection of the cave. Sylvirah settled back against Ada's curled form, stretching her legs out to the meager fire Gunnar had managed to create. She watched as his hands slipped back into his well worn gloves, slipping away now that the dexterity of free, unobstructed hands were no longer needed. When he caught her staring the boy looked back, and smiled.
She scowled.
"That's why everyone wants us to have a baby."
Her grandfather choked on his spit, and Gunnar sat back, his eyes wide. "Who said that?"
"No one said it, but they're all thinkin' it. If we had a baby together that'd be one more hunter for the tribe. S'not like theres that many left that can even have kids so they're desperate."
It's not like she hadn't been keenly aware of their lack of members lately. Gunnar's own father had passed just last year, and while he'd left his partner with four strong kids, three chose to go south with their mother. Much to her displeasure Gunnar had refused to leave; he'd been born Ild'vann and he would die Ild'vann. Sylvirah felt the exact same way, which is why she'd first propositioned her grandfather to take him into their home. It wasn't that uncommon for two families to blend, especially during hard winters, so taking in one teenager was hardly out of the question. He stayed in small 'room' they'd sectioned off for him in the main room, helped out as much as possible, and was just as much a part of their family as if he'd been born into it.
It wasn't until the village started murmuring when the two passed that Sylvirah started regretting her decision. If she'd known they were going to waste time pushing the two together she would have asked someone else to take Gunnar in.
"....So you don't want a baby? Ever?"
Gunnar's edged question brought her attention back to him. He was normally so direct that the two would end up in shouting matches, but now he was choosing to be timid? She couldn't see his face properly in the near darkness, but she thought there was a color to his cheeks. Maybe he was just sick?
"Someday I want a whole house full. As many as I can have." Children meant security. If you could afford to feed them and train 'em up then they would be invaluable to the tribe. The Ild'vann didn't mate for life, but it wasn't uncommon for a pair to stick together simply for the sake of procreation. They needed children, and many had them, even if they didn't' necessarily want them. So of course she would have some....one day.
"But you don't...maybe want to have one with me...someday?"
Why the hell was he twitching all over? Had the fever finally gotten to him? Sylvirah edged a little closer to Gunnar and looked over him critically. For the first time in their lives he moved away from her, as if he couldn't stand to be that close. It was as infuriating as it was disheartening. "What's wrong with you? How come your asking about this- Stop squirming!" She snatched his arm and held him still before he could scoot any further away. For some reason his entire body still, not just his arm and she was beyond ready to yell at him when he inevitably would fight back-
-but what she wasn't ready for was a kiss.
Her first kiss.
The Ild'vann very rarely romanticized love, and so while the moment didn't carry much in the way of build up there was a ton of naivete about it. Neither was prepared, that much was evident by Gunnar's sloppy approach and Sylvirah's near paralyzed state. She didn't participate, didn't run, just...sat there until her brain was fired up enough to push him away.
"I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have....I just thought that maybe if I did you might start to like me and I-"
"Well I don't, okay?" She spat a wad of saliva off to the side, momentarily more embarrassed than she'd ever been in her life. Her grandfather was just a handful of feet away, for Goddess' sake! Why would he even...? She thought he was stronger than the influences of others, but maybe over time Gunnar really had seen it as the better option; and in that she whole heartedly disagreed. "If I have to kiss you for the rest of my life I'd rather die."
Gunnar's face fell and with a murmured 'alright' he moved away from the fire, shuffling as close to the mouth of the cave as possible. Her grandfather's pursed lips told her she'd done something wrong, but Sylvirah couldn't figure out what. Whatever Gunnar thought was possible between them wasn't, and she'd just plainly let him know. What was so bad about that? They had a hunt to focus on too, so she couldn't figure out why he would bring up so much stupid stuff the night before.
With a huff she flopped back onto Ada, and snuggled up into the chiavi's feathers. Boys were so stupid! Why couldn't he just like someone else? ....maybe because there really wasn't anyone else, unless you counted a woman nearly twice his age. But she'd be a better match than Sylvirah was! She might even like him!
Sylvirah raised her hands and covered her face. Her cheeks were burning and her heartbeat was so erratic there was no possible way she could sleep, which was annoying. All she could do was hope to go unnoticed for the rest of the night, and pray that Gunnar would just let all of this go.
(WC: 1521) [5]
Posted: Fri Mar 02, 2018 12:47 pm
Class Affinity Solo - Sylvirah chooses Rider!
Despite what had happened last night, Gunnar stayed. Sylvirah had hoped to find him gone, mixing in with the residents of the larger cave, but he remained. When Sylvi opened her eyes to the morning light it was his hand that reached towards her, not her grandfather, and helped to pull her up. The older man had already moved outside, presumably to reconvene with the rest of their hunting party from the sounds of it. Ada aside, it was just the two of them in the cave and Sylvirah found a cold heat building just beneath her skin when she looked at him. Gunnar’s dimples were visibly absent from his smile, and there was a heavy weight that clung to him. He was saying something about apologizing, and she found herself nodding without even knowing what he was apologizing for. For picking the wrong person to confess to? Some part of her wanted to pester him, to dig deeper through his mind to find out just what was really bothering him about all this, but she hesitated. Whatever Gunnar was working on he didn’t want to talk about it...and she would do well to respect that.
“Sylvirah.” The pair turned their eyes to the mouth of the cave, where her grandfather waved them towards. “Bring Ada; we have enough meat for the mounts, and she’ll need her strength.”
Without so much as a passing glance to Gunnar, the huntress led her chiavi out of the warmth and into the bitter morning air. The wind was not so sharp this morning as it had been over the previous week, but the cold….it was enough to bring an instant ache to her exposed ears. Within hours they would be facing hypothermia if they remained outside, and the risks would only double once the weather turned sour again. As Sylvirah struggled to bundle herself tight she looked around to the faces of her fellow Ild’vann. The warriors were drawn and tight; exhausted down to their very souls, but without the ability to give up. As cold as it was, each member of her tribe burned with an inner flame bright enough to keep the mountain’s wrath at bay. If they could just harness that flame for one more hunt….
“Lakiza would be proud to see you, Sylvi.” In that moment she was aware of more than a few eyes turning her way, which was both embarrassing and...more than a little awkward. The speaker was an older huntress, and one of which had grown up with her mother. Isith, as she was called, moved closer to her with an almost wistful sigh, as if she were reliving old memories in her mind. It was strange enough to be compared to her dead mother when in the passing of her grandparents, but when the tribe turned their attention her way there was little Sylvirah could do to escape it.
As the mounts gobbled up what was left of their supplies, stories were passed around of her mother’s hunting prowess and her deadly resolve. Her own grandfather, Torval, boasted the loudest about his late daughter’s exploits that the very mountain itself shook. Gunnar had once recounted to her how proud it made him to hear the tribe speak of his father with such reverence, and Sylvi supposed that’s how she should have felt. Instead, she felt awkward; at one point she had actively asked questions about Lakiza in her youth, but that time was no more. Whatever sort of foul seed her father had planted inside Lakiza’s womb had killed her, and resulted in a legacy Sylvirah could never hope to live up to. Which, in turn, is why she’d started one of her very own.
“I may carry her spear, but I’m not my mother, nor will I ever be.” She said at length. “I can only hope that her spirit guides Ada’s wings, and helps me to do what must be done.”
Her grandfather’s hand fell upon her shoulder, drawing her closer to the warmth of his larger body. “Her spirit guides us all, love; as does the spirit of everyone we’ve lost. No matter where Ada’s wings carry you the Ild’vann will follow.” A row of nodding heads agreed with him, and among those bundled up forms Sylvirah could just make out Gunnar, looking on at her with those same fond eyes. “You’re your mother and more; so much more.”
Sylvirah had a legacy of her own to build. She took the warmth he offered, and carried it with her into preparations. Ada was saddled, her talons had been sharpened, and with her gear lightened, the chiavi was finally able to spread her wings to the fullest. Three hunters would attack from the sky on the remaining mounts, effectively herding a mammu into an isolated area where the others would act as a pack to take it down. There was so much riding on her performance today, but the pressure didn’t bother Slyvirah; rather, she thrived on it. When she took flight atop Ada, a lance held firmly in her hand, she felt strong. With the wind crying around her she flew headlong into a hunt that could very well save her people, and in that moment Sylvirah felt the most alive she’d felt in years.
She was Ild’vann; she would fight as they did, atop the back of a Zenan beast, and strike her opponents from the skies. She would fight, and conquer, just like her mother before her.
And nothing would ever take it away from her.
(WC: 939) [3]
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Posted: Fri Mar 02, 2018 8:41 pm
Prentice Solo Four
In the end, their hunt could barely be classified as a 'success'.
A herd of mammu had been caught unaware by the howling raptrix, which was enough to send them in a panic. As underfed as they were the healthy few managed to outrun them by leagues, but the smallest of the herd, an adolescent by their standards, could not. The raptrix had descended on it with a ferocity Sylvirah had never seen, though the hunters that rode atop them were no less fierce. The Ild'vann may have made short work of the beast were it not for one, glaring oversight; the creature's mother.
At the time the hunter's had assumed the mammu to be old enough to be away from the fierce, eternal protection of the mother, but that wasn't so. As they laid upon the beast with spear after spear a loud, blaring wall of flesh came barreling out of the trees. In an instant she had snatched one of their riders in her trunk and squeezed so tight his screaming stopped in an instant. When the mammu flung the body to the side all Sylvi could make out was a crumpled, immobile form in the snow before forcing Ada into the sky.
Sylvirah had never been so scared in her life.
It didn't matter if their spears were buried to the hilt in her fatty flesh; she had still charged. Her massive steps were near soundless on that snow, and yet, Sylvirah could still feel the vibrations in her chest. She could remember her grandfather screaming for a retreat, but at that point there was no escape. The moment the great beast saw her offspring fall over, dead in the snow, she went into a blind rage and the Goddess herself couldn't protect them.
It was only when the raptrix pair dug their fangs into her ankle, viciously rending flesh from her, that the mammu fell. Wild from hunger the pair ripped tendon from bone, regardless of her cries. Only when the creature raised a foot to kick them away did they move...but the pair were quick to dodge the attack and move in for her throat. Sylvirah remembered running in with her grandfather to push a lance through her thickened hide, shoving it as far into the mammu's hide as possible straight to her heart. The double kill is the what secured their victory, but looking around, Sylvirah didn't see much to celebrate.
Isith was dead. Her body was mangled beyond recognition from the fall, and another, a huntsman named Triv, had a leg crushed so badly that the others were preparing an emergency amputation right there in the snow.
As was so often the norm after an even like this, Sylvirah stood silent and just tried to absorb it all. Her body shook, though not from the cold. Adrenaline still flowed so strongly through her veins that she felt as if she could handle another hunt, but logically she knew that once it faded she would be too sore to move. She needed to help with the wounded, she needed to field dress the mammu and get ready to move, she needed to do something....but even the most experienced Ild'vann had moments of weakness.
"-virah? Are you okay?"
Gunnar snapped his fingers in front of her face, and she moved, turning her confused gaze his way. When had he...? Wouldn't she have noticed if he'd managed to get that close? His hands moved to cup her face, eyes searching into hers for answers she was unable to give. When she moved to push him away he remained. "Can you hear me?" "Yes, Gunnar, I can hear you."
"You're crying."
Was she? That might explain the warmth on her cheeks. Sylvirah raised one gloved hand to her face, absently patting away the drops of water she couldn't feel. She could feel her face scrunching, eyes burning as they did just before a good cry was about to come spilling out. Something about the whole ordeal must have triggered a protective response in Gunnar because without any word from her he enveloped her in his arms. Almost as soon as her face was buried against his chest she was sobbing.
At fifteen years old Sylvirah broke.
There had been so much pressure on them to succeed in this hunt, and yet, look at what happened? Another was dead and one was maimed beyond use. He would be shipped south to live the remainder of his days with family in Zidel. They could live for another day, but what about tomorrow? And the next day?
She vaguely heard her grandfather saying something to Gunnar, and the rumble in his chest let her know he was responding, but she didn't hear it. In her world all was silent, and finally, for once, there was peace.
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