Infamous Goose
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1.12 All She Saw Was Red
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 02:20:29 +0000 UTCThere were many things to remember when fighting a dangerous beast – especially magical ones, like the frost bear. Their habits, their diet, their preferred hunting methods, how territorial they are and how to escape if things turned south. And, if they were magical, what they could do. One didn’t hunt a Shadow Lion at night, for example. In this case, of course, Lysander was lacking such a simple luxury as information.
Add in his accursed sense of duty to protect the salamanders as well as the centipede’s refusal to let him flee, and things grew more dire by the second.
With a loud curse he dove out of the way of the centipede, rolling away from the legs that continuously tried to stab him, popping up and hurling another rock into its eye. The giant bug smashed its face into the tree he had been standing before, mandibles stabbing into the trunk with a horrific crunch. Wood splinter and the centipede thrashed, its sinuous body straining as it tried to pull its mandibles free.
Lysander darted forward, leaping up into the branches of a nearby pine, then falling down upon the centipede’s back. His knife drove home in a chink in the bug’s chitin, orangish goo squirting out from the wound as he twisted it as hard as he could, yanking it back and forth. It screeched as he pulled it free, the tip of the stone blade having broken off inside the centipede, and jumped from the slick chitin before it could throw him off.
“That did nothing,” he grumbled bitterly, scrabbling to his feet. With an echoing snapping sound the centipede yanked its jaws free, tearing a chunk of wood from the trunk, and immediately whirled back upon Lysander. He took a hesitant step back, his heel hitting the side of the cliff. They weren’t even too far away from the salamander’s cave entrance, though thankfully most of the salamanders seemed to have run far enough away to not be distracting.
The centipede reared its head, a foul burbling sound echoing from the back of its throat. Lysander tensed, eyes growing wide at the sudden change in behavior –
Once again he threw himself to the side, this time too slow. A noxious green liquid spewed from the centipede’s mouth, hissing as it splashed on dirt, stone, and his shirt. Pain burned his shoulder from the spot that was splashed, a fierce heat that seemed to eat away at his flesh; he tore his smoking spider-silk shirt off as the centipede lunged, barely avoiding the mandibles that threatened to snap him in two. A searing pain drove itself across his thigh as he scrambled, one of its legs managing to score a hit on him.
Enough thinking, just do! He chided himself, not even having the time to check his leg. The centipede swung its tail end around like a club and he vaulted over it, landing off-balance and unable to dodge its follow-up lunge. Instinct saved him. His knife fell from his hand as he stepped forward, hands wrapping around its mandibles and feet digging into the dirt as it snapped at him, shoving him backwards with all its might. His feet dug into the soil, arms straining and teeth grit, the centipede fighting to close its mandibles, its mouth and fangs snapping at him menacingly.
He grunted, trying to push to the side, to find the leverage to leap away, but it was too strong, too focused, its eyes full of hate and green liquid bubbling from its mouth –
A roar split the air, and a wall of white tackled the centipede off him. The centipede was wrenched to the side, its mandibles slipping from his grip as it was bodily tossed away, screeching as it went. Lysander blinked in surprise as he beheld the frost bear in all its furious glory; coat as white as snow, fangs and claws of ice that shredded through the bug’s chitin, three of its legs ripped from its side. The centipede shrieked in pain, whirling on its new assailant even as he continued his onslaught, fangs piercing its chitin armor with a crunch as it bit into its side.
Lysander breathed out, falling to one knee, limbs shaking. A quick glance at his leg showed a deep gash through his leather pants, thankfully not to the bone but enough that he’d need stitches. A pained roar from the frost bear brought his attention back to the fight – ice coated the centipede’s chitin, and blood already stained the bear’s fur.
He was already on the back foot, the centipede’s relentless ferocity too much for the bear to handle alone. Desperately he swiped and clawed at the giant bug, just barely keeping it at bay. Its mandibles snapped at the bear, long body trying to circle around him like a snake, its sharp legs cutting lines in the frost bear’s flank and rump. Guts spilled from where the bear tore apart its armor, but it did not stop. It would not stop.
At this rate, the frost bear would lose.
Raw, unfiltered rage filled Lysander as he rose to his feet, at first limping forward, then falling into a run. How dare it? How dare it? This thing, this monster…
He snatched one of the centipede’s discarded legs as he raced forward, brandishing it like a spear.
“HAAA-OOOH!” he shouted, putting the last of his magic in the sound, just enough to draw attention. The centipede turned and he thrust, spearing it in the mouth with its own limb. He drove it as deep as he could, pushing through flesh and armor with all his might, something snapping inside, half of its jaw going limp – and the centipede lunged, blackish blood pouring from its mouth as it stabbed with its one good mandible. A scream tore its way out of Lysander’s throat as the sharp bone stabbed into him, ripping a hole through his flesh just above his hip. The centipede screamed back at him and his scream transformed into a snarl, letting go of the makeshift spear to dig his hands into its eye.
Then the bear was there once again, claws digging into its back, teeth biting at the back of its head. One powerful wrench and its mandible was torn free of his side; its eye popping in his hand and torn free of its face. The centipede thrashed in defiance but the bear had it in a death grip now. Ice worked its way down the chitin, turning it brittle, the bear tearing and wrenching as it yanked the head free in a shower of orange viscera and gore.
Lysander fell to the ground, clutching his side and breathing shallow. He bit his lip as the frost bear roared its victory, the centipede’s body twisting this way and that in its death throws, and looked down at his injury.
Stupid. Why did you run in like that? A quiet voice in his mind whispered as his fingers danced around the gash. Panic surged through his veins at seeing the angry-looking wound, dark lines spreading from the edges and blood spilling down his side. It was long, stretching from the top of his hip to his navel, but wasn’t too deep – his guts would be spilling out if it were. His breathing came in ragged huffs, vision swimming as the adrenaline wore off and pain settled in. He had to move, had to do something, but his limbs felt heavy and weak.
His mind was sluggish.
His ears rang, a cackling laugh echoing in his ears as a black mist danced in the corners of his fading vision.
Pain seared its way through his veins, the feeling of claws trying to dig its way into his chest, freezing cold searing his side - and his last thought before losing consciousness was of defiance. Death would not come for him, not yet. Not now.
***
Sybella felt it before she could see it. For nearly four days straight she had been sprinting through the mountains, leaping through the trees and stopping only to eat, drink, and occasionally sleep. The spirits aided her passage, wind blew at her back, catching her mid-jump to push her further and faster. Food was easy to find, from edible mushrooms to berry bushes, keeping her energy up as she ran. And they whispered in her ears, urging her further, faster, get there.
And now, on the day of the solstice, she had reached Bite Mountain. Lysander’s home lay empty. The door to the little grass-covered hut was firmly shut, nearly invisible from the way her brother had packed mud and grass onto the slanted door. Dug into the side of the mountain as it was, the hut appeared to be little more than an oddly-shaped mound unless one knew what to look for – assuming, of course, you ignored the rabbit skin pulled taut and drying in the sun sitting atop it. Even the chimney was just a pile of shale.
Sybella stood just outside the hut, holding open the door and staring into the interior with an expression of relief and fear. Lysander’s spear lay atop his bed of furs, a few cooking utensils scattered messily on the dirt floor. It’s not broken. The realization brought with it wave of relief, though it was quickly overshadowed by the next thought. He’ll need a spear if demons are beneath the mountain. Her ears twitched as the solstice neared its zenith, spiritual energy practically pouring through land. All elves experienced spiritual energy differently; some saw it as colors, others as waves, though the most common seemed to be as noise or song. Sybella was no different, visions or no; the spirits of the world often spoke to her through music and song.
Today, though, she heard and felt far more than just sounds.
And Bite Mountain roared in anger and fear. It felt so hot she thought her skin might blister, screaming into her ears and keeping her heart thundering in her chest. She should’ve been at home, hiding away in her house, shutting the world out. But no, here she was, dealing with a vision of her little brother –
That was when she felt it. A single sharp note cut through the anger and rage of Bite Mountain, brilliant in its purity and intent. Sybella flinched at the suddenness of it all, spinning on her heels to look out over the Goldstone River. It was a song she had never heard before, a mote of brilliant silver light practically screaming “I am here. Come and get me,” in a singular, pure note. Lysander.
Her feet were running before her mind could process it. Fear lanced through her, shaper than any chill wind and deeper than any spear. She flew like the wind, sprinting down the hill, leaping over the river, trout splashing in the water below; and racing across the hillside. Thrice more she felt that same spike of energy, silvery and defiant, a monument to determination. But it felt weaker each time, cracking and uncertain – until the last time, in which it was nearly done.
Her bare feet, calloused and bleeding from her run, pounded against the rocky cliffside. A roar pierced the air, ferocious and filled with rage, its intent tickling her senses; protect. It screamed. PROTECT. Magic swirled about her, the world screaming out its anger in a wordless hymn – wind roared through the trees and she leapt from the clifftop, gliding through the air to land lightly atop a pine, the tip bending beneath her weight. Below her stood the frost bear, its snow-white hide stained with blood, two serious wounds along its left flank. Ice had grown over the lacerations, staunching the bleeding, but five salamanders stood before it, brandishing their spears at the great beast.
Behind the bear lay a giant insect, chitin torn to pieces and what appeared to be a spear piercing its face. Just looking at the insect hurt – it felt wrong, its melody discordant and otherworldly, black miasma rising freely from its fallen, ice-covered form. The salamanders darted forward, jabbing with spears, but the bear swiped at them, forcing them back, away from the thing it was protecting.
Sybella froze as finally her gaze landed upon that which lay beneath the bear, still and unmoving, stained with blood and frost.
Lysander.
Her baby brother.
And all she saw was red.
Wood creaked and groaned as she descended from the tree. The wind whipped her hair about her head, salamanders looking up at her in fear and awe. She couldn’t read the expression upon their faces. But she could see it in their chests. A hesitant red, surrounded by blacks and greys twisting about their hearts, spiking as she floated to the ground. Only the bear remained calm, its anger stilling as her feet touched the ground, something she barely noted.
“GO.” She thundered, magic touching her tongue. The ground trembled. Stones shattered. Trees groaned, roots threatening to rip themselves from the soil – and the salamanders ran. Only the bear remained, its lips no longer pulled back into a snarl even as she turned to it, hands clenched into fists, prepared to fight this beast –
“No.” a familiar voice called, weak and shaky, yet firm. Lysander was awake, propping himself up on one elbow beneath the frost bear and meeting her eyes. His face was pale from blood loss, eyes lidded, half-conscious and delirious. The large gash on his side was covered in a thin layer of ice, frozen to stop the bleeding, a smaller cut on his leg still oozing blood.
The frost bear huffed and took a few steps back, carefully avoiding bumping Lysander with its icicle claws. Sybella hesitated for just a moment, watching the bear carefully, baffled by its behavior, but when Lysander’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he flopped back onto the ground all hesitation vanished. She surged forward, taking a quick glance to assess the damage. Her breath caught in her throat as more details came into view.
His breathing was shallow and rough, sweat beading his brow. A large burn covered half of his right shoulder, his tanned skin angry and red. The skin around his wounds were starting to turn black – from frostbite or something else, she wasn’t certain. Poison? Centipedes can be poisonous. I’ll need an antidote. What was certain was that he needed treatment, and medicine. But she couldn’t move him without maybe killing him.
A low hum, desperate and urgent, rumbled through her chest as she called upon the spirits. Hundreds answered her call, earth spirits digging up from below, tree spirits lifting their metaphorical gazes to her, and dozens of benign spirits moving to swirl about her. But when she spoke, she spoke only to the wind.
“Go get mother,” she whispered, and the wind obeyed in a howling gust. Sybella’s song continued, her arms spreading. Trees groaned as their roots churned the earth, fueled by her magic, rising up to form a protective dome around her and Lysander. All else faded away as she knelt beside her brother, laying one hand on the wound on his side, the other on his forehead. She was no healer. The most she could do was slightly hasten his body’s natural healing, and prevent the spread of poison. Her magic was not centered around the fixing of damage, and she didn’t have any medical supplies. In her haste she had forgotten it – and there was no time to worry about it now.
She just had to keep Lysander stable until their mother arrived, or he pulled himself through. And she had to pray no more demons pulled themselves up from the depths.
