The Last Hunter
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Legacy of Evil: Of man and Beast
🕑 Added 2024-04-11 01:28:51 +0000 UTCThe Lakota camp proved much more welcoming once it became known that we were guests. Though tensions were still high, most of it was focused outside of the walls of the tribes home rather than within as dinner was prepared. I could smell whatever was brewing elsewhere, the scents normally mouth-watering but for my current frustration. I had to send a message to the caravan, a warning to keep the fire burning high tonight as well as letting them know where we were.
Unfortunately, for the first time I was well and truly unable to do so, though by any act of our hosts. As I stood in the hut, I glared at my wand-an extension of myself at this point, before I grimaced and tried again to the growing look of pity and empathy on Conan I really didn't need or want at the moment as I went through a flourish, focusing as much as I could.
"Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum!"
Not even a whisper of mist, silver or otherwise and I snarled, prepared to do it again before Conan's silver hand gently grabbed my wand hand as his deep rumble echoed in the hut.
"I will send an owl. Please my friend, peace. This is not a failing on your part."
"What else could it be?!" I said irritably, regretting it as I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. That was uncalled for and I said as much, apologizing aloud. "I'm sorry, I... I have a talent for magic and seeing it just... I..."
Conan was silent, considering before he finally spoke somberly. "The Second Great War they called it. There was nothing great about it, from my experience. We who survived to face against madmen and those they dragged in their wake shall forever be scarred from the memories. I can barely remember my wife, did you know?" I blinked, looking at him as he smiled wryly.
"I can't remember her favorite food, or the habits that must have drove me crazy. Just a scent and her face, so peaceful in death. She died in childbirth, because no healer at the time would even look at a werewolf." He made a motion to spit to the side, remembered where he was and sheepishly arrested it before he continued. ".... But I remember in clear detail, the camp I and my fellow prisoners were set. I remember the starvation, the deprivation and the experiments. I remember digging out mass graves with my bare hands as punishment and the constant scent of roast meat that pervaded everything. I remember the face of my tormentor far more than my wife." His chuckle was sorrowful as he continued lightly.
"Horror has a way of remaining with you. But it needn't be. If you have no good memories now my friend to draw upon, then it shall be our task to provide you with more."
I admit, I choked up a bit at this comforting attempt and Conan, bless him pretended to be utterly fascinated by the nearby wall as I breathed deeply and composed myself, in proper British fashion. When he looked back, I was even smiling, slight as it was as I spoke. "Thank you Conan. You're a good friend." He chuckled, we shook hands in a manful fashion and he turned to go find an owl before I had to ask.
"Conan?" He paused, glancing over his shoulder as I asked, compelled by morbid curiosity. "Whatever became of your camp tormentor, in the end?"
His face was carefully blank, something in his eyes making my hackles raised as he said simply. "When the full moon came, he was the first one I went for. I and my companions threw them in their own oven." He turned having said his piece and left. I was left alone with my intrusive thoughts and my first real magical failure (no, my werewolf research didn't count, I was still in the data gathering stage).
Magic was strange. It was almost mechanical in nature requiring a medium for channeling, a power source and an ignition in the form of spell words. It was intuitive, the words and even the medium unnecessary as certain traditions and the books went on to show. It was metaphysical, where the thought process shaped the spell and gave it life, the Patronus charm one of the more famous examples as I scowled and fought the undignified urge to stamp my foot like some petulent teenager as I groaned.
Magic was bullshit, its rules were half-cocked, and its system constantly broken.
God help me, I loved it all the more for it. I loved its mysteries, its secrets hidden away. I loved how much there was to study, its ease of use and what I could attempt to do with it. Small wonder Wizardkind as a whole was arrogant, but that arrogance made them stagnant, unmoving and unmotivated-if you had a perfect cleaning spell for instance, why would you make variations of more? I may not be entirely the part that was Lord Voldemort in another time and place, but I would push the very boundaries of magic, I would research and learn.
Maybe then, I'd feel like my life amounted to something I could be prouder of and something the boy from the orphanage would take pride in too. I had called the path of conquest 'the easiest path'.
It was time to put my galleons where my mouth was, as I made the flourish and cried out, 'Expecto Patronum!'"
And as a silvery mist flared out, I felt my heart soar at the physical demonstration of progress.
Now I just had to repeat and improve it. And so, alone in the hut I continued my spell work and flicked over my repertoire, till it was time for dinner.
And then, knowledge of the enemy we were going to face.
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The food was good at least. Some kind of communal pot had been set up, with a broth of turnips, various forms of meat of which seemed to be mostly bison as well as what seemed to be porcupine and whatever small game they found and tossed into the pot. There was corn, there were peas, salt and even pepper. Simple, but good fare all rounded out by hot tea which settled our stomachs.
Despite that, there was a tension to it all. No songs, no loud talk, just somber quiet and grim looks that wouldn't have been out of place on a war front. And then as the food was eaten and the bowls taken away, the fire was fed and someone began to sing. Someone began banging on a drum, and Conan grew silent, eyes widened. I didn't blame him, considering what we were watching as a rattling sound was added, the firelight flickering, giving off a primal feel across the tribe as someone began to sing and around the fire, people stepped out and began to dance. A shuffling, harmonious step in which every dancer seemed to move in unison, each acting out a part that was one, great whole. A wheel in which the history of their people and their fellow tribes turned upon, for generations after generations.
And then from the crowd came out new dancers. As they danced and spun, the earth began to rattle and float beneath their feet. The earth, transforming into images of beasts. Raccoons, birds, deer, rams, horses joining in around their heels as they pranced and leaped though my eyes were focused on the dancers. Both were dressed far more than the rest of the dancers, in painted faces and materials made up to represent wings, enchanted to make a sound like thunder as they flapped them in time to the dance. As they moved in turn, they began splitting up-opposite to each other as the rest of the dancers moved to the outskirts, both dancers spinning and moving counterclockwise.
And then the song sped up. The singers began to howl and as they did, there was almost something bestial in it. Both dancers in the center, the flames in the middle began to speed up. The fire flickered, shapes began to form showing two, predatory looking birds flying together. Like a phoenix, but the shape was more akin to an eagle than what I recalled of Fawkes.
Then it began to go all wrong. The dancers moved to face each other, spinning around in unison, 'wings' never quite hitting as a glimmer of colors and beads mingled with the sound of thunder. Both birds in the fire began to attack each other, from flying together to striking out as they began to descend in mingled free-fall. Conan gasped, at the sight as one of the birds tore out the heart of the other upon crashing to the ground and the dancer on cue did the same. The final dancer.... Didn't do anything, but all of a sudden, I found myself breaking out in a cold sweat as I leaned slightly back.
There was something, suddenly very inhuman about the dancer. The way they stood, the faint twitch in their limbs as they descended, and scooped up earth from next to the dancer as the fiery bird began to devour the heart, before screeching as it feathers fell, its limbs grew more human-like, shifting from one form to another till it was something vaguely humanoid.
As it rose, its face-like a skull with ram horns let out a roar to the sky, matched by the dancer who had magically crafted without a wand, a similar mask for themself. A human skull, with the same horns as the crowd leaned back before silence fell. From the crowd, the shaman stepped out and looked around, seemingly looking everyone in the eye before she glanced towards me and Conan as she began to speak.
"Once long ago, when Mother Earth and Father Sky gave of themselves to their children, great and small there were two brothers. Powerful shapeshifters, great medicine men of whom it was said death itself respected and far and wide, people would come to visit them. But one day, the elder brother grew arrogant and thought to bind Death itself. Tricking him into the form of a black hound, he tied him to a post and wrung from him the secret of escaping him." My interest grew more piqued, none of this familiar to me and yet, somehow it was as I leaned forward and she continued on.
"When the younger brother discovered this, he berated his elder brother and released death, prompting much anger from the elder who wondered-why should he be held back? Was his skill not greater? Was he not the elder brother? And so, on one of their flights he saw his chance and took it." She closed her eyes, grieved as she continued.
"He slew his younger brother. His descent into the dark arts corrupted him and by the time he came back to his senses, it was too late. His stomach was full of his brother's heart, the taste of raw flesh and blood had tainted his lips and all good works which he might have done, were lost to him. Across from him, the visage of Death stared back and told him he was forever cursed. As his revenge, Death would not take him. Forever, he would endure across the ages, a meaningless ghost that would watch his legacy burn."
She paused. Everyone stared, before she closed her eyes and spoke. "But he exists still. His name, whatever it may be is long since lost. We do not name him lightly, but as we do, we stand with those who stood against him in the past. This foul spirit, forever rejected by death who wanders from host to host, devouring whom he may to prolong his life."
Her glare went to the dark as she flung her arms out. "Yee Naaldlooshii! Foul creature! We, Her children remember thee! We reject thee! Earth and Sky, curse thine steps!"
And from the dark, came a reply. A howl, a humanoid scream that echoed and sounded like a cacophony of bestial cries and savage hatred. My blood ran cold and as I rose up, I realized I was holding my wand out even as Conan grabbed a rock. The rest of the tribe was tense, waiting before it ended as the Shaman lowered her hands and spoke somberly.
"We do not speak his name, because a name has power. Would that we can remove him entirely, but whenever we come close, he flees. And so, for several generations, he vanishes till he returns once more. May our generation be the one to slay him entirely."
"How do we stop him?" Said Conan, more wolf than man around his eyes in terms of his intensity. The Shaman looked at us, face impassive before she spoke.
"Not alone."
