Grayell scowled. Whilst Shen's attitude could use some checking, he wasn't thoroughly impressed with the doctor's prognosis. He took it as truth though, so he snatched back the purse and nodded silently on his way out the door.
Grayell had to keep moving. There was little else for him to do and if his body was betraying him due to his adopted bloodline, then he had some distance to travel. He would not go to the Garou camp, Kiko may be there and in the fashion she left, then it was not wise to pursue her there. Regardless, this was not the time to unload his burdens on family.
Instead, he headed straight to the docks and to the Catalina. He'd kept her in fantastic condition and ready to travel at a moment's notice. He stepped from the dock and onto the small ship and checked the larder below. Satisfied, or just not terribly concerned with preparation, Grayell climbed back onto the dock and tugged the ship's tethers free. He shoved his shoulder hard into it's side before he clambered back on board and ducked under the sail as it fell to catch the wind, before taking the wheel and turning her to the horizon. The sun was sinking lower in the sky as it was mid-afternoon, the seagulls hovered on the breeze and made their usual, constant noise. They'd likely follow him a while.
The wind here was harsh. Worse than harsh, in fact. It tore along the shoreline and ripped the gravel and grit from the stony beach, only to carry it along with the sleet and drove it ever home on Grayell's face it seemed. The canvas he'd torn from the Catalina was doing little to fight off the cold, a crude blanket pin he'd carved barely holding it about his chest. It had left his hands free though, but that did little other than have them numb and swollen. He'd barely gathered enough wood after trudging through the snow in the immediate area, to start a small fire. The hull of the boat was the only immediate shelter and the wind was toying with the idea that it would keep the fire alive, but Grayell had no other options. He could curl up in the cabin, but he hadn't the oil to keep a lamp lit, he had no food and certainly, had little in the way of layers to stay warm. The fire was the only chance he had of weathering the storm, short of setting the Catalina alight.
He huddled tighter against the boat, straddling the fire and his hands slowly running across one another in an attempt to get the blood flowing. He needed them, if he was to better the winter here and head inland. He certainly should have considered the season before he'd left Wistvale, but he was not in his mind when he had and even now, he was not thinking soundly. He hadn't the luxury of time now.
His eyes were narrow, shut against the driving sting of the wind. He tried to look about to get his bearings, but to no avail, the storm turned everything more than a stone's throw into a blank whiteness. He knew it was night and he knew daylight may not bring any hope of the storm subsiding. He needed a plan, but could not concern himself with one now. It was a damn good thing he knew how to survive though, this was a death sentence.
He pulled the makeshift cloak tighter and shivered uncontrollably, preoccupied with removing the burning cold from his hands. If he stopped being able to feel them, this situation would only get much worse.
Whether or not a man has had to endure the cold matters little in their summation of how they might imagine they would feel, trapped in something akin to a blizzard. Everyone has felt the cold, whether a harsh, barking winter, or a chill that sneaks down the collar of an inadequate jacket and suddenly tickles their skin. But few, the unfortunate, the hardy and the stark-raving mad, have seen the worst that Jack Frost can throw their way. Jack Frost is, unfortunately, a cruel and sadistic bastard.
Worse than trying to stay warm though, is the misconception that activity can keep you warm. There is a fine line between having your blood flow just enough, and forcing your body to thermo-regulate, which can and will kill you. Sweat seeps from the skin in order to cool when the body is heated, regardless of how frozen your eyelids are, or how much your lips are trembling, cracked and sore. That sweat then freezes on the skin, locking the cold against your core and it is then that hypothermia sets in.
Grayell knew this danger. He'd endured these conditions, knew to realize when he was pushing too hard and when to back off, when to layer and when to strip down. None of that helped him right now.
His chest was still bare but now, was bloody. The cloak he'd fashioned had been torn free and whipped away by that relentless bastard wind and the blood that seeped from the claw marks was quick to freeze against his skin, the cold was fast to set into the wound. He was trembling, a nightmare combination of adrenalin and the chill, which only amplified the sickening ache in his gut which had set in when he'd run out of food.
That was on the forefront of his mind. The knife was cold in his palm. The inadequate branch shook in his other hand and likely, wouldn't last much longer. It has been largely ineffective in keeping these mongrels at bay. If he could kill just one and by some miracle, drive the rest of them away with the dawn, he could both eat and utilize the fur, as insufficient that might be. It was something.
His eyes stung. The wind would not quit and he'd no means to craft something to protect his vision from the tiny shards of ice that spun about relentlessly, that agitated his skin and struck it a million times til it were red and heated. He was in the process of tearing the sail from the Catalina, something that would have helped greatly, when he was set upon. It had cost him the sail, as well. The gaff would have made a better weapon, but had been out of reach and he'd been thrown clear from the ship. The white swirled and wound about him, offering no hint or clue, gave up no noise to where the next would come from.
These minutes felt like hours. He didn't have hours left, at best he could endure this savage combination a few minutes more. And when the next sprung from the gloom, snarling and savage, it's fangs prepped and eager to snap onto his shoulder, he roared like a dread beast unchained and thrust the knife forward, with everything he could muster. Everything he could muster, might barely be enough.
He hadn't made it more than two hundred feet from the Catalina. He couldn't make her out from here, though he hadn't looked. Cold, blood loss, hunger and weariness all culminated in a deadly exhaustion that had seen him collapse some time ago. The blanket he'd taken from the boat did nothing against the snow that he now lay upon and the wind that lashed his back.
But he felt warmer now, very warm. He'd stared into the storm and seen nothing but the white, stirring and thrashing until something occurred that had it slow down, or simply make more sense to him. The snow and the ice danced and it was an odd thing to see, because suddenly, it was all very beautiful. He couldn't feel his hands and the sound of his breath, slow and labored, was lost in the wind but then, even that had died back to make little noise, or at least to his ears. Gods he was tired.
It didn't quite occur that this was a good place to sleep, but it seemed good enough. He was too tired now to think it uncomfortable. He'd stopped shivering and his skin was numb and somehow, the ground felt soft and comfortable. He likened it to so many mornings passed, waking up in a bundle of furs next to her. He knew she'd be ok. She was his Chosen and he knew without a doubt, she was far tougher than he.
A snowflake broke from the maelstrom and fluttered down slowly, before it fell to lay across his eye. He smiled, just a little, and the world went black.
He couldn't catch her in the snow. She was a fleeting form in the driving white, the mottled grey and off-whites of her fur slipping through the sleet and vanishing so very often, only to reappear in brief glimpses and tempt him, taunt him to give chase.
He knew she was female only because of her scent. The wind and the snow cut it from the air and his from senses (finely honed or not, they were useless in such conditions,), but he knew she was in fact a she because she had woken him with a flick of her tongue across his cheek. Her breath was sweeter, less acrid than his own and a good thing too - waking to rank, carrion fed breath likely wasn't the best way to be startled back into consciousness.
The moment passed all too quickly and she bound away, instantly an elusive wisp amidst the snow. The cold didn't seem to bother his bare skin, though he knew it to be there. The snow crunched beneath his hands and became firm, which was a good thing. His legs were unsure and unsteady and it was all too often that he fell and fumbled, his hands halting his fall back into the icey white.
The snow whipped at his face and forced his eyes to almost close, him trying to follow quickly vanishing tracks and to gove chase. It was not to be.
Endless hours chasing left him panting for breath and burning, his body aching with a fire that fought the heat and melted the cold on his prickled skin. He had to look a ghost, should he encounter anyone else in this wasteland, but there was simply no chance of that happening.
Finally and for the worse, she halted atop some small hill, the scrub there long dormant and clutched with ice. She looked back at him as he dragged snow through his fingers and clawed his way closer, his legs buried to his mid-thigh, his feet all too heavy. Words formed in his mind and not in his throat as he barked a breath outward and nothing came but a guttural, broken grunt. His eyes wept, the sting of the snow the only thing he would acknowledge as the cause.
She turned and tilted her head, choosing to study him for a brief moment before she decided she had other matters to attend and shrank over the crest of the hill, leaving him alone. She left his sight and his world and long, long before he managed to drag his sorry self up the rest of what was ultimately a trivial obstacle; he knew it was ended.
The wolf left him in a world of white, an ever depper eddy of ice that tore at his body and whipped his psyche into submission. He knew then, or perhaps just acknowledged what was altogether inevitable - that his moment was upon him. It was not glorious, was not valorous and did nothing for his pride, or the stories that would be whispered by a very small number. It was cold, harsh and a cruel bitch twist of fate that left him with nothing. The snow fell through his fingers and hope left his heart, leaving nought but the cold behind.
This place smelled different. The air had remnants of a savory smoke, things he associated with cooking. Light dappled on the wall beside him, accompanied with tiny, wafting shadows that toyed in and out of the illuminated shape that ever-changed upon the wall. He had the sense to know it before he turned his head and looked to the window to his other side and spotted the snow falling gently past the glass. His throat was dry.
His head swam as he meant to move it, but he was rushing and nausea struck his stomach for his efforts. His arm, weak as the rest of him, brought his hand to rest on his cheek and with some slight surprise, he found his beard. He rubbed at it and muddy thoughts ran over the why it was there, he'd never kept a beard before. It was trimmed though and not entirely haggard and this, coupled with the smell and warmth of the room he was in made it quite apparent that he was someone's guest. But for how long?
It'd had a taken several minutes and whilst the bandage about middle was clean, the pounding in his temples and ache in his limbs were both persistent and determined to send him back to bed. His stubbornness knew no bounds however and whilst it won out this time, it only delivered him in a crumpled heap upon the aforementioned 'someone's' kitchen floor.
The Dwarven woman that was tending the fire was consequently, as you can imagine; quite surprised.
Last Edit: Jan 11, 2014 20:25:07 GMT -5 by Grayell
"We found you on our return from trading in Orestflin. Our scout had spied your ship and had he not had the mind to investigate, you'd have been left for dead.
As it be, it's amazing that you've all your limbs in tact, after the frost that had set in your bones. You're certainly hardy, for a foreigner. Our own don't fare the winter that well, the gods must be watching over you, lad."
Grayell didn't respond to the large Dwarven man that stared down upon him. He wasn't conscious for the trip back to the bed he now occupied, but the sickness that wracked his gut and his head told the tale. His eyes were blurry, unable to focus on much but a single point and at present; it was the woman that stood by her husband as they explained how Grayell had come to be in their care.
There wasn't any reason that he fixated on her, not to Grayell's mind. There was something amiss, something that was unspoken though and whilst he could not hold the notion; it was she that drew his gaze all the same. He might never know why.
That said, I can tell you why; if you'll hear it. The Gods were not themselves predisposed to help mortal men. Certainly, as the avatar of an elder wood spirit, Grayell had certainly had more involvement from the divine than many, but still...
... once in a long while, the Gods are taken with a fancy, or a whim, and see it fit to alter the life of we common men. Perhaps it was a kind gesture, perhaps it was little more than a cruel barb at the Vanguard champion - but the Gods had stolen a portion of Grayell's past from him. No, he would not be the bumbling amnesiac with a tormented past that would learn of it along his path to some glorious destiny - but Grayell's past in a humble tree-borne hut atop a hill in the woods with someone he had loved more wholly than anyone could hope to, was now gone from him. Gone like smoke, dragged out a window as the air cooled outside. Grayell knew who and what he was, he knew some of his purpose here, but the memory, painful or not of his absent lover; was now stripped from his mind.
It was for this reason alone that he stared now at the Dwarven woman at his bedside, it was nothing more than a glimmer of familiarity. And that familiarity had passed by the time he spoke.
"... and the wounds were ragged to be certain but you healed altogether too easily, or at least by my reckon.... what?"
The gruff Dwarven man's words came to halt at the hint of a whisper. Grayell could speak, but with his throat parched and his lips numb, his voice was but a mockery of it's usual self.
The Dwarven pair had urged him to tell them more and Grayell, wanting to sort his own muddled thoughts, found himself compelled to try and piece things together through words.
"Or.. inland. To the North. I was born and raised here, my family, my clan. I knew some of your Dwarven tongue once, but it is long lost to me now. It's been a long time since I returned home."
The pair looked perplexed, but didn't press the matter. Their questions were simple enough.
"And what of your family? It's been an age since we saw your kind hereabouts. More Sorens up North now and we don't much bother them, when we're not warring with them. Are you sure of your bearings, lad?"
Of course, Grayell was somewhat elusive, his head was not so scrambled that he'd forget the century or so he'd been from his homeland. Still, their words had him confused.
"Sorens? I'm sorry, but I know nothing of them. Another clan perhaps? The name is not known to me and in my time, we didn't war with you folk."
His question certainly confused them now. Of course, they thought it more a matter of his poorly state, but the Sorens had been there long enough now that now man lived from before their time - or at least since they became known to the Dwarves.
"I was but a lad when they came to the forests. Large, brutish people with hands as large as a hammer. They're northborne to be sure, they don't fear the cold and might be bears, if I didn't know better. Savages, the lot of them."
This perplexed Grayell some, as such people hadn't been known to him in his time here. Still, it didn't dissuade him from his intent here.
"I need to return to my home. I've no idea if it's still standing, or perhaps someone else lives there now. I imagine it's in ruins now, but still..."
His words halted as they were interrupted by another Dwarf, this one looking somewhat more well-to-do (well by Dwarven standards) and an elderly Dwarven man that he looked to be escorting as they entered the small bedroom. The elder squinted, blinked and then looked upon Grayell curiously.
"Your home, you say? Might I ask you, son of man; who are you folk? Who is your family?"
Grayell thought on how to answer that, but ultimately had no other answer that would make any more sense than the truth. Men weren't meant to live this long.
"Wulfgrin. My name is Grayell, son of Aarind Wulfgrin, champion and chief to his people. My home is Solemnfell."
The old man's breath halted then and caused a silent stir in the room. Those words carried weight, at least to one so old.
Preparations had taken some time. Whilst he had no official deadline or pressing cause that presented some risk, Grayell's purpose here drove him on. He was well enough to travel but far from the peak of fitness and here, the going was rough. The Dwarves had warned him against his errand - but Grayell wondered if they were less worried for the season and more for the threat that these 'Sorens' presented. Grayell wasn't so sure there was a threat, at least not to him.
He'd encountered one abandoned Soren camp as he journeyed inland, not far from where the snow finally let the forest slip free. Their remnants bellied their rumored size and it fascinated him a little, he wasn't familiar with this race and he was quite familiar with many. Still, his head drove him on, even while his heart ached for a home that lurked in a now cloudy memory and his legs protested and ached.
As luck and sheer determination might have it, those legs carried him over the crest of the hill that then fell away and presented a sight that had him immediately freeze. His family home. Oh, it was a poor ruin of the humble hut that it once was and the land had swallowed up much of what was familiar, the woods having grown well beyond the boundaries that he knew... but there was no mistaking it. It was as it had been, nestled too near the creek bed that his Mother had always warned would undo them, should it ever flood. It never had.
There was a grit resolution on his face which hid the trembling in his chest. With one very long, very hesitant breath; he placed one foot in front of the other and marched down the hill. The moon was on his heels.
He'd made it home on the waxing moon. Certainly he might have done this anywhere, but it was his resolve, or stubborness that had seen him wander his way home. It was by luck alone that his timing had been as such. There was no ritual required and no preparations needed, but the silence in the husk of family home that seemed appropriate. This is where it had begun.
He hadn't thought beyond this moment. He'd contemplated just sitting by the hearth and waiting. The night was warm enough, he had no need for a fire due to the dwarves kindly provision of proper clothing. The blanket lay tightly bound with the few provisions he'd carried here. It was the remnants of his early life that had kept him on his feet and which had led to a casual exploration of the ruin. It was small and it did not take long until he'd found the only two items that truly held some significance.
In a heap, in the bottom of an old crate, he had discovered the broken limbs of his Father's bow and what was left of his once kept armour. A sentimental chill poured through his spine and down his face as he recognized these items, followed by a warm smile that was rarely seen on Grayell's face. He took them up with due care and, after looking at them for a moment, brought them to his nose to smell them. He wasn't disappointed that all scent of his Father had since left the leather and Yew, as these items smacked of home. The leather was draped over his shoulder and the two remaining sections of the bow were clutched in his hands as he finally took that seat by the long-dormant fireplace.
If Shen were correct, Grayell would shoot again. It was his finest skill in his youth, he shot instinctually and it was a talent that his Father was fond of. He could recount the many occasions that his Father had stressed how invaluable he would come to find his knack for archery. The curse seemed more cruel for having stripped it from him. Still, the simple magnificence of his Father's bow was lost to time, as was a good portion of the wood. There would be no restoring it.
Still, as Grayell sat in the twilight and the moon rose to cast light over his crumbled brick surrounds, Grayell took a piece of charcoal in his hand and began to scratch an idea upon the floor.
It passed with an utter lack of effort or energy that was in stark contrast to the grim horror that transpired here and set him out unto the world. A cool rain had slowly slipped from the sky and smattered upon the stone and ragged weeds within, leaving him alone to stare at all of nothing. It seemed like the total summation of his journey at this point. That blessed fog that stole her from his mind left him with little else that seemed truly significant. Had anything he'd done in Wistvale mattered now, it did not occur to him. There was a void. Not in his gut, nor his heart, but a void that was simply centered in his core. It swallowed him from his inside and teased him in a terrible way, for he knew not why he ached so.
The moon rose and rode the sky and all the while, Grayell let it slip through the heavens. He gave no thought to turning, or at least, did not contemplate doing so. Yes, he could slip into his wolf and run wild. He could do just the opposite of his choice now, to simply don that form and simply not turn back. The very same moon could rob his humanity of him this very night, but that would not close the circle.
There was a smokey, warm spectre that lurked in his mind. She chased the shadows in the undergrowth of his memory and when his eyes closed, she rose upon a hill and beckoned that he followed. He had woken every morning now to a longing howl and the persistent smell of warm breath, only to have it flee from his comprehension as the world swam into view. He could not grasp it, but knew something was amiss.
His only drive was founded solely in the decision that he would see this through. It was the one over-riding thought that he knew to be true. It might seem a shame that his whole life would change as such, due to the absence of knowledge and the inability to recall something before his waking in the Dwarven camp, other than a cold and white storm.
The moon rode it's course and as it finally crept from the sky, the magic left him. His blood stopped stirring and his senses dulled. The pulse through his heart was no longer audible. His breath no longer rang in his ears, a steady reassurance that he was forever ready for the unknown. A glimmer left his eyes, just as the easy strength in his limbs seemed to slip away like unfortunate memories. A curse that had long been forged into strength slipped away with the moon and left him alone and altogether human. Weary, white and aged well beyond his years... Grayell slumped to lay on his side upon the wet floor beneath him.
He had nowhere calling and no plans. He had no desire to rebuild and the lust for adventure was fed and content. His obligations were fulfilled and he would learn to accept that he could not change the world for the sake of others.
With a new page and a worn and wilted quill, Grayell's new world would begin with the dawn - and months from this moment, he would truly decide he was done with the so-many-things that had kept him in the world of man.
(This largely ends the story of Grayell. I thank you for taking the time to read this and only hope that I have mustered but a little of what I consider a grand adventure to close this book. I will not proofread, edit or return to this post in true, caution to the wind, fashion.
Listening to: 'Something about us' by Daft Punk. I imagine that means something, but will not venture to entertain such sentiments.