Category: Arn

Arn stood at the bottom of the cliffs, looking out into the saltwater lagoon.  His raft leaders and band chiefs stood in a circle with him, looking out there with him.  Joroth and Keeya stood opposite each other, while Jorik the Embalmer and Logern stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.  Coniran stood separately from the others, with crossed arms.

“Bravar will maintain the fishermen,” Logern said.

“And Im, the hunters,” Coniran added.  The rising sun shone on the sun above and cast an eerie glow into the lagoon. Continue reading Arn 43

“You asked for me,” Arn said, leaning against the shaky wooden wall and staring at a round clay pot.  A vine of teba smoke rose along the opposite wall of Jorik’s hut and lost itself among the herbs tied along the rafter.

Though he hadn’t asked a question, Thalla gave him an answer.  “I did,” said she. Continue reading Arn 42

Once again, Arn was training in the swamplands of Razaad.  Since his return to the island after Scoa, he had grown his muscle mass substantially and each blow of his training staff smashed off an aged mathhar trunk with a thud.  His metal sword lay nearby, wrapped in a scaly animal hide to protect from the elements—he trained with it sometimes, but it used control, not muscle strength, and he wanted both.  He rotated around the tree as he trained, practicing his footwork in the moss and soft mud, scaring away any critters that ventured close enough.

He saw them coming early, thanks to his movement around the tree.  Two men were walking down the slope with spears; they approached quiet-like, through the damp woodland.  Arn continued training, paying them notice.  He turned his back to them in his next rotation, but made certain he was facing them when they got closer. Continue reading Arn 41

As the humid fog began to disperse, around midday, the tribe on Razaad gathered in the large meeting area.  Sizzling embers left trails of warm-scented smoke in the air, to be sucked in by the mouths and nostrils of a few hundred people.  The entire village could not fit in one place, but they crammed the roads and houses around to hear the speech of their leader. Continue reading Arn 40

It had started to rain late in the day, a bursting downpour that soon settled into a gentle drizzle.  The hunters had poor sport, but the craftsmen did alright.  That morning, Logern, Bravar, Taran, and Arn’s brother Joroth marched through the village like some small band of their own.  The band of merry reluctants reported that the third raft was done, that the project was done.

Arn beat the tree sapling a wooden rod, his muscles quivering as violently as the scattering leaves.  Sweat dripped made his eyebrows feel cold.  The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and the leather tunic he wore chafed his nipples, a distant paint, incomparable to the force of each blow reverberating the bones in his arms.  He couldn’t see the source of this rage, but the skill would soon be necessary so he gave himself over to it. Continue reading Arn 39

Jorik the Embalmer sat cross-legged in Arn’s hut, a pained expression on his face.  The man’s greying hair and constant, eerie stench, made it hard for Arn to focus.  The chief of Razaad rested on the balls of his feet, muscles stretching as he balanced there.  He regarded the healer and mortician with a stern squint and a neck stiff from his body trying to keep up with all the training he did.  “Do you have an apprentice?” he asked.

“N-No,” Jorik stammered.  “That’s not what we were speaking about.” Continue reading Arn 38

The taste of blood filled Arn’s mouth as he bit his lip.  He cursed, loudly, and pressed his tongue to the spot.  Joroth looked at him cautiously, pausing with a slice of roasted wing hovering near his mouth.  Arn’s temper had been more severe than the morning’s rainstorm all day.  Everyone around him knew it. Continue reading Arn 37

Echoes of wooden impacts and dull, metal clangs rose over the swamplands of Razaad.  Arn had found a secluded spot to do his training, and he spent hours each day sparring with hands, spear, and sword.  His opponents were rigged up trees with scale hide sacks crammed with reeds and leaves.

A drop of sweat slid into his eye, and Arn let his spear thrust veer off point.  He jabbed it into the dirt and rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead.  He panted.  Taran had spoken bold words, even if they had not been threats.  Arn would train himself to the bone to be ready. Continue reading Arn 36

Arn dragged the knife across the fleshy underside of a water scale hide.  He had killed it himself, while hunting without the hunters.  A few had applauded him as he walked back to the village, carrying the creature over his shoulders.  As he cleaned its hide, he again considered Thalla’s conundrum.  His normal breathing, when completing such a task, was uneven.

He always knew what to do, or did it without thinking.  But today, Arn could barely focus.  If he let Thalla leave the hunter’s band, he’d be left with the angst, the usurping, the doubting… he’d dealt with it for months before.  Furthermore, it’d show precedent to the tribe that Thalla could demand things from him.  It would make him look weak.  But if he refused Thalla’s request, he would lose an ally and a friend.  Likely, she would arrange a duel to lose, to be replaced on the band’s leadership anyway.

Arn scowled and jabbed the knife into the dirt beside the scales.  She couldn’t even look him in the face any longer. Continue reading Arn 35

Rain pelted down onto the reed roof of the hut, leaking every few minutes in an errant dribble.  Arn sat on old Stone Spear’s fur mat, his legs folded under him and his eyes nearly closed.  When someone tapped on his door, he opened them wide.  “Come,” he said, and watched the door flap pull aside.

Jorik straightened at the sound.  The Embalmer and advisor had been here early, sitting next to Arn wordlessly. Continue reading Arn 34