A Desperate Winter

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Madeline Merri
Posts: 50
Joined: Thu Jul 29, 2004 3:14 am
Location: Guelph, Ontario

A Desperate Winter

#1 Post by Madeline Merri »

Hey there, just posting up a small snippet that I threw together. I'm building an army list crafted from the tribes before the beginning of the Empire, as the period has always fascinated me. I love the desperation, and the images that it conjures. Not a great deal is known about the time period, and it allows me a lot of liberties in terms of creating an army, even if I have to deal with a low-tech solution. This story is the beginning of the force that I'm starting, where without Sigmar, humans are a desperate, and quite brutal people. Taking place in the northern sections of the Empire, I love the superstitious nature of the tribes, who have dealt with Chaos, dealt with dwarves and elves, although they still regard them as otherworldly. More to come, but I hope you enjoy.

The trail was cold for a while, but the desperate nature of the hunt had forced him to battle the howling winds and stingingly sharp crystals of the blizzards in the northern woods close to the mountains, plunging into the dark valleys and frozen rivers, shrouded by the massive trees and cragged formations. The village’s food stores had been slowly drained, cursed by the gods of the harvest, leaving them with the barest of commodities to last another three months. He crossed paths with many hunters, watching them from afar as they met eyes over leagues of land, all of them looking for the elusive herds of deer, even settling for a brace of rabbits or other rodents curling up in dens.

Gunnar’s luck had been good, in the past two months he had brought home several large bucks, more than enough to sate hunger in the children and wives, and curb the pain in the stomachs of the men as they ventured out again and again on the hunt. But things had been fruitless for the past week. He consoled himself with the thought that the lower that his food rations got, the more room he would have to bring home prey, gathered roots and other gains, but in the back of his head, knew that he was now hoping to find anything.

His footsteps fell onto the frozen river with a crunch. He stood on the bank watching out at the vast expanse of white in between the two dark green treelines bordering it. If there was a hunter watching, he would be exposed for all to see, and he would lose his prey if they found the quickly-fading tracks in the snow, leaving him to freeze with an arrow in his chest. The hoofprints pranced lazily, it wouldn’t be more than two hours away, probably less with the falling white, it could even be on the other side of the river.

He took a deep breath, releasing the vapour to the skies as he clutched onto his bow, quietly lacing the string onto the tips, the creak of the cold wood waking his weapon up as he strode out into the open, he had to come back with something this time. Thoughts of his wife, his two children pushed him out at a hurried pace, not looking to the opposite shore as he kept his head low, watching the tracks veer towards a fork in the river. He fought a stitch in his side as the heavy winter air filled his lungs, his feet sprinting to the other shore, and the safety of the shadows. With all haste, his form moved with a practiced speed, vaulting rocks and fallen trees with the softness of a child’s footfall.

The smaller fork opened up, the hoofprints reappearing as he matched the trail once again, the trees now shrouding overtop the ri ver completely, wisps of snow breaking through the canopy, falling gently as Gunnar stopped, seeing that the tracks were already being followed, more footprints joining his. He stood there, balancing his options in his head. For certain, he had escaped a few encounters this winter, hunters driven mad with hunger, launching misguided arrows and stalking him on his journeys. He steeled his nerves with a plume of breath rising in his wake, the crunch of snow echoing as he continued into the darkness.

The river broke again, rocks rolling as the river reached rapids, and then falls. He approached the drop with caution, becoming one with the crags as his head peeked over the top. In the valley below lay a wide clearing as the river pooled. The sounds of gruff and harsh tongue rolled in the forest, lifted by a trio of bonfires, the orange flames illuminating a tall stone in the middle, carved crudely with shapes and signs of a foreign god. Before the stone was a slab of granite, hewn from the bordering mountains from the north, upon which was tied a woman, struggling against leather bindings strapping her to the stone, dyed a dark brown from what Gunnar could only assume was blood. He had no time to think about the girl’s fate before the beast looming above her crashed a rock down into her face, cutting off the shrill scream almost before it began, her body twitching for a few moments as the second blow stopped her altogether.

Their tongue was gutteral and raw, spoken from the belly as the shaman bathed his clawed hands in blood, covering his face and tall, wildly curled horns shaking his head and roaring up to the heavens. A chorus of roars joined, an audience of ten more similar creatures stamped their hooves, the cacophony of their voices culiminating in a wild rabble of howls, filling the forest with ill forbode. Gunnar was lost in reverie for a moment, giving way to a moment of weakness. He did not hear the footsteps come up behind him, nor expected the hand that covered his mouth and dragged him back down behind the rocks of the falls. He struggled, but was subdued quickly by an even and tacit expression meeting his – that of a man, tapping his lips with a finger and shaking his head. When the moment of threat passed, Gunnar realized the man was the other set of footprints following the hooved tracks. His voice was kept low to a whisper, but his language was unknown, coming from the eastern tribes. Gunnar shook his head and tried some of his words he learned nearer to their lands. With a curious few moments of hand gestures, they met at a common ground, a simple dialect, but enough to get by.

The other hunter explained, “I am Husqvaldt, I track hooves, many days.

Gunnar nodded, “I am Gunnar, I track hooves, looking for deer.”

Husqvaldt continued, “Not deer, not animal, come from below earth, hunger in the cold. We all hunger in cold, you, me, no good offerings. They still kill for gods, steal women, desperate.”

The words drew a nod from Gunnar, who recognized the plight across the board. He thought for a moment on why every single tribe in the region could have had such bad luck with the gods this year. They had offered up their kills, annointed the blood of the bucks onto the bones, the elders placing them in their rightful positions on the altars, but still, their stomachs were lean and hollowed. Gunnar also noticed that these beasts were in the same quandry, their bodies slowly giving way to the deathly hunger, muscles lean and defined, yet not the hulking beasts that had been spoken of in the fire-stories as they were children. Husqvaldt stroked his wild beard, tying his wild hair back after as he explained further, “They are our women, I come to bring them home.” He gestured to a holding cage on the fringe of the camp, four more women huddled together, stripped naked, bodies shivering as they clung to the furs and untanned, bloody pelts for warmth, eyes wide at the horrific ritual they were to become part of.

“Too many, Husqvaldt, too many.” He watched as the hunter readied a hardwood staff, laying it against the rocks as he laced his bow. Gunnar stood for a moment before pulling out his stone knife, also stringing his bow as well. “I have three arrows. Kill four, bring them uphill.” It wasn’t much of a plan, but the path up to the head of the falls was narrow, and the two of them might have a good chance, with their malnourished state. But still, with only enough time for maybe six or seven well-aimed shots between them both, it would still leave six to contend with. They weren’t prepared for hand-to-hand combat either, Gunnar’s skinning knife, and Husqvaldt’s walking stick, they were going to be hardpressed against a foe that already had deadly weapons born into their flesh.

The two men waited as the horned devils dragged the mutilated body from the altar, the bulk of them collecting to carry the corpse to the pyres, the symbols carved in her flesh a message to those dwelling above, to be carried in the smoke. Husqvaldt gave a quiet whistle to motion the precise moment, the shaman standing nearby as the body landed into the stack of flaming wood.

Air was sliced by stone arrowheads, the first two landing into the cluster of beasts, piercing their leathery skins with sounds of shock and pain, the emaciated creatures toppling to the forest floor, clutching at the arrows. Immediately the remaining beasts spun in all directions, their nostrils flaring with huffs, trying to find their attackers by scent, eyes scanning the treelines. As the next two arrows landed into the group, one missed, sticking into one of the support beams of the fire, giving away their attacker’s direction. Gunnar huffed, it was his mistake, three were downed, but the rest were already grasping at their clubs, hooves slamming as they trotted towards the falls, the Shaman roaring out, ordering his followers to attack.

The plan of funneling them towards the one path worked, their hooves thundering up the icy slope, losing their footing as the beasts stumbling and struggling to come to grips with their foes. It gave them time for one more good shot each, and at this range, the hunters had no trouble in landing their tassled arrows directly into the hooved-fiends’ chests. The two hunters roared themselves as they gathered up their weapons, fists clenching with rage as they rushed towards a spot where two rocks brought them into an even-numbers fight.

Whimpering barks sounded as the two hunters focused on the lead beast, Husqvaldt toppling him to the ground as his staff shattered a hindleg, Gunnar stabbing the monstrosity in the back of the neck with his knife. Gunnar felt a thunderous pain in his back as a club brushed him to the side like a batted fly. He could taste the pain of his head hitting the ice in the back of his throat. In a daze, he saw Husqvaldt keeping two at bay, their whinnying sounds realizing that with the starvation of the winter, the hunters were not going to be easy to subdue. Gunnar only had enough time to look and see the next beast raising his club with both hands, ready to slam his club through Gunnar’s head and into the frozen river.

Rolling to the side, the club landed solid, splintering the ice deep, the slick surface causing the horned foe to stumble. The two grappled on the ice, fear entering both their eyes as the chiseled edge of the stone knife switched it’s aim between throats, Gunnar doing his best to keep his larger opponent on the ground. In desperation, he gave up on the knife, cursing the foul thing’s name as he yelled in his native tongue, lunging forward as he threw his head down at the demon’s face, caving in the poor fool’s cheek, stunning him into a limp state. Gunnar landed another headbutt, breaking his own nose in the process before sitting up to thrust the knife upwards through his foe’s neck into the abominous skull of the horned one.

The two hunters stepped back as they lost their position, the two beasts already exhausted in the melee, the same as Gunnar and Husqvaldt, their chests heaving, aching hot air coursing through exhausted lungs, their bodies not nearly ready for the stresses of battle. Quick flitting eyes showed that Husqvaldt had taken a horn to his shoulder, the blood staining the lush fur of his pelted body, Gunnar’s breath was laboured and stifled by blood trickling into his throat. With a snort, he sucked it back into his mouth, spitting it out onto the white of the ground, wiping his face free from the red for only a second as the flow started up.

The two beasts stood still, their bodies heaving as they waited. The Shaman crested the top of the pass, striding up as he pulled a strange object from his back. It shone dull, quietly so in the light of the forest. It was a long blade, from the mountainpeople to the west, secrets from the gods passed to them, kept secret. The shaman must have stole it from one, perhaps with his mystical powers. He brandished it, heavy in his hand, hard to control as he dropped his staff to grasp the handle firmly with both clawed paws.

The shaman rushed first, his sword leading first as Husquvaldt tried to block foolishly with his staff, the shaft catching most of the force, but splitting all the same, knocking the hunter to the ground. As one of the cronies launched at him, the splintered end speared into the empty gut of the larger foe, his dead form howling as he landed on the hunter, pinning him with his weight. Gunnar threw himself at the shaman with wild abandon, stabbing the healthier shaman in the shoulder with his knife, missing the neck by mere inches. The yelp of pain was followed by a roar as the shaman turned his head, lancing his horns into Gunnar’s side, stopped by his hip as he was lifted and tossed backwards, sliding as the wind left his lungs, tumbling down the rocks of the waterfall. His body ached as he looked up to see the two beasts spying him from atop their perch. He had to get back up, fight alongside Husqvaldt before they killed him, it was his only chance. He willed his body up, his lungs filled with fire as he tried to breathe through the bruises and aches of his long fall. The warmth of the fire at his back reminded him of his missed shot, watching as time slowed, the small little horned imp prancing down the rocks with a precision befitting the unnatural thing. He reached into the fire to pull the shaft of his strayed shot, yanking it free as his steely nerves struggled to compose themselves, pulling the bow from his shoulder, lining the shaft of the arrow against the ashen bow, finger aiming as the pointed teeth and red eyes came into view only yards away now.

He didn’t have enough strength for a full draw, but the arrow flew true, stone disappearing into the unearthly red eye of his foe, burying inches deep as the body, no more than child-sized, slipped and fell into him, skidding to a stop as he fell once more to the cold ground. He crawled on all fours, fighting to a jog as he mounted the slope, cresting it in time to see the Shaman driving the sword into Husqvaldt’s prone body, pinned beneath the lanky beast covering him. The hunter went still. Husqvaldt’s eyes defied his killer, his hands reaching around the heavy dead corpse on him, grasping the blade with his gloved hands, fighting the Shaman as he roared down, trying to loose his weapon. Gunnar took advantage, rushing in fast, the Shaman unwilling to release his blade, urgently trying to free it, panic entering his face as the hunter tackled him to the ground, maniacally thrusting his knife into the shaman’s face, butchering it as the stone chipped and broke on the hard skull of the beastman, the life slowly leaving his body, turning the forest quiet once more, save for the exhausted panting of Gunnar. As the adrenaline left his body, the pain began to mount. He staggered wearily to Husqvaldt, the hilt of the blade standing tall as he braced his feet, pulling the blade free with a few attempts, tossing it aside with a metallic clanging, pulling the body free.

Warm moments were few and far between in the past seasons, but a joy rose as the disgusting corpse rolled off of his fellow hunter. Beside his chest, Husqvaldt lay, peeking down to see the spot in the ice where the sword drove in, missing him by a fraction of an inch. The two hunters summoned their strength and stood, the haggard warriors making their way down the path to the mewling sound of women. Husqvaldt pulled the latch free, the women realizing after a few frantic moments that it was one of their men, explaining to them in their tongue something that calmed them. The night was already going to be upon them, so in a grim comfort, they decided to stay at the camp for the night. They garbed themselves in the spoils of the herd’s exploits over the seasons, finding good clothing, warm and durable, a few bags with berries and roots to eat. The women were strong, soon after the ordeal, tending to the fires, cleaning the wounds of both men, tending to them as the night rolled in. It was hard for both Gunnar and Husqvaldt to not look at the blade, planted in the ground next to the fire, thoughtfully chewing on the fat of a celebratory meal of venison that Husqvaldt had been saving. Both men had the same thought on their mind, watching each other with a knowing look.

The next morning, the birds overhead saw the six humans leave the forest. Gunnar journeyed to the southwards, his pack full of luxuries and commodities that could be used to trade for goods from the craftsmen to the southwest in time to feed his tribe. Husqvaldt limped his way east with his women, each of them bearing a pack of food, as was fair to divide it this way. Both men thought back to the night before.

“We will leave this here. It is a bad sign. Gods are angered that it was stolen, but will be happy that no mortal hand holds it. Let it return to the earth.” Gunnar explained. Husqvaldt nodded in agreement, the two men clasping forearms and hands in the agreement.

“Agreed. After winter thaw, tribes come together. Protect the sword, until gods come to reclaim it. Two tribes become one.” The two men shared broad smiles and deep laughs, nodding as they were eager to tell their elders and leaders about the cause of the bad harvest and hunt, and more than eager to have found men on common ground, common cause. There would not be another bad harvest for them.
[i]"So long honeybabe, where I'm bound, I can't tell. Goodbye's too good a word, babe, so I'll just say 'fare thee well'."[/i]
[b]Recent Joys:[/b] MMA Record: 7-5-1 (Retired) Finished a West-Coast tour as a bass player for several acts.
VictorK

Re: A Desperate Winter

#2 Post by VictorK »

Interesting story idea. I don't think that we get enough of a glimpse into the every day life of the tribes for whom Chaos is just part of everyday life.

That said, I think it needs some work. The over all concept I think is strong; you've got a good lead in with the winter of famine, a good hook with the woman getting her brains bashed in (I admit when I read that I thought our hunter was going to rescue her and ride off into the sunset, thanks for disabusing me of that notion rather quickly) and some good action along with a nice hook for a later story.

So, that's the strong point, and it gives you a lot to work off of. The main problem, I think, is pacing. The story moves along and jumps and starts, it was kind of hard to get my bearings in it. I might have missed it, but it is not clear at the beginning that there are foot prints and hoof prints that Gunnar is following until you really get into them, so I was a little disoriented. This story is also rife with run-on sentences. I'm not a huge stickler for grammar, but a run-on gets you in trouble with the more important aspect of pacing. When I hit a sentence that has four or five commas in it for no reason, it's like stopping and starting on the freeway. I know I'm getting somewhere, but it isn't pleasant. It breaks up the flow of the story, which I think is absolutely crucial for the scenic vista you're painting (I got a really good image of the frozen river between the treeline) and the combat that you're trying to express. This isn't a huge thing, I'm sure if you read over the piece you'll catch it no problem.

There were a few jumps in the story that caught me off guard, like when you switched fromt he conversation between the hunters to the start of combat. I felt a little disoriented. This goes back to my flow criticism, you should go back and look at those places where you transition between the major parts of your story. You've been building up to this fight, getting the reader to anticipate it, so transitioning smoothly is critical to rewarding that anticipation. The way it is now, it seems that arrows just start flying. Discussing the plan is good, but I might try to bridge the action between two paragraphs. Perhaps at the end of one have Gunnar notching his bow and sighting down a beast, perhaps a little description of what he's feeling, then launch into the action in the next paragraph.

The last thing I want to comment on is the way that you have the two hunters speaking. I get that they're from different tribes and that there's a language barrier there. I get that they're kind of savage and primitive. But as it is they sound like cavemen. I think you can get away with this if one character does it, but if both do it they kind of look like buffoons. You might be able to smooth that out.

Whew, that's a lot to say! But for the most part I thought it was good, I focus on those elements that I think will make the story better, but like I said there's a very good conceptual core here and I'm glad you posted it.
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Madeline Merri
Posts: 50
Joined: Thu Jul 29, 2004 3:14 am
Location: Guelph, Ontario

Re: A Desperate Winter

#3 Post by Madeline Merri »

Yeah, it's a quickie. Reading back I could fix a lot - and honestly, as a first go, it's much in my style of just writing and letting fly. If I were to go back, sure it'd be cleaner, but I'm quite honestly too lazy to do that, ha! I'd just rather take in criticism, and then turn out the next 'saga' much better. Part of it was inspired by reading a lot of Conan lately.

The language is a part of that as well, there isn't much of it in the books or movies that is explained. I should have put more emphasis on the fact that they spoke with their hands very simply, and the words were to make it easier for further understanding. So it's not that they're cavemen, they speak eloquently in their own tongue. "River" is a word used when their hand is rippling level to the ground, maybe even with a 'whish' sound to explain it further. In that way - I think I could have even removed *more* of the dialogue, and used their natural intelligence and understanding to get the point across.

The next part's pretty much ready to be posted up, it talks of the early days of the tribe, and gets more into the day-to-day life of these tribal peoples, far more than this story, which for all intents and purposes, deals with men and women that were used to that life, but have to go weeks out in the wilderness with limited contact. That will be explained when the tribes unite in the spring, when they realize that there is a need to get serious about defending this spot, this stretch of land, *their* land.

There will also be more ties to the dwarves, their understanding of these carved mountains, the long-abandoned pillared tunnels left dead and emptied after the call of the northern Thanes to the War of the Beard. How these hunters interpret the discovery of steel, the discovery of stonework, and their general understanding of runic beliefs, and coming into their own on a scale larger than that of the two-weeks walk around them, as well as the reverence for the two hunters as kings who built their fortunes on their discovery and alliance.

But thanks, Victor!

-Maddo
[i]"So long honeybabe, where I'm bound, I can't tell. Goodbye's too good a word, babe, so I'll just say 'fare thee well'."[/i]
[b]Recent Joys:[/b] MMA Record: 7-5-1 (Retired) Finished a West-Coast tour as a bass player for several acts.
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