Chronicles of Prince Kurnion, Lion Prince of Chrace

[jwg20]

Chapter 1: The Great Hunt
The 78th year of Aethis the Poet
Imperial Calendar 586

Part 1

Kurnion awoke with a start, staring at the whitewashed roof of his father’s villa. The image of his dream fading as rapidly as the mist upon sunrise. Unlike most elves, the elves of Chrace do not show the same level of concern about dream interpretation. Their lives in the northern kingdom did not offer many opportunities for reflection, and their patron god, Kurnus, after whom Kurnion took his name, was not as forthright as some of the other gods with his omens. Most dreams Kurnion simply dismissed. There was something about this one, though, that he just couldn’t push away, even as he couldn’t remember the details of the dream itself. He had been in the Annulii Mountains in the dream, that much was certain. The white stones of the mystical mountain ranges encircling the inner kingdoms were unique in the world. The magic that permeated the rocks of the mountains distinguished them from the bleak landscapes elsewhere in the world. Waystones, the great magical monuments that channeled dark energy towards the Vortex in the middle of the island continent, dotted the entire length of the Annulii, giving them an aura of terrible power. Caledor Dragontamer created the Vortex in the time of Aenerion, when Kurnion’s grandfather battled the daemons with the first great Phoenix King. It siphoned dark energy away from the world, and prevented the world from being swallowed by the Realm of Chaos. The downside, however, was that, much like a storm cloud emptying itself of water as it crossed mountains, the waystones and cliffs tapped some of the dark energy, and its evil potency altered the wildlife in drastic ways. Monsters of all shapes and sizes stalked the mountainsides, and often they strayed down into the kingdom of elves, sewing destruction as they passed. All manners of strange beasts were created as an unexpected consequence of the vortex-- from cockatrices and hydras to manticores and basilisks.

The worst consequence of this influx of magical power, however, is the effect it had on the white lions, the once noble animals that were native to Kurnion’s land of Chrace. In the time of Aenerion, the elves of Chrace and the white lions had an alliance against the forces of Chaos. Together, they resisted the daemonic armies released in the Great Catastrophe and helped clear the land of the taint of chaos. Armies of men and lions clashed across Chrace with daemonic manifestations, working together to hold back the armies of the dark gods as they crashed like the tides against the castles of Ulthuan. The power drained from the vortex changed that beneficial relationship, however. The dark energies tainted the lions like a disease. Many had now become feral, forgetting their ancient ties to the elves, and becoming vicious additions to the dangerous mountain passes. Now, only those lions rescued as cubs could be trusted; any that spent much time on the slopes of the mountains quickly became tainted by the will of the dark gods. As a result, Kurnion and his people were forced to hunt them before their population overran the mountains. Those Chracian hunters capable of overcoming a lion in single combat would to don the cloak, both as a symbol of courage and as a tribute to the alliance that once was. It was tradition for youths of Chrace to enter the mountains and kill a lion before they could enter adulthood in their 100th year. It was an adventure that Kurnion himself would be embarking upon that very day.

The fact that his dream occurred in the Annulii was no shock. He was, after all, living in his father’s palace-fortress of Tor Charoi at the base of the mountains that bordered the bleak lands of Nagyrthe. He could feel the currents of energy within the peaks as clearly as he could see daylight. There was something else in the dream. Yes, there had been a vile darkness in the mountains. It advanced towards him like the currents of some unholy river. He thought he would be swallowed until… yes, that was it! There had been a lion--a winged lion. One of the fabled hunters of Kurnus. Kurnus’s hunter appeared and caused the darkness to falter. He felt a certainty in the presence of the beast that he had not felt before. It was as if Kurnus was protecting him from the evil shadow, and he had no longer felt afraid. He could remember no more of his dream, but the assurance he gained from the presence of the lion in his dream stayed with him. The winged lions were a legend to his people. They were said to have been created by Kurnus to guard the mountains. Legend said the magic of the vortex could not influence them, much like it failed to affect the eagles that still allied themselves with elves. They were Kurnus’s last creation, left by the hunter god to destroy that which Chaos had tainted. Despite their benevolent purpose, they were extraordinarily shy and extremely territorial. Few elves even believed they existed, and even fewer saw them and survived. Or at least, if legend is to be believed. One thing is certain, however: Kurnion had never seen one.

Brimming with confidence, Kurnion arose from his bed to begin the last day of his youth. He glanced out the window to see what the day brought. Freshly fallen snow covered the forest canopy of the woods outside the fortress. Elves scuttled through the snow-covered streets, rushing to get out of the cold weather as they went about their morning routine. The snow would make his hunt easier; displaying the footprints of his quarry much better than the frozen earth would have. It was as if the god of the hunt was blessing his journey today. Kurnion smiled and turned back into his room. He gazed into the mirror on the wall opposite his bed as he shook out his thick mane of hair. He was a muscular elf, typical of elves in his kingdom, with long, thick brown hair. Despite his young age at little over 100 years old, his body was crossed with scars that he obtained from the harsh life in the woodland kingdom of Chrace. Each scar bore a story. Each scar taught a lesson. He had one that ran lengthwise down his calf that he got from a stag in his death throes, which taught him to never assume his quarry was dead as he approached. Another ran across his back from when he had been blind-sided by a creature of chaos that had descended from the mountains. It taught him to always be wary of his surroundings, despite how safe they appear. A third was a fine scar that ran across his right eyebrow-- one he obtained in an archery accident when teaching his distant cousin, Malossar how to shoot a bow. The lesson there was…well; he guessed that one taught him why you never give a bow to a Caledorian.

Numerous others crossed his body and gave him a rough appearance. In Chrace, such an appearance was normal. It was one of the many reasons that many elves of the other Kingdoms regarded Chracians as little better than uncultured barbarians. He often surprised them with his level of cultural knowledge. Once, when he disagreed with his Ellyrian uncle’s interpretation of a poem, the Prince looked at him like he had heard a dog play a symphony. Between his scarred body and tanned skin, many of the nobility of the inner kingdoms looked on him and his kind with disgust, and assumed they were as savage as their appearance. Their opinion of him and his people did not bother Kurnion at all. At least we can differentiate our men from our women, he thought. That is more than many of the effete nobles from the inner kingdoms could claim.

He smiled at his childishness. The kingdoms of Ulthuan all looked down upon each other. It was a prejudice his father, Prince Lileathor, had tried to eliminate among his own people. After all, didn’t he have family in many of the other realms? Didn’t his father have many beneficial alliances with other families in the Shadowlands and Ellyrion? Family ties and bonds of friendship are deeper than ties to any one kingdom. At least it was that way to the elves of Chrace. It was a mentality he wished the elves of other realms shared.

He washed his face with fresh water left out by his father’s servants and started to get dressed. When finished, he checked himself in the mirror again. He wore a robe of purest white, the color of mourning, to represent his grief at needing to hunt his former allies. A brown leather belt encircled his waist on which the various names of the hunter god were written in bronze script. His hair was tied back with bronze thread and about his shoulders he wore a green cloak which bore the names of his ancestors as well as his family’s rune. Content that he was attired for the occasion, he left his room and descended the spiral staircase from his apartments into the great hall of his father’s villa.

The great hall, like the rest of the palace, was constructed of white stone from the Annulii. It was a huge room, capable of supporting a few hundred elves at once. The high ceiling was supported by a system of arches that were as beautiful as they were practical. Statues of great hunts dotted the recesses, paying tribute to the gods for their continued protection. The central opening was filled with circular tables covered in golden tablecloths. Normally, circular tables were uncommon in such halls, however his grandfather, who emphasized equality among his people, had the tables replaced millennia ago.

Despite its great size, the great hall was packed with elves. This wasn’t uncommon, for his father always opened his household to those elves who settled in his mountain fortress for protection. Rather, what was uncommon was the number of visiting nobles among his people. Many had arrived to pay respects to the ascension of the son and heir of a Prince of Ulthuan to adulthood. They had been arriving over the previous few days in anticipation for the event, and they now filled the hall to the bursting point. His father was already seated at the table in the middle of the hall, surrounded by visiting nobles from other kingdoms in Chrace. To his left, Kurnion heard the roaring laughter that could only from the throats of his relatives from Caledor. He saw Malossar, making some joke to his father, a Prince of Caledor. His laughter boomed across the hall with an easy confidence that marked him as one of the last Dragon Princes. He spotted his family from Ellyria at another table. They looked oddly uncomfortable here, as if they expected one of the various monsters famous to Chrace to come bursting from under their table at any moment. Must be the forest that surrounded the fortress, he mused. He knew they always felt uncomfortable in closed spaces. Kurnion had always found them an odd people.

There was even an emissary from the Phoenix King! Of course, the Phoenix King Aethis himself could not be expected to come, but Kurnion felt honored that the Phoenix King had saw fit to send someone in his stead. Then again, his father would have been furious if he had not. After all, Kurnion’s father was one of the elves that helped protect Caledor I from assassins after the treachery at the Shrine of Asuryan. Kurnion’s grandfather Gaelean was one of the ones killed at the shrine.

Another table caught his eye. The dark blue and gold dress of the table, along with their relatively reserved demeanor marked them as none other than his father’s allies from the Shadowlands. They were the displaced nobles from Tor’Vaal, which was lost beneath the waves during the Sundering. They were also one of the last of the noble families from that bleak realm that still owed loyalty to the Phoenix Crown. Prince Vaal waved at him, which Kurnion returned in kind. While he was happy the Prince had seen fit to attend his ascension festival, what Kurnion was happiest about was the lovely elf maiden that was seated two seats to his right: Amasel. She smiled at him as well, and Kurnion felt his heart flutter. As always, she was beautiful! Her long dark hair hung down to her shoulders, emphasizing her high cheekbones. Her blue dress looked like a shadow become solid. Kurnion was glad she made the trip back from the Tower of Hoeth to be here for this. As always, her beauty made him speechless. Between the Prince and Amasel, her brother Vaal II sat. Kurnion and Vaal had been friends for ages, and he was happy his old friend had arrived.

Kurnion made his way to his father’s table, receiving toasts from the various nobles as he passed. He took his seat to his father’s right. “Ahh, the young prince finally designs to join us! We have already had two courses! I guess you don’t want to give the lions a good meal today?” joked one rather thick elf noble from his father’s table.

“Lord Hathion, if the lions need a good meal, perhaps you could indulge them! No elf present could offer them a fuller meal, and Asuryan knows, you could go for some weight loss.” his father responded. This was greeted with laughter as Lord Hathion slapped Kurnion on the back in greeting. Kurnion’s mother arose and gave him a hug before gesturing for Kurnion to join them.

The feast consisted of various courses arrayed in a particular pattern for the occasion. Fruits from distant lands were followed by meats from the mountains and roots from the various plants in Chrace. And of course bitter wine was served to emphasize the various flavors of each course as well as draw attention to the dangers of the adventure. The festival would reign for eight days, but Kurnion would only be present for the first. At the end of the seventh day, those present would either be celebrating his return or preparing for his funeral. As such, the mood was a mixture of happiness and trepidation. Music graced the hall that evoked both happiness and sadness from its listeners in a way only elven minstrels could. At the end, bitter herbs were served, to remind them that this was not only a celebration but also a sign of mourning for the friendship that was lost between elves and lions.

With the feast done, his father arose to give a speech. “Thank you all for traveling to my humble palace for the ascension of my son, Kurnion, into adulthood. The hunting of the lions is an unfortunate tradition in Chrace. The alliance of elves and Kurnus’s chosen goes back eons before the coming of chaos.” His father continued with the story of the breaking of ties between lions and elves. Kurnion zoned out, having heard the story before many times. He turned to glance at Amasel. She really was beautiful. What is more, she was a one of the last surviving princesses of the once great realm of Nagyrthe. Unlike many elves of Ulthuan, Kurnion felt no suspicions of the realm known as the Shadowlands. Although many were bleak and dour, they were some of the most loyal elves he knew. Amasel’s brother, whom Kurnion knew as Vaal, had been a great companion throughout his childhood. They had been on numerous hunting trips together in their early youth. Vaal was the one who saved his life when the mutant beast blind-sided him. Kurnion had returned the favor in kind when Vaal accidentally came between a mountain wolf and her cubs. They teased each other constantly about that, and who owed who for what.

But Kurnion was interested in finally bonding their families with deeper ties. It was no secret that Kurnion wished to wed Amasel. She was beautiful, and she had a gentleness to her that was uncommon to elves of the north. He thought she was beautiful as soon as he met her, and the spark did not take long to turn into a fiery passion. His visits to her family now were as much to see her as they were to see his old friend Vaal. Whenever he was with them, Amasel and Kurnion would stay up late, reading together and laughing, enjoying each other’s company as much as could be allowed. But alas, that was a thing of the past now. A few years previous, she had left her family for Hoeth to study magic. Now, Kurnion rarely saw her. Maybe when he got back from his great hunt, he would finally ask her father for permission to propose.

If he got back from the great hunt.

Kurnion shivered that had nothing to do with the harsh northern weather. He knew how dangerous this hunt was, and fear and excitement filled him in equal measure. Amasel seemed to feel his eyes still on her and gazed over at him. He smiled innocently at her, but didn’t turn away. She pretended to not notice him and looked away. Eventually, when she realized he could not be dissuaded that easily, she looked over and shot him a playful glare, which made Kurnion stifle a laugh. She has always chastised him about the boldness of Chracian men, and he guessed he filled that stereotype perfectly. She giggled as well and graced him with a smile before turning away.

“Now if you will all join me outside while Kurnion goes and prepares for his hunt.” Lileathor’s voice boomed out. Kurnion arose and went back upstairs as the elves filtered out into the cold. Kurnion quickly changed his clothes to something more suitable. He threw deerskin pants on to fight the cold, and thick leather boots. He replaced his hair tie with a more practical one made of leather. His upper body, he covered with a wool jerkin and a jacket of bearskin. Next, he donned a plain green woolen cloak clasped with a bronze brooch in the shape of an axe. Finally, he put his quiver on his back, strung his bow over his shoulder, and hung his large hunting knife from his belt. Properly attired, he turned and descended the stairs and went out into the harsh Chracian winter. The visitors were already waiting by the front gates. They lined the roadway to the gates, and showered his path with white roses; the flower to represent new life, and the thorns to represent the hardship he will face. Arriving at the front of the procession, Kurnion embraced his father and mother before the open gate. Stoically, he turned and disappeared into the woods as the gates closed behind him.

[Headshot]

Mesa likey!!

I was actually wondering what to call your winged lions. I was thinking 'shedu'; but not quite the best fit. So perhaps just 'Avatars of Kurnos'? It seems to fit.

I'm looking forward to learning more about this young Prince of House Vaal. In particular, I want to know what his first name is! (Palin'Tanith won't tell me!) Oh, and how old is he then? I've got to do the math.....

Oh, and it's Nagarythe! Better get that right before asking the Lady Vaal out on a date. Nagarathi women are unlikely to break your nose like a Chracian girl might. But they'll mess with your mind, and be vindictive for centuries!!

Headshot

P.S. My google search tells me that there is a winged lion on the flag of Venice. Did you know that?

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Very fluffy, I especially like that you added a date, so we know what's going on. Learning about the rites of manhood from the different kingdoms is good. Where my Prince is from, young elves travel to a mist shrouded island to try and bring back a token of forgotten gods. I also love that more and more fluffy stories, not involving armies battling are coming out.

[jwg20]

@ Headshot:

Thanks! Yeah, I Vaal will continue to make an appearance for a little. After all, there was an elf before he became the Shadow Prince! Any suggestion of elven names for the winged lions is appreciated. I do not know what to call them yet! After all, they are a myth, and Kurnion hasn't told me what they prefer to be called yet (And I can't exactly ask his mount, as I do not speak the language of Kurnus ).

And I will have to get that right about the shadow kingdom! Can't have him getting himself in the dog house (er, lion house?) before they are even wed!

And about age, that would make them around 2100 years old or so in the time frame of current GW fluff. So in the modern age, they are quite ancient. It also gives me plenty to write about before I reach the modern age! A big Druchii invasion, the resurgence of the cult of pleasure on Ulthuan, the Norse invasion, the second great coming of chaos, GAH so much to cover!

And I did not know about Venice. Maybe I will steal some of the designs for my army's flag.

@ Tiralya:

Thanks! I tried to incorporate lots of fluff in the first part. Particularly since the lore in the elven army book is so shoddy now, so some things need to be explained better. And oohh, looking forward to hearing your prince's story of his ascent to manhood! Write it down, I would love to read it!

Anyway, Part II...

[jwg20]

Part II

Vaal ascended the steps to the battlements, and pulled his dark blue cloak tighter around his shoulders. The cold wind bit into his face and brought tears to his dark eyes. He saw his sister, Amasel, to his left, gazing out into the woods surrounding the castle with an intensity that would make a wolf quiver. “If you stare any harder, sister, the woods may catch fire.” Vaal said.

Amasel jumped at his unexpected arrival, and a faint nimbus of power came to her fingertips as she subconsciously readied a spell. “Asuryan’s fire, Vaal! You can’t go sneaking up to me like that!” she yelled, dismissing the winds of magic she had gathered so hastily.

“Given how intensely you were looking to the woods, I think a drunk Etanian could sneak up on you,” he joked. When she did not share his mirth, his look turned more serious. “What troubles you, sister?”

She hesitated, as if her emotions were a thing of embarrassment. When she spoke, she spoke much more softly. “I am nervous, Vaal, nervous for Kurnion. I know it has only been a day since he left, but I can’t dismiss the feeling that something bad is going to happen. I have been on the edge since he left, and there could be six more days of this before we get any word!”

Vaal nodded his head in understanding. “And the worst part is,” she continued, “ if something does go wrong, we won’t even find out! There will only be… silence.” She turned back to face the woods and wiped a single tear from the corner of her eye. This tear, however, had nothing to do with the wind.

Vaal frowned, comprehending her meaning. The silence lengthened between the two of them. Finally, Vaal spoke. “You love him, don’t you?”

Now it was her turn for silence. “Yes,” she finally stated. “Very much.”

Vaal’s started to laugh. “Oh Asuryan! Have mercy on my troubled heart! My sister! Smitten by a Chracian savage! Our grandfather must be turning over in his grave!”

“It isn’t funny Vaal!” She replied curtly and turned her back to him.

“Well, if you must know, I approve, and I feel father will as well.”

“You think he will?” Amasel asked, turning to face Vaal to gauge his sincerity.

“And why not? Lileathor and Father fought together during the Sundering. I think he would love nothing else than to join our two great houses. On top of that, he loves Kurnion! I can’t imagine him even considering anyone else! And also, don’t worry about Kurnion. He can take care of himself. I have seen him hunt, and I doubt there is an elf in Chrace who is better than he is with a blade.”

She smiled appreciatively. “I know. I know if there is an elf that can do this, it is Kurnion. It’s just this whole practice that makes me uneasy. It’s barbaric! Going out into the wild alone to hunt one of those beasts! Having no one around if something goes badly! No one to bring the body home and bring word! Why do they have to go alone?”

Vaal’s response was as powerful as it was brief. “Honor.”

“It is honorable to be ripped limb from limb by a feral lion?! They hunt all other beasts in packs. Hydras, chimeras, manticores. Why fight the lions differently? Why use it as some kind of primitive test that can only get good elves killed?”

Vaal pondered how to explain it. “They do it to honor Kurnus and the old alliance they had with the lions. The other monsters of the mountains are the creations of chaos, and they hunt them as beasts as a result. The lions, however, they are different. They are the children of Kurnus, and are more than beasts. Sending a group of elves against one lion would be an affront to Kurnus. By sending a lone elf, they are honoring Kurnus’s child as more than a mere beast to be slaughtered. Treating it as an equal, if you will.”

“Well I think it foolish. The Druchii are our former kin, are they not? Surely, this practice is akin to a Nagrathi suggesting we deal honorably with the dark ones!”

“No Nagrathi would ever suggest such a thing, but that is because we are wiser than the Chracians. The Nagrathi learned long ago what these Chracians have yet to about honor.”

“And what is that?”

Vaal smiled grimly. “We learned that honor will not keep a knife from sprouting in your back.”

Amasel frowned. Understanding the cold truth of his words, she turned and continued her contemplative vigil of the dark forest.

***

Kurnion’s legs throbbed from his prolonged uphill effort. Despite his upbringing in the mountains of Chrace, he was struggling with the sinuous path through the woods at the base of the mountains. He had been walking uphill for most of the last day, and the severity of his route was starting to take a toll on his fitness. Adding to his discomfort, the wind whipped through his hair and bit at the skin of his face, drying out his eyes and cracking his lips. Pausing by a small creek, he looked skyward to check the direction of his route. His route took him due south from his father’s fortified palace. It was here that many of the lions lived; near the aura of dark power radiating from the highest peaks of the Annulii. Unfortunately, this also took him towards the lairs of other, more dangerous creatures.

Kurnion bent down to take a sip from the fresh water bubbling down the rocks. The cold water rejuvenated him like an elixir, fueling his legs with newfound vigor. Kurnion made to rise, but something caught his eye-- an odd print in the snow surrounding the stream. It had the look of the footprint of a bird, but was as large as his foot. Behind it, a pack of overturned earth marked where a tail must have lashed as the creature drunk deep. Kurnion recognized the print as that of a cocatrice, the half bird, half snake beast that were all too common in the passes. Judging by the size of the print, this one was relatively young. But that did not make it any less dangerous.

Kurnion debated his next move. He could sneak by it easily; cocatrices were not known for their vigilance, but doing so threatened his return journey. Furthermore, if by chance the beast did note his passing, the beast may stalk him for many days, coming upon him unawares. Cocatrices were well known to be vindictive and opportunistic creatures; they often stalked any that passed through their territory for days, coming at them when they were most vulnerable and taking their revenge. Often, in the past, Kurnion had heard tales of packs of hunters being ambushed from behind by a cocatrice they ignored while they battled another beast to the front. Kurnion did not relish the idea of having his head taken off by an enraged cocatrice while he faced a white lion. He generally liked his head where it was, and did he did not fancy seeing the inside of a cocatrice’s mouth.

Deciding that the best defense is a good offense, Kurnion set an arrow to his bow and set off following the prints. Kurnion was shocked by the carelessness of the prints. A blind rhinoceros could not have left a clearer path through the brush. The beast showed no fear of being followed. This realization filled Kurnion with dread; arrogance was not a common trait among the beats of the mountains. Any monster that showed such neglect for caution usually was either mad or had reason to have no fear. He began to have images of fighting a creature the size of a house that regarded him as a dragon may regard a flea.

Kurnion smiled to himself about the speed at which his imagination ran wild. He is dealing with a creature of chaos; the monster was most definitely mad. He knew the size of the creature from the prints. It was likely the size of a horse. Its carelessness probably had more to do with its young age than with any aura of invincibility the creature might possess. Though these words were logical in the strictest sense, Kurnion could not quite shake his earlier premonition, regardless of how much he tried to convince himself that he had exaggerated. Despite his trepidation, though, Kurnion continued to put one foot in front of the other, following the path to the lair of the monster.


As he drew closer, a smell of death wafted through to the air to his nostrils. The pungent odor made Kurnion fight down the urge to vomit. It smelled of blood and decaying flesh. “Asuryan! And I thought Ellyrians smelled bad!” he thought to himself. The attempt at pensive humor relaxed him slightly, and allowed him to clear his mind for the fight ahead. A little further along, the path opened to a minor clearing. Bones littered the clearing; strewn about carelessly and cracked for marrow. Not all the bones were that of an animal; mixed with the shattered ribs and femurs of deer, Kurnion spotted a few elf skulls and arms. Red-stained snow marked the location of the more recent kills. Regardless of how old the creature was, it was clear that its orgy of bloodshed had been going on for quite a while.

Opposite the clearing, Kurnion spotted the beast as it feasted on the remains of a wolf. It was indeed the size of a horse, with blue feathers and a long, green scaly tail. Small flightless wings adorned its back, a vestigial connection to the bird it once was. Its black beak was buried in the flesh of its meal. It was gorging itself on the flesh of the wolf with all the ferocity of a starving bear, having not yet noticed Kurnion’s arrival. Kurnion visualized himself in the position of the wolf; his eyes staring sightlessly skywards as the black beak of the cocatrice was buried deep in his innards.

Shaking himself again from this grim fantasy, Kurnion started to advance across the clearing. Carefully stepping to avoid stepping on a bone and alerting the cocatrice to his presence, Kurnion closed the distance to the monster. He stopped when he was within ten feet of the beast’s head and drew back his arrow. Sighting down the shaft, Kurnion aimed for the small gap between the base of the skull and the neck, and released.

The shaft flew straight and buried itself in the neck of the beast, punching through completely. With a sound to wake the dead, the creature screamed in fury and turned to face its ambusher. Kurnion, surprised the creature could survive such a blow, almost forgot to jump back and the monster’s tail whipped in front of him, missing him by inches. He drew another arrow and fired again for the beast’s chest as it turned to face him. This shot also flew true and lodged itself in the breast of the animal, which was greeted by another scream, but still did not bring the monster down.

Not giving Kurnion a chance to draw another arrow, the enraged brute lunged at Kurnion, its wings flapping furiously as the tiny wings tried to lend flight to such a large beast. If Kurnion was not inches from death, he would have found it humorous how hard the wings tried to lift such a huge bulk. It was like the wings of a hummingbird trying to lend flight to a house.

Kurnion jumped back again as the talons of the beast struck for his torso. Having not connected, the beast stumbled momentarily before launching a fresh assault. Its legs exploded like springs and it leapt skyward, wings still flapping futilely, hoping to drop on Kurnion from above. Kurnion ducked and rolled under the beast as he drew another arrow.

The cocatrice landed just on the other side of him as Kurnion rolled under the beast. Finishing his roll, he came to his feet, and drew back his arrow, aiming at the back of the creature. Kurnion only had time for a quick realization that the beast did, indeed, have a tail, before the tail wrapped around his ankle and brought Kurnion to the forest floor, sending the bow flying from his hand.

Okay, bad idea.

With the elf securely in his grasp, the creature lifted Kurnion and dropped him unceremoniously on the ground in front of him. The creature screamed in victory as his beak flashed down towards Kurnion’s neck. With no time to think, Kurnion drew his hunting knife and thrust upwards. The strength of the cocatrice’s pounce combined with the force behind Kurnion’s knife as metal met flesh. His knife bit easily into the monster’s tissue and the blade was buried to the hilt. Twisting the blade in the wound, Kurnion ripped the knife from the cut. Black blood fountained from the wound and the creature gurgled as the blood pooled in its windpipe. Writing in its death throes, the brute shuddered one last time and lay still.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurnion pushed the beast off of himself. Picking himself up, he began to address his own injuries. His wrist was jarred from the impact and throbbed painfully, but it did not appear to be broken. Other than that, he was relatively unscathed. He wiped his face clean of blood with the hem of his cloak and stretched his bruised ribs, which screamed in protest. Then, vindictively, Kurnion hacked the snake-like tail from the beast and threw it into the woods. Giving the corpse a final kick, Kurnion picked up his bow and walked away from the clearing.

Stupid tail.

***

Lileathor’s keen elven ears heard an unnatural yelp echo across the mountains. Gazing up from his desk, he peered towards the sheer cliffs of the Annulii that were visible through the window in his chamber. Something out there was in pain. The initial screech was followed closely by another birdlike scream, which sent a shiver down his spine. Something, somewhere was putting up a fight. After a pause, a shrill cry of triumph was cut short, its echo resonating among the cliffs and reaching the palace.

Lileathor shuddered. He guessed the sound was from only about twenty miles away. While he knew there were many possible explanations for the sound, he knew in his heart that Kurnion was the cause of the creature’s discomfort, and he was filled by a sense of dread.

The past day had left him very uneasy. The mountains were perilous; he knew that from his own experience in the mountains as a youth. While he had triumphed in the past, the Annulii had become even more dangerous recently. Over two millennia had passed since Lileathor had undergone the travails of the hunt, and in that time, the dark energies pent up in the mountains had only increased the number and ferocity of the beasts that resided among them. It had become so dangerous over the past few centuries that Lileathor had been forced to dispatch armies more and more often to scour the mountains and attempt to clear some of the passes that they had become too dangerous to cross.

While Chrace had always been a wild land, Lileathor now found his people fighting an uphill battle against the creatures that would reclaim the mountain passes. As a result, Chrace had become even more isolated from the inner kingdoms. Trade slowed to a trickle, and more and more often, Chracians were left to fend for themselves; the mountain passes having become too dangerous for elven caravans to pass from Ellyrion or Averlorn. Supplies now came primarily from the sea, however even these had slowed over the years as the Shrine of Khaine to their north drove sea creatures to ever increasing levels of aggression. It appeared that the aura of the blood-stained shrine was having the same influence on wildlife that the dark magic in the mountains had.

Lileathor had tried to delay his only son’s hunt as long as he could. He dreaded the creatures that now claimed much of the mountains and what Kurnion would face when he finally left on his journey to enter adulthood. He had suspected that the increasing numbers of monsters in the high cliffs had driven many monsters further down the mountains, closer to the elven communities that lived in the shadow of the cliffs; communities like Tor Charoi. The proximity of the scream he just heard seemed to prove his hypothesis.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his son’s prowess; rather he feared his courage. Kurnion was not one who backed down easily. Kurnion had led many hunts in the mountains over the past few years, leading teams of hunters to bring down beasts that had gained dominion on the routes to the inner kingdoms. His actions brought him enormous respect from the soldiers commissioned to defend the mountain fortress. Many of the tales of bravado had quickly become favored hunting stories of the people of Chrace; examples by which to live. Lileathor thought many of Kurnion’s actions to be crazy. Though, he mused, there was a fine line between courage and insanity, and the distinction usually was determined by the outcome.

The curse of the Great Catastrophe had taken its toll on the elves in many obscure and unstated ways. The influx of dark energy into the world resulted in many elves becoming infertile. Most families were considered blessed to have one child, and only the fortunate few had more than one offspring. It was one of the many things that contributed to the elves being a dying race. Lileathor and his wife, Salunia, were one of the families who only had one child, and Lileathor did not relish the thought that his only son could be killed in a ritualistic example of idiocy.

Lileathor sighed. He wasn’t giving Kurnion enough credit, he realized. If anyone could survive, Kurnion would. That is, if his son didn’t do anything foolishly brave. Silently, he offered a prayer to Kurnus to protect his son, and went back to his work.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

@ Tiralya:

Thanks! I tried to incorporate lots of fluff in the first part. Particularly since the lore in the elven army book is so shoddy now, so some things need to be explained better. And oohh, looking forward to hearing your prince's story of his ascent to manhood! Write it down, I would love to read it!

My limited skill at translating the story in my head onto paper means that Elessehta's search for adulthood on the Isle of Avellion won't be coming soon ^_^
All the distractions in this part of the forum don't help =P