|
Reaper Sigma -> 'Tis the season to be jolly (1/12/2010 17:53:58)
|
Tempest hummed a festive tune as he strolled down the snow covered path. His real name was Thomas Goldsmith, but he always loved the wind. And the fact that he was always mistaken for an elf helped him earn his nickname. Though, his skin was darker than most elves, a deep tan as opposed to the pale of the forest people.
But he pushed his thoughts out of his head. It was winter, nearly Christmas Eve. His curly silver locks were covered by a pointed green cap with red fringes. He laughed at the irony of this. A human that doesn’t want to be an elf wearing an elf hat.
Beside him was a wolf, a dull brown with white at its paws. It wore a Santa cap that Tempest had a tailor make for dogs. The hat fit wolves fine though.
Tempest began to sing “Deck the Halls” when we heard the distant sound of men fighting. Amid the screams of villagers was the snarl of wolves and the tearing of flesh only claws could produce. This only meant one thing.
Werewolves.
He rushed down the path, taking his shortbow out. It wasn’t exactly a shortbow, being longer than an actual shortbow but not as long as a longbow. He called it a short longbow. But this wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. Tempest nocked an arrow to the bowstring and ran down the path.
The village was in ruins. Broken stone and wood littered the ground; the remains of the houses. Six corpses lay on the ground. The surviving villagers were in a panic, desperately trying to get to shelter. But Tempest only saw women and children, no men in sight.
“What happened?” Tempest asked a nearby maiden.
“The werewolves,” she stammered, her eyes wide with fear. “They attacked the village. Not many were killed, thank God, but all the men took up arms and went to the plains to fight them.”
“Where are the plains?” he asked.
She pointed west.
Tempest nodded and sprinted to the battle, the wolf close behind. He could hear a few screams as people yelled about a “werewolf” in the village.
Note to self: Don’t bring a wolf to a village attacked by Lycans.
What Tempest saw could only be described as carnage.
Humans, wearing little more than scraps of armor, desperately fought a larger force of werewolves. He watched as particularly daring man broke the ranks of the werewolves and charged in, sword held high. Tempest looked away as he heard the soldier’s screams.
“Not exactly the Christmas spirit,” Tempest muttered.
The wolf barked, as if urging him to do something instead of making witty remarks.
“Fine, fine.”
He took an arrow from his quiver and muttered something unintelligible. The wind moaned as he nocked the arrow and aimed high.
With a thwack, the arrow flew from his hand. A second later, a torrent of wind hit the center of the fighting soldiers. They all flew backwards ten feet, the werewolves to the left, and the humans to the right.
All eyes were on the bowman as he stepped forward from the bushes.
“What is your business here, elf?” a human warrior demanded.
“Who are you calling an elf?” retorted Tempest mockingly. He ripped his hat off and pointed to his round ears. “Human, see? Anyways, I’m hear to find out why you’re fighting on Christmas.”
“These monsters attacked our homes. We are simply defending ourselves.”
“Lies!” a werewolf screams, moving to the front of the ranks. “For years, you have hunted our kind and burned the forests we live in. We were putting a stop to this.”
“And you accuse us of lies!” the human yelled back. The other warriors joined the argument, and were on the verge of charging each other again. Another gust of wind, not as strong as the last, whipped them into submission.
“HEY!” Tempest yelled, lowering his bow. “Pay attention to the guy with the magic bow, okay? It doesn’t matter who did what. It’s Christmas, you know, ‘tis the season to be jolly? Stop trying to kill each other and celebrate it. Christmas only comes once a year.”
“There is no such thing as a Savior,” the werewolf sneered. “Just an insane man too deep in his faith to know he had no powers and died in vain. Why should we celebrate a peasant’s birth?”
“Heretic! Christ was the son of God! How dare you call him nothing but a simple man!”
The two forces argued again. Tempest sighed. This was going to take a while.
“Well, we’ve agreed on a truce?” Tempest asked the two commanders. They nodded, both with several bumps on their heads.
“Then Merry Christmas to all! Let’s celebrate!”
The werewolves and humans stayed on opposite sides of the plains. The humans started cookfires to roast meat for the feast. But, as it turns out, the butcher’s shop had been torn apart, and much of the meat fell of the ground and was trampled by werewolves and humans alike. What meat was left wasn’t enough for the soldiers.
The werewolves, on the other hand, hunted for their food. In one hour, they had bucks aplenty to feast on. But deer doesn’t taste right when eaten raw.
The smells from the cookfires broke the will of some werewolves, and a few joined the humans. One by one, the werewolves crossed over to the other side. By nightfall, both Lycans and men sat by the fires, laughing and stuffing their faces.
The women and children from the village joined them, toddlers played in the snow and maidens sang Christmas carols. It was hard to believe they had even been fighting. Tempest watched this from a hill overlooking the plains.
“Well, my job’s done,” he said. “But now, I must be on my merry way.”
The wolf by his side whimpered.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but I don’t like staying in one place too long. This is good-bye.”
The wolf licked his hand and trotted off towards the smell of food. Tempest smiled and turned away, singing “Deck the Halls” again.
“ ‘Tis the season to be jolly,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. It was his favorite part of the song.
|
|
|
|
