His body hung in the air, motionless to appear near dead. Eternal night bathed the sinewy form however was reflected like a starlight outline against every wall. A moment’s disturbance now would break the trance, shatter the fugue of his mind and send his avatar crawling back into the primordial shadows of day. In an empty land, a country of dead things, there would be no interruptions.
Clapping a hoof on Orathone’s chest, the caribou exuded tremendous weight, well beyond his mortal form. If there was no pleasure in torment, no blood to be turned for the Goredrinker, or information to extract, Amirot could have reforged his avatar’s hoof into a spike. Without limits, he could shred the boy across the fresh Summer grasses and leave him for any scavenger that might come along. Regarding the myter that trotted towards the tree line to his tail, he decided he could still have some fun once it was all over. First, he had to handle the Green-Hearted Knight.
Straddling the boy, almost smothering him with his size, the caribou willed the shadow to contort into a twisting dagger. The unreality of the blade was only manifest in the incorporeal of the dark itself, but its effects would be all too real. Orathone’s eyes rolled back to their proper position in his skull and he caught a glimpse of the knife. It would have been a true terror had he not seen the incomprehensible creature holding the weapon.
From Orathone’s perspective, the caribou may as well have been a being from another world. He was a living motion in the day’s darkness, outlined in pale white. What was apparent in his features was a sprawling smattering of scar tissue that ended at rigid points along his skull and throat. The eyes that fixed him were blinding voids as though he were staring at the sun itself. The appearance of such a bizarre being would have driven madness into most any other, but Orathone was not yet wholly enamored.
Digging his digits deep into damp, wormy soils, the buck forced roots from nearby shrubbery to rise and aid him. The dormant roots were still waking to the day’s warmth but moved despite a chill of lethargy the sun hadn’t yet baked away. Yet once they were above ground, the roots were able to swarm with their typical vigor. Orathone sent them at once to seize his assailant. They would wreath his arms and wrap his torso. A noose would knot his neck, and if a stiff yank wasn’t enough, Orathone would have no qualm finishing the job. However, as the shrubbery reached the height of their attack, the moment wherein his captor’s end should have come was denied.
Fractions of seconds began to tick away as Orathone realized not only could his roots not find purchase on the caribou, but the blade was plunging downward. He flung his arms outward, finding that man was incorporeal, exactly why his roots had failed. Yet, the shadow’s weight felt genuine, a force that would not permit him to stand. There were no means to wiggle free or kick against the mass, and if the knife were at all of a like manner, there would be no surviving the blow. Without much else in mind, Orathone gave one great yank of the nearby root system. A squelch sounded loud enough to be thunder in the buck’s ears then a slick drip of moisture graced his cheek.
The second cluster of percussion below cracked open moisture-deprived eyes. Were his gaze not already reddened to fury from that lack, Amirot’s realization of the broken illusion would have completed the job. Stories of stairs were cleared in seconds as the caribou did not spare an ounce of energy in reaching the main entrance of the weary, midnight cathedral. From the balcony leading off the topmost floor, he flung himself down, allowing the darkness within the spiraling stair to act as both wing and cushion. His hooves struck the convex metal floor of a now cycles-old desolate battleground and beat an enraged tempo until he reached the antechamber.
Tearing the door open, an action that looked pedestrian to any who did not know how hefty either of the panels indeed were, Amirot was faced with strangers who had become known to him in an instant. He had been told of their arrival, that they would come and either seek aid or truce, but their timing could not be less beneficial. Eyeing the muddled mixture of the Legion’s soldiers, he wanted to curse.
For several minutes, Orathone lay with his tail in the grass, eyes clenched shut tight, waiting to know the ineffable reality of death. When the cold of the afterlife did not come, but the gentle brushing of a beak met him, the buck realized something had changed. Releasing the death grip his lids had about his eyes, Orathone met his mount’s face in lue of the shadowed visage. Relief washed over him, a vigor of hope pumped back into his veins, and Orathone felt for a moment the entire world pulsing with life. There was a oneness with everything in the experience. In so many ways, Orathone felt himself a piece within everything else and everything else a portion inside of himself.
It was as he stared by Sha-Sha and into the milky aqua sky, not yet laddened with clouds, that Orathone almost thought he had known death before. There was a taste of death still on his lips, a poison eating away his innards until he had become hollow, lifeless. In this transfixing death dream, Orathone saw beyond the world, beyond the flesh, and into the intricacies of all life. Like a tremendous clock, the mechanics of this world were laid bare for a moment, but just as he had seen the machine’s inside as a fawn, the knowledge needed to understand it was lacking. Yet, he could have sworn he heard a voice from that unknowable place.
Like water crawling through a network of porous rock, the shadows of the darkened northlands weaved through the contingent of Legion soldiers. Were it to his liking, Amirot need only pulse his power once to eviscerate the entire group. They were armored and likely well aware of the danger in being before the caribou, but all their preparation meant nothing for one who could so easily subvert the tides of battle. Yet, he held out, not desiring a brash end to this meeting when such an act could always be made reality at a moment’s notice.
“We have come seeking the Shadow Stalker,” the pale-furred tiger at the front of the group bowed, followed by his retinue. A more opposite-looking specimen Amirot could not imagine, yet his gaze was just as unceasing and relaxed, “It is my obligation to bring word of the coming conquest of these lands. As we understand, you are the master of this dominion.”
“Very much so, and should you like to remain the master of your own flesh, I’d advise you to relinquish any attempted claim on my lands.”
The spokesman looked vexed but proceeded, “Rightly so, we aim not to take your lands, not by force. We do not represent our master. Warlord Orin Kammherit II has made tremendous headway, but it has intoxicated him like pressed jalaberries. His father, our true sire, would find himself at odds with his son should he ever return to our homelands. It was our hope that once the dust has settled and we’ve pressed the last bit of resistance to the ocean, that we may look to you to aid in our struggle.”
“And you seek from me, what? To waylay your commander as to protect his dithering old man? I should better twist him to a shadow spawn and have him behead the lot of you. This is no affront to me. Take it from my step.”
“He will seek you, attempt to destroy you, kill your countrymen, burn your crops, topple this temple, and if he lays paws on you, he will torture you for the trouble you’ve caused him,” the tiger’s glare became severe, “We would seek a truce between your empire and our own. The young Kammherit is not the reverent son his brother proved to be, nor the wise leader his father is, but a vicious and unstable man. Once we have conquered the east, I will lead him to you, and together, we can dispatch him. Would it not be better to avoid the calamity of battle for an assured victory?”
As the representative prattled on, Amirot had worked his gloom around the man, pressing the armor for weak points and openings. Before the passage of a minute, he had threaded shade in every nook and cranny of the armor. Though he could splinter the man from within his own protection, Amirot yielded to a more level-headed approach. Once the tiger had wound down, dealing an insult to Amirot’s almost non-existent honor, the caribou sprung his trap. With a tremendous clatter, every iron piece bound to the man fell away, leaving the tiger exposed in only his underclothes, “Any victory for me, in my lands, is assured. I need not an alliance with the meek and terrified to tear down a petty official. Now, off with you, or you shall see where else the shadows may spread and take root.”
In time the crowd dispersed, leaving the cathedral intact, perhaps to later court the caribou into a new agreement. Amirot watched from the high chamber from which the southern lands were laid bare for miles. From so high, he could see distant plumes denoting camps, though little else was apparent. He thought to seek his prey once more but conceded to the truth the buck was likely far gone from any shadow now and for some time to come. Still, he began to shutter the windows once more to enforce the absolute dark he would require to enter shade when a voice came to him on the breeze.
Trazor 