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Reading the Wind
Posted: 17 Aug 2007 02:08 PM |
"See this, now? Look well…" the dark skinned woman gazed across the distance, "What do you see?"
"I see…"
Osaharr looked across the shifting sand, past the barren sea of sand dotted with rocks and boulders as far as the eye could see. His eyes focused on the three humanoid figures shambling distantly across the wasteland.
"I see the Undead."
"No. You do not," the woman's reply came sharply, like the thrust of a dagger, "Look again. What do you see?"
Osaharr had only been at his eighteenth's turning, or eighteen winters in the reckoning of his people, and the mentor given to had a reputation of being harsh and unforgiving. It was a disappointing turn of events, but also a fortunate one – she was considered the best, and those taught by her grew to become the most promising.
He looked again towards the distance, at the three shambling figures.
"I see zombies… or ghouls…"
"You are wrong again," and again her tone was like a dagger, piercing at his confidence, "What do you see?"
"I don't know… what do I see?"
"A question: that is the correct answer. Do not fear ignorance, for we are all born ignorant and learn in time. I will tell you what you see..."
The woman's name was Nafrini, one of the Windwalkers: those of the tribe who carried existence from the outside world in the form of words and stories; what the people could not go and see for themselves they brought for them into tale and imagination.
"You do not undead, not ghouls or zombies," she continued, "This is what they are, but often appearance masks the truth. You see the Usurper."
Osaharr stiffened. The mention the Usurper – the great lich god of the Kobai, the blight of the desert – froze the blood in his veins.
"These are extensions of his will," Nafrini explained, "Fragments of his powers brought forth through the darkest arts, subverting the bodies of the dead to suit his whims. It is Him you see when you look upon these living dead, and it is his will that is mirrored in theirs."
Nafrini removed the bow from her shoulder, taking it in one hand and arrow from her quiver in the other. In a swift motion, too fast for the eye to catch, she let an arrow fly across the distance, dancing with the breeze as if were carried consciously and willingly towards its target. Over the shifting winds the moan was inaudible, but it needn't be heard – one of the shambling figures dropped like a stiff log into the sand.
"… and when you send your arrows to pierce their flesh, it is the Usurper you pierce," she turned back to Osaharr, "Do you understand?"
He nodded slowly. The thought of the Usurper's gaze falling upon him frightened him, but it was a reality he had to accept. It was the reality his people had to bear for choosing to exist in the desert.
"Indeed, your fear is justified," she studies his expression carefully as she spoke, "And that is a lesson you must heed well, and applies not only to the Usurper, but to any force that is an obstacle to your path: take great care in your actions, choose your battles wisely, never underestimate the opposition or overestimate your own worth. Be prepared to accept the reasonability of your deeds."
"I understand."
"Good," she saw the confidence in his eyes, "You know your enemy, and now know to bring him down."
With a second swift motion, Nafrini presented her bow to Osaharr, along with an arrow from the quiver on her back.
Osaharr had learned the use of the bow from his parents, but these lessons paled compared to the true marksmanship arts of the Aeolus – those reserved only for those of the warrior's path. Every young man or woman who chose to train as one were assigned to a Windwalker mentor, and expected this lesson with great anticipation. It is a sign that they have come of age.
"Do not let your eagerness get the better of you," noticing this, Nafrini snapped the bow away from his grasp, "These arts require focus, concentration, control and empathy. They require a mature mind to understand, and accept the twisted reality they come with – am I teaching a man, or am I teaching a child?"
Once again, the dagger, this time cutting through the eagerness with the sharpness of her tone. Nafrini paused to let silence sink in along with her words – they would become the most important lesson she had to teach, a foundation upon which the others will be built.
"Remember, Osaharr, that here on your life hangs on the line, and that for the foolish the edge of mortality is not always death. Once you fire from this bow you make yourself a new enemy, and only one of you will survive the outcome," her tone gained a new edge of warning, "Do this only if you are prepared to accept that."
He had waited long for this moment: to learn from a Windwalker outside the safety of home – it was a true test, and one he was not willing to forfeit lightly. He fired the arrow, but the odds were against; the shot missed by a great distance.
"I don't think it's possible," Osaharr reluctantly admitted, "The arrow cannot reach that far now that the wind has picked up."
"Answer this to me," Nafrini locked her gaze on him, "Why would you seek to fight the wind, to overcome it, when it should be your ally? Is it not filled with the spirits of our ancestors, crafted by the handiwork of the Lady herself?"
"The wind goes where it pleases," he recited from a story he had once heard, "It does not travel according to our whims."
"Indeed. The wind is free and must remain so," Nafrini retrieved her from the young man, "If we sought to tame it then we would be akin to the Usurper, and such is not out nature…"
With a flurry of movement, she let another arrow fly towards the distance. Again it stroke true, as if carried by an unseen force, at one of the two remaining shamblers, toppling it down like a slab of stone.
"However," she continued, "It does not make it our enemy. We are the people of the wind – it is never our enemy. Never."
It made sense, and at the same time it made no sense at all.
It didn't because the wind is unpredictable; at one time it moved against him, slowing down an arrow or pushing it aside, at other times it would propel it forward, perhaps even too much. However, it did make sense; it did mad because that was the very concept of this art – to predict the unpredictable, to see through something that was inseparable from their very culture.
"This art we name 'Reading the Wind': it is a skill, or rather a sixth sense that we develop and use to predict its movement, the currents and velocity, and through this knowledge we come to know how to use wind as an aid."
Nafrini sent a hand to her quiver, pulled another arrow and with the same fluid motion presented it to Osaharr.
"One target remains," Nafrini looked towards the last of the shamblers, and for a moment her eyes studied it carefully, "That will be your prey. The way you are now, you have seen that you cannot hit this creature. When you learn to gain the wind as your ally, it will become easier. First, ready your weapon, and take your aim."
The task was not as easy as it first appeared to be. Osaharr might have known the basics of marksmanship, but holding the string pulled and the aim stable for any prolonged period proved a strain which only grew as time passed.
"Ignore the bow; ignore the strain you feel," came Nafrini's guidance, "Look towards your target, focus. It is difficult, but you accustom to it."
Osaharr's arms were tiring quickly from keeping the string pulled. All he had was to focus, but the more he attempted to maintain it, the greater the strain grew – until his concentration wavered and his thoughts wandered.
"Focus," Nafrini's voice came like the unwelcome buzz of an insect, "Think towards your target; the space between you. The bow is meaningless; you know it as a tool already."
This lesson proved difficult to learn, replacing whatever anticipation he had towards it with frustration. His arm started shaking, his grip on the arrow weakening until the arrow slipped from his fingers and into some random direction.
"You are losing your focus," Narfini remarked – the insect's sting, "Try again."
The second shot was no better then the first, and neither was the third. Other pupils: they were taught this art one lesson at a time, but from him was demanded to learn it all at once: the bow, the aim, the reading.
"It's too difficult; everything done together," Osaharr gave in, "I can't grasp it with so many distractions."
"Then don't," Nafrini thrust her reply like a spear; she snapped the bow from his hand and turned away, "Find another mentor who will do things more to your comfort. I have nothing to teach you."
It was a tempting thought; have a different Windwalker as a mentor, start anew from a better angle – it was the easy thing to do, but also the foolish thing. None would have given up on Nafrini; she was harsh, but she was also the best, and she only trained the most promising.
"Wait!" Osaharr leaped forward and grabbed the bow, holding the Windwalker back, "I'll try again… and again if I have to."
Words are easy to speak, and promises easy to make: Nafrini had known that. If this boy was to be believed, she required a test of perseverance. She let him take the bow, and watched him carefully, examining with a hawk's eye every movement he made and every emotion he betrayed.
Osaharr found that his attempt to prove himself was a dead end. He took an arrow, pulled the string, and maintained his aim while pulling his concentration towards the target. Then what? He felt foolish, and that feeling was not alleviated by the presence of the great Windwalker behind him.
His arms froze, locked in their place along with his gaze. It was no longer a matter of strain or focus – enough time has passed for all of it to become automatic, like an omnipresent pain that you eventually grow used to.
"Release."
The sound of her voice had been a pleasant one for a change. He found that he had to pull actual mental effort merely to bring movement back to his fingers. The arrow flew in a straight path, cutting through the air and landing only a short distance from his target.
"Now take aim again," Nafrini demanded, handing Osaharr another arrow from her quiver, "And maintain your focus. The 'distractions' should not be a problem now, yes?"
Osaharr took the arrow and aimed at the shambler. After the last experience, holding everything locked in place was no longer an issue. His thoughts were free to turn towards Nafrini's guidance.
"Concentrate. Look only ahead of you. See your target?" Nafrini paused, and on cue Osaharr locked his gaze on the shambler, "Between you and it there is space, and within it the air moves – or sometimes not. This is an easy thing to tell when around you. Do you feel the wind?"
He did: the wind was strong; strong enough to deflect his first arrow sideways out of course a considerable distance.
"There is wind," He said.
"Where does it come from?" Nafrini proceeded to ask, "Which direction does it travel to?"
"From the west," Osaharr said after a short pause, "It travels eastwards."
"A Western Wind," Nafrini laughed softly, "The Warding West smiles on us then – that is a good sign."
"But you are mistaken," she added matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean?" Osaharr asked confused, "The wind moves from the west. It took my arrow eastward; it shifts the sand there before our eyes."
"Indeed, but that is only a basic level of wind reading," Nafrini took a step besides Osaharr, "The wind indeed travels west, but it is not the only direction in which it travels – only the one dominant. Any person can perceive that in such a windy day."
Osaharr diverted his gaze towards Nafrini. She held a second bow, and aimed an arrow at empty space, away from his target.
"To read the wind, to really read the wind," she continued, "One must learn to perceive the subtle movements that are otherwise invisible to us. When we fail to do that…"
She let the arrow felt – Osaharr watched as the wind pushed it sideways.
"The dominant current will carry our arrow away," she continued and pulled another arrow, "However, when we perceive the subtle movement…"
She let the second arrow fly – this time it cut forward cleanly, undisturbed by the western tempests.
"We can use these currents to our advantage," she concluded, lowering her bow and taking a step backwards, "Do you understand?"
"How do I perceive the subtle currents?"
"Empathy," she explained, "Empathy with our Lady's handiwork, the spirits of our ancestors within it, our weapons and us. It is not simple to learn; at first it takes time, and as such useless in true combat, but with experience one learns to do it better and quicker."
"What do I do?"
"You cannot learn read the wind on a clear day, which is why I brought you here on a time of strong tempests," she admitted, "Learn to read the wind by observing the movement of the what it carries with it. Examine the shifting sand carefully – put your focus towards it until you detect more than its movement west."
Finding an anomaly inside the tempest was equivalent to finding a needle in a haystack – when the haystack is on fire. It took longer than his prior attempt at concentration, and just when he thought his eyes detected a slight change in the otherwise persistent current, his thoughts wandered away from the wind and towards the other 'distractions'. He realized that as difficult as Nafrini's first lesson of concentration had been it paled compared to the mental effort required for this task.
"There is no need to look everywhere all at once," Nafrini gave guidance after a sufficiently long period had passed, "The arrow moves in a straight path. Seek the currents in that path: between yourself and your target."
The advice made things only a little easier. It may have given him a more definite object of concentration, but that only made it all the more difficult to maintain it. At some point, he could see some turbulence or another – the sand swirling in place – but he lost it quickly."
"I can't see it clearly enough. Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"One last thing, and then you are on your own," she answered, "Do not just look – mere observation is a thing anyone can do, and not the key to reading the wind. The key is empathy. I cannot explain it – it cannot be explained at all – I can only tell you that to reach it you must turn to more that just sight."
At first, the advice proved to be of little aid as well. He believed in the spirits and in the Lady, but never thought to have any actual contact with them otherwise. He tried to do the impossible – to reach the top of the mountain without climbing its edge.
When that failed, he tried not only to see how the wind moves through the sand, but to feel the wind as it moves around him. It hit him when he felt one turbulence sweep across him that the subtle currents are not constant; they come and go, their effect lasting not in stasis but through length of space. He caught turbulence in the sand before him, and followed it with his eyes as it moved forward until it died out. He prepared to fire, waiting only for such turbulence to form again, and when it has it shielded his arrow from the western tempests.
It was not perfect, but it flew closer to the shambler than any attempt he could've made otherwise. It was close enough for the shambler to take note and slowly turn towards its assailer.
"Good," Nafrini remarked, "Do it again, read through the wind and find an even better opportunity so that your shot may be more accurate and with more force."
He took another arrow from her, and tried to detect another break in the strong wind. This time he did not notice the repeating turbulence, but a slight momentary change in the overall pattern that he took advantage of immediately. Indeed, it carried his arrow towards a direct hit at the shambler's shoulder.
The shambler made a full turn towards the assailer, its crimson eyes falling upon him like a battering ram. Osaharr felt suddenly suppressed by the will that locked on him behind those eyes, like his spirit was pushed into a corner by overwhelming anxiety.
He snapped his head towards Nafrini. Her eyes were focused on the shamlber when she handed him a third arrow.
"Again," she said, but it sounded less certain this time – she was experimenting, trying something, perhaps confirming a suspicion.
He fired – like before, it took some time to find the right opportunity, and the arrow had hit without much force – but it hit again.
The intensity behind the shambler's gaze intensified, overtaking Osaharr's every sense with fear. He no longer felt like the hunter, like the predator; he felt like prey, he felt he had to run.
"Take this," Nafrini's voice stopped him as she handed him a fourth arrow. This one was different from the others: its design was unique, not rightly practical and even somewhat unnatural. The arrow emitted an almost imperceptive hum.
When he fired the fourth arrow it launched with remarkable speed, as if it gave itself its own momentum, making a screeching sound that persisted until the arrow struck the shambler. It recoiled, its gaze intensifying even further, and suddenly sprang forward with unnatural speed.
"Again," Nafrini demanded before Osaharr had the chance to make his flight, "Take more of these arrows. They sing with life, hurting the very essence that powers the living dead."
Knowing the magic behind these strange arrows, and the skill of the Windwalker beside him, Osaharr chose not to flee. He took his aim and fired at the sprinter, who once more recoiled at its touch, but did not relent. The third arrow, the fourth, the fifth and the sixth he shot rapidly – one hit, another missed, the last two were deflected by the sprinter as if they were mere insects. He realized that he was no longer reading the wind; he simply fired and hoped for the best, for it was too late to flee.
The creature was almost upon them when three arrows pierced its rotting flesh with rapid succession. It recoiled, stopped, and moved its gaze between the two – judging the greater threat. Nafrini had given it the answer by releasing another arrow. It sprang towards her, seconds away from making its strike. Nafrini pierced it with two more arrows before it came before her, its stench filling her nostrils.
Then, the creature fell; pushed aside from Nafrini as if the force behind the arrow which hit it were enough to send it flying. From point blank Osaharr had little chance to miss, and his last arrow was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
"Very good," Nafrini smiled, moving her hands away from the hilts of two daggers at her sides, "It appears I have done well to choose this prey for you, for you have lived up to the task."
"I didn't read the wind," Osaharr admitted, "I fired thoughtlessly and hoped for the best. I don't deserve your praise."
"Perhaps not," Nafrini agreed, "But you have read the wind before, which means you have learnt your lesson. You did so in combat, twice, before you allowed fear to take over your judgment."
She turned the fallen creature over with her foot. Its eye sockets no longer burned with crimson flame.
"Do not feel shame for your feelings," she continued darkly, "The strength of the Usurper is not measured in the lowly creatures most pupils face, but in abominations such as these. Remember this well when choosing to stand against him, for this is the true nature force that he possesses, and it must never be taken lightly."
"For the foolish," Osaharr repeated her words, "What waits at the edge of mortality is not always death."
"Indeed," Nafrini said as she turned back from the fallen undead, "And you will do well to remember that. It may save your future great suffering if you do."
Osaharr stood to his feet. He only now realized that he had fallen to his knees at some point during the creature's advance.
"Well done, Osaharr," Nafrini commended him as they made their way back to Thistle Creek, "Today was a day of many lessons; the kind you learn through experience rather than words – you will remember them, or you may perish to foes even greater than the day's prey. Take pride in its defeat, and tell of it as your story; today you have defeated one of the Bloodseekers – the Abyssal Ghouls. |
Wabbajack. Wabbajack. Wabbajack. |
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