Interlude - Moraes Shyr (Sister Wolf)

The loud roar of the crowd accompanied by the tang of blood and voided bodily fluids assaulted Lythar’s senses as he cleared the breezeway into the giant arena. The long benches curving around the ovoid depression were filled with cheering spectators from every class in Tymon, from blooded to commoner.

A sharp yip in concert with a chorus of very low growls emanated from the arena floor, immediately drawing Lythar’s angrily flashing eyes.

“Worgs.” Lythar’s thoughts raged. “The fools are using worgs for entertainment.”

Lythar barely noticed the similar look of anger clouding Thistle’s face as he took in a new detail. A young wolf was facing the trio of foul worgs, and it wouldn’t be long before the larger animals killed her.

Fresh pine and loamy scents filled Lythar’s nose as he growled low in his chest at the wolf puppies who were working together to surround him, their rumps held high, tails wagging, and giving excited high pitched yips that were filling the forest glade. Older wolves lay around the edges of the clearing, noses and ears attuned for danger, while simultaneously watching the young elf that wandered by from time to time and their pups as they tussled and roughhoused in the dappled sunlight.....

Giving his head a quick shake to clear the strong memories, Lythar unconsciously lapsed into Sylvan, growling “My sister, you’ll not fight them alone.”

Looking to his left at Vognar, Lythar had just enough sense left in him to switch his thoughts and tongue back to Elven. “Are you ready?” he quipped with a half mad smirk, before acrobatically flipping backwards over the rail at the arena’s edge, drawing his sword as he landed gracefully on the blood stained dirt of the arena floor. Roaring a wordless challenge, Lythar charged at the foul worgs.

The arena’s raucous atmosphere fell momentarily to shocked silence as the crowd caught sight of the charging elf, exotic blade held high. The crazed look in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw led many sitting in the first row of the stands to contemplate wanting to be somewhere else if they ever came upon him in a dark alley.

Vognar had but a moment to puzzle through what had come over his companion (he really wasn’t sure, Elves surely must have a deep streak of madness in them...) before quickly realizing that Lythar had possibly bitten off more than he could chew. Skillfully vaulting the rail, Vognar dropped to the arena floor and set off after Lythar, followed quickly by Thistle.

Lythar finished his headlong charge with a stiff hip-check into the larger of the three worgs, who had moved to surround the smaller wolf. The startled worg was pushed back five feet, however, he quickly regained the upper hand by biting deeply into Lythar’s leg and unceremoniously dumping the surprised elf to the ground. At the same time, a second worg darted in and bit the wolf, who yelped with pain as she quickly twisted free of the sharp teeth, even as the third worg’s jaws snapped behind her, just inches from her haunches.

As if on cue, the crowd went absolutely wild, rising to their feet while cheering and throwing partially eaten bread and other foods into the arena. This boring animal on animal show had just gotten far more interesting. Imagine, dressing gladiators as adventurers and staging them to jump into the fight!

Keeping a wary eye on the odd two-legs who had just occupied one of her tormentors, the wolf whirled and caught the third worg’s shoulder in her jaws. Keeping her jaws clamped shut and enjoying the feel of the tendons and muscles pulsing and working between her teeth, she quickly flipped her body up and over it’s back, causing the worg to be upended and born down to the ground. Springing to her feet, she then turned to face her other tormentor, giving it a bloody-fanged smile.

Lythar lay on the ground stunned for a quick moment, however, training took over and he sprung back up to his feet, limping slightly as his gashed leg took his weight. He almost fell again as the worg that had tripped him snapped once more at his injured leg. Seeing a slight bit of movement behind him, Lythar saw an opportunity and swung low to high, nearly decapitating the worg in front of him, then as his sword reached an apex over his head, twisted and bent sideways at the waist to finish the stroke by slamming the point of the blade through the chest of the worg behind him as it struggled to rise. Feeling a brief rush of air, Lythar noticed Thistle’s Velociraptor, Tajzh, go flying through the space his torso had occupied a moment earlier.

“Must have been going for that worg behind me.” Lythar thought, as Vognar ducked into the scrum and nearly cut the last worg in twain with his greatsword.

The crowd’s roar was nearly deafening, however, Lythar could just make out Thistle booming words of power across the arena floor. The wolf, who had been showing hackles and teeth at the trio of adventurers, seemed instantly to calm, her eyes sparkling with curiosity rather than the killing light they’d held a moment earlier.

Holding his leg to staunch the flow of blood, Lythar nodded his thanks to Vognar, as the scarred warrior handed him a potion to ameliorate the damage. Quickly downing the potion, Lythar rushed over and gave first aid to the wounds the wolf had suffered at the jaws of her evil brethren, soothing her quietly in Sylvan as Thistle looked on curiously.

Almost unnoticed by Lythar, a gate opened in the arena wall, disgorging a dozen large, armored guards, who quickly formed into ranks to either side of the gate. As Vognar began discussions, Lythar fished one of his two coinpurses from within his armor and tossed it to him. “Pay for it out of this if you must, and there may be more if that’s what it takes.” he said absentmindedly in Elven, in between various calming words spoken in Sylvan to the wolf.

After a moment, the wolf came out of her passive state, and Lythar began to see the beginnings of a wolfy tantrum (the kind of tantrum where throats starting getting torn out and hamstrings cut) as she glared and growled at the various two-legs standing around her. The presence of the guards, which had mistreated her sorely since she was captured, wasn’t doing any good and she began to chuff menacingly while baring her teeth.

A movement in the corner of his eye drew Lythar’s attention, and he noticed two of the guards approaching the wolf. One had a chain in his hand and a wicked sneer on his face as he said “We’ll take care of the wolf for you.”

In one fluid movement, Lythar stood, moving between the wolf and the guards, baring his blade as he did so. Assuming a stance with his hands up and the blade tip down, he rasped in accented Common “You’ll not be touching the wolf, I’ll handle her.”

Both guards paused in shock as their compatriots’ hands went to sword hilts. They certainly weren’t used to being spoken to in that manner, and Vognar noticed a debate begin in the way they held themselves as to whether they were going to take umbrage in a very physical manner.

One of the guards finally spoke up, saying “We’re on a schedule, the executions are supposed to begin!”

“I care not,” Lythar responded, “you can go inside with Vognar there and discuss terms, I’ll remain here with the wolf and you can have your executions.”

“Handle the wolf then!” the Guard snapped, wondering how the Elf could possibly get the vicious animal to do anything without proper reinforcement.

Seeing that the guards weren’t going to attack, or otherwise bypass him, Lythar turned back to the snarling, angry wolf, squatted down to her level, and tried to project a sense of calm as he again began his interrupted conversation in Sylvan.

“Good day little one. I mean you no harm. I am known to your kind as TreeWalker, for in the forest that is my home, I spend more time up in the tops of the trees than I do on the ground.

When I was a pup, I was part of a pack in the Forest of Pools and Shadows, led by StagFeller, a long way from here. As I grew older, my time was much taken up by other two-legs, and I lost contact with my pack. I have been lonely for the company of the Wa’ya for many cycles of the moon. Imagine my surprise when I came across you here in this arena, facing Ne’Wa’ya, the evil ones. I came to help you, to release you from this prison you find yourself in, and to restore to you your right to run free under the Moon.

If you would come with me, I would offer you the security of a new pack, good hunting, and a territory larger than we can walk. You would have safe and free passage away from this foul den of two-legs, and would have to fight in this place to survive no more. I would also offer you the freedom of choice, just as with any other Wa’ya pack. You may run with me, or run away to face the Moon on your own, as you wish.”

As Lythar spoke, the wolf’s hackles slowly subsided, her ears came up, and her tongue lolled out as she finally relaxed enough to pant and dissipate some of the heat she had built up in the fight. Images of the Mierani Forest, an Elfling frolicking and hunting with wolf pups and adults alike, gentle still pools under towering forest canopies, and the overarching shadow of evil that drifted through parts of the forest played murkily in her head. She began to recognize some of the places his images described from the Wa’ya stories that drifted over the breeze on bright, moonlit nights.

He was far from true Wa’ya, and the images were somewhat crude, lacking the sound and smell fidelity that her kind excelled at, but she found that with a little effort, she could actually understand this two-legs. The shock of it caused her ears to perk straight forward, nose scanning his scent with maximum effort, and she regarded him very intently with her light golden eyes.

Seeing that he was finally not about to have his throat torn out, Lythar relaxed slightly and offered the wolf some dried alligator. It took a few tries before she’d trust him enough to take it from his hand, but Lythar was gratified to see the level of trust increasing.

“This is poor fare I know, but there will be plenty of good hunting and fresh meat once we’re free of this killing ground. As we have now shared kill, may I ask how you are known little one?”

At his request, Lythar’s brain rang with the soft bite of cold dew on paw-pads, accompanied by the feeling of fur being ruffled by a brisk fall wind, and his vision was filled by a wolfess frolicking about under a full harvest moon. He was momentarily struck dumbfounded by the strength of her imagery.

“If it serves you, I would call you Tylalaes (Moon Dancer)?”

In response, the wolfess gave an enigmatic toothy smile and a low bark, startling the remaining pair of Guards, who had been staring in fascination at the crazy Elf who spoke gibberish to dangerous predators.

“I see it serves. Would you come with me? We still have some effort ahead of us to get away from this horrid place.”

At that, Lythar stood up, pausing a moment to glare at the Guards, and then walked towards the open gate in the arena wall, the wolf following behind him. Her eyes and head swiveled around, glaring and growling softly at any creature that dared get too close as the two passed into the breezeway.