After half an hour’s worth of walking underneath the hellish sun, he could finally take in a breath of air that didn’t smell of dust and sweat. The scent of the forest was refreshing after been baked on the dirt roads, and the grass felt nice to step on. Regana-Hier may be a sky-whale who enjoyed hardcore sunbathing, but it did wonders for the plants, at least.
He spent a few moments enjoying the shade, lying with his back flat against the soft grass. The breeze-rustled leaves reminded him of the rain that was to come, and, if he strained his hearing enough, Alvain could hear the heartbeat of the sky-whale. It was measured and deep, a primordial drumbeat that had existed long before the land on its back.
“Regana-Hier,” he murmured, hands clasped over the ensorcelled pole he used for hunting, “Life-Giver and Land-Owner, grant me the right to take a life you have given, so I may extend my own.”
The breeze passed, and the forest fell silent.
Alvain waited there, lying on the ground, eyes closed.
Another minute passed, before he breathed a sigh of relief.
The sky-whale hadn’t smashed him to bits with the power of nature, nor had it brought a whole army of carnivorous beasts down onto him, so it looked like it was fine to take a life from the forest. Well, it was doubtful that Regana-Hier would have cared to begin with. After all, what was the value of a single mammal’s life, when one could create it as easily as breathing?
Alvain got up, a wry expression on his face.
“…wow, that was way too serious.”
The raven-haired youth laughed at his own musings, running a hand through his short hair. The Hunter’s Prayer was a tradition brought down from parent to child, and Alvain wasn’t enough of a rebel to do away with that just because his parents weren’t there to nag him about showing respect. Retying his boots and shouldering his weapon, he marched on the woods, humming a nostalgic tune.
It took only five steps for his frame to be hidden in the dense forest.
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Tracking was not Alvain’s forte.
While he understood the ideas behind sniffing fecal excrements and reading the way the grass bends, the wannabe hunter rarely, if ever, noticed those details the first place. He would be able to see those signs if he focused, but, out in the woods, by his lonesome, it was much too easy for his mind to wander.
There were cute little squirrels flitting around the network of branches, too small and adorable to consider as a meal.
There were delicious, well-grown dandelions and mushrooms that he’d harvest, shoving them into his pockets or his mouth.
There was a wonderful sense of freedom in the air, and Alvain greedily drank it in.
Under the shade of a dozen trees, even the scorching temperatures felt pleasant, and there were enough salad greens that he could probably just have lunch right then and there, before taking a nap. That would be quite nice, really. He deserved a break after a morning of work…
Smack.
Two open palms slapped his cheeks once more, as Alvain woke himself out of his laziness. His metal bar fell on his feet next, a sharp sting of pain causing him to hop about for a few moments, before he fell down on his ass ruefully.
“Dammit, how did my dad even do this? Shoulda brought Vrei to help me stay focused…”
He imagined the gorilla woman prancing about in the forest, as if she were out for a picnic instead of a hunt, and shook his head at that. Yeah, no, that was a terrible idea.
He sighed, head slouching downwards. Alvain closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and began to focus once more.
What was important here? Food was important.
Why was food important? Because food is money.
Why is food money? Because money buys food.
So why was he hunting? Because he wants money.
The youth stood up, emerald eyes shining with desire. He picked up the fallen Ash Bolt, and took in his surroundings.
He was on a gradual slope, facing up the incline. The grass was especially tall here, and the trees were relatively sparse, allowing for more light to spill out between the branches. Due to that, flowers had blossomed rather splendidly, golden dandelions and purple pansies splashing their vibrant colors onto the greenery.
That had been what distracted him moments before, but now that he was focused, Alvain could sense something else.
There was a faint trail through the tall grass, large enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for a rabbit, or even his own body.
It was fresh, the bent over grass pale despite being in direct sunlight.
“See,” he murmured, pressing his body against the ground stealthily, “That’s what you get for getting back to work…”
Curiously enough, the ground was damp.
It took a moment later for the wannabe hunter to shudder at the implications of this dampness.
"..."
If he thought positively, that meant that his human scent was now hidden underneath his prey’s urinal excretions.
Yeah, that's right, he’ll think of this positively, and ignore how disgusting it felt.
He’ll think of this positively, and smile at this until his face split in half.
With petty vengeance in his heart, Alvain began to crawl up the slope, ears strained for any sound.
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It took fifteen minutes before he crested the top of the hill, his shirt now stained with grass and dirt, in addition to urine. He'd probably have to burn his shirt now, but it was a necessary sacrifice for food-money, and, as he peeked over the hill, the youth decided that the sacrifice was definitely worth it.
Down the hill was a solitary stag, grazing by its lonesome in an open field. It had a gorgeous mahogany brown, sleek and thick, and every movement made caused its muscles to ripple underneath that flesh. The horned crown it bore on its head would sell as well, and, simply put, the deer looked delicious.
Alvain had the high ground, the element of surprise, as well as the means to slay the beast from a distance. The wind was still, which was a blessing, and even if it picked up again, he was confident that rolling about in urine-soaked dirt would hide it.
He was salivating, already imagining the types of meals he could make with his mediocre cooking skills. Deer stew? Deer skewers? Roast deer? Fantasies of juicy, cooked meat flooded into his mind, and Alvain pinched himself in the arm until he awoke from his daydreams.
He pulled the metal rod outwards, one hand firm on the leather wrap while placing his other hand against the ground. Like a billiards player, the metal bar was rested against the back of his free hand as Alvain closed his eyes.
In his mind’s eye, the Shards of his soul, the uniformly broken pieces, were brought into existence. They glimmered, radiating with a magical force that could only be taken one piece at a time. A limitation of beings that could not cast magic by natural means. A reminder of their lack of wings.
Alvain opened his eyes once more, green irises pulsating softly.
A fragment of his magical energy was loaded into the metal bar, its runic inscriptions filling with bright power. The Ash Bolt felt warm now, a comforting warmth similar to the touch of another person.
Alvain adjusted the positioning of the metal bar, keeping it centered to the stag, before taking in a deep breath.
“Boom.”
An ashen lance blasted out from the end of the spellshooter, silently racing through the air. It pierced the side of the beast, penetrating its fur and flesh with the same ease as a stone through water.
Blood leaked from the small hole, as the stag turned its head towards Alvain, its cloudy eyes gazing into his own.
Alvain stood up, and bowed towards the beast as it fell over.
“Thank you for your life.”
Another tradition imposed on him by his parents, to send off the soul of those whose bodies he would consume. The corpse was still warm when he made his way down, and now, up close, Alvain really was impressed by the size of it. It was easily large enough to break his rib cage if it had charged him, and he couldn’t help but smile at how good his shot had been. Humanity’s progress may have reduced the value of the Keeper Inn, but, at the same time, rune tech was simply too convenient.
He wasn’t sure what sort of genius came up with a system that allowed humans to cast magic via runic inscriptions, but it was life-changing. By using the Shards of one’s soul as ammunition, one could power things such as magibikes and spellshooters, reaping the benefits of magic without requiring the ‘Whole Soul’ that those of the Sky possessed, nor the training that the Wingless went through.
Of course, incantations still required skill, but those were meant for specialists. For daily use, Alvain didn’t have to worry about anything!
Then again…
“Oh, did I seriously forget to bring a knife?”
…true magic or incantations that could modify rune tech spells on the spot would have been really useful now.
What laid before him was a beast that weighed upwards of 200 kilograms, and the only way to divide the stag into moveable segments was to blast it full of holes.
It would be like trying to use hammers and nails to cut a wooden plank in half.
Overhead, that unkindness of ravens were cawing, laughing at the human’s folly and anticipating the feast that would be coming their way.
Alvain sighed, recalled the amount of ‘bullets’ he had left, before placing the metal end of the Ash Bolt against the beast’s shoulder.
“Better stay away from my vegetables from now on. You owe me for this.”
Flashes of light erratically dispersed around the bottom of a hill, as a failure of a hunter tried his hand at being a butcher.
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A/N: Well, three chapters into this now, and I'm actually curious as to what you all think of it. Am I faffing about too much? Should I just do a straight up infodump, instead of try to incorporate info dumping into the story itself? Is this slice-of-sky-whale-life falling too flat with my plebeian sense of humor?
Also, what do you think of Alvain's personality so far? Does he have a distinct, describable one at this point, or is he simply too average?
And finally, probably gonna do another update tomorrow, cause muh lightning fingers are too lightning fast. Think a chapter every 2-3 days works pretty well for me, at least until I hit a wall.