************Present Day, Somewhere on the Plains************
It had not taken him two weeks to cross the border into Prespang. It had not taken thirty cycles of the Twins' dance across spring skies. Ulric had been on the road for nearly two months already at this point. Somewhere, somewhen, he’d gotten himself fucking lost. Vast expanses of grass, smatterings of scrub forests, stunted trees akin to the acacia, minus the godsbedamned thorns but rich in a noxious and potently nausea-inducing sap dotted the horizon, the territory of the plains dwelling Aesir was a labyrinth of distance and unreliable waypoints. Ulric Einar, an experienced hiker and not unbaptized in the arts of navigation, was nonetheless vanquished by the Legranel prairie.
By now, spring was in full, blooms across the whole visible spectrum, and beyond it in truth, were on display with abandon. Water abounded, springs burbled into small, narrow creeks as the aquifers overran from the combination of heavy rains and a notably heavy snow pack that had dissolved a few days into his trip. The wide, flat plains sometimes dipped to form massive bog swamps which were completely impassable by his wagon and had to be driven around. It was only in the last two or so days of steady sunshine and rampant transpiration from the verdure that the soil had regained some measure of solidity. Even now, sitting upon the ground was rapidly going to produce saturated breeches.
Hopping down from the wagon to stretch his bones, Ulric's bare toes flexed into the loamy thatch below, not a little sand clinging to them, relishing cool wet grass and soft earth. He'd long since tired of having his feet locked into boots for the long hours and hours of sitting upon wagon seat, driving the motherfuckers sitting oh so innocently in their leather tack.
Without being bidden, the [Direhorn Oxen] attached to his wagon began their ritual of neatly clipping whatever vegetative matter lay between their forelegs and rendering it into bovine compost. Little mystery would there be as to the trail he had left behind, one merely needed to connect the dotting heaps of cow shit to discern his path. Similarly, his destination required little investigation: visible on a small rise ahead lay a relatively large walled city. It was maybe a day's ride away.
The smell of open water drifted into his nostrils, though he couldn't see the shoreline hidden behind the gradual ridge ahead. He had arrived, at long last, to the shores of the vast inland sea Vatyn, which split the continent into Eastern and Western halves and whose junction with the great river Zelus was probably the origin of most of the problems in his life. It was at that narrow defensible place, upon an island fortress that gated the meeting of river and sea that his enemies, Merchant Kings in their citadel city Prosper, that he was aimed, like an arrow seeking the heart's blood.
Poetic thoughts didn't really have a place in Ulric's life anymore. He was well past waxing philosophical about certain things, and that included what to do about the bastards that had made themselves his enemies. What was foremost in his thoughts for the last week spent crossing these verdant downs and rolling prairies, was murder. Cold, calculated, efficient murder. Ulric's interactions with the leadership of that sinister place known as Prosper were thus: kidnapping, murder of a child, and vicious abuse of a minor; attempted assassination resulting in his being burned nearly to death and murder of the people who had welcomed him into their home; a syndicate of slavers trying to make his wife into material for bane and leave him dead in a ditch like garbage; a trio of assassins attempting to murder him, his wife, and his acquaintances.
That made no less than three separate attempts to have him killed inside of a year. Ulric had not been a hateful or resentful man in his past life but damned if he wasn't finding himself with a rather girthy vengeance boner right at the moment. Once upon a time, Ulric had fulfilled the conditions to complete a pact with the ancient forest that sat upon a long forsaken plateau, binding him to ownership of that land and instilling him with a somewhat feral need to defend it and his status as its Lord. Distance muted that instinct but the existential threat of those who would try to claim his life had it riled up something fierce. The humming pressure in his lymbic system to murder-death-kill some motherfuckers was ever present. He had decided to take Bald'rt Iriel's advice on the matter and accept that part of his new life, instead of trying to fight it.
Since leaving the Legranel Moot, parting from his Shadow and wife, and embarking on an arduous trek across the plains, without a guide, in what might be described as fuck awful weather Ulric Einar was pretty much fed up with being anything approximating nice.
First, there had been a pack of goblins. After that, it seemed like every other day that some nasty from the prairie’s ecosystem decided to have itself a little Ulric for dinner. He’d killed three packs of [Amberfang], absent anomalous samples shooting fang lasers thank you very much, two more groups of goblins, some kind of troll that was built like a gorilla and grew bone spikes that it could throw or use as melee weapons, and a variety of wild dog-like monsters that blended perfectly into the grass. Speaking of grass, no less than four times he’d stumbled across a type of plant monster that appeared as a tall patch of blue and red grass with blades that were razor edged and whipped around like a little blender, its main body hidden below the earth. The first time he’d come across it he had his wagon in the middle of the thing before it ambushed him. Those sharp leaves had beaten the shit out of his oxen flailing them into riot. It took him close to an hour to get the wagon controlled and the animals calmed down enough to drive, after he killed the little hidden plant monster, of course.
A hilarious trip these weeks and weeks past, roaming lost on the plains. Ulric had to hope that Taipan had not met similar misfortune, her being far better equipped to find her way through the wilderness.
And he owed it all to Prosper, for all they’d done and, most recently, for forcing him to split up from his partner and guide. The entire ordeal left Ulric more than a little salty. [Stormfire], [Galvanic Mistral], [Ceraun's Dance], these were some of the most potent destructive powers he'd manifested and he was going to feed them to those clowns on their golden thrones just as soon as he could manage. Stupid raggenfraggin gold digging war crime committing such and so's. Off and on rain for twelve days running had put his nerves on edge. Dry was only a distant memory until this last little spell of sunshine. But. At long, long last, he was in sight of a piece of civilization.
Ulric took the reins of his draft animals and looped them familiarly around a stake, before driving it into the soft, damp ground with a few strokes of the hilt of his sword, which act would probably have had its creator, a craftsman of impeccable talent and surpassing skill choking on his own spit, to see one of his greatest works used as a mallet.
"Fucking whatever man," Ulric told himself.
Galed Uldin should have made him a hammer to drive stakes with if he didn't want his pretty sword being used to do it.
Part of the agitation the reforged man was experiencing was thanks to TMF1 and TMF2, the designations he'd given to the two creatures that were currently chewing their cud with such deceiving placidity. The Legranel that had instructed him in their guidance had made it out like these animals were docile, agreeable, easily led softies. And they were. Just so long as you were going where THEY wanted to go. If you weren't, well, there was a good reason why he'd named them That Mother Fucker One and That Mother Fucker Two. He'd mostly earned their obedience when, on the second week since departing the gathering of Plains Elves, Ulric had strapped the gauntlet of his hidden armor in place, leapt from the seat of his wagon seeing blood, grabbed TMF2's horn and punched it between the eyes hard enough to knock it unconscious before snatching TMF1 by the head and running [Voltaic Grip] through it until it shit itself. Once the beasts understood that their options were become food or Pull This Wagon they'd come to terms. That meant that they did what Ulric wanted to do unless they thought he wasn't paying attention, whereupon they would immediately begin bawling and balking and being sonsofbitches.
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Fun times. Oh yes, fun times indeed.
Once the animals were staked and hobbled, with only three attempts to kick his liver through his spine, Ulric went about setting up a temporary camp. His shelter went up, a Legranel style canvas tent with four corner poles and a central support pole strung taut by guide lines. Practice had sped up the procedure and it was only a matter of ten minutes before he'd assembled the shelter and set his bedroll to order. A few more minutes had the fire pit, more like a small [Stonewall] ring, dug and a blaze lit by [Direhorn Oxen] dung patties, generating a smoky, sage smelling camp fire, in spite of the moisture that lay heavy in the air. Twenty minutes or about a third of a round of the Twins in their dance through the skies, the binary star system that lit Varda, and Ulric was eating a hardy though not so tasty supper of travel rations.
No animals, beasts, or sapient creatures disturbed the peace of his camp, just the wind through the tall grasses and the song of insects playing accompaniment on the evening. Thank all the gods that would hear his appeal to sanctuary.
Precious rare had that been, probably not since he'd left the safety and jovial celebration of the Legranel Moot, and he was not ungrateful for this respite. Just now, by firelight, Ulric remarked to himself, with the full Moon and it's full sister moons in observance, what transcendental tranquility it was to be lost in the wilderness, leagues and leagues from nearest civilization. Lonely. But incredibly peaceful of a night. If one were left alone by the native flora and fauna. Future Ulric wished that Past Ulric would have shut his big fat mouth and quit jinxing himself by bringing down the full wrath of the irony gods.
That was because, upon waking from as restful a slumber as he had known since leaving the accommodations of the Plains Elves, including the bed of a most lovely and willing partner in one Prenya, Herd Rider of the Isevor Legranel alongside his even more lovely wife and instigator of that menage a trois Taipan of Iriel, Ulric found himself with spear points at his gullet. He should have known things were going too well.
The owner of one of the spears moved away from his throat and jabbed his shoulder hard enough to draw blood and he couldn't even turn his head to get a look at the asshole because he had another two blades there, so much sharp steel at his neck he could shave if he coughed. Three assailants, minimum, maybe four total, including the one that had poked him. His bare chest, rose barely as he tried to summon calm against the abrupt transition from peace to blood lust. He lost that fight. Adrenaline and the Lord Instinct were already summoning wrath.
"You trespass on M'rakur land and wear M'rakur seals, but you are no M'rakur. This is death, Outsider." Declared a soft, baritone from somewhere he couldn't see.
Another spear moved from his neck and jabbed his thigh and Ulric recovered enough of his wits from sleep to whirl his core into pulsing, thrumming, life. The next person to jab him was going to Valhalla, courtesy of Thor's hammer.
"Let us kill this blasphemer and collect his goods. None would be the wiser." Said his Huckleberry, who made the mistake of leaning in close, starting to push his spear into Ulric's rib cage.
[Warrior's Instinct]***OVERRIDE***[Blood Rage]
Acid rage suffused his veins and all normal thought died, replaced by the Lord's Instinct, howling blood and murder. The challengers must die, they must be eradicated, their bones ground to powder and their children eaten, nothing remaining to question his dominance of the land, nothing to stand before his might, unquestioned. Ulric Einar went away for a time. Death walked.
[Surge]
[Voltaic Grip]
Ulric ripped the spear that had begun to break his skin atop his floating rib away, ignoring the cut it left across his torso, as he knocked aside the other weapons and reached up to lock a hand around the wrist that held that spear. Merciless lightning tore into the offending weapon's owner and the raging creature was blurring into motion even as he shed the threatening metal from his neck. Fur, leather, and cloth wrapping the body of the man he held flashed to brief flame and loosed a foul-smelling smoke, even as its limp form began to fall and he pulled himself to his feet, whipping the smoking figure into his comrades before they could respond, muscles screaming distantly at the [Surge] induced abuse.
A satisfying thud of flesh and pained yells from the heap of tangled forms instigated the rage in him and he snarled, as he released the [Surge], its flicker of speed and strength too straining to hold for long without destroying his body. It was instinct, at this point, as was the use of his detection spell.
[Ceraunoperception]
Ulric felt the attacker on his rear bringing a long Drak, a thrusting blade into line with his lungs, the metal of the weapon loud against his electroperception. The disturbingly tactile sensation of Ceraun perturbation across his skin told him the positions of the men around him and the arms they carried. His mana sense warped and he felt the sudden alarm of danger flare through his instincts, the blessing of the Ancient Glade to its champion guiding him to victory. A ripple of mana across the ethereal was warning enough, Flanker was doing something dangerous.
The realization sent Ulric leaping to the side without even turning to face his assailant. A blur of motion, rushing air, and vicious heat resolved into a glowing hot sword blade where his chest had been a moment before, and, even as he rolled to his feet from his unceremonious evasion, that blade was readying for another strike.
Habit born of months of training had put his feet into the Undan ready and a battle cry on his lips, guttural anger that disconcerted the men who had had every advantage a few brief seconds ago. When the heat-shimmering air burst into flame at the tip of the oversized rapier, it launched forward, diving toward his eye. Body moving without thought, Ulric twisted his feet to turn his entire body without taking a step, the turn pulling him completely out of line with the thrust. The wide-eyed expression of the attacker, when his sure strike turned into a dire miss, must have matched Ulric's own when Christ had neatly eviscerated him with that trick before, metaphorically, with the easy counter on an exposed overextension. Still raging, still consumed with the pulse of his own core’s rampant energy, he didn't even blink when the Incendere-infused blade lightly burned the tip of his nose as it passed, already balanced to retaliate.
Absent a weapon, Ulric responded by launching a downward kick in a half-moon arc that caught the man's planted lead leg just above the knee. That joint broke loudly and the man howled as he fell. Music to the rage's ears. No self-respecting [Lord of the Ancient Glade] would leave a threat dragging himself around behind to nip the heel, not when the others were already regaining their feet from their electrocuted comrade's terminal flight. He struck with both hands, one to grip the wrist, the other to slam the inside of the elbow, which allowed him to fold the man's sword arm back, ignoring the choking yell to jam the man's own sword into the side of his neck, opening the arteries inside in a pulsing spray that coated him in its owner’s life’s blood.
Of the four ambushers, two remained and Ulric was able to get a good look at them for the first time as he readied the long, slightly too thick rapier of the dead man, torn from the dying grasp.
They were human, of a similar size and build to himself. Both looked older than he, and their grizzled features bespoke hard living. Scars, missing teeth, skin tanned to leathery brown, the two men snarled with fury that their quarry had blooded them. In a world where most were of a far greater magnitude of physical prowess and beauty of form, these two were notably ugly samples of Valin. Predatory whispers of the Lord Instinct noted every fault in form, every weakness of movement and posture that might lend advantage in this contest. Without conscious effort he took in the flaws of his enemies, the scars that indicated lingering wounds and slow movements.
A rattling breath at Ulric's feet announced that it truly was just the both of them and himself, unless someone was hiding outside of his [Ceruanoperception]. They didn’t matter, he’d find them and open their necks when he was done with these two challengers.
Both put spears in line with him, but with a caution in their stances that said they wouldn't be making the mistake of overreaching like their friend had. Fine.
Both men were reserved because the maniac they were fighting was smirking like he'd just heard a fantastic joke and his bared chest showed shimmering violet tattoos running over most of his form, which marked him as a warlord of some unknown clan. They were giving him space, which was also a mistake. Varda punishes mistakes.
Ceraun pulsed its endless chase inside his core, ramping. Air and lightning melded, merged, and found the order his will imposed on them, three Caelum blades, faintly glowing scythes of cyan, arrayed around a central fourth, bound by chains of arcing violet.
[Galvanic Mistral]
A twitch of will sent the whirling blender of magic screaming towards the two men. One tried to block the oncoming magic with his spear, which was a terrible idea, while the other dropped to the ground flat, which was a much better one. Not great, but better.
The blocking man turned into irregular chunks as his hybridized mana spell tore past, sending a cloud of razed grass and blood flying into the air some meters beyond.
The prone man found out why his fast thinking wasn't optimal when the rapier, thrown like a javalin, pinned him to the ground through his rib cage. He gurgled when blood filled his lung but a clipped aorta soon sent him to the deep dark. Not that it mattered, Ulric was on top of him before he’d shuddered his last breaths twisting the head around to snap the neck and finish his prey.
Ulric watched the impaled man’s corpse twitch for a moment before turning his attention to scan his surroundings, just in case there was a surprise waiting for him or reinforcements coming. He released a breath he'd been holding when none made itself evident. Stalks of prairie grass waved in the morning wind, various flowers faced sunsward, unheeding of the violence that had added color to the immediate vicinity.
Nada. Nichts. Nothing. And he was not well pleased by that fact, not with a steady dribble of crimson running down his side.
Grey eyes continued to scan and his core thrummed with readiness. Another minute passed and no movement, smell, or other sign disturbed the peace of the open grassland in this small crest. Slowly, no more threats presented to aggravate it, the rage receded from him and more complex awareness came back to him. The release of the [Blood Rage] was like waking up from a bad dream, the sudden absence of bottomless fury, and killing intent that was jarring.
One of his oxen bawled loudly then, and Ulric realized that neither one of the sonsofbitches had raised so much as a fart to alert him to his attackers. The familiar disdain of the beasts pulled him out of the beating anger that craved more bloodletting, once and for all, replaced by chagrin.
"They're out to get me, the both of them." Ulric told himself, confirming the suspicions he'd been holding about his draft animals.
It wasn't paranoia if they really were trying to kill you, he told himself with certainty.