MOON
To all the Five Regions of Vraga. On the full moon of the sixth month, my coronation will happen as the Great Seer of the North has ordained. Thereafter, every man and woman shall have the opportunity to contest for the ultimate chance to beco my Beta, Delta, Gamma, and Enforcer.
I shall now unofficially welco you to the Arctic North while you make this turbulent journey at a chance to beco one of my own.
May the best man win.
Restorer Daemon NorthSteed of the NorthSteed Pack and the Great Arctic North.
In just four days, ssenger pigeons had already spread the Restorers’ words throughout Vraga. And for the first ti ever since the Great Purge, all the five regions chattered about sothing in common.
They talked not of their local markets, or the hardship in their towns, no. They instead all talked about the tournant that would present a chance at living one of the best lives ever.
Forget becoming the Beta to the throne of the Arctic North led by the NorthSteed Pack, just becoming an enforcer was a dream that many never dread for fear that the god of trickery will visit their dreams and pull the wool off their eyes.
And yet, in their greed they all clamoured. Both great n, and n who were once sure that their nas would never be written in the sands of history. Both rich n, and n who could hardly afford their journey to the Great North...together, they all journeyed into the unknown.
With the sixth month of the slated date for the Tournant ushered in the coldest winter. The Arctic North known for its coldness was even colder as many traded fur for more fur. But the snowstorms weren’t simply enough to deter the aspirants from their dream of becoming at the very least, an Enforcer.
The rules of the tournant weren’t even clear, but who cared? For they had all heard that the once called Restorer Daemon was not a man to bluff. He hated lies and had never told one before. So at the very least, his tongue could be trusted.
While the major roads leading to the North from the four regions were filled up with eager n and sparse—but daring—won, sowhere at the Gold Road, a major gold trading route that connected the North to the West, was a man making the sa sojourn.
Except while many made their journey with just a simple bag of clothes and their money cinched to their briefs, this man dragged a heavy sack with him along the dry, lonely route.
The man was petite as far as n went, and yet, he possessed a natural litheness to his body like a panther waiting to prowl on a deer. His dark eyes were buried under brownish red strands of his long hair, but the strands weren’t enough to hide the terrible scar-like gash that cut across his left eyebrow.
He was unsmiling and chanical as he dragged the sack that actually squird as if sothing living was within it. Whoever was in the load kept on struggling, discouraging the man from dragging him through the sack, and at so point, the man got infuriated with the action.
He harshly let go of the sack, exhaling huge amounts of air as if he was truly tired of his life. He leaned down, tearing the sack open only to expose none other than Zoric Sofyr, the escaped leader of the Arising Rogues.
Zoric was gagged and tied and his captor, a man that looked far younger than him only stared at him with distaste. He tore off the gag from the man, looking exasperated.
"Shall I have to knock you out again?" He growled in a deep voice that seed unnatural for his small stature.
Zoric spluttered for air, eyes wide with fear. His body spotted many bruises and he had a black eye. "I beg you," he gasped at the point of tears, "ntion your price and I shall pay it! But please, don’t take back to that damned animal called Daemon NorthSteed!"
His captor smiled, the gesture so unnatural on his stern, hardened face. "How do you know I am taking you to him?" The man asked, producing a blunt and lighting it up.
He put it in between his lips, taking a drag of the drug. It might kill him sooner or later, but there had been hardly anything interesting about life so he hadn’t been deterred from his bad habit.
But now, he was truly looking forward to sothing for the first ti in his life. Now, there was a ray of sunlight and he found himself leaning in the direction of it.
He stopped himself midway from inhaling the blunt for a second ti.
He had no ti for this. He must make it to the Arctic North before the full moon. He had been forced to admit that carrying a deadweight was worse than carrying a wide awake man which had led to his current predicant.
He couldn’t knock out Zoric Sofyr yet.
"Do you know what they call where I co from?" The man asked suddenly in a voice that dripped of a moonless night, stabbing Zoric by the side of his eyes with the bottom of his blunt. Zoric scread, fear rooting him in place. If he struggled a bit, then the blunt might just mistakenly shift and hurt his eyes instead.
"No," Zoric finally spluttered, face red from the pain.
"They call the Sighter. There is never a prey that I hunt down that escapes , Zoric Sofyr. Begging is useless, so unless you want to lose an eye, I will advise that you stay put until we are done with this."
Zoric was panting at the end, unable to say anything as it felt as though his eyes were burning even though it was just the exterior skin. The man—the Sighter—gagged him again, tied the sack, and continued dragging him like so weightless thing. They navigated through the dry lands until they ca up to a trade checkpoint, guarded by about fifty n.
"What is in your bag?" A man asked in a heavy western accent while the Sighter simply scanned his surroundings. He had chosen the longer route because he hoped that the checkpoint would be desolate of any traders, and true to his predictions, there didn’t seem to be any strangers around save for the Western Epsilons.
The Sighter sighed, dropping the sack. They were just fifty of them, so he wasn’t exactly in doubt of his skills to take them out. But he was nearing the North so he didn’t want to leave a ssy trail.
He walked to the man that had spoken to him, smiling darkly as he clutched his shoulders. The man, confused at the sudden gesture, tried to shrug him off while the rest of the n bared their claws, preparing to fight.
But they didn’t even get a chance as the Sighter whispered to the man. "Hear my screams and be drowned in it."
And then he opened his lips, letting out a scream that shot down multiple flying birds, and knocked out all fifty n including Zoric who was still stuck in the sack.
So much for not carrying a dead weight.
PS: Refer to ’Chapter 150: Her Origins; The Screars Pack’
Reviews
All reviews (0)