Post by Sandegar on Oct 11, 2006 12:21:20 GMT -5
Voldarain Blackpaw IX stared at the rat, his dark brown eyes boring into the rat's with a cool fierceness. Before he could force an answer out of the rat, a young hare butted in and began questioning the rat with a viciousness the badger did not like. The hare's methods were not to the badger's taste, but his inquiries were just and he appeared to make more progress than the badger himself had done. He glanced warily at the hare, whom he recognized to be Rinafera Woxwitty, and shuffled back, remaining squatting on his haunches. He observed the interaction between the two with scrutinious care, but he was weary, and he could not keep his strength up if he wasted it on examining the interrogation. Yes, it was important, but if there was a battle to come, both his physical and internal strength would have to be plentiful.
Stiffly Voldarain stood, walking painfully back to his former position against his cold rock. Sinking down against it, he watched Raiden and Mary's conversation with sorrow and remorse. He was sorry that both of them had chosen the paths that they were now walking, that they had taken a life of cold, regretful fear over any warmer life they could have chosen. As he watched them converse, he could only think of how young they were. Both mice had to be at least a good ten years younger than the badger. He was aging, but he was not proud of what he had been and gone through, and he was sure that others who chose the same or a similar path to himself would encounter the same conflicting emotions one day.
The badger laughed silently, bitterly, remembering the glamorous life he had led before stumbling on the true purpose of the warrior. He was a murderer, a killer, no matter who his victims had been, vermin or goodbeast. The badger raised his left paw into the light, ignoring the pain in his arm, examining the blue-black dye and the eleven white stripes painted on the back, illuminating self-inflicted scars, the traditional way of showcasing one's battles and kills. But Voldarain was not proud of the eleven battles in which he had fought in, of the countless beasts he had killed in the eleven. The scars were no longer trophies - they were reminders of his own honourless past. The badger held his head in his paws, feeling the pain welling up in his heart.
The despairing badger looked up from his dark, internal shelter, watching a single snowflake gently drift down to earth. It was beautiful, perfectly shaped, though he could only keep his dark eyes focused on it for a moment. But the snowflake was all it took to shake him out of his darkness, and he smiled as it landed on the ground, joining the blanket of white snow. He shivered, feeling the cold through his cloak, his eyes brighter, his mouth set in a grim smile. There was no point in angsting about his dramatic past, especially in a situation like the one he was in. He retreated to the calm of his lighter thoughts, contemplating the simplicity and beauty of the snowflake, the image of which was seared in his mind, not by pain or fear, but by the joy that had graced him in the fleeting moment.
The sky was still clouded and the vermin were still near, but Voldarain was of lighter heart. He no longer minded the stiffness of his limbs, the cold, wet frost beneath his boots and his cloak, though they did cause him much discomfort. He still felt the chill, but his internal warmth made it bearable. Still in a pensive mood, he thought about Darter, Tritan and Sapphire, wondering what had become of the commander and his companions. Surely they were still safe... But as the badger calculated how much time had passed since their departure, he could feel the growing unease bubbling in his stomach. He rationalized their time away with the fact that the vermin camp was probably a good distance away, but he could not be sure.
As the uneasiness grew, he was on full alert. His eyes were sharper than usual and his hearing was enhanced, but his nose felt stuffed. There was a strange taste in his mouth as well, almost bitter. Swirling his saliva around in his mouth, keeping his jaws clenched tightly closed, he noted clinically that it was his spit that was sour. With a startling clarity, he realized exactly what he was experiencing, and he snorted loudly. It was the common cold, and the badger could not say he was surprised. No longer caring for his manners, he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his bulky coat. Wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his shoulders, he tried to get more warmth into his body, though with limited success.
Voldarain was not happy. He was hardly in a situation which allowed for colds, and he had nothing to reduce the effects of the mild disease. He would have to stay a good distance away from the others if he wanted to confine the cold within himself and not spread it among the other Boundary Guardians. Deciding he should try and get more nourishment, he flicked open and rummaged about in his pouch, picking out another crocus bulb. It was cold and hard, but he popped it in his mouth anyway and began chewing laboriously on the bulb. Suddenly, he was overcome by a staggering dizziness that passed through his head for a slight moment, but which informed the badger of his condition.
Stifling a sneeze, the badger frowned angrily, holding a paw to his forehead as he snacked on the crocus seed. He apparently had a fever, if his assumptions were correct, and he was pretty sure they were. The moment of distinct vertigo was a significant sign of his ailment. Cursing the snow, he wrapped his cloak around him, though its dampness made it ineffective. Shivering a little, he snapped closed his pouch, hugging himself again, searching for the slightest bit of warmth he could draw from his bleak environment. Muffling a cough with his cold paw and blinking away water from his eyes, he watched the activity of the others, sniffing involuntarily.
Stiffly Voldarain stood, walking painfully back to his former position against his cold rock. Sinking down against it, he watched Raiden and Mary's conversation with sorrow and remorse. He was sorry that both of them had chosen the paths that they were now walking, that they had taken a life of cold, regretful fear over any warmer life they could have chosen. As he watched them converse, he could only think of how young they were. Both mice had to be at least a good ten years younger than the badger. He was aging, but he was not proud of what he had been and gone through, and he was sure that others who chose the same or a similar path to himself would encounter the same conflicting emotions one day.
The badger laughed silently, bitterly, remembering the glamorous life he had led before stumbling on the true purpose of the warrior. He was a murderer, a killer, no matter who his victims had been, vermin or goodbeast. The badger raised his left paw into the light, ignoring the pain in his arm, examining the blue-black dye and the eleven white stripes painted on the back, illuminating self-inflicted scars, the traditional way of showcasing one's battles and kills. But Voldarain was not proud of the eleven battles in which he had fought in, of the countless beasts he had killed in the eleven. The scars were no longer trophies - they were reminders of his own honourless past. The badger held his head in his paws, feeling the pain welling up in his heart.
The despairing badger looked up from his dark, internal shelter, watching a single snowflake gently drift down to earth. It was beautiful, perfectly shaped, though he could only keep his dark eyes focused on it for a moment. But the snowflake was all it took to shake him out of his darkness, and he smiled as it landed on the ground, joining the blanket of white snow. He shivered, feeling the cold through his cloak, his eyes brighter, his mouth set in a grim smile. There was no point in angsting about his dramatic past, especially in a situation like the one he was in. He retreated to the calm of his lighter thoughts, contemplating the simplicity and beauty of the snowflake, the image of which was seared in his mind, not by pain or fear, but by the joy that had graced him in the fleeting moment.
The sky was still clouded and the vermin were still near, but Voldarain was of lighter heart. He no longer minded the stiffness of his limbs, the cold, wet frost beneath his boots and his cloak, though they did cause him much discomfort. He still felt the chill, but his internal warmth made it bearable. Still in a pensive mood, he thought about Darter, Tritan and Sapphire, wondering what had become of the commander and his companions. Surely they were still safe... But as the badger calculated how much time had passed since their departure, he could feel the growing unease bubbling in his stomach. He rationalized their time away with the fact that the vermin camp was probably a good distance away, but he could not be sure.
As the uneasiness grew, he was on full alert. His eyes were sharper than usual and his hearing was enhanced, but his nose felt stuffed. There was a strange taste in his mouth as well, almost bitter. Swirling his saliva around in his mouth, keeping his jaws clenched tightly closed, he noted clinically that it was his spit that was sour. With a startling clarity, he realized exactly what he was experiencing, and he snorted loudly. It was the common cold, and the badger could not say he was surprised. No longer caring for his manners, he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his bulky coat. Wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his shoulders, he tried to get more warmth into his body, though with limited success.
Voldarain was not happy. He was hardly in a situation which allowed for colds, and he had nothing to reduce the effects of the mild disease. He would have to stay a good distance away from the others if he wanted to confine the cold within himself and not spread it among the other Boundary Guardians. Deciding he should try and get more nourishment, he flicked open and rummaged about in his pouch, picking out another crocus bulb. It was cold and hard, but he popped it in his mouth anyway and began chewing laboriously on the bulb. Suddenly, he was overcome by a staggering dizziness that passed through his head for a slight moment, but which informed the badger of his condition.
Stifling a sneeze, the badger frowned angrily, holding a paw to his forehead as he snacked on the crocus seed. He apparently had a fever, if his assumptions were correct, and he was pretty sure they were. The moment of distinct vertigo was a significant sign of his ailment. Cursing the snow, he wrapped his cloak around him, though its dampness made it ineffective. Shivering a little, he snapped closed his pouch, hugging himself again, searching for the slightest bit of warmth he could draw from his bleak environment. Muffling a cough with his cold paw and blinking away water from his eyes, he watched the activity of the others, sniffing involuntarily.
