Heartrage. not the only O.G. Fan Fic! 14! *trucks along*

[Kestril]

here ya go. I would've updated sooner, but my Cpu caught a BAD virus, and I had to re-write the whole darn thing.

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12
A thick stew of questions swam through Isaac’s head as he approached the door. Who could the master be? Why hadn’t Morver met with the master? Didn’t every elder do so? And most of all: Why was Tribly so worried? After all, what was there to worry about? It may be a trick of some sort. Isaac quickly dismissed the idea. Sensei Matthias didn’t seem like the tricky sort, and Sensei Tobias held an uncanny respect for the rules. Isaac gathered his courage and cracked the door a little. For a second, he caught the scent of something strange, something –instinct, he realized- told him to step away, but the soothing aura of the garden whisked it away. Isaac paused, then opened the door.

Isaac felt like he was plunged underwater as the immense felling of vertigo enveloped him. Isaac’s mind screamed to run, but the plea fell on a deaf body. The best he could manage was a small twitching in the jaw. Isaac’s thoughts raced, searching for some other explanation than the one that lay before him: A wolf sat cross-legged in front of him as master of the dojo. The damp, cold sweat started forming.

“Breath” The wolf said. The gentleness of its voice sounded muffled, underwater, even. Isaac inhaled a small, choking noise. The scent of the flowers made Isaac realize how much he had tensed up. Isaac found himself with a clearer head. The wolf was clearer now. He was old, Isaac realized, graying almost everywhere, but his coat had yet to thin. Lean, Isaac realized, but a kindness in his posture puzzled Isaac.

The wolf continued, “ Hello, Isaac.” His voice was a little clearer now, “My name is Auron. It is in your nature to run, more so than other rabbits, as Tribly informed me, so only information of great weight could intrigue you enough to stay here would you like to hear it? You are free to leave at any moment, as well as come back.”
Shaking, Isaac gulped, “Y-yes.”

“Your parents were northerners, from across the mountains. I was returning from a yearly pilgrimage when I heard the sound of battle. I rounded the bend expecting to scare off a few penniless highway rats, but I was wrong.” A look of reflection crossed Auron’s eyes, “Your parents, Isaac, held there own against a pack of wolves, with strength only provoked by great love. I could tell it was a hopeless effort, so when the battle was far I stooped in and carried you back here.”

“T-t-t-thanks.” Stunned, Isaac breathed again, the aroma tickled his nose, “T-the flowers smell n-nice.” Isaac silently cursed at himself. Here was the secret to his origin, and he was commenting on flowers.

“Yes,” Auron agreed. “I remember every one I’ve ever planted.”

“Well, which one was the first?” Isaac timidly asked, he couldn’t believe he formed a coherent sentence, and realized the flowers must be affecting him, relaxing him.
Auron smiled, showing a row of fangs, “Atop the grave of an old friend, a grave I visit every year, and the same grave of the warrior who’s blade you wield today. His name was Kalder.”

The statue.

A thousand gears clicked inside Isaac’s head. Isaac studied the Auron’s face, sure enough, a deep scar traced down Auron’s left eye. This was the same wolf on the statue he found, next to Turner and Kalder. Auron was a “hero of the land.”
“I am surprised.” Auron remarked, “Tribly assured me you would ‘take off like a sparrow.’”
……………………………………………………………………………….
North.
“Father.” Athe called as she approached the den (an overstatement, considering the only she and her father called it home). She expected to hear some brief, grumpy reply. None came. It wasn’t unusual for him not to answer the first time. She called again as she stepped into the den. No reply. Athe crossed into her room. Her father’s short sword rested calmly under a necklace. This necklace consisted of a simple cord bounded to a sliver mobius, the den’s crest. She knew what this meant, and rushed out of the house and shouted so loud she surely thought the mountains would rumble and snow would come cascading down. Her father was gone.

…………………………………………………………………………………
North side of the Lugaru Mountains.
The snow fell hard, leaving vague outlines of the four wolves that surrounded Dimitri. The knives glistened on Dimitri’s belt, eager for blood. The wolf on the right pounced, and earned a knife buried in his neck. Seven blades left.

“You and your pack will die for what you have stolen.” The anger surged under Dimitri’s simple words. Two knives missed the wolf on the left, the third hit it’s mark. Four blades left. The wolf in back charged, only to be stopped by two knives cutting a fresh trail through the falling snow. Two knives glistened thirstily in Dimitri’s belt.

“Now you.” Dimitri growled.

“Just try it, grey-snout.” The last wolf retorted. A knife slashed through the cold air, and missed. Dimitri drew his last knife, and charged, raging. He roared, not an old warcry, or a lost battle-rally, but one, uninterrupted scream of vengeance. Dimitri fell to the nameless wolf.

[Ragdollmaster]

I love your writing style, you can manage multiple lines of thought simultaneously without detracting any quality from any of them Keep it up, eagerly waiting for 13.

[Kestril]

Yay! I get some brownie points!
Just FYI, after much editing and hard labor, I decided to leave "DUN DUN DUN" off of the end*

*Joking. I hope you** laughed.

**"You" refers to the wolfire community, as well as John's beard***.

*** John's beard does not hide a third fist like Chuck Norris'

[Ragdollmaster]

I actually hold a tiny bit of resentment/jealousy for not thinking of this first. It would seem kind of lame now to post my own fan fic topic, which I really want to do after looking over this thread.

[Kestril]

Go ahead. I'm not stopping you. I'm actually enthused that someone out there is inspired by me It's-a pretty sweet. I'll be glad to offer help if you want me to, and I love a good story especially on I don't have to write. So go for it! the worst people can say is, "I don't like it." With no constructive criticism,over the internet, and probably wishing they could write at all. I won't harbor any resentment, or make port with any loathing, or come crashing down on you like a typhoon for similarities (see what I did there: Imagery).

In three words: Go for it!

Edit: I recently started toying around with a program called GIMP. It's a freeware image manipulation program. It's fun to toy around with. Here's what I have so far, I'll update with more user bars later, but if you're an Isaac fan and you want one: here ya go:
Here's the link to copy and paste: http://img7.imageshack.us/img7/7026/isaacuserbar.gif


heh, too bad signatures don't seem to show up for me on these forums.

[Ragdollmaster]

Yeah, you can't have images in sigs here, sadly. I might post a story, but obviously I've got to think up the whole plot first and write out a rough copy or two in Word or something =P I've only written real stories for school before, and I guess it's worth a shot (they've all come back as A's or better) to at least try and see if my writing style gels with any of the users. I think the hardest thing to avoid is getting too absorbed in the story and progressing it so fast everyone else is like "WTF" because it's too dry and vague. I need to learn how to pace myself

[Kestril]

Hey, before I'm gone for the week, I guess I'll have some more fun with GIMP.
A title for me:

along with more userbars:

[mphasis]

Really quite fun, though once exams are over, I may have to draw you a better title bar in the GIMP :p.
Also, if I do end up writing fanfic, I'd love to integrate bits of yours. =)
(For anyone who doesn't know, the GIMP is a psychedelic title bar generation program)

[Count Roland]

GIMP's slightly more then that though, http://www.wegame.com/view/Lugaru_Scree ... _19_31_57/
you can make some alright textures.

[Kestril]

Alright. 13 is up ya'll. It took a lot of effort to crank out the last few bits. I'm trying to force myself to make entries longer since I don't update very often. Also, for those of you who like Athe better than the other cast, the next entry will focus on her, and remember,if the wolfire team enables some signatures make sure to grab a userbar

Viola:
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13.
Part of Isaac’s mind couldn’t believe what he was doing, maybe he’d gone insane. But between Auron’s surreal gentleness and the enchanting scent of the garden outside blanketed his nerves.

“Come, sit.” Auron gestured.

“I’d rather not.” After all, Isaac wasn’t that comfortable.
To this, Auron replied, “Suit yourself, it is in your nature, but remember, the one who overcomes the most often makes the strongest warrior.”

Isaac forced himself to take a step forward. His nerves screamed against it. The metallic taste started to form in his mouth, and the cold sweat returned. Finally it was done: Isaac took a step forward. Auron smiled, unintentionally showing fangs. Isaac nearly fainted, barely using a nearby wall to steady himself. The magical scent returned again, granting strength to fully recover. This was driving Isaac crazy. Half of his sane mind pleaded for him to turn and bolt, but every time that smell returned the instinct subsided, and for a glorious second he seemed to lose his anxiety.

“What is that smell?” Isaac blurted, then took control of himself, “ I mean, it’s calming, I-I-can’t really describe it.”

Auron’s eyes twinkled with knowledge, “ The aroma of life. It’s the smell of peace, the scent of fresh rain, and the essence of a million fireflies dancing at sunrise; but simply a loved garden planted by the light of the sun. Always by the light of the sun. It’s what sustains me here, so I will never have to hunt again.”

The explanation startled Isaac, until he closed his eyes and took his first deep breath. The fireflies danced under his closed eyelids. An evening sun erased the cold sweat from his oak fur. Suddenly,

Isaac resurfaced, eyes open, he asked, “Why not the moon?”

Auron turned cold, “I don’t deem that information is relevant enough to teach here.”

“Sorry.” Isaac automatically apologized.

“Do not be ashamed. The more questions you ask the more wise you will become.” Auron said warmly, “now, before we do anything else, I’d like to see how good you are with that sword.”

A wall of shock broke the garden’s spell, “You want me to fight you!?”

“No.” Auron recounted, “Simply spar.”

It seemed that the garden’s scent wouldn’t help piece Isaac together this time. Isaac swallowed, the sweat washed over him. He couldn’t think strait, “I really don’t think I-l-Ill be able to right n-n-now, M-m-master.”

“Very well. Come back when you feel ready.” Auron started to get up, then pointed a claw at Isaac, “ and Tribly with you. I haven’t gotten around to finding the right weapon for him.” Isaac heard the words, but they didn’t register, all he could see in his head was Auron’s massive, flesh-tearing claw. Isaac’s mind panicked, and this time his body obeyed. Only one thought stood clear above the rest: escape. He ran.
…………………………….
Minutes earlier, outside.

Tribly stood waiting right outside the door to the garden. A few other pupils waited a few meters behind him.

“What’s the time on the stopwatch?” Ray, an older student asked.

“Two minuets.” Tribly said dryly, “ You guys better be ready, he’s a fast runner, if he gets past this room and into the courtyard, the ones who don’t know will wonder. “

“Not that, it’s just when he bolts out of there in the next minute you’re going to be doing all my chores for a week.”
Some other students popped into the conversation, “Well, he’s lasted longer than me anyways.”

“Ha, I was in there for five minutes before I ran for it.”

“Well, yeah, that was because you were half asleep and the other half was apathetic.”

“You have the bucket of water back there? After all, we had to dump the whole thing on Tribly before he came to his senses.”

“Get ready; I think I hear him coming. “

The whole group took up a crouching position, the whole line tensing to intercept Isaac. Isaac burst through the door.

Isaac wasn’t sure what hit him first, the water or a wall of flesh and fur. After a few minutes of a quiet struggle, Isaac found himself in a strangle familiar headlock.
“Well jee, Isaac,” Tribly the Isaac-catcher said from behind him, “ you took off like a bloody eagle this time.”

[Ragdollmaster]

lolowned.

Also; 11-day updates? O= I can't talk though, it's been almost a week since I posted part 1 to the FF I started. Should probably continue it tomorrow. But I have an excuse! I was on vacation most of the week, and then I discovered the awesomeness of Blue Bell ice cream and didn't really do anything but lay there and munch on ice cream for a day.

Also, I find the bit about Dimitri a little confusing. Why was he fighting the wolves? Some old plot of revenge/vengeance, or just him being an old man and deciding to attack a pack of wolves?

[Kestril]

It's good that you have questions: It means you'll keep reading. All shall be revealed.

Quote my post if you want a hint. The hint is written in size 3.


Here's a hint: It has to do with his missing eye and the thing that was stolen

To continue: I the family suddenly decides to go on ANOTHER pop-vacation, so no updates for a week, again. but hey! I get to water-ski.

[Kestril]

This passage has absolutely NOTHING to do with the fan fic, but it's what I've worked on for a small writing competition. The goal was to create a back story for a character you think out of your head (or pull out of your ass) and since I haven't been working on the fan fic during this time I figured it would only be fair to let you guys read what I've been up to, kinda like the wolfire team, in a way.

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I ink my quill to write of him now, even as I write my encounter with him remains foggy at best, dreamlike. I suppose it’s due to my age. I’m just an old innkeeper dutifully finishing my days, but I think it had more to do with that flute of his.

Two nights ago I showed the squirrel to his room. At first glance, he didn’t seem much to look at. A small fellow, his brown-furred tail was ruffled and frayed in some sections; a simple vest hung over simple trousers. He was weary, no doubt, but a certain liveliness pulsed around him. He promptly sat down on the bed and unbuckled a pack that hung from his shoulder. I asked him his name.

“Garth.” He replied, more interested in rummaging through the pack than my inquiries. I asked him how he planned pay for his stay.

“I dunno off paw,” Garth half-mumbled, still searching through his sack. I was about to suggest he cleaned the outhouse when he found what he had been searching for: A magnificent flute came unsheathed from the pack. Its blue steel warmly glistened in the candlelight, and golden embroidery flowed around the body of the instrument. The more I gazed at the flute, the more I noticed about the traveler, Garth. The flute sparkled as if it had just been polished, whereas Garth seemed forever coated in a layer of dust. Where the flute stood tall at attention, Garth’s posture remained relaxed. The gold embroidery contrasted on Garth’s dark brown fur. As I gazed at both the musician and the instrument, I noticed only one detail that agreed with both: Garth’s eyes. Remarkably, the traveler’s eyes matched the warm blue steel of the flute. He placed the mouthpiece under his lips and started to play. I assure you, if I could somehow place the song into words, I would without a second blink.I shall do my best to describe it to you regardless, but please remember that these words don’t do it justice. The song spoke of soft hills, discovery, flying, and forgiveness. Garth cast the notes with great dexterity. It became clear to me he was a master in love with his instrument. He finished, and a soft smile formed on his face. I sat intrigued. I figured out how he could pay for his stay.

“You may stay.” I said, “If you tell me how you came upon that flute.”

“Fair enough” He replied simply, “I guess I’ll start at the best spot, the beginning.
A note to any traveler fortunate enough to read this entry: After the flute played, my mind kept wandering back to those carefree notes he performed. Since these matters must be recorded accurately, I’ll omit anything too hazy to recall.

“Grew up in a small village far from here, not that that matters, but you’ll need to know this, at the time I needed to, but didn’t. I didn’t excel at swordplay; it always left me with one too many scratches. Climbing trees usually ended with a bruise or two and bark all over my fur. It’s a pain to brush out, by the way. I had a group of friends. All in all, everything just went along normally, well, normally until I passed my fifteenth summer. You see, in my village, everyone expected young lads to master what came naturally; my problem was nothing came naturally. I tried a paw at cooking, only to set a small fire and some poorly roasted acorns. Fishing might have been my final choice, if I didn’t manage to snag a giant pike that drug the fishing net, me, and a few other unlucky chaps a few miles downstream. It wasn’t until my sixteenth summer when I found this flute, and my talent along with it.

“After six summers of screwing up whatever I tried to mold into a career at the village, I guess you could say the whole village grew tired of my mistakes, but one day it all started to fall into place. Morning, I think it was early morning when an old badger hiked into the village pulling a simple cart behind him. He was old, and I still don’t remember much, but I do remember his vivid blue eyes, and his cape full of stars. Anyway, the objects in the cart weren’t so simple. Dazzling toys, fireworks, and curious potions shuffled and jingled merrily on the cart behind him. Most of the village folk shied away from the newcomer, but I found myself intrigued. I searched the cart, and would’ve launched a firework if an elder didn’t feel the need to drag me away by the tail. That firework probably would’ve smacked some poor fellow strait off a tree branch anyway. That elder put me to work weaving. The needle slipped, and I nearly sliced someone’s tail off. All that time I couldn’t think of anything else but the badger and his cart. I didn’t see him until sunset, and by that time he had already started to leave. I dashed down the road after him, and tripped. It turns out I wasn’t good at running either. I was about to fling what I tripped on as far as I could until I realized it was a flute. This flute. I called out to the leaving badger, about to say his cart dropped something, but he turned and faced me before I got the chance. He winked, and turned, and left.

“Soon after, I felt restless. Flute in hand, I needed to leave the village. It was like, um, I suppose

I’m not too great any metaphors either. I’ll just play it for you. “
Again, Garth delicately perched his lips over the mouthpiece, and played. A jovial tune skipped around the room. My mind traveled to new horizons, seas unexplored, and treasures to uncover. I came to a few minutes later, and regrettably missed some of Garth’s interesting tale. Even now, as I think about that night, I have trouble writing this all down.

“As I was telling you, I traveled south three summers peacefully. I helped out where I could: played a longwinded tune at a few funerals, kept an adventuring party’s spirits high, and played to myself and the trees when no one was around. I made too much noise one day, and was ambushed by a pack of highwaymen. Not being a good fighter, I tried to run a few paces, but I realized they would catch up. Realizing that, I did the only thing I could. I called a note that I never had before: A long, soaring one of peace. Somehow, it did the trick. They stopped, and I slipped by. A few more leagues down the road I ran in to this in, and well, here I am. Would you like me to play that note for you?”

“Yes.” I said.

The flute whistled one impossibly perfect note. It felt distant, but also clear. The single note radiated through the dreariness of the inn, and brought about an overwhelming sense of peace.
I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke in the morning to find Garth gone. I promptly attended to my duties as innkeeper. Later, several travelers inquired to the secret of their good night’s sleep.

“Garth.” I told them.

“Garth?” They would ask.

“Yes.” I would say, “Garth the Whistling Bard.”
......................................
There you go, hopefully more fan fic is coming soon.

[Kestril]

It might be a wee bit short for an update, but it's better than nothing I suppose.
Hey, Ragdollmaster! Yes, you! I'm a bit ahead of ya, hurry up to catch up!


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14.

Tears welled in Athe’s eyes. She silently crossed a field to her den. She the warmth of the sunlight didn’t comfort her numb nerves, and the swaying grass didn’t sooth her crying eyes. Her red fur blazed against the soft blue sky, a final testament of a den brought to ruin. She found herself picking up the emblem now, the once proud symbol of the den’s once unbreakable fellowship. She slung it around her neck. The pendant anchored the cord around her neck. She must fulfill the den’s oaths –her father’s oaths-- Alone. Next, she picked up the second blade, and holstered it. Slung around her waist, it glimmered across from its twin. A bell sounded deep within, promising her she would slay many with this blade. Athe swallowed and rubbed the tears from her eyes. She couldn’t stay here now, if her father left, that surly meant-

Crack

Athe whirled, something was outside. For a second she thought it could be her father, until she caught the stench of wolf. Her blade flashed out of her belt while her father’s rested restlessly at her hip. She crept out of the den. She saw the wolf first, he was across the meadow. Her meadow. The meadow she would never call home again.

“Leave.” She said, her voice dripping with cold steel, “leave now.”

“Good.” The wolf growled, “I was looking for a snack.”
The wolf rushed, and Athe smartly dove right. She recovered to face the wolf as he changed direction. She tried rolling this time, but the wolf was ready. Claws raked across Athe’s flank. She spun for a few yards, and eventually recovered. The pain raced up and down her side, making part of her head fuzzy. The wolf stood across from here, grinning. Athe tried not to look down at the wound. She knew it would look worse than it felt.

“You know,” The wolf said, “I heard they slaughtered your father. They killed him easier than snapping a rabbit’s neck, and slower too. “

A starburst of anger erupted in Athe. The pain evaporated along with it. She passed her sword to her other paw, and unsheathed her father’s, “Don’t they tell you not to play with your food? “ She spat, and charged. Her blade met a claw. Her father’s met a neck. Athe cleaned the blades off next to the wolf’s body, and inspected her wound. It was light, as far as wolf injuries go, but the pain would slow her down on the hike to the dojo. Three days. She figured. Three days.