Months ago...
"Bloody humans, thinking they're so tough." Rust pressed the cold wet rag of fur to his eye, willing the chill to take the edge off the pain. He had taken to muttering to himself when alone, a habit born of years of semi-solitude. "Insult my mother, will you? Yeah, let's see how well you manage whilst your jaw's setting." Rust tried to stand, but his ribs twinged and he let himself settle back down on the window ledge. A hundred foot drop awaited him on the other side, but Rust's sense of balance was impeccable. If his sense of timing or diplomacy had been half as good, he probably would not have been nursing his bruises in an unused chamber in the Tower.
That was one of the many things that pissed Rust off; the Tower was easily built for thousands, for many many villages all humped together, but its entire population consisted of less than a few score mages and the Cat. For some utterly absurd reason a small wild cat had wandered into the premises and, ascertaining that none of the inhabitants would do it harm, let loose upon the vermin that kept plaguing the food stores and acted as if it owned the place. As far as Rust could tell, the Archmage's only response to the affair was mild amusement. At one point, the Cat briefly tried stalking the sole Murr of the tower, who soon made it very clear to the interloper who was in charge.
Strange felines aside, the vast majority of the Tower was empty. Most people lived in the lower floors, which was certainly where all classes and training was conducted and where they ate and cooked. Stored food was kept on the third floor out of the way (but until the Cat arrived the rats still managed to get up there) and much of the day was spent tilling the gardens when not practising magic. Rust hated the gardens. He hated dragging sticks of wood through soil to plough it, he hated sticking roots and seeds beneath it and he hated tending it throughout the year. Most of all, he absolutely hated the vegetables it produced. Along with the other Northren, he had taken to hunting the forest on the edge of the plain for meat to supplement the endless monotony of tubers and greens.
With not a small amount of pride, Rust did consider himself one of the best hunters amongst the students, at least in traditional forms. He could take down a groundbeast at a hundred paces with a spear, even through thick canopy, and could skin, gut and clean it in less than half an hour. When he was younger, when he still frequented the north, his clan had high hopes for him as a hunter. If he closed his eyes Rust could still remember the chill of the tundra, a welcome contrast to the everpresent itching and heat of the South. He could still feel the crunch of snow and frozen earth beneath his feet, stalking through the taiga with his family in pursuit of an elusive elk. Before it he could still hear the song of the Dirk Dancer, see her motions quick and slow, quick and slow as she sang the tale of the Frostlord and the first Northren.
There was a rite his clan had performed sometimes, usually before a great hunt, or when a Dancer was around to conduct it. They would gather fresh snow or if it was summer, bring some out of the dark places they hid ice throughout the year, covered in furs to keep it warm. On the ice or snow they would build twigs, from the twigs they would light the fire. They would sing songs to Winter, and to Fire, and beneath the blood-streaked sky of the North they would roast wolf-flesh in the flames, commemorating the union of the Wolflord and the Sun. If the Dancer was there, she would sometimes extend the rite, having each northren sharpen his blade or spear in time to one of the old songs. They would ask the blessing of the Hunter, the Master of Knives, and plunge their blades into the flame that roasted. Flint might be darkened, and fresh speartips would harden in the flame.
With this reminiscence on his mind, Rust drew his own knife from its sheath. The blade gleamed from regular care, cleaned and polished and rubbed down with fresh fat to guard against corrosion. Before the hunt he would plunge his own blade into the flames and sometimes the Hunter would acknowledge his tribute, green flames licking here and there from the knife. Whenever this happened, Rust felt a thrill and confidence in the hunt thereafter that he might not otherwise and always seemed to catch, even if it was only the smallest rodent. When a hunt was done a portion of a successful kill would be sacrificed once again to the Frostlord and the Flame, and Rust would always add a minor honour of his own to the Hunter.
Not that his skills were much called for now. The humans in the Tower had gotten wind of the hunt and tried their own hand at gaining meat. Seeing their efforts with the spear and blade fail, they turned to magic. The Archmage was upon every hunter at that point, having been informed wrongly that they were all doing it, and the hunt was banned for nearly a month before one of the humans argued that it could not qualify as 'doing harm' any more than the Cat's own stalking of rats. No thinking creature was harmed, and it was a fine use of a tool. The Archmage refused to let up on his decision, but he allowed mundane hunting to resume.
This ultimately was the loophole that led to the fights starting. Rust and his fellow northren resumed hunting, and the humans (quite wanting meat of their own) attempted to follow suit. Rust still felt quite justified in pointing out the humans' flaws in their technique. If they wouldn't listen to criticism, what kind of hunters would they make anyway? Besides, they should not have taken everything so personally, would it have killed them to grow thicker skins? Of course they didn't, so they started back with the retort that the northren weren't as good with magic, and being the whole point of everyone being here they said that this was an even greater failure.
Somewhere amongst the escalation, Rust vaguely recalled the first punch being thrown but couldn't actually remember who had thrown it. Soon enough both hunting parties had broken down into full-out fighting and it was a miracle that nobody had been stupid enough to try and draw a weapon. The fight was broken up by some of the more level-headed members of both sides and they had withdrawn, starting a bitter rivalry that would persist for months. Of course, the Archmage had punished both sides severely with additional labour and a handful of more corporal punishments, but because they had not actually broken any of the laws of magic they were all permitted to stay.
The rivalry persisted, Rust's 'clan' and the human would-be hunters raging against each other in argument, in training and in a furious desire to out-pace or out-show the other. Were this directed in a more peaceful manner the ensuing commitment of both sides to their studies would have been a spectacular thing, but with tensions continuing to grow this came to threaten war between the students. Today part of that tension had boiled off in the form of the brawl in the forest, but Rust supposed it was only a matter of time before the Archmage might be forced to expel one of the sides for the sake of maintaining order. Being a human himself, Rust doubted that Garthor would rid the Tower of his own kind.
It was amidst this stew of violent memory that Rust first noticed the spider. It was of a kind he did not recognise, though that was not surprising. The North had spiders, but very few and of small stature due to the cold. This one was about two inches long, black with red stripes. It perched on the window ledge opposite, and Rust could have sword it was looking at him. Being in a somewhat choleric mood, he stretched out his hand and pressed forefinger to thumb in preparation to flick it through the window.
"You value your hand so little?"
Rust leapt to his feet, snatching back his arm and staring in shock at the tiny creature. He glanced back at the room, trying to hear if this was some kind of trick, a ploy by the humans. Seeing and hearing no other and given that the spider spoke northren, not the human tongue that persisted in the Tower, he was forced to look back at the spider. For want of a better response, he went for the obvious.
"Did you- Spider, did you just talk?"
"No, I sang and did a little dance. Of course I talked, who else could it have been?" The voice rang out in Rust's head, clear as daylight and sounding just a little annoyed. "Pardon me, I thought I was talking to Rust, son of Scar, not a witless moron. Perhaps you could direct me to him?"
In an instant, Rust's hand was raised again.
"Speak to me like that again and you'll find out what it's like to be paste, talking or no!" Although it was utterly impossible for a spider to manage, the voice in Rust's head snorted.
"So little self-control. What would your father think?"
"My father's dead." Rust found himself fighting a battle between the urge to crush this annoying arachnid and the fear of what it might do to him if he tried.
"And you never did find his killer. That is why you left, isn't it?"
Rust lowered his hand, the prospect of killing the spider growing increasingly uncertain.
"What do you want of me, Spider? Have you a purpose, or do you just feel like taunting people?"
"I want to make you an offer. I can teach you of magic, Rust. Things that your masters will not."
"Rune magic is forbidden." The flicker of curiosity that had begun to form in Rust's eyes was replaced by hard determination. "And I'm not foolish enough to try and practise it. You must think me some kind of ignorant fool."
"Why must you instantly assume that this is all going to be about forbidden knowledge?" Rust could almost hear the spider groan. "Is it not possible that there are simply means that the magi are unaware of?"
"You're a talking spider. What honestly makes you think I should believe you can teach me magic that the archmage of the Tower of the Magi can't?"
"Ragnal was a talking bird, and he taught the archmage. Is my point clear?"
Rust considered this for a moment. It made sense.
"Alright, say you can teach me. Why would I want to know anything you can offer, and what exactly would you be demanding as payment?"
"For my first offer, you already know how that knowledge could aid you. For months your rivals have been showing you up, disgracing your name and rubbing in your face the natural human talent for magic. The Archmage is human, Dordrath was human. Every powerful mage has been human, so wouldn't it be worth the look on their faces for a northren to come up with a new form of magic?"
"It would," Rust admitted, and felt a smile tug at the edges of his lips. It vanished almost instantly as the natural suspicion that had kept his kind alive in the most extreme of environments resurfaced. "But if this was such a good deal, you'd be proposing it to the Archmage, not a northren apprentice who does have that 'human talent' you mentioned. So why me, Spider?"
"Perhaps I like your trusting nature and pleasant attitude towards others," said the spider, and somehow it managed to laugh. "No, I am proposing it to you because the Archmage will reject it out of hand simply because it is not being offered by his precious gods of magic. He doesn't exactly think outside his rules, does he?" Rust snorted at the notion.
"No, he does not. You said that was your first offer, what else would you give me?"
"The identity of your father's killer."
The silence that ensued could have choked a man, and before it could Rust realised that part of it was because he had stopped breathing. He let his lungs relax again, and his eyes narrowed with a murderous threat.
"Don't play with me, Spider."
"I am not. I know who killed your father, Rust. When you have completed what I ask of you, I will reveal that person's identity. You may use that knowledge as you see fit."
Silence again. Rust unballed his fists.
"What would you ask of me, Spider?"
"Do not reveal the nature of this magic until you have perfected it, and teach no less than seven students of your own. Once that is done, you are free to do as you will."
Rust thought on the matter. The spider was bad news, certainly, and withholding knowledge even to release it later bordered on breaking one of the Laws... but he had to know. He had to know who did it.
"Alright. What will you teach me, Spider?"
"I will teach you new magic. I will teach you the magic of Blood."
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Topic: Godhood III Play Thread (Read 39301 times)