Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

30 Vargin the Immortal

"Black hearts, black blood and black nails.

Black dreams, black deeds, and black death

Black things are found when the blood moon rises."

­­~ Unknown Author (A saying oft whispered around fires in the North)

Götteril, 30 years ago

    Vargin sat elegantly between the white pillars of her dwelling with the window of Erdil before her. The battle she watched was getting interesting. Blood and gore. So beautiful. The Paradise savages warred against the invading armies of Sheians in the jungles that were their home. The Sheians were losing.

    The Sheian army had attempted a surprise attack up a densely vegetated rise against the primitive Paradisians who typically dwelt in separate villages throughout the forest. The sun was setting as the fight raged on. They had targeted the village just over the rise, where the savages' special child lived, hoping to capture him and in so doing, claim the entire island for themselves. Their plan was failing miserably.

    Vargin's long, pitch black nail pierced the window she had opened using The Way. She touched a very young man, a Sheian fighter, making his soul black and his battle fury rage. 'Wonderful my beauty.' she whispered into the adolescent's ear and his lust for death grew rampant. Her pitch black eyes swirled inkily with the power the Fathers had bestowed on her. She sucked up the cries of the dying, feeding herself with the frenzy of battle.

    Her black hair swirled around her as she absorbed the energy of dying men. Her touched one ran through the jungle as though he were Äbädä herself. He did not tangle in vines or trip over roots and tree stumps like his comrades did, nor did he give mercy to any who crossed his path. His spear pierced hundreds of hearts, mostly those of Paradisian warriors. Vargin ensured that they did not hear him approach.

Erdil, 30 years ago

    Casamir ran through the jungle. He did not know how, but his feet flew through the terrain with ease. He could suddenly see pathways, through the jungle that had seemed impenetrable before. His hands itched to hack off a head or stab a heart, compelling him to move faster and faster through the tangle of vines and plants.

    He froze for a split second, his hearing immensely heightened by the battle fury boiling in his blood. He heard an intake of breath. It was a child, he could sense it.

    As he paused, he could hear blood throbbing through his veins, pumping through his heart, circulating. He felt it move like fire along his entire body. A man shouldn't be able to feel his own blood move, but it was one of those things. Strange. It happened to him when he got like this. Fighting seemed to bring out the best in him. Or the worst, depending on whose side you were on.

    Crimson drops dripped from his spear onto the leafy forest floor and down his left arm as he clutched the panga. The smell of the blood filled his nostrils and raged inside his body, making him quiver with unnatural energy. Holding still in this state was no easy task.

    Then he heard it, a crack, a tiny twig snapping on the forest floor, and in that split second, he knew the exact location of the child. He'd stopped trying to explain how it happened, or why it only happened sometimes and not in every battle, but he could literally see the child crouching on the forest floor in the tangle of plants with his eyes closed.

    Casamir followed the path the jungle revealed to him and within seconds held the ankle of a pale child. Both weapons were somehow stowed away safely, and Casamir was unable to recall how it had happened. Warrior, be like the sand dunes, silent in movement.