The Lion and the Serpent - Chapter Fifteen: Hunter

((a wonderful midd story contribution from shrogan, bit of a troll angle! enjoy!))

Over one year ago, Seiken Trollbane attacked SGE for what would've been the last time. Why? Well, because the Trollbane family had always specialised itself in the slaughter of Trolls. And having started to destroy the villages of the Hinterlands and others, the Empire retaliated. This is the story of that attack which led to the Wars which followed.

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It is said, that Hunting is an art in itself. That is wrong.
Hunting, more than an art, more than a mean of recollection, is a way of life. The purpose of the hunt is not to catch one’s prey. The purpose of the Hunt, is the hunt itself. It is not only the mean, but the end itself. In the Hunt one tests it’s own skills against it’s prey. One can see, what truly means to be strong, to be fast, to overcome any obstacle, to achieve the prey’s demise. It is by hunting that we become stronger. It is by hunting that we become faster. It is by hunting that we know our enemy. It is by hunting that we hone our capabilities.

To awaken to the Hunter, is to awaken a beast uncontainable. To motivate the Hunter, is to motivate Death itself. To run from it, it is only delaying the inevitable. Know this. It –will- find you.

To us, to Troll kind, to the Gurubashi, to the Empire, one can not dissociate War from Hunting. War has it’s own purpose. It is it’s own natural selection, discarding the weak, feeding the Loa, rewarding the strong. To ride out to Hunt, carrying War in one’s heart… is the essence in our blood. The essence which we forge in fire. The essence which brings upon you Death. Blood! Fire! Death!
We have found you.

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Slowly they march, creeping, silent, stalking their prey. Arathi was a long way from the Vale and offered little cover, thus they moved, with the Panther’s swiftness, with her stealth and yet ferocious relentless speed. Those who saw their creeping shadows, running smoothly in darkness would think them to be inhuman. Those who saw them, would be right.

There are several places in Arathi where one can hide in. Even if it is one big prairie, it still has it’s share of hills and elevations. One could easily hide in them, travel amongst them, without notice. However, to hide one big military camp? That’d be a feat indeed, almost impossible. Something that even Hunters would recognise in a prey. However, something which a Hunter knows when dealing with it’s natural antagonist, it’s counter, is that even that which seems impossible, is often probable. But an even greater feat would be to move such a strike force amidst the open landscape unnoticed. By the Panther’s swiftness, they had done so.

The wind changes and slowly their heads do so as well. It brought about the scent of sweat, steel and food. The camp was this way, undoubtedly.
To Troll kind, even those who follow the Spiritual path know well the path of War. Even the High Priest is often the leader of the army in the Emperor’s absence. And thus he speaks. “Miwaii, scout ahead, and take out the sentinels. Swift and silent. Elf slayer, assist Miwaii in the human hunt.” Both Trolls nod. The dagger wielder vanishes into the shadows and the Elf slayer is nowhere to be seen. They wait, patiently for their return. There are several techniques and tactics which one must have in mind when in war. Troll kind has these present daily.

Arathorians, fierce warriors with a strong resolve. But as humans they share one common trait with all others of their kind. They rely on a leader. Should he be eliminated, their army would crumble. The Trolls assemble around the High Priest, waiting. Again, their heads turn “Elf Slayer, you have returned.”
Chakuya nods, grinning, caressing the string of his bow. “Miwaii reputz in fur duty, High Prizt!” A voice is heard besides the bow wielder and soon Miwaii, the High Priest’s fang, steps into view. “High Priest, there is but one entrance towards the camp. However, there is but only one exit.”

Thoughtful, as humans fight harder, resist more when they are cornered, a sly smirk spreads across his lips. “Priestess Mneri, step forth.” He says almost in a whisper. The Priestess presents herself immediately. “It is well known that even the weakest of prey fights harder when cornered. We do not face the weakest prey, and thus further pressure must be applied. Miwaii, you will serve me yet again. Now that the entrance is unguarded, you will crawl into the camp and assassinate the Captain. However, do not be too hasty. We attack at Dawn. Not after, not before.” Nodding, Miwaii fades from sight yet again.
“Zakhan, Blood Drinker Bharker, the two of you shall lead the offensive.” The Drakkari brute pounds his chest whereas Zakhan merely smirks and nods. “Gather the Troops, you will know when to strike. Priestess, follow me.” And as the warband suddenly breaks, all is silent once more.

Dawn breaks over the Camp, the first soldiers crawl out of their tents in awe. The sky is lit, but not with the rising sun. It is lit with fire, and amidst this flaming wall, a figure walks, through it, slowly, the figure of the High Priest. Stepping over a small mound which offered cover to the camp, he reaches out for something in a pouch by his belt. Another figure joins him, standing besides the first, shortly after, a Priestess. He throws a strange dust into the winds, as the men slowly crawl to their armoury, still in shock or awe. Suddenly, the coloured dusts weaved in the wind become like flame tongues themselves, hissing, serpent like, in the men’s direction. Both their arms move, hypnotically, controlling these sacred flames of Troll kind. In a world of magic, that which is unknown, is easily feared. Not much is known of Troll magic.

Avoiding these dancing flames, arming themselves, they ready for battle. Suddenly a shout breaks the clamour of the men’s steel and weapons.

“Blood! Fire! Death!” Two large Trolls step through the flames, many in their trail. They rush down the camp, cleaving, butchering mercilessly, not minding the fires which they constantly cross. Human armour merely delays the inevitable. They fight, calling for their leader but it does not respond. Another figure joins the High Priest, unconcealing itself just before him. “Him be dead.” The female speaks and bows before joining the fight below them.

Drawing out a dagger from her belt, the Priestess walks and stands before him. As he kneels, his fingers, never stopping, always moving, as if weaving the very flames which surround the camp, he opens his blackened jaws, revealing a row of sickeningly sharp teeth. The Loa give nothing for free, and even the smallest gift carries it’s price. Taking the High Priest’s own dagger, she holds them high and diving them into her arms, she clenches her teeth, eyes glazed with fanaticism, stretching them forward, allowing the blood to drip slowly down to the High Priest’s throat. The sky darkens, only lit by the fire and it’s reflections on steel.

A torch wielder runs, setting the tents ablaze, the heat covering the battleground. This is no battle. This is massacre. Overrun by furious fanatics, a few attempt to escape, only to hesitate by the flaming wall which envelops the camp. Hesitation costs them their lives.
All those who stand are but Trolls and one single human.

The army gathers, led by Bharker and Zakhan, loyal Blood Drinkers of the Empire. Before the High Priest, they roar, the hearts incinerated by the fire of old, the essence of war, the ecstasy which the Hunter experiences upon battling their prey.

In order to trap the prey, to keep in place, fightable, to keep it from running, the Hunter uses several traps and illusions which are used to limit it’s ways of escaping. The Hunter knows that the disoriented prey will think less and fight more. The Hunter knows that the best way to achieve this, is through, not changing the landscape itself, but through illusions. The High Priest’s fingers move no more, and the flames around them die, save for those in the tents, leaving no scorch mark, no decrease in the heat, the sky clears with it, without signs of ever having been darker than the night itself. The sun rises, it’s first rays, blood red. The High Priest stands, thanking the Loa of the Mind and it’s Priestess for having clouded their enemy’s judgement.

Whimpering, a sole survivor is brought before him, stripped of armour, weapons or clothing. He peers at him, and smirks maliciously.

“My brethren, we send a message to the Arathorian commander. To the slaughterer of Trolls. And in this very place, we deliver our mark.” And with the blood of the fallen humans, a message is written in the trees, several skins attached to the bark.

There is a technique used in Warfare when the enemy reveals itself to be an even match or stronger, a technique which is used to prevent the enemy from making decisions, which makes it hesitate, which makes it commit acts of desperation, mistakes. That technique is Terror.
Trolls know it well.

The faces of the fallen, cut from the skull of their corpses, are gathered. He smirks as they are brought before him. And holding carefully a thread and needle, he approaches the seized prey. Kneeling before it, he picks up the Commander’s face, sewing it to the man’s chest. The soldier’s faces follow. As he attempts to move away, as he twitches from the pain and shivers from fear and cold, so do the faces move. His wails and shrieks of despair echo that of the victims of the battle. The High Priest stands, the victim’s body covered, from head to toe in the faces of his comrades. Approaching his ear, lifting his bloodied mask only slightly, he whispers.

“Go to Seiken Trollbane. Let him know that the Empire fears nothing. Let him know that his army will follow. Let him know that we are waiting. That we have found him."