Rite of adulthood - To tread among Strangulative Thorns.

Hello everyone, and welcome to my story!

This piece of literature makes out my very first attempt at writing a story, dedicated solely to entertaining an audience, that is: one that isn't part of some university assignment (they're all in swedish and not stories to begin with, just reports etc) and also my first attempt at writing a story in english.

Swedish is my native tounge, and the language I generally speak, thus, I would be very happy if you would leave feedback and constructive criticism, after you're done reading, in order for me to improve my grammar, because I know there some are issues. But - to be frank - I would be ecstatic if you even read as much as the first paragraph, anyway - enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rite of Adulthood - To tread among Strangulative Thorns

"We are but animals, born but animals, born like all upon this world. We must acknowledge that nature"

--Hodain "Lynx" Dyrin.


The rain belted down heavily upon the greenish, forest roof, like a rude cascade of slate-grey invaders shifting together - as if one - forming upward arcs and swirls like a loose curtain caught in the harsh, Stranglethorn gale; soaking the treetops, and re-supplying the vile quagmires hidden in remote sinks on the viny forest floor - ready to devour the unwary - with sufficient water and mud. The falling, glistering raindrops would nourish the many distinct species of flora growing in the jungle without fail; breaching their clutches and tiniest nooks - fulfilling their given duty.
But it wasn't only the sturdy, jungle plants that took benefit from the showering rain, but also the local fauna; the dew-coated, delicious, and supple leaves provided them much with needed moisture, and the water seeping past the crowns also rejuvenated the waterholes, not only for one's pleasure of drinking, but also for the peckish, bloodthirsty predators to lurk in, as they keenly lie in wait for bold prey to approach for a drink, and their own demise.

A gnarly, saturated, twig snapped incoherently, under his right foot; yielding to his weight and sore Flexor hallucis. He cursed fretfully - as if his journey so far hadn't been enough of a hassle already - and cringed as a pert, sharp projection - a thorn - penetrated his already scab-ridden heel. Normally; most of the submerged twigs and mossy branches would creak alarmingly before snapping - allowing him to sneak and stalk his game, concealed in the Stranglethorn thicket - but this one begged to differ.
He wasn't disheartened by it - just angry, and disgruntled over his misfortune - and quickly, though cautiously, drew a large shrub made out of a thick chewy foundation and rebounding branches, dispersing into smaller leaf-ridden swirls, aside to check whether or not his cover had been blown; scaring off or bewildering the majestic beast he had been following for days. It was still there; preying on an unfortunate mammal, occasionally breaking off to hone and file its teeth by grazing and rubbing them against a nearby crystal formation, leaving trails and rakes of warm blood behind, making the - otherwise radiant - rarity appear more like a washed boar's heart; red, luminous with a pink-ish sheet coating the rim on each side, and with a network of unpleasant blood vessels creeping down its form. He belched almost audibly at how repugnant the scene was.

Loréan wobbled his mustache fainly from one side to the other repetitively; the way he would always do - subconsciously even - whenever something perplexing enough to make him absent-minded, ponderous, or tentative found its way into his head; an idle gesture of deep thought. He tried to maintain his posture, composition and sharp focus, despite the constant protests coming from his joints and bulky - well-trained - muscles in the forms of objurgative aches and burning sensations in his embodiment. Though he wouldn't yield and submit to failure, despite the drudge and the odds seeming uncannily against him. He knew better then to underestimate a task or assignment just because of its simple nature; he was to best a beast after forging an inward bond with it - however that worked - with virtue and then bring either the entire carrion, a piece - like a limb - or a decipherable chunk of his kill back with him as a trophy. He thus refrained from assuming it to be merely a child's frolic in the woods, like someone else might've, however; he did not expect this.
Alas, he he had but himself to blame for it; he could've gone for something more docile like a reindeer, a fawn or an elk, or any other herbivorous species of mammal found in Elwynn or perhaps Redridge mountains, But he didn't of course. Instead he had locked himself onto a Stranglethorn Basilisk. A big one.

A valiant pick or a fool's errand?

The grey clouds grew darker by the minute, still spewing out sprays of rain without as much as a sign of an interval and there he was, stark naked like he had been for the past couple of days - ever since all of the rite's participants dispersed to follow their own path, willingly or not; it was a task to be carried out only in utter solitude - but he did not let his scarce attire, consisting only of his bare, tanned skin interfere with his determination. He sought to complete his ordeal and slowly put one used foot infront of the other, approaching the unsuspecting Crystal-spine Basilisk, slow and steady.
As he drew closer, targetting a small array of shrubs and dangling vines hidden behind a large boulder propped dangerously against an over-grown stumb, in the shadow of an old tree - perfect resort for hiding - he could but revere the amazing creature, beholding it - without halting himself - with sheer awe in his eyes. And throbbing in the back of his head was the remembrance as to why he choose this creature in specific;

Unwavering fortitude.

The ferocious-looking reptile was a pristine example of just that; long - even a bit lanky - robust and strong-looking predatory embodiment, ridden with thick crimson scales - square-shaped - giving the creature's body a fishnet-like texture, and bolstered with an alignment of thick, perky, triangular and slightly gorged armor plates on its back, molded to perfectly fit its oval silhouette; an impenetrable defense against any assiliants bold enough to pronounce themselves upon its territory.
It had six, short, stumpy legs - each garnished with a thick, beautiful and crystallike growth; one mound by the top on each femur - and the beast was almost four times that of his own size.
On each side of its head; tendril-like formations - a frill of some sort perhaps - bearing a strong resemblance to either a pair of odd, inadequate fins or a very peculiar array of wiskers were growing, and following further up on its scalp there was yet another crystallike assembly, powerfully erected, bigger and more pleasantly built than its smaller cousins. It seemed like hair - flawless, ornate hair - but he assumed it to be a comparison tool used to impress females during the mating season. But the most notorious features were its eyes, and maw; a petrifying gaze, capable of turning the living into stout, lifeless stone-figurines - an artist in its own right - and a jaw, filled with razor-sharp, dreadful teeth, strong enough to break through stone.
He knew thoroughly that he had picked a dangerously formidable advesary, to take on nude and with no real weapon or utensil to use against it and that he was playing with fire, but he'd find a way.

A while later, Loréan felt a brandishing relief come over him, hidden in wait for an avid opportunity to strike. He broke off and looked up to the otherwise leaking sky only to realise that the downpour had infact ceased, and in its stead; a thin, humid mist hovered above the ground, adding a sense of tranquility to the lively jungle. But the air felt thick and stifled around him, and the clouds had begun to merge, forming a larger, nearly pitch-black, ominous cloud. He knew exactly what it was; the humongus, cloud had been charged, auguring a violent thunder. He didn't want to be caught up in a harsh thunderstorm, but there wasn't much he could do about it, and instead he turned back to intently monitor the Basilisk's progress on its kill. But instead found that it had devoured the last of it, leaving a patch of blood and a pile of sundered bones behind, and was making its way out of the grove. He followed it, sidestepping every now and then to hide behind one of the conveniently allotted bushes or trees whenever the lizard stopped, to warily sniff the the air around it.

The basilisk took its time; plodding indolently and idly through the jungle - sloth after eating such a large meal - but Loréan patiently kept sneaking after, repeating the same motion he had been for the last two hours, with fiery resolution in his eyes.
They reached a clearing, and beyond it there was a rise with with a course of jungly trees on each side, creating a path-like lane in the middle. The damp, bristling, curvacious, moss-plagued and generally uneven roots, creepily stemming up here and there - as if alive - grew inscrutably across the slope; each twining with their neighbour from the other side, mid-way across, making the lane appear more like a terrestrial staircase.
The Basilisk didn't spare the spectacle a single shred of its concern and casually ascended the wooden stairs, disappearing through a shrubbery by the pinnacle of the rise. He did not hesitate, and quickly scaled the roots himself, when he deemed the coast was clear. woe to him though, for by the time he was nearing of the top of the rise, he had already slipped and almost fallen to certain injury twice.
He latched onto the last of the hulky roots. Little did he know that the root's outer rind of bark had been reduced to but a flimsy, slippery peel due to the excessive dampness present in the jungle. He felt his hand wavering, losing his grip, slowly but ever so certainly. He gasped, quickly fumbling for a safer spot more rigid spot. Panting and grunting after securing himself - hugging the root now instead - he looked down the steep slope before turning back to the root, peering at it interrogatively, before he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

Finally, he stood at the top, and didn't waste any time pushing the bushes aside. But what he found was...

"Ghastly.." loréan whispered to himself, as he set his gaze upon the isolated enclave behind the rise; it was a ghostly silent and well-molded basin surrounded by tall trees and palms, bent almost as if they were standing vigil. The basin was too small too be considered a valley and had a cave in it, but as little did it matter, for what shook him wasn't the size of the basin, the watchful trees or the cave - even though it was likely the belly of the beast - but rather what was in the basin. It looked like the unkept workshop of a fledging, chaotic, though utterly talented and brilliant old artist. The statues were everywhere; men, women - some were collapsed, whilst others still stood, and some had been shattered into clutters and piles of indistinguishable bits and pieces - all hair-raisingly realistic and looking as if they were alive.
He knew it already, but the hair on his neck still bristled when he muttered solemnly under his breath, re-enlightening himself; "corpses..."
Still motivated though, he discerningly began to descend into the basin - the cave was his target, and his adversary was indubitably in it. Half-way down though he accidently stuck his right foot under an elevated root, hitting his hallucis longus muscle hard. He exclaimed sheerly from the surprise, as he didn't have much time to be made aware of any pain caused by the impact, before he was sent tumbling relentlessly downhill like a ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard at the base of the slope with a crunching thud. He groaned, and cursed his miserable misstep angrily.

He was dazed and a wee bit groggy when he finally wobbled to his feet, wincing as he felt a trenchant, pulsating jolt of pain that originated from his right foot, course through his body. He knew that he had wrenched it, or in in a worst case scenario, sprained it - perhaps badly. But it wasn't broken, he knew that much just by looking at it - red and a bit sore - not swollen or disfigured at all. The pain staggered him the first few steps, causing him to limp slightly, but the intense smarting gradually diminished as he used his foot more and more.
The temporarily dilapidated foot wasn't the only tribulation present though, as his foundation ached exceedingly as well; his journey so far had definitely taken a large toll on his body, especially on his knees, from having spent so many hours in a row on them, crouching without as much as shifting a little; thus, comparing them with pair of rusty hinges would be a more than adequate comparison, for that was exactly how they felt. frowning he could almost hear them creak and grate as he moved deeper into the basin.

Later - out of nowhere - a substantial fog almost as white as snow had begun to form and stem up from the soil, so thick and plentiful that he could barely see his own feet.
He wouldn't normally mind something so measly, but there was something eerie about this fog, and the silent, almost sleepy setting in the basin; not even the local bird species seemed courageous enough anymore to sustain with their idle chriping and shrilling. A dead silence filled the air, dissipating and replacing the otherwise frequent jungle jangle. And the closer he got to the statues erected in the center of the basin the more intense and prominent the fog became, escalating in thickness every passing second until he could hardly see his own hands.
Shuddering - the mist felt mysteriously cold, in the otherwise humid and sultry Stranglethorn weather - he reduced his pacing to a cautious forward shuffle, stopping periodically to feel infront of him with his hands. Something wasn't right, the mist seemed otherworldly and outlandish as if conjured by an arcanist or a spell-weaver more sinister, like a warlock. He forsook any such thoughts and tried to summon a vacuum in his mind, in order to free himself from any distracting contemplations and to stay perfectly vigilant about any dangers the fog might be concealing, even though he knew in the back of his head that the only present danger would the menacing Basilisk he had been hunting, and that it was probably still in its cave, but something made him paranoid.
In order to see better in the nubilous smaze, he fluttered his left eye open, even though he starkly doubted it would do him any good - his face decorated with a skeptical grimace and a furrowed brow - for the eye had long since lost its practical use. He could still see on it, but just barely; his sight on the eye would be obscured and blurry as if someone had smeared grease onto a layer of glass that he was supposed to look through, and it would also intervene with the perfectly good sight - keen and crisp - on his right eye, distorting his vision and leaving a headache or nausea in its wake. The healed, vertical, scar running down from his eyebrow to the top of his left cheek felt as smooth and bumpy as always under his fingertips as he rubbed it, grunting faintly; it was a painful reminder of a past, military quarrel.
As he predicted; attmepting to use his left eye proved to be unhelpful - he would've prefered having his eyepatch on, but he left it among the rest of his equipment when he left naked for his rite - and let it sleep instead, Navigating deeper into the sinister fog.

Abruply his delving hands hit something; a cold, smooth stone-surface, ridden with cracks and crude fissures. It was one of the statues, indicating that he had made it half-way through the basin. Cupping the head of the statue he inched closer, feeling its oval form, perceptively, like an old wise man robbed from his sight. He belched disapprovingly - the ears had fallen off, which slightly disguised silhouette's race before the naked eye - but the crooked, lanky and angular nose, resting above a pair of smooth protruding lips with projecting spiral tusks, all held up by a sharp and firm jawbone, could not be mistaken;
it was a troll - female - and judging by the shape of the bulging facial muscles and the little he could see in the milky white mist; she was screaming in terror and anguish when the Basilisk's dreadful gaze sealed her fate.
But his interest didn't last, and he soon discovered several more statues posed in a similar fashion - exaggerated, trepidatious poses and with macabre expressions glued on their faces - as he continued guiding himself through the mist. He didn't know in which direction the cave was anymore, but he assumed the statues' frequent increase in numbers meant that he was getting all the closer to his goal. The thought made him smirk, just a little.
Sluggishly the minutes passed as he walked past statue after statue, until he arrived before one that stood out from the rest; a stone-semblence illustrating a hooded man clad in a simple, tattered robe with both his arms extended and his head tilted with a benevolent expression on his face.
Loréan shook his head and frowned; the man looked as if he had enjoyed being turned to stone, and he didn't like how the man's face and posture made his current situation seem so inauspicious and kind of tricky and derisive.
A loud, rumbling roar that caught him off-guard startled and spun him around with blinking eyes. The thunder had started to rage, heaving its smiting wrath onto anyone daring to oppose it. He tried to measure how far away the approaching storm was, but before he knew it, the animus death-cloud - still out of sight due to the persistent fog - spat out another bolt of burning lightning, so bright and eminent that he could finally see and tell from which direction it was approaching - west. At least so he believed.
When he turned back to the distasteful work of art he blinked his eyes and almost fell on his sore bottom; seeing a large malicious-looking raven with grimly crooked and stained talons; each reaching almost three inches in length, and a devilish, hooked beak designed by nature to slit cut and rend through flesh, and to tear out one's intestines in the blink of an eye. It was the blackest raven he'd ever seen, and he couldn't recall ever beholding one quite as big either for the time being. He froze for a moment squinting his eyes at it, as he tried to read bird's intentions for him before taking one brisk step to his right. The bird of prey screwed its head and followed him watchfully and almsot methodically with its abnormally large, and ghostly white eyes - hollow almost as if the bird had no soul in it.
Suddenly it exclaimed a loud croak, accelerated by the roaring thunder from over the hills, dilating its eyes even further and leaving its spot on the statue to severely lash out at him with its claws at the ready. The sudden turn of events sent him off-balance - like when a carpet under one's feet is vigorously tucked away - and onto his back. Not loitering though; he defensively raised both his arms, to protect himself from the menacing, bird of pray, but the raven flew straight over him instead and soared into the air. Blinking firmly from disbelief and with his brow elevated so high that the skin on his forehead folded several horizontal ripples, he followed the raven with his gaze for as long as he could before it vanished into the thickness.
He lingered with his augmented eyes glued on the spot where the ominous raven disappeared for a moment and then got back up on his feet, dusting off his filthy unclothed body, but it didn't do him much good, as his brushing hands only smeared out the sticky patches of mud than rather dispersing them from his frame. After sending another quick glance over his shoulder, he shook his head and clicked his tounge anticipatorily but felt hardly any corresponding saliva - his mouth was completely dry - and his palate felt like sandpaper. He realised he hadn't had a drink for over a day and that he was infact in dire need of water. But his ordeal still throbbed in his conscience, and his military discipline - being a toughened soldier and a Sergenat Major of the Alliance - didn't make the throbbing any less relevant, thus stopping to look for something to drink to remoisturize his sore throat seemed out of the question, even though finding a feasible puddle after so much rain would be easy. But, for all he knew the Basilisk could've already left the cave. He didn't want that - yet.
After a while, he yielded anyway to his aquatic desire and he was in luck; right next to him there was a small sink in the ground with a deep puddle in it, and with a vine neatly encompassing it almost like a tiny fence. He smiled, and dropped on his knees, to thirstily drink from the fresh rainwater, but he was interrupted by the sound something moving in the distance. Gasping he spun around and flickered his gaze between the silent yet spookily attentative statues, inflating his chest and flexing his muscles, bewildered. Nothing. Nothing at all.

He waited on high alert for a long, drawn-out moment, still scanning his obscured surroundings exceedingly for any sudden movements in the unpredictable fog. Then taking to reassuring himself that it must've been his own imagination, as no other sounds or noises - no rattles, creaks, thuds or crunches - were emitted to follow up on what he had heard; he turned back to the pool, and lowered his bearded snout to have the refreshing drink he had been yearning for. But there was something else there; the reflection of a crimson muzzle, obscured by the ripples on the pool's surface. He could feel waffs of its hot, soggy breath lick his shoulders, and the foul odor of decaying flesh tickled his nostrils as he slowly looked up towards the figure with wide eyes - deep down he already knew what it was, but his consciousness just wanted to deny it. He froze into a cone of ice when he saw its guise
- but he avoided its gaze for it would be his undoing - and hungry maw, filled with hot, foamy saliva skittering down its hooked fangs and molding after the shape of its gum; forming puddles of oral water in the deepest clutches of the beast's mouth, and seeping over its lips to cascade down into the rainwater. The deadly beast soon snarled softly, and threateningly; a snarl so deep and rumbling that he could hear the clicking sounds the beast's glottis played. He wanted to move away as the beast had caught him off-guard in a bad spot - his survival instincts stressing him to run and discard his trial - but he didn't - couldn't to be frank - and the beast crept closer, slowly unclosing its horrendous jaws to finish the job. He had no idea what to do in his perilous state, but then - as if the light had blessed him with a timely stroke of luck - he spotted a slender, dismembered chunk of stone with a fine, sharp end, on the ground next to him - a shiv. Grasping for it, he threw himself aside, which agitated the ferocious, gigantic reptile and made it lung towards him with its clamping, hellish jaws at the ready, however; just as the beast attempted mount him, he rolled over with his heart racing madly, pumping adrenaline into his muscles, and raised his flexed arm - his veins prodding against his skin - sending his clenched fist, holding the shiv in a firm grip, towards the Basilisk's eye. The monstrous lizard growled sharply and vigorously withdrew itself from him, jarring its head and thrashing relentlessly at the shiv stuck in its right eye with its feet. Not letting any of his gained momentum go to waste, he quickly darted up on his feet and spurred himself into the first most convenient direction, hoping to elude the man-eater for at least long enough to concoct a feasible plan.

As he sprinted urgently through the mist - statue after statue swooshing by him, until it was just him and the void - still hearing the pained, reverberating deplores coming from his opponent far behind him; he felt both deliciously thrilled and terrified beyond imagining at the same time; something about the sudden turn of events, and the magnitude of the situation exhilarated him; making him feel alive and uplifted in a way he had never felt before. He felt primal - man versus beast - with no modernities such as powerful swords or guns but just his bare hands and primitive tools like sharp stones, clubs or sticks, to defend himself with. But without that feasible plan he needed, he knew his chances of winning were slim.
Just a few seconds later another thunderbolt roared in the distance - a lot closer than before - and he swallowed hard as he found himself face to face with an upward escarpment, so steep that it seemed more like a wall. He grabbed onto a melange of tall grass and miscellaneous variegated plants he couldn't identify. Not that he really cared; if he could only get himself out of the basin, thus escaping the outlandish fog; it would be a great advantage for him. But his dreams were all shattered as the plants would only be torn out of the mud, tailed by their tangly roots, whenever he yanked them. Cursing, he wiped his hands and casually licked his sore lips while studying the rise. A smile came over his lips and he started sprinting uphill, hoping to reach one of the sturdier treeroots further up, but that too proved itself to be a futile, wasted effort, because the overflowing mud - lax like quicksand - was like an oil slick under his feet and just sent him sliding back down. Suddenly he froze and stood as if petrified for a moment when the loudest, savage, most intimidating roar - like an ear-cutting shrill combined with a weiling shriek backed up by a contrasting rumble as prominent as a running siege engine - he had heard since the Storm-peaks avalanche, caused by a small dagger being dropped at the wrong time, came raging down towards him and his squad. Soon following; thuds and clouts of heavy objects being knocked over, or smashed into pieces echoed throughout the basin. It was the Basilisk and it had probably managed to somehow coax the gift he left with it out of its eye, and was now lunging towards him at an awe inspiring velocity to return the favour - and probably eat him too.
With his impending, gruesome demise, steadily approaching, and his inability to escape from the rampaging reptile - outrunning it would be impossible on even ground - Loréan was stirred into a flurry, feverously searching for a way to ascend the slope, despite his current failures. But then - another stroke of luck - in the distance, to his left, half-engulfed by the fog, there was a cluster of tangly, strong-looking vines, skittering down from a source unknown past the top of the slope. He hurried over, latched onto them and initiated his climb without even testing their adherence first, and before he had even scaled, three meters of his climb; his tempestuous advesary threw itself out of the fog leaving, swirls of vapor in its wake, and plunged towards him, growling hysterically with its appalling jaws parted to their limit, craving to tear his embodiment asunder in the most devastating way thinkable. Not wanting such a fate, he hustled himself further up as fast as his arms and legs would let him - the lactic acids in his muscles that had been gradually building up during the length of the day ware reaching a dangerously high level - and narrowly escaped losing a foot to Basilisk's hungry bite, when it launched itself into the air - thrashing at the slippery soil with its claws - trying to reach him.
Nearing the top of, what he had earlier deemed a dead end, he made a final, valiant push and heaved his weight up over the rim of the dreadful hellhole, panting heavily. He knew the Stranglethorn jungle as both dangerous and unpredictable, but never before could have fathomed that it could be -this- vicious and deleterious, when one faced it and the wildlife it stocked on equal terms.
The Basilisk was still irritably mooching about at the foot of the slope, being faced with the same ordeal he had just completed; ascending the slippery, muck-ridden wall. Then he was faced with an important decision; would he wager his own life to complete his rite thus honoring his name and his Arathorian origin. Or would he escape now that he had bought himself some time? he knew he had to make haste, for it wouldn't be long until the impulse of using the same route up it would otherwise, to get out of the basin, reached the basilisk's brain. But the answer was already obivous, and he made it decisively without a shred doubt in his heart; he would make a stand for himself and engage in final life-and-death battle with his soul-bound enemy, and after a quick survey of his environment; he knew exactly how to defeat it. On his right there was a deep precipice that he believed to be a twenty-twentyfive meter drop, and with a deadly array of sharp projecting rocks at the bottom, thin enough to pierce through the beast's softer spots and impale it - should it fall into the killer abyss - and rigid enough not to break when exposed to the massive predator's final weight. And further down to his left, acting as a bridge connecting the two sides - most likely not in use by anyone - there was an old, rotten, since long fallen tree that looked sturdy enough to support his weight. And danging from one of its stump's neighbouring trees there was a thick vine, close enough to the center of the log for him to reach it. His plan was to lure his opponent out on the middle of the log - weighig about half a ton; their combined weight would indubitably bust and collapse the log and send the Basilisk to its demise, whilst he lingered in mid-air secured to the vine.
As he forecasted, the six-legged warrior had disappeared back into the eerie fog when he looked back down, and he didn't have to wait long before his ears picked up on its progress; breaking several twigs and branches, and shoving whole shrubberies aside, as it thundered closer and he soon spotted it coming towards him a bit further away over yonder.
Having regained a little bit of his energy, and tenacity, and with refreshed valiance and courage, he quickly rose to his feet, taking one moment to fill his lungs with air, inflating his chest, before nimbly setting off towards the log, with the flustered basilisk, determined to end him, in hot pursuit.
The Basilisk fell right into his trap, boldly tailing after him out on the pernicious, rotten log. The log creaked protestingly to make trespassers aware that it had been berated with a drudge greater than it could withstand, but the Basilisk - shrouded in a sanguinary rage - edged closer and closer to the middle "Come on! come and get me, you mongrel" he taunted to hasten the it, and secured himself to the wine. Finally - just as the dead log succumbed to ages of rotting and neglect and split itself in half - the beast made one last at attempt at taking him down, but it wasn't fast enough to get him and its vile claws swooshed by mere inches away from his right heel. "Victory...!" he thought, but the vine suddenly vibrated and tightened up, and when he looked down his face was drained from color - the Basilisk was still there, with its teeth stubbornly sunken into the rugged, jungle vine, snarling at him. He gritted his teeth - this wasn't part of his plan! - and tried to set the vine in motion, but with his fivehundred kilogram advesary clinging to it as well, stirring them into fluctuation seemed impossible, and to make matters even worse, the vine had started to tear two meters over his head. Knowing what he had to do, he cautiously started descending towards the Basilisk. If he couldn't dispose of it - soon - they would both fall to their deaths.
And so, sending out a warcry loud enough to render him mute for days to come, he started vigorously stomping and kicking at the Basilisk's muzzle, feeling its hot frowns and snorts against his dirty heel every time he raised it after connecting. The sharp scales and bone paddings on the beast's muzzle tore off the scabs from the badly healed gashes under his foot, making him bleed, but he didn't care; it had to go. Finally, the beast acted upon the wrong impulse and seperated its jaws to counter-attack. Checkmate. Grabbling, the thrashing Basilisk plunged into the abyss, dying at the bottom.
Panting he hissed softly and shuddered gleefully - he had indeed done it - and his grip on the the rugged, well-textured jungle wine almost wavered as he felt a lush, ecstatic sensation wash over him. To reach the edge of the nearest cliff he resolutely started to oscillate - extending, folding and re-extending his legs - heaving himself back and forth, until he generated a swing wide enough to succeed.
After he let go of the trusty vine, he sat down, for a well-earned rest. He would eventually have to descend into the abyss himself, and find a way to dismember a distinguishable part of his hardship to bring back with him, but he decided to save it for later - first he would eat its tail. Not all of it of course, as the tail alone was almost as tall as he was himself, but until he had his fill. He didn't know why, but...

Nothing could change his mind.

Amazing, Lor. Absolutely amazing. I was captivated. Superb story.