From gunnarr@nospam.itasca.net Wed May 20 10:04:43 1998 Date: Tue, 19 May 1998 00:31:54 -0500 (CDT) From: "Chad C. Walstrom" To: Sholan Authors List -- Gregory Brashier , Ryan Harrison , Teylana Sylverspear Subject: [Sholan] Lynael's Gambit [Lynael] "But..." Lynael's face winced in frustrated defiance. Jareel had no right! He was no where near Lynael's skill level with Song of the Bow nor could he truely hear or feel the Life of the Wood. He had no business requesting for the Walk, especially when Lynael's father, the Clan Chief, had denied Lynael that very request. His father gazed at him where he knelt in the Circle. That gaze commanded discipline and patients. Lynael swallowed all that he wished to say, to yell at his father, but Asree was Chief and not someone to be openly disrespectful too. Lynael forced his face to smooth into an expressionless mask, his eyes focused straight forward into the fire. It burned, as did his anger, and he took what comfort he could from it. "Jareel will begin the Walk at set of the sun this night." Lynael ground his teeth. "He is of the Age, and he has requested before the Circle in honor and confidence that he is ready. We agree. It shall be so." Jareel was of the Age, and Lynael was not. He knew in his heart that he was ready, but he knew equally well that if he were to request for the Walk before the Circle, both he and his father would be disgraced. "'Tradition is what holds us together, son. It is what keeps us in touch with the Life of the Wood and the Song of the Bow.'" Tradition is what kept him from becoming a man, it is what kept him from courting Seralia. Tradition is what was handing Seralia to Jareel. Lynael stood up beside Jareel. Gasps echoed in the camp, but the softest, perhaps the loudest, was Seralia's. A soft murmuring cascaded throughout the Clan, and the members of the Circle talked amongst themselves, whispering in eachother's ears. "By the wisdom of the Circle of the Clan, I request to begin my Walk." Lynael was a mirror of the older elf's posture, though several inches shorter in height. The stark contrast of the two young men was augmented by the flickering of the firelight. Lynael was shorter but more muscular than Jareel. But where Lynael was strong in body, Jareel was stronger in presense, commanding an aura of self-confidence and wisdom. Asree's face was stone. "No. You are not of the Age." Lynael had stepped over the line, but he was confident his father couldn't refuse him so easily in front of the Circle. "I am but a month away from the Age, Chief." A weak argument, really. Lynael knew as well as any that the Age did not solely depend upon the count of the seasons. The Age was a measure of when the Circle felt a boy was ready to become a man. He felt the measuring eyes of the Circle now, but he forced himself to stare straight ahead. He didn't need to look to know the expressions on their faces. Old man Kilar would have his finger over his mouth and his other fist under his elbow. Widow Amrila, his Archery Master, would be glaring at him with her liquid brown eyes. Tsani the Healer would have a frustrated look of understanding, and a dozen others, the leaders of his Clan, would be staring in their own fashion. It was the eyes of his fathers that he could not avoid. They bore into his Soul and drew his eyes to the Chief. He had his father's eyes, they said, blue deep as the mountain lake. Never had he felt those eyes stare at him with such cold, penetrating anger. Lynael shivered as if he had been shoved into the deepest pool of the glacial river that ran down the mountain side. His fate was sealed. He would be beaten and dressed as a child while Jareel began his Walk. "Very well." Lynael's heart skipped a beat and blinked his eyes in disbelief. Murmurs bubbled among the crowd again, a hundred voices echoing the same astonishment. A small grin crept its way to Lynael's lips, but was quickly quelled by his father's cold stare. "You too, Lynael, shall begin your Walk as the sun sets over the mountains. Our hearts and our dreams walk with you and bid you safe journey." Asree's gaze never left his son's eyes, but Lynael's heart skipped a beat and a lump raised in his throat. Was that pride he saw in his father's eyes? It couldn't have been. He had all but forgotten that look since the Orc Raids. "Prepare youselves, then, for your journey. In the Traditional ways shall you Walk forward into the Breast of the Wood and the Back of the World, and so shall you return to us as men!" Lynael stared in disbelief at his father. He was letting him go? A mischeviously proud smile worked its way into his father's face as he extended his hand to his son. Lynael accepted it in a ferocious bear hug in attempt to hid the tears in his eyes. * * * He did get to see Seralia that night, but only briefly. As tradition had it, the preparation for the Walk involved many small rituals and ceremonies among the members of the Clan, his mentors and friends. His only reprieve from the endless attention was when he asked privacy for his on personal needs. True to his reputation, he sneaked off when people least expected it to find his object of affection. He brushed his lips with his fingers, remembering the taste of her lips. He *would* make it back from the Walk to marry her, if even on his last breath. He looked down at the bone handled knife in his hands. It was the only item he was allowed to take from his Clan. His father had taken it on his Walk, and his father before him. He would return to raise a son of his own one day and hand it on to continue the Tradition. The Walk was a journey, a search for that which the spirit and mind will know when the time is right. He knew he hadn't found it yet, but he had come a long way. It had been a few months since he had begun his Walk, but he had done well for himself. On his back hung a bow and quiver full of arrows, and he was clothed now, in leather and fur. At his side hung a water skin and a rabbit he was soon to cook. He sat on his heels on a sturdy hickory branch, watching the world live and die. A strange scent wafted to his nose. A cat, but not a cat, not any he remembered. Lynael's skin changed into alternating patches of light and dark color, blending perfectly with the foliage. His senses heightened to catch the sounds of mice playing in the moist foliage of the forest floor, to see the heat shapes of warm bodied animals scurring about. The nape of his neck stood on end as he watched the felinoid step into the clearing below. The Woods fell silent. Slowly, Lynael drew his bow from his shoulder and knocked an arrow in one fluid motion. He studied the creature from the point of his arrow. It walked with a grace he saw only in the mountain lion of his homelands. The wind abruptly shifted direction and swirled to the forest floor. Cursing, Lynael flipped from the treebranch and landed softly before the felinoid creature, bow fully drawn. "Mean you harm or malice, your heart shall be readily pierced." Lynael recited the greeting his Clan gave outsiders who were obviously not orcs, trolls or kobolds. "Mean you peace, bear down your weapons and step away from them slowly." Chewie / Gunnarr +====================================+ | Chad Walstrom | | http://www.itasca.net/~gunnarr | +====================================+