Interlude: Audience

I awaken in a rush, drawing in a single, sharp breath before leaping to my feet.  My surroundings are foreign—a warm, dry breeze drifts gently over the savannah when moments ago I had been lying on the cold ground outside the cave entrance.  My companions—Aros and Vargmenni, at least, surely fit that word—are nowhere to be found.  Nor is Frode or his warriors.  Instead, I am alone.  Cautious, I drop to a knee, letting the tall grasses conceal my presence.

The cry startles me, a kite or raptor plummeting from above to take a smaller bird as prey.  Nearby, the ribbed horns of an antelope or similar bovid are seen bouncing above the grasses as a small herd takes flight, likely having caught my scent on the wind.  In the distance lies a small grove of trees, the only landmark visible on any horizon. 

Despite the presence of recognizable fauna, however, there is a sense of “other” that I cannot shake.  This is no mortal realm—it bears the scents, the tastes, all the sensations of a godly realm.  A realm of hunters, though completely unlike the barren, dangerous wastes of Malar’s hunting ground.  Suddenly at ease, I stand and take in the primal glory of Nobanion’s domain.

Though distant, I can see a figure standing within grove and I begin to stalk carefully through the plain to meet my patron.  The Lion King does not disappoint.  Limned by the bright savannah sun behind him, he is a powerful, majestic figure.  A sense of danger radiates from his being; having been hunted before, I recognize it for what it is and try my best to avoid wavering, instead meeting his fiery gaze proudly as I stand before him.

“I have watched you,” he says, his voice a deep, rolling growl.  “And I see now branching paths laid before you.  Which will you choose, I wonder.”

“I will not desert my friends.”  Even I am somewhat surprised at how easily that word flowed from my mouth, having clearly meant Aros and Vargmenni.  Aros, with whom I am completely unable to communicate meaningfully—I owe him my life.  He could have taken me easily, though instead he saw me to sanctuary and spoke on my behalf, even if I could not understand his words.  And Vargmenni, about whom I know frustratingly little—an enigma, no less foreign to this place and time than I, a keeper of secrets.  But she has stood by me, trusted me, and has earned my loyalty.

Though I speak not these thoughts, it is clear that Nobanion knows them, as if he sees through me to the very core of my soul.  I cannot tell if his rumbling growl is one of approval or one of disappointment.  Nonetheless, I hold my ground and don’t bother to explain—I have become accustomed to defying deities.

There is a disapproving glimmer in his eye at that thought, though it only lasts for a moment.  “We shall see,” he grumbles in response.  “And what of the shaman?”

I cannot hold back the bloodlust that rises at mention of Frode.  I taste bitter iron on my palate and I can’t help but visualize ripping out Frode’s throat.  The deity’s disapproving look returns.  I return his glare defiantly.  “Malar’s path…and his methods…are behind me.  Until I learn more, I will wait and I will observe.”  A rare glimmer of approval in Lord Firemane’s eyes is my reward, though it is fleeting.

“But when the time comes for violence,” I threaten while pulling out my rusty blade, “I will carve out Frode’s soul and send it to you shrieking.”

Blinding, searing flame is Nobanion’s censure for my foolish, insolent words and I feel my essence hurled back into the mortal realm.