Hail Storm dropped his arm, silently cursing his own stupidity. He drew a breath to repair the damage, to explain—
“Hail Storm,” one of the theas approached. “The young have their duties.”
Meaning that he’d had them long enough, he supposed. He gritted his teeth, but graciously nodded his head in agreement. “This time again tomorrow,” he said.
“If the Elder wills,” the thea responded, and gestured for the young to rise. They ran off, each to their own theas.
The thea gave Hail Storm a slight bow, and followed after.
Hail Storm watched them depart and seethed. Yet he did not show his hate, his fury at their insolence. He sat, waiting until they were all gone before he rose to his feet.
Or attempted to rise. The stump put him off balance. What was once a fluid motion, filled with grace was now an effort. He grunted, staggered up—
His hand itched. Hismissinghand itched. Fiercely, painfully, if he closed his eyes he could see where the twinge was, reach to scratch—
But the hand was not there, and the pain was merciless.
He clutched at the stump, but that brought no relief, so he fumbled in his pouch, for a small handful of dried mushrooms that he crammed in his mouth.
He stood there for long, terrible moments, sucking on the fibers, until at last the pain receded, little by little.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing in the grasses, all alone. No one had witnessed.
The pain was gone. All that remained was the familiar floating sensation.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
It was taking more and more of the mushrooms to deal with the pain, and he’d few left. He hadn’t thought when he’d fled the Heart to gather any supplies. But then he’d never thought to have his tattoos stripped from his body, never thought he’d lose his powers, never thought that a simple wound to his arm could bring such festering.
The Storyteller spoke, his green eyes glowing with light. “... but may all the Gods, and all the elements grant that you get exactly what you deserve.”
Hail Storm’s lip curled. Damn that city-dweller. He’d destroyed the warrior-priests, destroyed any hope of restoring the Plains, destroyed any hope that Hail Storm would be supreme in the power the elements granted.
But there were other powers.
Hail Storm straightened, and started the long walk back to Antas’s camp.
The grass caught at his trous legs as he walked. He’d naught else but a cloak and sword, for by tradition, a warrior-priest wore nothing but their tattoos. The sight of his own skin, mottled and pale, shorn of their colorful magical protection was disturbing. Yet, to wear a tunic would be an admission of… failure.
Hail Storm stopped for a moment, sucking on the mushrooms. This rage he held was not letting him focus, and he needed to plan. To think.
There was power in the Plains that he could reach, for death was a constant. Even the place where the gurtles were slaughtered for meat was a source, even if it was a weak one. There were other places where warriors had died that were stronger.
Stronger still was to drain the life of a warrior as they died at his hand.
He paused again, as the memory came of Arched Color’s death at his hands. Her naked body, her eyes glazing… he shuddered, and had to stop again as he hardened in his trous.
He stood, not moving, letting the passion fade.
He doubted that he could kill again like that, at least not in Antas’s camp. As an Elder warrior, Antas should have more respect for him, more deference. But no, Antas had cured him, hadn’t he? Hacked off the injured limb and left him to survive or not as the elements willed.
Hail Storm grit his teeth. What would it be like to drain a warrior of Antas’s strength?
He shook his head, and forced his feet to move. Such thoughts were unrealistic and dangerous. He needed the protection of Antas’s camp for now. Needed to strengthen and heal.
And then there were his... experiments.
Hail Storm watched as the warrior lifted his severed arm, and tossed it into the fire.
