galen (elerron) wrote in thedas, @ 2010-08-31 18:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! plot, ! thread, & 9:45 (5) molioris, @ galen elerron, @ thren canondais, @ valan arandil, @ viara tremaine |
solitude of survival
Who: Galen Elerron, Valan Arandil; eventually, Viara Tremaine, Thren Canondais & NPC elves
Where: The Brecilian Forest
When: Late afternoon. 23 Molioris, 9:45 Dragon
Summary: In the aftermath of a brutal darkspawn attack, Galen is rescued by an elf of another Dalish clan, and the pair encounter unlikely allies.
Rating: M for violence.
Status: Complete.
It was the piercing shriek that woke him. His dark eyes shot open in reaction to the cacophony of wails and screeches. Sound struck his ears first, but the rest of his senses came flooding back as the terror sank into his bones. Galen found himself face down in a damp patch of earth, just dry enough to not be mud, though something else clung to his skin and dripped down his scalp and over the opposite cheek. It was warm, in contrast to the chill of the dirt, and smelled of iron and salt. This was blood, his blood, slowly drawing a crimson line across his face as it seeped out of an open wound. Numbly, he realized he should have wiped it away before it reached his eyes, but found the very thought of moving any muscle to be exhausting. His hands were no cleaner, anyway; he observed that the backs were caked with a darker, thicker substance that possessed a far more foul odor (something like rotting meat, a sundried carcass that hadn't been taken by the scavengers, yet), and was also spattered all over his leathers. The scent made him want to retch, and the urge to do so forced him to push himself up into a seated position, though nothing came out but painful dry heaves. Galen tried to choke back the bile that was quickly rising, bitterness just hitting the back of his tongue before he could swallow it back completely. Simply trying to collect his breath caused a searing pain in his right side; vaguely, he remembered being struck in the ribs by a heavy fist, likely cracking one in the process. On the same side of the body, his hand was several deep shades of purple and red, blossoming with bruises and burning with scrapes. It looked worse than it felt, as he could still manage to wiggle his fingers enough to know it wasn't completely out. None of that slick black substance had entered any of the open patches of skin, either. It took him another moment to realize that he could no longer hear anything in the surrounding area. No screams, no battle cries. Nothing. Just a suffocating silence. Even the trees high above him were still, as if even the winds had been driven out by the invasion. The elf would have thought himself deaf, in addition to all the other numerous injuries he'd sustained, were it not for the fact that he could hear his own breathing and the shift of his body over the bed of leaves as he tried to stand. That was an attempt doomed to failure: a sharp, searing pain ran up his shin as he moved, so intense and surprising that he nearly clamped his teeth down on his tongue while stifling a cry of agony. Even if it seemed like he was alone, Galen couldn't afford to yell -- not yet, when he didn't know where those creatures could be lurking. If they thought him dead already, he didn't need to correct them. Fortunately, bone had not pierced through his flesh. The pain was likely a fracture that would need to be set into a splint, but he had no salves or poultices to let sink into his skin or any spells to heal it. He didn't even have his weapons on him. To his immense dismay, his dagger was absent from its holster on his belt. Galen glanced around to see if his blade was still in its mark, or if that horrid beast had stolen it by walking away with the knife sticking out of its broad neck. There was a body close enough for him to crawl to, though he couldn't tell who -- or what -- it was merely from its prone backside. Arrows stuck out of its side like a jagged row of teeth. Achingly slow, Galen pulled himself forward, palms raked by fallen sticks and pebbles embedded in the ground. Drawing closer to the corpse (and he was almost certain it was dead now), he could see a glossy black pool, like spilled oil or liquid onyx, forming around the creature. It was the same residue that clung to his skin. Again, he felt his stomach roil at the putrid stench. Galen came to a stop as near as he could get to the body without touching that inky blood, anchoring himself on the less injured hand while he used the battered one to roll the monster over. Sure enough, the hilt of his dagger was standing straight up out of its throat. He removed the blade carefully, pausing to wipe it in the bed of short grass before restoring it to the sheath. Galen was not, by nature, a fighter -- the extent of his melee combat was scrapping with alienage thugs, and he had learned only to hunt animals in his time with the Dalish. Never before had he killed anything aside from a four-legged dinner. However, by all appearances, he had won this battle. This man-sized being, what he believed to be a hurlock, was not the only one slain. From here, Galen could see two more corpses, one short and almost dwarven in build, but its hairless skin was far too leathery and dark to be anything other than a genlock. By the fletching on their ends, he could tell that at least half of the arrows embedded into these darkspawn were his. And yet, this victory seemed hollow with no one around to relish it with him. It should have been enough to still be alive. At one point, it would have been sufficient just to get through another day, but the solitude of survival filled him with dread. Where were the rest of the hunters? How far had he strayed from camp? When had he fallen unconscious? Was there anyone else left? His concerns for the rest of the clan weren't selfless; he had no food, no water, no bandages, and only one weapon. Even if there were no more darkspawn out there to strike him down, he still wouldn't last very long on his own and probably couldn't get very far, especially given that one of his legs was practically useless. He needed assistance, but he feared more than anything that none would come. Was it really better fate to die here slowly, than swiftly at the end of a jagged darkspawn blade? The thought was depressing, and fatiguing. He could barely think straight anymore, let alone make any decision on what his next move would be. If he could just rest... Galen resumed crawling, to distance himself from the rotting carcasses, until he could lean his back against the trunk of a nearby tree. He took the dagger at his hip back into his hand and shut his eyes, praying that he would open them again and Falon'Din would not take him yet. |