Ailil tried very hard to calm his racing heart and control his breathing, reminding himself this was not his first raid. Yes, but … this isn’t a raid. This is something else, something… older. His thoughts came unbidden and uninvited.
He looked down the range, seeing his band members take up position in cover, well hidden from human eyes. He slowly brought his unruly heart under control and focused on his troupe’s movements. It would be a traditional opening sequence with Spiring. Good, he would never admit it but the familiar ritual brought him comfort. He focused on his Bond with Eludeira, feeling his muscles relax and stretch in response as he arched his back and felt the tension drain away. The deeply ingrained movements took control of his body the way his mind seldom could, much to his Kiannun’s disgust. His movements became smooth and confident, his lithe body moving with preternatural confidence and silence as he stalked his prey. His hands darted into the quiver, lifting an arrow and a small packet of seeds in a single swift motion… only to falter.
Times were changing and he had been called upon by his King to change with them. With a quick invocation he crushed the packet of seeds rather than affixing it to the arrowhead as he had countless times before, and stood to unleash his arrow.
He could feel his King’s regard upon him, the calm ruthless regard that nudged his aim into the softest and most painful targets. Caged by millennia of ritual and tradition, War, glorious and terrible, stalked the Faerann once more and it knew no mercy.
—
Rhuobhe stood, his pitiless gaze roaming the havoc being wrought upon the trenchworks and their defenders by the first arrows of the Kern. The touch of the Hunter was evident as they had been unleashed not as a volley but as a relentless and staggered stream. Each marksman seeking to maximise the impact of his shot, the cries of pain and dismay that rose from the incomplete fortifications a clear indication of their success.
Centuries of bloodshed and the loss of too many comrades and mounts to count holding back the relentless expansion of the humans had left Rhoubhe with little regard for the short lived creatures that writhed in pain upon the incomplete palisades. His mount shifted between his legs, sensing his growing bloodlust. With a practiced hand he held the Cat-feith’s mane tightly, its living vines instinctively coiling around his hand as he reasserted his authority over the recalcitrant beast.
He waited for this prey along with the rest of the Wyrd; their mounts, older and better trained, standing almost immoble amongst the foliage. His family had never understood his need to stand apart, to join this band of what they saw as killers. They did not understand the necessity of it, but at least the Kings and Queens had finally acknowledged it. Sil Taifan was all well and good to prevent young hotheaded youths from killing each other, or for dissuading invaders into their realm, but tf their dream were to be made manifest, the dreams of others and the petty lives that nourished them, could not be allowed to grow. A more… comprehensive response was needed.
His musings were interrupted by the thunder of hooves as his prey made their appearance, but farther from their hiding spot than was ideal. Grimacing at the waste he quickly crushed his offering, invoking the reigning King and Queen’s blessing. He felt the energy of their blessing course through him and into his mount, invigorating it and making its strides lengthen.
As he closed with the unsuspecting knights he invoked his heretical Wyrd heritage and siphoned a portion of the power, strengthening his blade arm moments before the impact reveling in the panicked stares of his chosen target. It was always fated to come to this.
—
Looking at the calm, composed countenance of his lord as he witnessed the brutal ambush, Deoradháin couldn’t help but wonder what strange winding paths had brought them here. Not just to this glade in particular, but to the wider political upheaval that his Lord’s uncharacteristic decision had sparked. The Huntsman disdained politics and intrigue, his eternal apathy a critical source of stability in the Faerann, allowing Spring to count with his support against the eternally bellicose High Courts of Summer and Winter. His sudden change of position and support of the radical measures espoused by ruthless Winter and relentless Summer blindsided everybody. It would be easy to dismiss it as a whim, the passing fancy of an eternal lord grown bored with his domain, but Deoradháin had not risen to his position of cup bearer by underestimating anybody, much less the King of Autumn.
There was something at play here. Something deep and important for his lord to have agreed to shed centuries of ritual and non intervention. Even if they didn’t take the field themselves, extending their blessings so openly was in brazen contradiction to millenia of convention. This was the domain of the High Courts and their blessings and bindings… The ritual divinity of his Lord had long been a source of irritation at its trappings and demands. Disdain for its supporters is a cornerstone of his behaviour. What could have caused this change?
Understanding it would bring him one step closer to his Lord and His mission. There had to be a reason to see his Lord embrace his slumbering divinity and support the subversion of the Sil Taifan… he would just have to keep his eyes and ears open and hope for divine inspiration. He knew his Lord’s mind worked in ways too labyrinthine and complex for him to match.
—
Oh, she is going to hate this… Excellent. A cruel smile graced his ageless visage as he witnessed the slaughter unfold.