Stories from RhyDin & The Rings

Desert. Runt would only call it the Jofullinnsta - Devils Place. Sweat ran down his body like a never-ending stream as he reached up to grab the small ledge in the cliff-face. “GGRRRAAAARRGGHH” he bellowed as he hoisted himself onto the reddish-brown surface. He reached for the waterskin made of fireboar leather, taking large gulps to satiate the never-ending thirst. Up in the sky, a red sun pulsed like the heartbeat of Cadentia itself. Below him was a panorama of rough sand, short plateaus, and thin valleys - without a speck of green in view. A shadow passed over briefly, causing Runt to look up with a wide grin. “ROD DREKI.” The cave in the cliff-side was only fifty meters above, the lip of it jutting out as the perfect perch for a flying beast. The large sack was thrown over his shoulder and tied in place - contents banging about against his back. Runt marked out his path before launching himself up, driving his large hands into the cliff-face.

When he got close to the perch he pulled himself up slowly, peering into the deep cavern. He heard the soft beat of wings inside, the ripping noise of flesh being torn off an animal. A young wyrmling coming back from a hunt. Runt threw the satchel onto the ledge first. Bare feet touched the hot rock, deep laboured breaths betraying how difficult the climb was. Runt surveyed his surroundings for any large boulders he could use, but found that the ledge was clear of any such weapons. The crude mace was taken off his back and put firmly into both hands.

Two yellow eyes peered at him from inside, claws scraping at the ground as it shifted backward. Both isejotun and dreki breathed heavily, growls from the former and snarls from the later.

Like a bottle shattering on a flagstone floor the tension broke. Runt charged forward “GRRRRAAAHHH” at the same time the red wyvern shot up towards the roof. Runt planted his feet, opened up his hips and twisted with all his might throwing the mace forward in a one synchronous motion. The wyvern dropped to the ground with the sound of heavy wings smacking the rubble beneath. A cry of agony ripped from the creatures throat. Runt ran forward, tore out the weapon and stabbed it straight down into the sky beasts gullet.

What followed was the well practiced motion of skinning the beast, stripping every useable red scale and adding it to the large sack he carried. Claws were removed and placed in a smaller pouch along his belt. Teeth were extracted and strung onto the necklace which dangled around his neck. A notch was added to the haft of his mace. When the proceedings were finished he drank the blood of the red wyvern, both rejoicing in the sweet moisture and cringing at the way it burned in his stomach. Further into the cavern, he heard the dripping of water. It was a maat omen; a gift from Hiatea for the successful hunt. One more great red wyvern and his sack would be full.

Runt languished underneath the largest tree near the oasis. The desert was burning hot and the sky spirits in his blood were quiet. He hated it. It was different when he was on a great hunt, but the hun-jarl made it clear that he was not to hunt the sky beasts. Even though they were the sworn enemy of the jotuni. The rules of the van were … confusing. They were unpredictable and used too much of the devil's arts or madge-ick. Back in Rhy’din they were even having a feast with the trixie fae.

“GRRRR… MAUG! IS ALL MAUG!”

The giant pondered his oath to Maal-ree, to protect her. And his oath to Matt Sih-mon. But Matt Sih-mon was different, and unpredictable, and did not want him to hunt. And Maal-ree was with honor but she used… devils arts. But his venn, Jonn, - he has always fought with great honor. He never betrayed Runt. He was honest. He was a survivor. He never used devils arts. They were brothers in battle.

Runt closed his eyes and thought about his home in the great icy fjells. Where his true clan still lived. The hunt of the fireboar, the rock throwing competitions, the easy way of sorting out the ordning. There was no ordning here. It was hard to see where he fit. T-sha was right. Van did not make sense. He needed to become a better warrior, so great that he could return home and challenge the jarl for a place back in the ordning of his clan.

The thrumm of his heart beat like the great war-drums from the raids down the mountain. Could any of these tiny, short-lived van really help him home?