Topic: Fjara the Huntress of Owl-tribe. A Quest for Mother  (Read 1377 times)


paulkorotoon

« on: October 11, 2020, 10:46:39 PM »
I read some of the stories here and all of a sudden got inspired a bit. So now gonna give it a try and write a few stories of mine. Can't say for sure what will come of it, but anyway it's fun to share experiences (and a good opportunity to practice English, as I'm not a native speaker). Sorry for probable mistakes, and feel free to correct me or just comment.

And, of course, thank you Sami and Erkka and everyone who takes part in UnReal World development. This game really helps to cope with my depression. Can't even say how glad I am that I came upon it a couple years ago.
« Last Edit: October 11, 2020, 10:48:24 PM by paulkorotoon »
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paulkorotoon

« Reply #1 on: October 11, 2020, 11:12:01 PM »
FJARA OF OWL-TRIBE
Current game course: The UnReal World.
Completed game courses: Living in the Wild, Advanced Adventures.
Starting scenario: Not All Who Wander Are Lost.
Stats and skills: Attached.

paulkorotoon

« Reply #2 on: October 12, 2020, 03:21:45 AM »
DAY 889

The day fades away. The forest is quiet and calm. No wind, no bird chirping. Just crunching of dry grass under the hooves of the animals in their pens.

“I'm home”, Fiara thinks, looking round her small homestead. She has returned from another trip to Driik, where she has obtained a few of jewelry, valuable hides, some masterwork clothes and two pots with handy wrought-iron legs. However, she failed to find mail armor of masterwork quality. Njerpez slavers began more and more often to roam in twos or even threes. With hounds, sometimes. Now hunting them will be even harder and more dangerous.

Fjara is tired. She enters the kota, legs giving way under her, and falls to a pile of skins, then puts a noaidi's mushroom in her mouth. Occasionally it makes her sick... but the mind, once it has found its way back from the spirit world, clears and breaks the shackles of exhaustion. She closes her eyes and slowly slips into a haze of visions and dreams.

Somehow, the past emerges in mind this time. Fjara recalls what had happened two and a half years ago. The very day when her whole life had been irretrievably ruined.
***
She's heading home, leading the only reindeer doe Fjara managed to find after wolves attacked her homestead. Not for nothing is her name Tuuri — “lucky”. She is, indeed. The wolves killed or hurt the rest of the animals so bad that they had to be finished off so as not to prolong their suffering.

Not far from home, she suddenly smells a smoke. Heart goes down in a bad vibe, and Fjara slows her pace. It's quiet. Too quiet. Having walked a hundred more steps, she hears the crackle of fire and stops. She feels so scared as never before. A minute later, Fjara makes herself walk the last few meters to the homestead.

The homestead, which is no longer there. It's just burnt-out ruins. A few steps from her lies father, the ground beneath his head is dark, and Fjara knows at once, it is blood there. And there's too much of it to hope that father's still alive.

She wants to call to mother, but her voice fails her. Those who did this may still be close. Fjara ties the reindeer to a tree and sneaks around the clearing, listening and peering into the thicket.

No one's there. An no sign of mother. Next to the father's body, she notices a piece of red cape trampled into the ground and clenches her fists in silent ire. Njerpez. That means they took mother as a slave. That means she is alive. And there is a chance to find her.
***
When Fjara wakes up the next morning, a lynx skin beneath her cheek is wet with tears.
« Last Edit: October 25, 2020, 07:59:07 AM by paulkorotoon »
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paulkorotoon

« Reply #3 on: October 20, 2020, 02:42:23 AM »
DAY 982

Toil, toil, toil. For one to survive, one must continually work hard. During the last three months Fоara has done a lot: built separate pens for animals, felled trees enough to build a sauna, placed a hundred loop snares and made half a dozen trap fences in a small wood nearby. Six elks and two reindeers have been caught in the first ten days, yet there was no more prey since then.

Next time Fjara checks the fences, she makes offerings and whispers quietly. Be kind, oh spirits. Lead the animals into my traps. I shall give you hot blood and praise...

Winter month is almost over. Snow crunches underfoot satisfactorily. Six birds got caught in the snares today. She can make two dozens more arrows for exchange. Over the past year, Fiara has become noticeably more skilled in carpentry. Arrows in the Unreal World are great for trading. Even peaceful toilers, like Sartolaiset, willingly accept them: robbers occur even in their land, and an arrow makes them hesitate better than a word.

She' s got a fair food supply, yet keeping six dogs requires a lot of meat. Fjara loves her dogs. True friends, strong protectors, menacing fighters they are. Numerous njerpezit have been torn to pieces by them. Sometimes, when she feels sad, she tells them her sorrows and fears, and their understanding eyes bring her relief.

Another day is over, and Fjara goes to sleep. Cosily wrapped helself in furs, she whispers as always, “Greetings earth, and the dwellers underground. Allow me to lay here in good health.” Her eyes close, and the real gives way to the imageries of the past.
***
She managed to track down one of the murderers. For three days, she followed the tracks that eventually split up. There were three or four njerpez, they apparently marched rapidly to their lands, but one of them remained behind for some reason.

Fjara sneaks up to the njerp while he is pissing against a tree, and knocks him out hitting the back of his head with an axe handle. When the slaver regains consciousness, his hands and feet are tightly bound by his clothes.

She squats down beside him and pulls out a knife from a sheath. “Answer me, and I will spare your life,” she says. The njerp grins crookedly, catching her eye. His face is mottled with pockmarks and ritual scars, and in his eyes cruelty and cold mind can be seen distinctly.

“You have captured the woman. Brown hair, blue-eyed, a head taller than me.”

He answers, laughing quietly, “We'd enjoyed her, little huntress. Her screams have delighted our ear, and her flesh has satisfied our lust.”

Fjara feels her fear and anger overflow, and barely restrains herself from stabbing the defenseless neck.

“Is she alive? Where exactly are they taking her?”

“Her body fell to the lot of fish.”

“You lie!” She leaps up and turns away, clenching her fists until it hurts.

“No.” His voice is cold and calm. “No, and you do know that.”

Sobs swell inside her. Fjara kneels down and slits njerp's throat. When slaver's body lay motionless, she spits in his face and wails, “Curse thee! May the spirits never let you rest! May they make you suffer till the end of the world! May —” Words turn into tears, and she, barely rising and taking a few steps, falls prone.

Only late at night she regains strength enough to stand up, and plods away, completely lost amongst the crowding trees.
« Last Edit: February 21, 2021, 02:35:15 PM by paulkorotoon »
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paulkorotoon

« Reply #4 on: November 14, 2020, 12:59:13 PM »
DAY 1186

She had survived. Travelled all over Driik, working first for food, then for gear. She had come back to the Owl-tribe land. The pain of the loss did not go away, it only passed into the background. Her parents would have wanted her to go on.

And now Fjara stands, looking round the homestead built by her. She's achieved what her father and mother had dreamed of. This small estate is a tribute to the memory of them.
***
She finishes loading up the bulls and deers and sets out. It's time to go to Driik, to trade. The weather is hot and sunny, and walking is a pleasure.

Hearing a merry singing, Fiara stops and suddenly, surprisingly for herself, decides to turn off to meet the owner of such a charming voice. He turns out to be a stately woodsman, busy with carving a trunk. He is so involved in work that he doesn't hear Fоara approaching with her little caravan. For some time, she just stands there and listens.

“You sing good,” at last says the girl. “It seems, we've never met before.”

The man turns around, a big smile breaks over his face. “I am new here. Who are you, young maiden?”

“A young maiden, like you said. Fjara is my name.” She steps closer.

“Mine is Frodr.” He puts aside an axe and sits down on the trunk.

Fjara stares at his face, and suddenly she feels her throat tighten. Can it be?.. He has njerpez ritual scars on the face. The ones they mark slaves with.

“You... you had escaped from slavery, right?” The thrill makes her dizzy.

“Yes, that is true,” he answers in a grim voice. “Two years, four months and eighteen days I had been a captive of those scum.”

“And was there... was there a woman named Eeva? Brown hair, blue eyes, a head taller than me, thirty one winters old?”

Frodr looks into her eyes attentively and says the words that make Fjara's heart pause and then beat faster, “Your mother?.. Yes, I did know her.”

The girl feels tears begin to flow down her cheeks. Legs fail her, and she falls on her knees, and stares at the ground blankly. “For all these years... mother was alive! I could have saved her!”, a thought occurs to her. But than another, calm, as if not her own, inner voice retorts, “No, you could have not. You were not ready. But now you are. There's a time for all things, and Sky Father assigns a proper role to everyone.”
***
Frodr agreed to help her. It will be a great joy for him to take revenge on slavers. He told that there was just a dozen warriors in that small outpost where he had been captured. Fjara exchanges all her valuable belongins for weapons, and hires almost forty men in Owl-tribe settlements. There's even more people willing to fight njerpez then she expected.
***
They attack at night and kill almost all slavers in their sleep. No mercy, even on women and kids. They find three slaves... and one of them is Fjara's mother.

Eeva looks senile, yet seeing the daughter makes her look twenty winters younger. They stand in the middle of the outpost, hugging and crying, and whispering words of love to each other disconnectedly, with no attention to the warriors who, having paused gathering the loot, look at them. At this moment, the mother and the daughter forget the world exists.
***
The three of them come back home. Eeva looks around, turns to her daughter and asks, “Have you really built all this by yourself?”

“Yes, mom,” Fjara chuckles, “All as we had wanted back then.”

Frodr stands in a distance, looking at her. “I guess, twenty-nine months of slavery were worth a girl like her,” he thinks and smiles.

THE END


« Last Edit: February 11, 2021, 10:49:01 AM by paulkorotoon »
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