The Gates of Led'Yorbis
Two stalking figures battered by a blizzard follow a trail of fresh blood. Its radiating heat melts the snow, so alike to the hidden hot-springs littered within their brutal tundra.
The one hunted staggers away; its desperation growing greater, its wounds bleeding profusely. A bright red rune is branded deep into the meat of its shoulder, acting like a beacon in the blinding storm. The rune’s glow mimics the veined rivers of magma running across the land; usually a symbol of warmth, energy and life, but for this hunted, foretelling its demise.
All three share this unforgiving world of Led’Yorbis, all three are accustomed to its ways. All three are not bothered by its eternal blizzard.
“Father, I have the beast in mi’ sights,” says the youngling, a cloud of his breath swirling past the nubs of his growing tusks.
“Good work, but be patient. The yeti are wise and cunning, and even know the runes we use. Observe, son. See how the glow changes in hue.” The elder watches the younger, who bears a near-mirror of his own human face, hardened by the tusks and green skin of the boy’s mother.
“The rune’s turning green, father. The beast is healing!” The distant emerald glow is reflected in his brown eyes.
“Hush now, the wind carries the voice far. Honor the hunt, son. Yes, the yeti is a beast, but you must not forget it thinks and chooses like you and me. If you lack focus, you’ll be the one hunted and eaten instead.” His father echoes generations of wisdom passed and gathered by their people.
“Yes, father. What must I do next?” The son is humble to accept the lesson, taking it to hunt and heart.
“You strike, and strike true! Wait for the favored pathway! The Old One and ancestors will reveal it!” The father throws this lesson to the air alongside his spear, for he had seen that of which he spoke. His weapon draws the path to grow from boy to man; tracing the invisible line that his son would eventually learn to find himself. Such is their village’s tradition.
The boy immediately gives chase, hearing his father’s words and searing them into his heart, branding them into his soul. His father has laid the foundation for victory, but it is his duty to claim it. The snow hides him, he knows he is favored.
The boy unsheathes his freshly sharpened sword and steels himself for he is near his prey. He witnesses an eruption of crimson that showers the pure white snow, a true spectacle in the tundra. He looks down upon the new furrow filled with a deep swath of blood and sees the pathway.
The boy slips past the haft of his father’s spear dug deep into the back of the yeti, tracing his sword across its length and thrusting deep into the opened wound. His own heart is steadfast as he stills the creature’s within its chest.
Over the yeti’s fading groan and collapsing body, a man now stands victorious.
