A Frozen Instant (Rally Creature)

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BalinMinister
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A Frozen Instant (Rally Creature)

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"20 pts for 2 sec on target","60","65","Guars battle winter, each other, and nords.","Dagon Fel","Nord, Dunmer"

A Frozen Instant
by Auster Phrille

It had been a bitter winter in Dagon Fel, one without equal existing in memory. The inhabitants who had survived characterized the storm as one of a kind, as almost a delightful monster. The greens had withered in the cruel clutch of ice, the frost hardened the ground inches deep, and warmth became a priceless commodity to be found only within the town limits. However, it seemed as if sleepy Dagon Fel was reborn; the seemingly doomed economy now boomed because of the tourists who came from all parts of the province to brave the cold and witness a spectacle never before seen by those of the southerly, temperate regions: ice. The revelry continued throughout the winter season inside the town, tavern-keeper rejoicing at the sight of customers, who themselves rejoiced at the sight of new refreshments. All those families who would endure the wilderness were treated to a spectacle of trees glistening in the winter sun and icicles hanging from the merry roofs of the townsfolk. However, what the people did not see was the carnage the storm wreaked upon the wilderness and the plight of the wild beasts.


So it was only fitting that the Surestep tribe, who had fought claw and tooth for many a season, should be the last remaining guar tribe on the island. That is, the last tribe except for the Smokeshade family, whose meteoric rise to the top of the social pyramid rivaled that of Surestep himself. For countless eras, the guars within Dagon Fel lived in serenity, enjoying the solitude of the island and the peace between fellow tribes. But the winter had turned even the best of friends into potential foes. Food was scarce and with each day one family was able to eat, another was left to starve. It seemed as if the guar population was to be decimated completely, as they scoured the land for food, and the last remaining tribe would be hard-pressed to find more. The two families had simply come to think that family was more valued than friends, and upon that notion, the guar race was eternally desecrated.

These thoughts flowed rapidly through the mind of Surestep and he sighed regretfully, wishing that the winter would simply end forever. He trudged forward with care for his aging body and noticed several indentations in the frost. He knew his fate immediately, Smokeshade had beaten him to the area, but instead of resigning, he trotted forward to claim any victuals that his counterpart may have missed. As he walked, he analyzed the odds he faced of surviving the agony of the winter and realized that his situation looked bleak; the younger, more agile Smokeshade was able to scrounge for food much faster and more efficiently than the wizened Surestep, yet lacked the mental capacity to think about his family as impetus to work. The older, more mature Surestep could not bear to see his children suffer, and that vision alone allowed him to aggressively pursue his goals at any price, even his own life. He walked along the trail left behind yet as he progressed, his ears perked. The sound of men grew distinct. But what would men be doing here in Dagon Fel? What could they possibly want in this miserable weather? His skin prickled in fear, but he knew not why; there were many adventurers that passed through this area en route to the famed ruins. Surely, it could be the odd man whom food had to be delivered to on a weekly basis. What was there to fear; perhaps it was just the cold. Nonetheless, it is always good to be prepared, so he hid amongst the low-lying trees undetected, but able to see what he desired. A Nord indeed approached, looking carefully at the ground as if he were looking for tracks. He was armed with a bow and several arrows. Smokeshade stood at the edge of the field busily foraging the fruits off low-lying trees, unbeknownst of the situation at hand.

Surestep knew what the man was here for, he had envisioned their coming for many a season. It was the winter that brought them here, the poachers, for their material comforts to keep warm from Skyrim’s tundra. Guar skins had become a commodity since the terrible winter had come, and many a family were looking for ways of conserving heat. Many dared not come into the wilderness of Dagon Fel in this weather, but those who braved the cold were more likely to find what they had come for. Unconscious of his own actions, Surestep barked aloud from within his alcove and alerted Smokeshade, whose ears perked and head swiveled to find the source of the noise. But alas, it was too late; the Nord had kneeled upon the frost, and had carefully taken aim at his target. Both predator and prey locked eyes, knowing that blood would be shed, determined that their cause would claim victory. Smokeshade began to run, shuffling from side to side so that the archer would not have a clear shot, but the marksman knew his trade well and calmly waited for the guar to approach.

Time stilled within the aging Surestep’s mind; here lied a decision where even the stoutest of minds could falter. The archer stood within feet of him, unknown to his presence. Smokeshade’s death by the hunter would give Surestep access to all the remaining food in the wilderness and would ensure that he would make it through the winter, and help rebuild his own family. However, he knew the Nords would be back, because one Guar meant a family of Guars, and it would not be long until he himself would be killed by the lowly poachers. He could relocate by then to another part of the island and perhaps the winters wouldn’t be so bad in the future. Maybe the humans would not come back. It pained him to think he would not help his fellow guar, but it would be a decision he would have to make very soon. Smokeshade came closer and the archer remained calm; there lay no obstacles between Surestep and his counterpart. It was at that moment he leapt for the bow; the human must not be able to leave the wilderness alive and tell his friends. After all it is always better to help a rival rather than an enemy. Indeed it is.

[Editor's note: This mid-era piece is by no means an authoritative account, but rather a fable of morality; Auster Phrille was neither historian nor naturalist, and lived his entire life in Wayrest, never laying eyes upon a guar]
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