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Quoted By: >>5842359
Previous Threads: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=The%202nd%20Primarch%20Quest
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This is a test. A challenge issued by the remains of an elder hunter's bones, peeking through the forest's grass and loam. A trial given to the mistborn hunter from the behorned veteran of countless celestial chases and pursuits, issued by the last lingering testament and breath of the progenitor of all Aeldari kind. In front of you stands a shade of dead Kurnous, one rack of his majestic antlers snapped off from your last clash with the shadow spun from a dying great spirit's last hopes as he vanished and was snuffed out in the maw of the lilac scaled serpent of fleeting satisfactions and brief delights. A bruise mars his magnificent chest, muscles chiseled as if worked from stone, wrapped with tattoos inked with green pigment indicitive of his status as guardian and groom to nature and plenty itself, as embodied by the mother of the Aeldari, caged Isha.
In his callused hands, he holds two spears, one summoned from the woods spun from the dreams of the spirits of Ulthwe's infinity circuit, and one taken from your own memories and hands, as alike in craftmanship as they are in purpose. And presently both are flying your way, the last in a sequence of relentless thrusts and stabs, as the elder hunter or his memory at least shifts his stance and the grip with which he holds his twin spears, to change their range and the manner of which he stabs at your heart. One approach, he is holding two daggers, the next he is leaning forward extending both of his arms as far as they will go and forcing you to dance swiftly backwards, shifting one foot behind the other as he never allows any distance you make between him and yourself to remain. Relentless but not tireless. His impact to the ground and your dirty trick that allowed you to lift him from the ground and throw him over you back to begin with, have marginally slowed his reactions and hindered the assault that before even you, born blessed and strong even before you wrought your body and further improved it through proper diet and exercise, struggled to keep up with.
Too the crowd of watching seers, prying novices and dreaming dead, it might seem as if you were on the backfoot and at a disadvantage. But while the exertion of fighting the last breath of a great man had wetted your temple with sweat and made your lungs burn to keep your blood pumping and muscles contracting as swiftly as you required to keep pace with the shadow of distant past, you had already decided on your next move.
Every dodge, sidestep and lunge away from his spear, every time you blocked, brushed them away with the back of your hands or deflected and altered their trajectory with a trust of your palm, was purposeful. Every move you took was made to reposition yourself so you could reach down, dodging the latest heart seeking blow by crouching as you knelt down to scoop up a piece of discarded bone.
Cont
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This is a test. A challenge issued by the remains of an elder hunter's bones, peeking through the forest's grass and loam. A trial given to the mistborn hunter from the behorned veteran of countless celestial chases and pursuits, issued by the last lingering testament and breath of the progenitor of all Aeldari kind. In front of you stands a shade of dead Kurnous, one rack of his majestic antlers snapped off from your last clash with the shadow spun from a dying great spirit's last hopes as he vanished and was snuffed out in the maw of the lilac scaled serpent of fleeting satisfactions and brief delights. A bruise mars his magnificent chest, muscles chiseled as if worked from stone, wrapped with tattoos inked with green pigment indicitive of his status as guardian and groom to nature and plenty itself, as embodied by the mother of the Aeldari, caged Isha.
In his callused hands, he holds two spears, one summoned from the woods spun from the dreams of the spirits of Ulthwe's infinity circuit, and one taken from your own memories and hands, as alike in craftmanship as they are in purpose. And presently both are flying your way, the last in a sequence of relentless thrusts and stabs, as the elder hunter or his memory at least shifts his stance and the grip with which he holds his twin spears, to change their range and the manner of which he stabs at your heart. One approach, he is holding two daggers, the next he is leaning forward extending both of his arms as far as they will go and forcing you to dance swiftly backwards, shifting one foot behind the other as he never allows any distance you make between him and yourself to remain. Relentless but not tireless. His impact to the ground and your dirty trick that allowed you to lift him from the ground and throw him over you back to begin with, have marginally slowed his reactions and hindered the assault that before even you, born blessed and strong even before you wrought your body and further improved it through proper diet and exercise, struggled to keep up with.
Too the crowd of watching seers, prying novices and dreaming dead, it might seem as if you were on the backfoot and at a disadvantage. But while the exertion of fighting the last breath of a great man had wetted your temple with sweat and made your lungs burn to keep your blood pumping and muscles contracting as swiftly as you required to keep pace with the shadow of distant past, you had already decided on your next move.
Every dodge, sidestep and lunge away from his spear, every time you blocked, brushed them away with the back of your hands or deflected and altered their trajectory with a trust of your palm, was purposeful. Every move you took was made to reposition yourself so you could reach down, dodging the latest heart seeking blow by crouching as you knelt down to scoop up a piece of discarded bone.
Cont
