Post by Brandwyn on Mar 14, 2011 12:32:19 GMT -5
*Rick Greenriver – Read Only
(OOC: In the year 637 on the Solitary Plains. Rick Greenriver has just turned 12 years old and is learning the ways of the Shaman by his Grandfather, Orick Greenriver, so that he may one day be Shaman of his tribe.)
Richard Greenriver leaned back against the rock and watched the sparks from the fire settle after just having tossed another small log onto it. His grandfather was preparing the long stemmed ‘vision pipe’ and Rick watched him intently as he explained which herbs and in what exact quantities to load into the pipe well.
“Now this one is the most important ingredient and the deadliest.” His grandfather, Orick, held out a tiny bundle of red fabric. “I keep it in the red fabric because it is one of the most dangerous herbs you will ever handle, best to use gloves when measuring it out.”
Rick nodded, leaning forward again so he could see what is grandfather was doing in the dim light. “What is it, mandrake root?”
His grandfather shook his head, his long white hair flowed around him and down his back like the silky mane of one of their prize steppe horses. Only the Shaman’s were allowed to grow their hair down to their waist or longer. Rick was already working on his own black mane, though it only reached to just below his shoulder blades now.
“No, but a good guess,” his grandfather countered. “Take a look at it. Notice the smell, but be careful not to inhale any of the dried leaves.” He held it out and Rick gingerly took a sniff, noting a dark almost musty smell mingled with that of tomato plants. He recognized it then, though he had never been allowed to harvest the stuff before. “Deadly nightshade,” he said confidently.
Orick grinned at him, his missing eyetooth a gaping black hole in the corner of his mouth. “Correct!” He carefully measured out two pinches and placed them in the large pipe bowl. “Put no more than two scant pinches in the pipe or you could kill someone.” He looked intently at Rick, ensuring that the boy understood him and how important it was to get this recipe right. “Each herb feeds off the other and must be measured precisely to get the desired effect.”
Rick nodded, “exactly what is the desired affect?” He asked. He was genuinely curious about this and about nearly everything his grandfather had been teaching him for the past five years. He was going to be the next Shaman of the tribe since his older brother would become Chief when his father decided to retire. He was very glad he wasn’t going to have to be Chief either, though some tried to goad him into being jealous of his brother, Terran. He had no desire to be responsible for the nearly two hundred souls in the Ka’Mancha Tribe. Although he was a fairly decent fighter, his brother far outclassed him both with his martial and riding skills and his charisma. Terran was a natural born leader. Rick was a natural born spiritualist. He was going to be far happier tending to the tribe’s spiritual and physical needs as a Shaman than he would ever be as a Chieftain. So any time any of the other young men tried to pit him against Terran, the two brothers would just laugh at them and present a united front to their would-be tormentors. Both boys were well-loved by the elders in the clan and doted on by the tribe’s women. None was more proud than their father, however. Chief Greenriver loved them both deeply and equally and knew that he would be leaving the tribe in good hands when it came time for him to step down. By that time Rick would already have been Shaman for several years, as Orick was training him to take over that task when Rick came of age in just two short years. Hopefully Terran would have another dozen years before he would have to take over as Chief for there was much that Terran would need to learn about command, politics and persuasion.
Rick was brought back to his question by Orick’s answer, “you want the smoker to enter a light trance state that will allow the nightshade to bring him visions, but not put him to sleep, or worse, kill him.” Orick lit the weeds in the pipe now and puffed on it for several minutes to get it going.
“Normally a young man would get his first vision quest when he comes of age on his fourteenth birthday, but seeing as how you are going to be taking my place on that day, I want you to know beforehand what the affects of this mixture are.” He handed the pipe to Rick who eyed it with some trepidation now that he knew exactly what was in the pipe and how dangerous it was.
“What about body mass?” Rick asked. “I am not a fully grown man yet, surely the dose should be less for me than say for that hulking brute Bullock?” Bullock was a young man of 17 years old that was built like a Brahma bull with huge shoulders, massive chest and bulging muscles. Although Rick was the same height as Bullock, the other boy easily had a hundred pounds more muscle mass than Rick.
Orick smiled at the question and nodded. “Yes, you will learn how to slightly alter the dosage based on your audience. I put in two scant pinches. For Bullock you would want two hefty pinches, but if you have many that will be partaking of the pipe then you must make the dose according to the smallest person in the group.” Orick winked at Rick, “In those cases I would offer someone like Bullock a drink laced with a bit of mandrake root to enhance the effects on him.”
Rick grinned, thinking back to when he had seen his grandfather do just that during a tribal council. Then Orick motioned to him to take a puff on the pipe and Rick again looked at it with trepidation. He leaned back against the rocks on the sloped mountainside and took a deep breath of the clear mountain air and exhaled slowly. He had never seen anyone as young as him partake of the Vision Pipe, but he had seen the effects on his father and the other elders of the tribe. Some reacted differently than others, from getting really mellow to dancing wildly flailing their arms and legs or talking incoherently to spirits that no one else could see or hear. Rick gazed at the pipe thoughtfully, wondering what it was going to do to him. The scientific part of him was fascinated by the prospect, but the little boy in him was scared. What if the dose wasn’t right? Did his grandfather know what he was doing?
Orick waited patiently, letting Rick gather up his courage and thinking back to the first time he had smoked the pipe. He knew exactly what Rick was feeling and Orick did exactly as his own father had done with him, he waited quietly.
Rick glanced at his grandfather, deciding that of all the people in the world there wasn’t one that he trusted more than this aged old man with the flowing white hair and clean shaven face sitting next to him. He knew it was safe, so what was he waiting for? Rick lifted the pipe to his lips and inhaled slowly and held his breath.
The smoke choked him and his face turned nearly as green as his eyes and then he started coughing, noting the slight grin his grandfather was trying to conceal. Tears welled up in his eyes but Rick quickly took another puff and coughed and then another. Suddenly the coughing stopped and he was able to take in a deep breath of the pungent smoke. It was sweet and musty tasting and not altogether unpleasant.
His arms felt light as feathers and Rick thought he was going to float away in the slight mountain breeze. He took another puff and then closed his eyes, feeling adrift, as if his spirit was floating above his body looking for direction and purpose. Vaguely Rick felt the pipe being removed from his grip as he exhaled a plume of smoke. He was very relaxed, almost asleep and yet he felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation. He opened his eyes and saw himself sitting against a rock some 10 feet below him, his Grandfather resting the pipe on the ground next to the campfire. It was odd to see himself from this vantage point. He studied his own young face for a moment, noting that he was a very young version of his father, except for his chin and ears, they were definitely from his mother. Terran looked more like his father, having little to no features that were distinguishable from their mother. Rick wondered if she were really Terran’s mother. He was not the only one in the tribe to ask the question over the years either. But the mystery surrounding Terran’s birth were for another time. Right now Rick felt like flying. He wondered what it would be like to be a bird.
He stretched out his arm and saw it was coated with sleek black feathers. He moved his arms up and down and bobbed on the breeze, his tail feathers fanned out, arresting his forward movement. Rick realized he was a very large Raven and smiled as he launched himself skyward, searching for an updraft. He soared ever higher, looping and diving on the currents that wafted down the mountainside toward his tribe’s encampment. The wind was glorious in his feathers and he laughed with delight at the sheer freedom he felt. He had no idea the pipe would allow him to leave his body behind like this.
He swooped down over the camp but no one noticed him. He was invisible or perhaps they did not think anything of a huge crow flying overhead at sunset. He flew around the huge camp that was perched in a cleft on the Solitary Plains near the foothills of the mountains. Everyone was going about their evening business of preparing food, mending harnesses or other equipment or napping arrows and spears. Children played, adults laughed, the women sang as they performed their nightly chores. The tribe was at peace.
Rick flew past the pasture where their horses grazed freely and a few of them turned their heads to follow him. ‘So much for being invisible,’ Rick thought, wondering why the horses could tell he was there but the people could not. That brought up the question as to if he was really there or not. How could he be a crow when his human body was lying back in the rocks half way up the mountain?
Then he saw Bullock and his cronies and Rick angled toward them wondering what they were up to on the outskirts of the camp at supper time. They were down by the water hole where a thin trickle of water oozed out of the sand at the roots of a straggly prickly bush. Rick flew up and landed in the bush, shaking its branches and narrowly avoiding the long thorns that thrust out at every angle from its dried, crackling branches.
“Get up you dog!” Bullock growled and the other eight boys with him laughed. They were all around 17 to 19 years old, all having reached manhood a few years ago, and all of them trouble makers and the bane of Chief Greenriver’s existence. Rick saw they were picking on a boy of sixteen who was lying face down in the dirt. Rick didn’t know the kid real well, he being four years older and a very shy kid, but he knew enough to tell Bullock was just bullying him for sport.
Bullock pulled the kid back to his feet by the back of his tunic and set him back down on the ground. The kid, who Rick thought was called Alvin, staggered and Rick could see his nose was broken and bleeding profusely. Rick’s blood boiled. What provoked the big lummox this time?
“Leave me alone, Bullock. I didn’t do nothing to you.” Alvin pinched off his nose, trying to stop the bleeding and took a shaky step backwards.
“No?” Bullock asked, “Then where is my knife? You took it, I know you did.” The big young man advanced on him, his hand reaching out to grab Alvin’s tunic in the front. “I am going to teach you not to steal from your betters, boy!”
“Betters? Ha!” Alvin stuck out his chin defiantly. “You ain’t my ‘betters’ and I don’t steal.” He took another step back though, in spite of his brave words. “I bet one of your meat heads there stole it, why don’t you ask them? What would I want with your stupid ole’ knife anyhow?”
“Good question,” Bullock countered, still advancing as Alvin backed up. “What were you going to do with it? Going to go butcher some of the sheep and have yourself a little feast, were you?”
Alvin snorted, spurting blood from his nose all over Bullock’s legs. “Don’t be any stupider than you can help it. You are the one that only thinks about your stomach, not me.” Alvin took three steps backward very quickly and held up both hands in front of him, palms facing Bullock. “I am warning you, don’t come any closer or I’m going to call on the spirits to stop you.”
Bullock laughed, “Oooo! I am scared, right boys?” Bullock raised his own arms as if inviting the Gods to intervene. “By all means, call away, because I am going to teach you a lesson, maggot, one you will not soon forget.” His look turned from mocking to a near crazed glare as he lowered his arms and lunged toward Alvin, grabbing the boy’s tunic.
Alvin screamed and began babbling incoherently, shrieking at the wind. Rick wouldn’t have a better opportunity, though he didn’t know if he could do anything in this form. He was angry at Bullock, having felt the brunt of the brute’s bullying on many occasion himself. He was now a good enough knife fighter that Bullock rarely picked on him, added to the fact Bullock was genuinely afraid of the spirits and elementals and thereby afraid of Rick now that he was learning the secrets from his grandfather. Bullock was a coward at heart, as was the way of most bullies.
Rick launched himself back into the air and soared up over Bullocks head, focusing his rage, he dove down at Bullock’s face and landed on his cheeks, digging in his talons. Rick pecked his beak at Bullock’s forehead, narrowly missing his eyes. He just wanted to scare the big man and stop him from attacking the younger boy.
Bullock screamed and tried to brush him off, flailing his arms around. Rick dodged them and flew back and then in close and pecked at Bullock’s cheek and ear. His left wing was brushed by Bullock’s arm and sent Rick spinning out of control for a moment while the bully’s friends cheered.
“Hey! He’s getting away, Bullock!” One of the other young men cried out and pointed at Alvin who was sprinting off back towards the camp. For a brief second Rick thought, ‘Man, that kid can sure run fast!’ Bullock was coming after Rick now, though, and Rick could see by the look in his eye that he meant to pulverize Rick into a bloody pulp.
Rick landed for a second on the grassy ground, ducking down into the long waving stalks and righted his wing. He stretched it out experimentally and though it hurt, it was working properly. He heard Bullock crashing toward him and launched himself right up into the bully’s face again, shrieking defiance. It felt good to pay the man back for all the years of torment.
He dodged Bullock’s attempts to grab him and crush him and then heard two of his friends approaching from behind. Rick turned on them, flapping his wings in the face of one and raking his talons down the kid’s cheek on the right side, again narrowly missing the eyes and then launched himself higher into the sky.
He heard a strange whistling sound and looked down, just in time to see a large rock hurtling toward him. He lifted his right wing, dropping the left and fanning out his tail feathers to do a sharp turn to the left and the rock just grazed his belly as it whistled past him, breaking off a couple of his feathers which wafted to the ground. He pumped his wings hard and quickly rose out of sling range, dodging around and hoping they wouldn’t shoot an arrow at him.
Shortly he was out of arrow range as well and could see that Alvin had nearly made it back to camp and the safety of his family. Rick soared on over the plains, leaving Bullock behind sputtering in rage and dabbing his wounds with a wet cloth. He noted that a few of Bullock’s friends were white faced with fear, believing that Alvin had called out the Wind Spirit in the form of The Raven to aid him. Rick smiled at the thought. Maybe they would leave Alvin alone in the future. Rick made a note to seek out the older boy and get to know him better. Perhaps he could have a friend and ally in Alvin in the years to come.
(OOC: In the year 637 on the Solitary Plains. Rick Greenriver has just turned 12 years old and is learning the ways of the Shaman by his Grandfather, Orick Greenriver, so that he may one day be Shaman of his tribe.)
Richard Greenriver leaned back against the rock and watched the sparks from the fire settle after just having tossed another small log onto it. His grandfather was preparing the long stemmed ‘vision pipe’ and Rick watched him intently as he explained which herbs and in what exact quantities to load into the pipe well.
“Now this one is the most important ingredient and the deadliest.” His grandfather, Orick, held out a tiny bundle of red fabric. “I keep it in the red fabric because it is one of the most dangerous herbs you will ever handle, best to use gloves when measuring it out.”
Rick nodded, leaning forward again so he could see what is grandfather was doing in the dim light. “What is it, mandrake root?”
His grandfather shook his head, his long white hair flowed around him and down his back like the silky mane of one of their prize steppe horses. Only the Shaman’s were allowed to grow their hair down to their waist or longer. Rick was already working on his own black mane, though it only reached to just below his shoulder blades now.
“No, but a good guess,” his grandfather countered. “Take a look at it. Notice the smell, but be careful not to inhale any of the dried leaves.” He held it out and Rick gingerly took a sniff, noting a dark almost musty smell mingled with that of tomato plants. He recognized it then, though he had never been allowed to harvest the stuff before. “Deadly nightshade,” he said confidently.
Orick grinned at him, his missing eyetooth a gaping black hole in the corner of his mouth. “Correct!” He carefully measured out two pinches and placed them in the large pipe bowl. “Put no more than two scant pinches in the pipe or you could kill someone.” He looked intently at Rick, ensuring that the boy understood him and how important it was to get this recipe right. “Each herb feeds off the other and must be measured precisely to get the desired effect.”
Rick nodded, “exactly what is the desired affect?” He asked. He was genuinely curious about this and about nearly everything his grandfather had been teaching him for the past five years. He was going to be the next Shaman of the tribe since his older brother would become Chief when his father decided to retire. He was very glad he wasn’t going to have to be Chief either, though some tried to goad him into being jealous of his brother, Terran. He had no desire to be responsible for the nearly two hundred souls in the Ka’Mancha Tribe. Although he was a fairly decent fighter, his brother far outclassed him both with his martial and riding skills and his charisma. Terran was a natural born leader. Rick was a natural born spiritualist. He was going to be far happier tending to the tribe’s spiritual and physical needs as a Shaman than he would ever be as a Chieftain. So any time any of the other young men tried to pit him against Terran, the two brothers would just laugh at them and present a united front to their would-be tormentors. Both boys were well-loved by the elders in the clan and doted on by the tribe’s women. None was more proud than their father, however. Chief Greenriver loved them both deeply and equally and knew that he would be leaving the tribe in good hands when it came time for him to step down. By that time Rick would already have been Shaman for several years, as Orick was training him to take over that task when Rick came of age in just two short years. Hopefully Terran would have another dozen years before he would have to take over as Chief for there was much that Terran would need to learn about command, politics and persuasion.
Rick was brought back to his question by Orick’s answer, “you want the smoker to enter a light trance state that will allow the nightshade to bring him visions, but not put him to sleep, or worse, kill him.” Orick lit the weeds in the pipe now and puffed on it for several minutes to get it going.
“Normally a young man would get his first vision quest when he comes of age on his fourteenth birthday, but seeing as how you are going to be taking my place on that day, I want you to know beforehand what the affects of this mixture are.” He handed the pipe to Rick who eyed it with some trepidation now that he knew exactly what was in the pipe and how dangerous it was.
“What about body mass?” Rick asked. “I am not a fully grown man yet, surely the dose should be less for me than say for that hulking brute Bullock?” Bullock was a young man of 17 years old that was built like a Brahma bull with huge shoulders, massive chest and bulging muscles. Although Rick was the same height as Bullock, the other boy easily had a hundred pounds more muscle mass than Rick.
Orick smiled at the question and nodded. “Yes, you will learn how to slightly alter the dosage based on your audience. I put in two scant pinches. For Bullock you would want two hefty pinches, but if you have many that will be partaking of the pipe then you must make the dose according to the smallest person in the group.” Orick winked at Rick, “In those cases I would offer someone like Bullock a drink laced with a bit of mandrake root to enhance the effects on him.”
Rick grinned, thinking back to when he had seen his grandfather do just that during a tribal council. Then Orick motioned to him to take a puff on the pipe and Rick again looked at it with trepidation. He leaned back against the rocks on the sloped mountainside and took a deep breath of the clear mountain air and exhaled slowly. He had never seen anyone as young as him partake of the Vision Pipe, but he had seen the effects on his father and the other elders of the tribe. Some reacted differently than others, from getting really mellow to dancing wildly flailing their arms and legs or talking incoherently to spirits that no one else could see or hear. Rick gazed at the pipe thoughtfully, wondering what it was going to do to him. The scientific part of him was fascinated by the prospect, but the little boy in him was scared. What if the dose wasn’t right? Did his grandfather know what he was doing?
Orick waited patiently, letting Rick gather up his courage and thinking back to the first time he had smoked the pipe. He knew exactly what Rick was feeling and Orick did exactly as his own father had done with him, he waited quietly.
Rick glanced at his grandfather, deciding that of all the people in the world there wasn’t one that he trusted more than this aged old man with the flowing white hair and clean shaven face sitting next to him. He knew it was safe, so what was he waiting for? Rick lifted the pipe to his lips and inhaled slowly and held his breath.
The smoke choked him and his face turned nearly as green as his eyes and then he started coughing, noting the slight grin his grandfather was trying to conceal. Tears welled up in his eyes but Rick quickly took another puff and coughed and then another. Suddenly the coughing stopped and he was able to take in a deep breath of the pungent smoke. It was sweet and musty tasting and not altogether unpleasant.
His arms felt light as feathers and Rick thought he was going to float away in the slight mountain breeze. He took another puff and then closed his eyes, feeling adrift, as if his spirit was floating above his body looking for direction and purpose. Vaguely Rick felt the pipe being removed from his grip as he exhaled a plume of smoke. He was very relaxed, almost asleep and yet he felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation. He opened his eyes and saw himself sitting against a rock some 10 feet below him, his Grandfather resting the pipe on the ground next to the campfire. It was odd to see himself from this vantage point. He studied his own young face for a moment, noting that he was a very young version of his father, except for his chin and ears, they were definitely from his mother. Terran looked more like his father, having little to no features that were distinguishable from their mother. Rick wondered if she were really Terran’s mother. He was not the only one in the tribe to ask the question over the years either. But the mystery surrounding Terran’s birth were for another time. Right now Rick felt like flying. He wondered what it would be like to be a bird.
He stretched out his arm and saw it was coated with sleek black feathers. He moved his arms up and down and bobbed on the breeze, his tail feathers fanned out, arresting his forward movement. Rick realized he was a very large Raven and smiled as he launched himself skyward, searching for an updraft. He soared ever higher, looping and diving on the currents that wafted down the mountainside toward his tribe’s encampment. The wind was glorious in his feathers and he laughed with delight at the sheer freedom he felt. He had no idea the pipe would allow him to leave his body behind like this.
He swooped down over the camp but no one noticed him. He was invisible or perhaps they did not think anything of a huge crow flying overhead at sunset. He flew around the huge camp that was perched in a cleft on the Solitary Plains near the foothills of the mountains. Everyone was going about their evening business of preparing food, mending harnesses or other equipment or napping arrows and spears. Children played, adults laughed, the women sang as they performed their nightly chores. The tribe was at peace.
Rick flew past the pasture where their horses grazed freely and a few of them turned their heads to follow him. ‘So much for being invisible,’ Rick thought, wondering why the horses could tell he was there but the people could not. That brought up the question as to if he was really there or not. How could he be a crow when his human body was lying back in the rocks half way up the mountain?
Then he saw Bullock and his cronies and Rick angled toward them wondering what they were up to on the outskirts of the camp at supper time. They were down by the water hole where a thin trickle of water oozed out of the sand at the roots of a straggly prickly bush. Rick flew up and landed in the bush, shaking its branches and narrowly avoiding the long thorns that thrust out at every angle from its dried, crackling branches.
“Get up you dog!” Bullock growled and the other eight boys with him laughed. They were all around 17 to 19 years old, all having reached manhood a few years ago, and all of them trouble makers and the bane of Chief Greenriver’s existence. Rick saw they were picking on a boy of sixteen who was lying face down in the dirt. Rick didn’t know the kid real well, he being four years older and a very shy kid, but he knew enough to tell Bullock was just bullying him for sport.
Bullock pulled the kid back to his feet by the back of his tunic and set him back down on the ground. The kid, who Rick thought was called Alvin, staggered and Rick could see his nose was broken and bleeding profusely. Rick’s blood boiled. What provoked the big lummox this time?
“Leave me alone, Bullock. I didn’t do nothing to you.” Alvin pinched off his nose, trying to stop the bleeding and took a shaky step backwards.
“No?” Bullock asked, “Then where is my knife? You took it, I know you did.” The big young man advanced on him, his hand reaching out to grab Alvin’s tunic in the front. “I am going to teach you not to steal from your betters, boy!”
“Betters? Ha!” Alvin stuck out his chin defiantly. “You ain’t my ‘betters’ and I don’t steal.” He took another step back though, in spite of his brave words. “I bet one of your meat heads there stole it, why don’t you ask them? What would I want with your stupid ole’ knife anyhow?”
“Good question,” Bullock countered, still advancing as Alvin backed up. “What were you going to do with it? Going to go butcher some of the sheep and have yourself a little feast, were you?”
Alvin snorted, spurting blood from his nose all over Bullock’s legs. “Don’t be any stupider than you can help it. You are the one that only thinks about your stomach, not me.” Alvin took three steps backward very quickly and held up both hands in front of him, palms facing Bullock. “I am warning you, don’t come any closer or I’m going to call on the spirits to stop you.”
Bullock laughed, “Oooo! I am scared, right boys?” Bullock raised his own arms as if inviting the Gods to intervene. “By all means, call away, because I am going to teach you a lesson, maggot, one you will not soon forget.” His look turned from mocking to a near crazed glare as he lowered his arms and lunged toward Alvin, grabbing the boy’s tunic.
Alvin screamed and began babbling incoherently, shrieking at the wind. Rick wouldn’t have a better opportunity, though he didn’t know if he could do anything in this form. He was angry at Bullock, having felt the brunt of the brute’s bullying on many occasion himself. He was now a good enough knife fighter that Bullock rarely picked on him, added to the fact Bullock was genuinely afraid of the spirits and elementals and thereby afraid of Rick now that he was learning the secrets from his grandfather. Bullock was a coward at heart, as was the way of most bullies.
Rick launched himself back into the air and soared up over Bullocks head, focusing his rage, he dove down at Bullock’s face and landed on his cheeks, digging in his talons. Rick pecked his beak at Bullock’s forehead, narrowly missing his eyes. He just wanted to scare the big man and stop him from attacking the younger boy.
Bullock screamed and tried to brush him off, flailing his arms around. Rick dodged them and flew back and then in close and pecked at Bullock’s cheek and ear. His left wing was brushed by Bullock’s arm and sent Rick spinning out of control for a moment while the bully’s friends cheered.
“Hey! He’s getting away, Bullock!” One of the other young men cried out and pointed at Alvin who was sprinting off back towards the camp. For a brief second Rick thought, ‘Man, that kid can sure run fast!’ Bullock was coming after Rick now, though, and Rick could see by the look in his eye that he meant to pulverize Rick into a bloody pulp.
Rick landed for a second on the grassy ground, ducking down into the long waving stalks and righted his wing. He stretched it out experimentally and though it hurt, it was working properly. He heard Bullock crashing toward him and launched himself right up into the bully’s face again, shrieking defiance. It felt good to pay the man back for all the years of torment.
He dodged Bullock’s attempts to grab him and crush him and then heard two of his friends approaching from behind. Rick turned on them, flapping his wings in the face of one and raking his talons down the kid’s cheek on the right side, again narrowly missing the eyes and then launched himself higher into the sky.
He heard a strange whistling sound and looked down, just in time to see a large rock hurtling toward him. He lifted his right wing, dropping the left and fanning out his tail feathers to do a sharp turn to the left and the rock just grazed his belly as it whistled past him, breaking off a couple of his feathers which wafted to the ground. He pumped his wings hard and quickly rose out of sling range, dodging around and hoping they wouldn’t shoot an arrow at him.
Shortly he was out of arrow range as well and could see that Alvin had nearly made it back to camp and the safety of his family. Rick soared on over the plains, leaving Bullock behind sputtering in rage and dabbing his wounds with a wet cloth. He noted that a few of Bullock’s friends were white faced with fear, believing that Alvin had called out the Wind Spirit in the form of The Raven to aid him. Rick smiled at the thought. Maybe they would leave Alvin alone in the future. Rick made a note to seek out the older boy and get to know him better. Perhaps he could have a friend and ally in Alvin in the years to come.