Pet Name: Avalt
Owner: Apache
Theme / Type: Terror Vix
Born: January 16, 2008
Gender: Male

MisticPal Name: Honor
MisticPal Age: 5009 Days

Battle Portal Stats

Level: 1
Hit Points: 4 / 4
Strength: 2
Defense: 2
Speed: 3
Intellect: 6
Misticpower: 1

Battles Won: 0
Battles Lost: 0

Attached Weapons

Books Read

Books Read: 3/373 [ View Books ]

Exotic Foods Eaten

Foods Eaten: 2/1254 [ View Foods ]

We are the perpetrators and thieves of our own personal destinies! We follow the footsteps laid before us, we shy from deviation, and for what?! From a fear of failure?

Maybe we should, then, encourage failure! Is it not failure that lets us understand ourselves? Is it not failure that's lets us learn and decide the paths that we truly want to take?

But if we did that, if we let ourselves be comfortable and even happy with failure, then we might have to realize one uncomfortable truth: that maybe we are wrong! And wrongness is a sort of failure in itself.

And as we all know, we shy from failure, and anything that might bring it upon us.

It is a pity, truly, and I beg of thee to try then, do something that you are sure that you cannot!

And be surprised when you find out you are capable of success.

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"Sing not of respite my friends, for the war has only just begun!"

ID No. 2M

Avalt; "leader of armies"

decisive || explosive || haughty || impatient

"The Hero"

Avalt is getting on in age. He spent his youth fighting in a war that was never really won. He is covered in battle scars and walks with a limp in his hind left leg. He is very learned in combat, particularly the kinds that involve sharp, long pieces of metal.

He is a vicious defender of personal freedom and will go out of his way a thousand times over to defend the rights of all, consequences be damned. Any that meet him would not recommend getting in his way; he is extremely aggressive when threatened. "Surrender" is not in his vocabulary.

Avalt is not very emotionally flexible. He is intrepid to a fault, and is too adamant and rebellious for his own good. He is outspoken, hasty, loud, and tends to curse rather excessively. He abhors organization but will adhere to it if he finds it necessary for accomplishing what he would like to be done. He is a friend to spontaneity and does very well in a tight situation that requires quick thinking.

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Let us rage against the sun!

We shall demand the ephemeral night to risk eternity

so that we might mask our incapabilities,

so that we might recognize them in the stealth that night harangues,

and rend them asunder!

-----------~-~-~----------~~-~-~-~~----------~-~-~-----------

The sounds of battle rose on melancholy winds. I myself, the vicarious warrior eager to prove myself, leapt into action! I gathered my things, my weapons, my tools, my armor, and prepared myself to answer the caterwaul of the horns of war.

My mother was outside. She was a tower of strength. She waited for me to come to her, so I could wish her well.

She was not so surprised when I stepped outside with all of my gear.

"No."
"But --"
"No."

I growled my frustration and stood there, trying to mimic her strength. Sighing, but still with a smile, she kneeled down before me and put her hands on my shoulders. "You must stay here, your uncle needs you. He cannot stay here by himself."

I was quiet, she saw the reluctance in me and continued, "You do not want to fight like this, there are too many who have fought for too long, they are experienced and deadly. These are people not to be taken lightly, Avalt."

"But you're going," I muttered, "and you've said I was strong!"

"Yes, you are." She patted my shoulders. "And sometimes the strongest thing you can do is be patient."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she brought a finger up and shooshed me. "I will be back home soon, take care of your uncle." And with that she pulled me into a hug, got up, gathered her things and left.

I was unconvinced, but I did not follow her. From a distance, I saw her raise her hand up to the air, her fist closed.

A tower of strength. I rose my fist in answer.

A last goodbye.

---

I sat, drumming my claws on the table, sitting opposite my uncle. He was engrossed in a book, or so it seemed, upon closer examination I noticed that his eyes were not moving.

It had been a few hours. Whether this was a long time or a short time for a battle I wasn't sure. We are not called to defend ourselves very often, and from what I have been told the time before this happened a long time ago, when I was still very young.

My mother was a proven warrior. She has fought and come home before, she will come home again.

Still my uncle sat, his eyes gazing perpetually forward, fixed on a place on a page in his book.

"Uncle, do you need anything?" I prodded.

There was a long pause before a grunt. I took that as a no.

So off I went and gathered my things. I dressed up in plates of leather, looking the part I imagined. I drew up my daggers at my waist.

I examined myself in our old, broken mirror. If looks were anything, I was sure to kill.

And off into the woods I went, down towards the valley where I knew the battle would take place.

The last rays of the sun touched the land, bathing the sky in a red as dark as blood.

---

By the time I reached the edge of the forest the sky had faded to a deep and handsome blue.

There were no sounds of people. Wind ruffled the trees, soft and soothing.

The valley, through almost its entire length, was dotted with black, small shapes.

They are bodies, but I had expected this regardless.

I was not so much expecting the quiet.

I walked into the valley, inhaling the smells of death and iron. I am a tower of strength. I am brave I tell myself. I am brave.

But I was lying. I was more scared than I had ever been.

I knew that these were our people. I recognized the craftsmanship of their armors. I stepped carefully, slowly. Nausea built in my throat.

I looked down at the body I walked over, I thought I knew the face.

Yes, that's right, this man, a baker. I stared at his face for a very long time.

All of a sudden the wind picked up and there was a crash next to me; a shield was knocked about by the wind.

I did not hesitate, I turned and ran.

My feet sunk into warm and damp things. I did not look down.

Back into the woods, up and up and up the hill, back towards the village I ran, hard and fast and clumsy.

I wondered what my mother would look like.

I wondered how she would have died.

I could see her eyes, cold, dull, and shifting ever so slowly to look at me, one last time before they would see only darkness.

No no no, I told myself, no, I would go home and find them victorious, there many of the enemy's dead there as well. Perhaps they just went around the woods, through the front of the village. This was plausible and perhaps probable, so I held on to it.

But they would also be cheering, they would be loud and raucous, they would be enthusiastic.

But if the enemy had won, it would be much like it is now, quiet, silent as they crept up upon our village.

And yes, something was wrong. Very wrong. I smelled ash on the wind, and swore I could just hear a roaring noise. And just there, through the trees, a dull and flickering glow...

I approached the edge of the tree line, again, this time devoid of hope.

Our village was set ablaze.

I did not move. I was a shadow among shadows. Now that I was closer, I could hear the sounds of looting from the houses yet to be engulfed in flames.

There were no screams, no protests, no voices. This was much more terrifying I think, than if I had seen my people there, fighting, crying, anything.

But there were only dark shapes here and there, crashes from the houses, the occasional holler of delight and none from voices I could recognize.

I crept through the shadows and found my house.

Bright and red in the dark.

I did not approach. I turned and fled and never looked back.

---

I am here again, much later. There are only green things now. The grass grows high and the trees have invaded some of the valley. It is much smaller than I remember.

I lay down, tickled by the grass and comforted by it.

Death permeates my thoughts. I think of how my mother must have died. Surrounded, valiant, towering over them as she had me.

And I think of her alone, bleeding in the grass.

I have seen much death now, I have grown to be a warrior of my own. I am not so afraid of death.

Thinking of her dying is almost a comfort. No more suffering. No more wondering. She is gone and that is that.

Her face is blurry in my mind. It is hard to remember her.

Instead I let the peace of all this quiet run rampant in my mind. I have become truly wild, apart from all this war, and every time I hear the wind whistle through the trees my heart leaps in excited bliss.

I feel the grass through my fingers. I am friends with the world.

I let myself drift off to sleep. I am at peace.

Through narrowed eyes I can just barely make out a shape in front of me.

It is my mother, tall and great. She is dressed in her armors and wears a greatsword across her back. Her face is clear, brave, distant.

I can almost hear the wind whip through her hair.

Almost.

~

Avalt belongs to Apache.

Boxed Terror on 4/18/09!

[Adopted from the pound as a Nocturnal Vix]

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Avalt

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