Snow fell on Femi's furry face, each flake felt like a tiny cold kiss against his snout. He was just lying down on the soft cold white. The powder yielding beneath his weight like a frozen feather bed. It was as if he was floating and all was right with the world.
Too bad it was just another delusion.
Femi was currently panting like a fish that told itself it was a good idea to get drunk on air, and then went further to find itself in someone's pot. He wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time, how in his ancestor's name had he ended up in this situation. This predicament was so absurd it left him questioning his own sanity.
Why was he out in the biting cold? Why was he bruised all over? And why, most mind boggling of all was he unable to feel his tail?
He already knew the answer.
That wicked Vagra had dragged him out of the relative safety and warmth of the camp to be victimized, and all for what?
'Training'.
He spat at that word. This was not training. It was abuse.
His body ached, his muscles sore, he was busied in places he didn't know he had. All from the countless beatings he had taken at Vagra's hands.
The ratling continued to lie down, as snow fell softly on his brown fur, beginning to dust him in a way that was similar to sugar on a pastry. He didn't even attempt to pull himself up; he just couldn't muster the strength.
With a sigh of resignation, Femi decided to wait for his death in the cold. A slow, numb end would be more preferable to more of her maths-teacher-style beating. And the funny thing was how he had foolishly thought for sure that, he was stronger than ever before after his mutation, may be even strong enough to rival Vagra.
What a fool he was.
Femi's mind, seeking refuge from the present misery, wandered back to when this particular brand of nonsense had started. It all began two weeks ago. He had woken up to find himself in a log cabin, the air smelling sharply of fresh-cut wood smoke. The structure seemed to have been newly built, the chinking between the logs still soft. This had confused him because he was fairly sure his last conscious memory was of fighting a juju priest in a haze of terror and adrenaline.
While he was still trying to figure out whether he had been kidnapped by merchants again, Vagra had entered, her silhouette blocking the doorway's light. She had then walked up to him sat down on the side and just stared at him. It was for lack of better words uncomfortable.
As if sensing his unease, she had let out a sigh and spoke for the first time since entering.
"I came to give you the battle results, I am sure you have been worrying about it."
Femi had simply shaken his head vigorously. Who won't want to know whether they had to pack up their luggage to enter the bush and run because of a horde of jobless skeletons were chasing them?
She had told him calmly, how Arieus had finished off the necromancer, the cleanup that followed, and the events that had led him, unconscious and muttering, to this secluded cabin. She had also spoken about how Arieus wanted to speak with him after he had recovered. Hopefully it won't lead to him being tired to a pole like last time.
She stayed quiet after that and just continued to stare at him. He had begun to wonder what else she wanted, when he had remembered the last conversation, they had. It was the one he had with Vagra about after the battle he would tell her all about his mutation.
"Varga as you can see am still injured so if..." he began.
"No." she answered simply.
Varga had refused to let go of it and had threatened to break his legs if he didn't tell her. So, he told her some things, like how he had a vague idea of what his mutation was. He had also told her that form she had seen was him somehow using the full extent of its mutation. But he had made it clear he may not be able to repeat that any time soon.
But as to how he had come back from deaths door and his strange interaction with that entity. He had hidden almost everything from her. He had even gone as far as to tell her a false dream about a gathering of strange goats in a cycle chanting something he couldn't understand. Well, its not like it was a full lie, he had dreamed of that once and he truly didn't understand its meaning.
Yet, by the flat line of her mouth and the intensity of her stare, he could tell she hadn't believed a word he said. She had just stared at him, her emerald eyes burning into him as they had both sat on the warm fur rug, the sound of the wind as it blew from the doorway, had helped to relive the tense silence.
At the end Varga had sighed, and gotten up, her movements silent as she turned to leave. But then she stopped at the wooden entrance, the cold air whispering in, and left him with these words.
"When you are ready to talk, just know...you have my trust."
Femi had felt bad.
He couldn't tell her about his meeting with Melin just yet, not until he confirmed some things himself and not until he figured out the true motivation behind her giving him that information. But he had still felt a pang of guilt about not telling her.
Well, not anymore.
He cursed.
That guilt had been thoroughly beaten out of him like everything else.
After just a day of luxuriously lying on his back, eating fat, juicy meat and rich, hearty soup, while quietly celebrating another failure of those damned village people to end his life. She had appeared and dragged him out of the cabin's warmth to a clearing a short way from the camp. It was a picture worthy place. A perfect arena for his victimhood to begin.
It hadn't helped that it started snowing that very morning. It was the first time he had seen it snow in his life. Well, in this life. To bad the beauty of it was entirely lost on him now.
"Stop being distracted and get up Femi!"
Vagra's voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the painful freezing present.
He groaned and rolled to his side, curling into a fetal position.
"Leave me alone, haven't you done enough?" he whined, his voice muffled by the snow and his own fur.
"Come or I will."
"Damn you!" Femi cursed, as he jumped up with a pained groan and charged her, throwing punch after punch. But she became Denny phantom. She dodged him time and time again, her feet barely seeming to disturb the snow. His fists kept flying in a flurry of punches, but Vagra was too quick, too agile. She dodged and weaved, her own fists and feet kept striking him from unexpected angles, which threw him off.
Then, as her head barely began to turn, he jumped up and threw a right hook at her face. But she didn't even flinch; her arm came up, blocking the punch as if swatting a fly, and in the same motion, she caught his leading leg and used his own momentum to throw him up and over her shoulder. He landed hard on the snow with a thud, the wind blasted from his lungs, and he was left once again breathing like an overfed goat, his vision spotted with black dots.
Varga raised an eyebrow.
"Don't look at me like that! Don't you feel ashamed of yourself? Oppressing the weak." He lamented.
"If all you do is complain, you won't get any better, and you will continue to be, as you say…"
"Abused!"
Varga sighed. "Femi, you need to take this seriously. I can see you rely on your instinct to fight, which is not a bad thing, but without a proper foundation, you are just throwing your fists and swinging your axe without true control. It's wasteful."
"So," she continued while changing her stance again, her body lowering into a ready, balanced pose, "We must build that foundation by breaking your bad habits."
Femi groaned, pushing himself to a kneeling position. "You might break all my bones before that one."
But he still managed to stand up and got into his own stance, crunching low to make himself an even smaller target. He breathed, in through the nose, out through the mouth, his mind beginning to clear, his focus narrowing to the present moment, to the woman standing before him. He forgot about the pain and the exhaustion…. well, he tried to. But what was most important, what cut through the fatigue, was the thought of justified revenge.
Femi appeared in front of Varga, his fist flying towards her stomach. She stepped aside, her green eyes flashing with something their usual glow. But he wasn't done; using the momentum of his missed punch, he turned and tried to give her a sweet reverse roundhouse kick to her ribs.
She didn't block it. Instead, she moved inside the arc of his kick, coming in so close he could smell the leather and the scent of firewood on her tunic, and punched him squarely in the gut. The air vacated his lungs, as they were unable to say in such hazardous environment. Femi staggered back, gasping for air as visions of Victim dancing on a piano appeared behind his eyelids.
"Again" Varga said calmly.
------
"Let's stop, am begging you. I surrender. White flag!"
Femi laid on the snow, his chest heaving while Varga stood over him, her expression unreadable.
"I am done with you for today."
"Thank you lor..." Femi rejoiced, as a wave of relief washed over him.
"Now Tarlak will be handling your training in the use of axes," she added, cutting his celebration short before it could truly begin.
But she wasn't done.
She smirked adding. "But don't worry, I'll still continue your hand-to-hand and sword training while you learn with him."
As if summoned by her words, Tarlak's towering figure emerged from the tree line, a large double-headed axe resting casually on his shoulder. He approached Femi, his fur boots crunching in the snow as he drew near.
"I ask that you put your trust in me. I will make sure you have a grasp of the basics by the end of your training, " he said, slamming his chest with his fist for emphasis's
Tarlak lifted his own formidable axe and then, with a flick of his wrist, threw a smaller hunter's axe at Femi. It landed point-first in the snow a hand's breadth from the ratling's head.
"Come."
Come this, come that, you people like 'come' too much, Femi grumbled quietly to himself as he struggled to his feet. He grabbed the axe's haft, the wood cold in his grip. Well, it can't be as bad as Vagra.
He was so wrong. It was victimization elevated to the next level, just another masterclass in humiliation.
As the training began, Femi quickly realized he was in over his head. Not only was he hilariously out-bodied by the mountain of a krag, but he was stupidly out-skilled. Tarlak swung his axe in way that gave Femi no chance to land a blow. Not even a small opening to exploit. It reached a point he began to picture himself as a child swinging a stick in a desperate attempt to drive away a lion from partaking in his flesh.
Tarlak was relentless, his blows were precise and powerful, each parry sending a jarring shock up Femi's arms, leaving him no room to breathe, let alone think. He even began to pity the axe he was using as a shield against Tarlak's abuse. He continued to stumble through the as he ducked another swing that whistled past his head, the force of it stirring his fur. The dodge forced him to retaliate, his own axe swinging wildly as he tried to keep up.
"Your blows are too wide," Talak shouted, effortlessly blocking Femi's frantic attack with the flat of his own axe. "You are fighting the weapon. You have little control of its direction or its weight."
Femi grunted, his arms aching with a deep fire as he swung the axe again and again. Talak sidestepped each blow.
"Use the weight of the axe head for more force," he instructed, and as an example, he slammed his own axe down towards Femi's shoulder with controlled, but still terrifying, power.
Femi's eyes widened as he saw the massive blade coming. "You want to kill me?" he shrieked, while diving to the side.
Talak's expression didn't change. "Stand your ground! Fear is a luxury you cannot afford. The axe is a weapon for those of strong will. You chose it for a reason; it is because you are of strong will."
"Now come."
Femi continued with Tarlak, blocking and listening to him speak about form this and form that, all while the warrior tried to casually take his head as if it were a normal activity. He could only groan inwardly, while continuing the grueling exercise because he knew, with a cold certainty, that if he stopped, he wouldn't see any food for his tired, ravaged body.
But as the day wore on, the light beginning to fade from the sky, he couldn't take it anymore. His body simply gave out. He collapsed to the ground, the axe slipping from his numb clwas; his body was simply exhaustion and pain.
"Abeg, stop. I am tired. Pity my small body," he pleaded barley able to speak.
"Very well. There may not have been much improvement today, but we can work on it for the remaining two weeks," Tarlak stated, planting his axe in the snow.
"Two what? My ears must be dirty, I didn't hear you well," Femi said, pushing himself up on his elbows, a fresh horror dawning.
"I did tell you we would be staying here for a month." It was Varga who answered as she strolled back from the tree line, her bow in hand and a fresh dear carcass strung over her shoulders.
"But don't worry, I brought you a little motivation." Varga said and whistled. The sound was so clear it cut through the quiet woods.
"Yippe yipe!"
A blur of white fur shot from the trees. Victim came running towards Femi, his tail wagging furiously, and started to lap his face with its warm, wet tongue. The creature seemed to have gotten a little bigger, or perhaps just fatter; Femi wasn't sure.
"You call this one motivation? My friend, get out of my face, you over-fed duck fowl! I have been suffering for weeks and you have been living the dream!"
Victim paused at Femi's outburst for a moment, its head tilted, before deciding to redoubling its efforts to wash Femi's face.
"You better get some rest," Varga said, cutting through his one-sided argument with the beast. "We will be starting your sword training early in the morning." She finished while she and Tarlak walked a few paces away to discuss something in low, serious tones.
"Lucky me," Femi sighed, the last of his energy spent. His mind simply flickered, sputtered, and went black as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep right there in the snow, with Victim curling up warmly against his side.