Mountains of Me'chuan - The Fox Lanterns

Locked
User avatar
Aufheben
MagiStream Donor
Member of The Dark Brotherhood Member of Artificer's Association
CreaturesTrade
Posts: 239
Joined: July 23rd, 2015, 2:13:57 am
Gender: Female
Location: Lordran

Mountains of Me'chuan - The Fox Lanterns

Post by Aufheben »

My mission as an amateur folklorist brought me to the mountains of Me'chuan on the edge of Tetzcotal. The mountains are considered especially hazardous to navigate at night since they are unforgivably steep, and travelers have a tendency to congregate in camps along the comparatively flatter foothills. Apparently traversing the Etain desert when attempting northbound pilgrimages poses a greater risk than the precarious mountain peaks, though I personally prefer to be nestled between the withers of a winged mount. Either way, one will find any number of colorful characters when meandering through the mountains of Me'chuan. People native to the area seem to be fascinated by the motif of creatures adopting human traits; kitsune in particular are a popular focus for local legends. I had the pleasure of hearing one such fable whilst socializing amidst a camp that was interspersed with both foreigners and the long-time residents of nearby villages. Our eccentric host claimed to just be passing through, but his obsession with the legendary so-called "human foxes" of Me'chuan left me and many others skeptical. Regardless of his credibility, a small crowd of people quickly gathered to listen to the saga that I am about to relay. Supposedly it offers an explanation for the strange lights that are said to appear in the mountains at night, a phenomenon that has curiously been reported from locations as remote as Taggelisk.
Spoiler
The Fox Lanterns

On dark and quiet nights, in only the most secret places known to the mountains of Me'chuan, it is said that flickering strands of lights can be seen ghosting their way between the trees. It is believed that those bewitched enough to follow these mysterious lights will inevitably lose sight of them, rendering curious pursuers hopelessly lost and disoriented. Consequently, superstitious locals commonly ascribe these legendary lights as the cause of a missing person’s sudden disappearance. It is a regional belief that these lights are associated with the presence of kitsune that dig hidden burrows deep within the forests of the mountains. A popular theory amongst the superstitious insists that kitsune have a hidden magical ability that allows them to take the upright form of a human being, and that the strange chains of light many have claimed to see late at night are their ceremonial processions in progress. These fabled “fox people” as they are sometimes called exist as a common motif within the culture and folklore of those who live in close proximity to the mountains of Me'chuan.

One tale tells of a young hunter with modest beliefs who drew away an animal’s life only for the solace of his stomach. He dwelt far away from civilization in the remote forests that clung to the foothills of the mountains like bands of verdant daughters. For many years the hunter lived among nature, cutting only the most withered of trees to sustain his residence and harvesting berry bushes in moderation, leaving the rest for wild birds to pluck free. On one day when a light rain was falling through the trees though the sky was not burdened with clouds, the hunter paused at the porch of his hut to behold the scenery. As he admired the unusual mingling of sun and rain a silhouette began to take shape in the mist.

Startled, the hunter suddenly found himself in the presence of a damsel wrapped within velvet draperies. The fine garments she wore, which did not sodden in the downpour, looked as though they had been painted with a palette of autumn leaves. Her posture was propped with all the grace of a gently swaying branch in the breeze and her skin was the texture of lilies floating on calm water. As she gazed at the hunter from beneath eyebrows that arched like russet rainbows, the hunter presumed her to be a noblewoman on retreat from Ageti. Believing that she must have somehow become separated from an entourage of attendants, he immediately fell on one knee and offered his assistance:

“O esteemed mistress! I am but a humble forester and thou a vessel of radiance, a jewel amongst rubble - I would be privileged to oversee the restoration of thy grace unto the trove from which thou hast been lifted!”

With a laugh that ran like rivulets along the porcelain of a fountain the damsel replied,

“Diminish not thyself gentle woodsman. I fare far from my province with a company of caravans that gather each week beyond yonder hills. I stray in search of peaceful vistas, yet my bearings remain true - thou hast no need to accommodate concern.”

Continuing to genuflect the hunter enthused,

“I am many times rewarded by the resplendence of thy company! I pray thee shalt discover respite amongst my meager abode.”

“Thou art a generous soul,”

Responded the damsel,

“But mine opportunity doth wane. I shall rejoin thee here upon the passing of seven days forthwith as eventide emerges to cradle the heavens. Thou hast my word.”

At this the hunter prostrated before the damsel in gratitude, and when he lifted himself she had vanished. So swift was her departure and so lightheaded the hunter that he paused to reflect on the possibility that the bizarre encounter had been nothing more than an intricate daydream.

But the hunter remained hopeful. For the entire week he tended to his daily tasks, counting down the days before his rendezvous with the noblewoman was to occur. And then, upon the passing of seven days since she had appeared before him, the hunter stood beyond his doorstep just as eventide was embracing the sky. Suddenly a figure blossomed forth from the afternoon haze that swam thickly through the copses. The hunter again found himself in the damsel’s presence and immediately he felt his heart begin to clamor like a carillon. Her heady perfume peppered the air with just the slightest scent of petrichor. As her tresses flowed forth like floret blooms, said she:

“Thou hast patience most formidable! Wouldst thou have me as thy guest?”

And he in response,

“O generous madam! You bestow upon me the precious alms of thine arrival. Though I am unfit to offer thee refinement even fractional of thyself, I humbly receive thou.”

With this, the damsel and the hunter took to talking together under the budding stars for many long hours. She spoke to him of how her caravan was constantly traversing familiar mountain pathways in search of resources. The hunter learned that though she adorned herself in the fabrics of courtly estates, she had spent much of her life a nomad far from city limits. As the night grew deeper so did the words they exchanged, but suddenly the damsel interjected:

“Much time hath waned and with it mine opportunity! I shall rejoin thee here yet again upon the passing of seven days forthwith. I beseech thy most enduring patience, for my return is inevitable. Thou hast my word.”

And without another sound she vanished. Though bewildered by her fleetness, the hunter swelled with joy at the thought of this rare companionship. Despite his delight, the weight of weariness soon fell upon him. He absconded to his chambers and sunk into a peaceful slumber.

In one week’s time the damsel returned to the hunter as she had promised, and again they whispered warm words to one another well into the night. For many months in following the damsel continued to visit the hunter, and from the seeds of their devotion sprouted deep-seated love. He soon saw it necessary to bestow upon her a token of his loyalty. Though the hunter had never seen it crucial to possess many trinkets or treasures, he had with him a chain from which hung the silver likeness of a leaf. A parting-gift from his native village, the ardent pendant was a tribute to the fronds of the trees that grew throughout the forest. When he presented it to the damsel she accepted it graciously, promising to keep it always as her finest valuable.

Their meetings were consistently joyous occasions, until one day the damsel appeared before him with tears rolling down her cheeks like pearls from a broken necklace. Said the hunter in distress,

“O beloved maiden! Why do dewdrops come trickling out from beneath the petals of thine eyes? To what injustice do I owe my righteous scorn?”

And quavered she in response,

“Shrouded is the sun, dear huntsman, for eternal twilight hath beckoned from my roaming household the soul of a sibling most dear to me. Immortal death prowls the plains of oblivion, eyeless and earless – seek not retribution against that which hath no substance.”

With that the damsel collapsed against the ground and, her countenance veiled by trembling hands, she mourned. The hunter knelt by her side with newfound cognizance. Gently, he swathed her in a cradle of condolence.

On that somber evening she seldom spoke, and the hunter could offer only his constant companionship. In the dimming light the bereaved damsel grew gradually more aloof. She began straying from the hunter to wander along the edge of the clearing, staring blankly towards the trees.

After much pacing and gazing she suddenly stopped to crane her neck in a single, swift motion. Though at first he could see only stoic darkness, the hunter’s eyes slowly adjusted until he could occasionally glimpse flickering figures that darted low to the ground in the depths of the forest. He immediately recognized the lithe silhouettes that wove in and out of the gloaming; they could only belong to the mysterious kitsune that sometimes emerged to scavenge after dark. The kitsune were revenants of the forest that bore a tendency to disappear without a trace, only to be sighted again months later as if they had never vanished. Throughout his life the hunter had heard of the peculiar powers they supposedly possessed, although he could vouch only for their inexplicable evasiveness.

Giving chase to them was a futile matter so he had heard; apparently they would evaporate unexpectedly into drops of rain or disappear between alcoves too narrow to accommodate even the smallest of insects. From a distance they were observable however, and the damsel stood watching their outlines until they dispersed out of sight beneath the shadows. She herself was barely discernible amongst the murky tree line. As he regarded her with concern from the doorway of his hut, the damsel retired from her wood-side vigilance to meet with the hunter. Said she,

“Forgive my transience, but I must depart from thee promptly. The rites of remembrance doth request mine arrival. Worry not, for I shall visit thee again in seven days forthwith. Thou hast my word.”

And before the hunter could so much as offer himself as her escort, she was gone. Though the night was still new the discouraged hunter withdrew to the confines of his bedroom. Anxiety tormented him for many restless hours until he found himself peering from his windowsill. As he stared pensively into the darkness, there emerged one perfectly round sphere that glowed faintly in the distance. The sphere was soon followed by another, and then another, until he beheld an unbroken trail of lights forging steadily through the trees. Perplexed but unperturbed, the hunter watched as they gradually faded out one-by-one into the dense darkness of a grove. He had seen strange lights in the mountains before, but never in such an orientation. Usually they were travelers making their way across the highlands. Perhaps this had been a wayfaring party such as the one that the damsel belonged to. He turned from the windowsill and again tried to sleep, wondering if perhaps she presently wandered alongside those many lights.

Throughout that worrisome week up until the last day before the damsel was to return, the hunter remained fixated on what he could do to help lift her mood. He had nothing to offer, save only his skill for sharpshooting. Desperate to procure a worthy offering, he began contemplating the kitsune that had so effortlessly captivated her attention earlier. They were rumored to be immune to traps and weaponry alike on account of their unmatched elusiveness, but such claims were beginning to empower the hunter more than dissuade him; perhaps no one had ever employed the correct methods, or knew enough about the territories they inhabited to stand a chance. People residing in the mountainside villages often went their entire lives without ever even seeing so much as a flurry of auburn tails dashing into the brush. The hunter and the kitsune however were practically neighbors; if he was not encountering them directly for brief instances, he was finding fresh paw prints in the mud or tufts of undercoat snagged on coarse tree bark. Any ornament infused with fox-fur would be a rare gift. If such creatures could truly be captured, surely he was a candidate capable of doing so.

Having justified himself, the hunter set out into the forest to hunt a kitsune on the morning of the day that the damsel was to return. He took with him a quiver full of slender arrows to sate the arc of his bow. It was not long before the hunter began to recognize the hastiness that helped fuel his plan, for he soon realized that he did not know where to begin searching. Though he ventured in the direction of where he had last observed them, kitsune had highly nomadic tendencies; they could subtly overrun a section of the hillside in silent droves before abruptly relocating almost exclusively to some obscure woodland recess in less than the span of a single day. Indications of their occupancy were usually only discovered by chance. While pad-marks in the mud were a frequent sight, it had not rained recently and the desiccated earth was reluctant to adopt indents.

Doubtful but not disheartened, the hunter proceeded next towards the mouth of a nearby spring from which he would sometimes collect soothing sustenance. The soil around the spring was soft with saturation, and he knelt beside the bubbling waters to search for paw impressions left behind by an individual that had perhaps come to drink. Finding no marks that alluded to the four-toed gait of a kitsune, the hunter exhaled anxiously before reclining against a water-worn rock. They were too ephemeral, even in substantial populations. He might as well be hunting for clouds in a canyon. It was likely that his exertion would yield only an aching mind, and muscles to match.

The hunter began to wonder if his determination was the result of impulsiveness onset by desperation to demonstrate his merit. But then, as he rose to return to his hut in the clearing, a bright surge of nearby color caught the corner of his eye. His glance was instinctive, for he had already identified the creature prior to doing so. On the adjacent rock some twenty feet away stood a flame-hued kitsune.

Genders of the species were not easily discernible, but he was positive that this was a vixen; she had a small and slender build that came complete with a compact skull. Her modest size boasted youthfulness, a promising attribute since this meant that she was unlikely to be caring for kits. Not only was she prone to a docile disposition as a result of inexperience, but also she was almost certain to be without offspring that would otherwise have to suffer the loss of their mother.

She did not move from her perch, nor did her amber eyes stray from the hunter. Making no motions to escape, she only gazed intensely with her ears upright and the hunter tried to compose himself as he wondered just how long it would be before she vanished. Fearing that he might forsake the opportunity, the hunter ceased all further scrutiny. He drew his weapon in a single motion. There was no movement from the kitsune as he did so, save for the sudden heaving of her hackles skyward. The quaking of his hands did not affect his aim. She uttered not a sound of protest and made no attempt to flee as he swiftly trained an arrow on her. And then, in an instant, he released the loaded bowstring.

What followed in response from the vixen was not an unpredictable evasive maneuver, nor a retreat beneath the cover of crafty magic. She absorbed the full impact of the projectile and crumpled from her platform, but not without first uttering a sound so overwhelmingly mournful that it jarred the hunter despite its softness. There was a spray of spring water from where she collapsed. The hunter was astonished. It had all been so fast. He struggled to regain kinesis. When he finally felt his legs buckle, he staggered to the kitsune’s body. The barb had pierced her neck and she had since ceased to breathe. Though partially immersed, her pelt did not dull with dampness. Her lifeless glassy-eyed gaze bore through him, heaven-bound. Many autumn-colored tails stretched fan-like around her frame in a shape that profoundly resembled an altar.

A cold sweat formed against the hunter’s brow as he shuddered, suddenly disgusted with the thought of claiming a keepsake. The scene was too uncanny. He felt as though he had brought desecration unto a sacred icon. In the wake of this notion resided an indescribable grief that sought to steadily surmount his consciousness. This was not the outcome he had expected. There had been no ingenuity in his actions, no grand pursuit, no trial of wits. Though she had clearly been an untried juvenile, her existence alone proved the presence of competence. And yet, in spite of this, she had exposed herself. It was a reaction that was wholly unheard of. For reasons such as these, the utter simplicity of the kitsune’s death deeply alarmed and disturbed the hunter.

Straining to contain the sudden influx of emotions that now threatened to envelop his unprepared psyche, the hunter tore his eyes away from the creature’s body. He refocused on the rock where she had alighted only moments ago. It was flat at the top, a stage set for a tragedy. The hunter felt another surge of bitter remorse in response to this reflection before he noticed a small object at rest atop the rock. He retrieved the object without delay, securing within his unsteady palms a leaf-shaped pendant that shone dimly in the sinking sunlight – his gift to the damsel. Had she accidentally dropped it while descending into the foothills? It was an unlikely thing to salvage from the forest. Nevertheless, he fastened it in the folds of his cloak to return to her later.

Evening was edging slowly up the skyline. Avoiding the sight of the kitsune, the hunter began traversing uphill in the direction of his hut. The forest became treacherous at night and he did not want to render the returning damsel unattended. There was nothing he could do now but plan to revisit the vicinity as soon as possible. It wouldn’t undo his recklessness, but maybe he could raise a spring-side shrine in honor of the fallen vixen.

He arrived at his residence before the sun had set. An eerie silence occupied his surroundings; the wind was still and the insects were mute. There was only the sound of dry grass creasing beneath his footfalls. Subsiding to his porch, he seated himself on the wooden steps to await the damsel.

The sun soon fell away from the sky and she did not yet appear. The cool night adorned itself in a gown of stars. A shard of moonlight peeked out from beneath firmamental curtains. Still she did not yet appear. But the hopeful hunter continued to scan the trees for signs of her arrival at every occasion. There were only nebulous shadows, billowing and wavering, just as potent illusions are wont to do.

With a start, the hunter awoke on his steps in the dark. Stars set in a black canvas flickered overhead. How long had it been since he dozed off? Where was the damsel? Surveying the area once again, he thought he could see dusty prints in the dim light along his porch. As he moved to inspect them there came a hollow clatter from the landing. Fumbling to find the source of the sound, his hand eventually connected with a thin and wooden object. It was out of place, but not entirely foreign to him. Palpating his way along its uneven surface, he found that the object terminated in what he discerned to be the notches of a whetted stone.

And then an icy chill coursed through him. Frantically, he held the item against the limited light of the waning moon. Cradled in his hands rested the remains of a splintered arrow. On its point there was a ruddy stain, scarcely visible. Realization echoed throughout his now empty soul with reverberations that were strong enough to shatter him from the inside out. Cried he aloud,

“O sublime sorceress, I have fulfilled a fool’s errand! My moral envelope sealed away the mercy of clairvoyance, but the wax seal hath come undone! Thou art the very vixen I have slain by the spring!"

Casting the fragmented filament aside, he wept:

“What cruel entity hath conspired to possess mine ambitions? What sneaking sickness hath goaded mine arrow to become drunk on thine innocent blood?”

The hunter slumped to the ground, silently sobbing. Unsure of what to do next, he looked to the sky as if seeking guidance. Moonbeams caught on his individual teardrops so that blurry chains of light stuck to his vision. But when he finally looked away from the sky, the lights somehow remained.

Wiping away the thick droplets that cascaded from his eyes, the hunter watched as a trail of nearby lights flickered brightly just beyond the trees. They filed almost reverently down the mountainside, headed in the direction of the spring from which he would sometimes collect soothing sustenance. The tears bubbled forth again and he rose from the ground, trembling. It was a funeral procession. His heaving chest was heavy with shame. The silver pendant swayed patiently from the clasp of his cloak. Dirt clung to his knees. He lurched forward and lumbered across the clearing towards the shimmering convoy. And then, with his shadow stretched thin across the clearing behind him, the hunter passed beyond the trees in the direction of the lights never to reemerge.
"No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell" - C. G. Jung Image
Locked

Return to “2017 Anniversary writing contest”