The Old Man and the Hound

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Written by Zephyr, edited by Cordir. Submitted to the Storytelling Competition in January 2014, and took third place.

For three days, the Hound and the old man have done battle, neither one victorious. This is the tale of one of the battles.

He nods off in the temple of Nydia, still grasping his favorite bottle of rum, when he hears a familiar voice.

“Hello, old man.”

He looks up, his eyes adjusting to the light in the temple. Before him stands a former friend and ally, now turned enemy.

The old man smiles and says, "Hello, Hound. Come to cut my Thread?"

Even though the old man couldn't see the Hound’s face, he knew the other was smiling.

The old man slowly stands up, his armor creaking and popping. He brushes the dirt and blood off of it the best he can, all the while looking at the Hound. His foe is dressed in some of the finest armor in all the realm, truly a sight to be seen. By some others, it’s the last thing they want to see standing before them.

The old man takes a sip from his rum bottle and puts it a bag, silently hoping it won't get broken. He draws his weapon and begins casting protection spells. The Hound laughs and starts cast spells himself. Once the final spell has been cast, the Hound draws his whip. The heat and flame from the weapon makes the old man squint his eyes. He remembers all too well the damage it can do. The old man ducks out of the room and into the courtyard beyond. Quickly, he grabs a scroll from his belt pouch and recites it as fast as he can. The room grows silent just as the Hound’s whip flies threw the air and hit the old man’s shield with great force, knocking him back a few steps.

The old man gathers his composure and strikes back, hitting the Hound on his arm. The old man cannot hear the Hound’s laughter, but he knows he is laughing at him. They circle each other, looking for the right time to attack. The old man catches up a handful of dirt and throws it into the Hound’s face, but it glances off his helm.

"Nice try, old man," the Hound calls out, then brings his whip down across the old man’s wrist.

Pain shoots through his arm, causing him to drop his mace. But without thought, the old man draws another weapon strapped to the inside of his shield and swings at the Hound, striking him multiple times. The Hound staggers back, no longer laughing as he looks at the old man.

The old man wipes the sweat out of his eyes, his breath coming heavily. He knows he can't beat the Hound, but he will not make this death easy for him. The old man calls for magic to heal himself then braces himself for the oncoming attack. Even so, he was not prepared for the Hound’s fury. Lunging forward, swinging with great rage and strength, his whip hits the old man’s shield knocking it to the ground. This leaves the old man open to receive a forceful kick to the chest, knocking him onto his back. The Hound stands over the old man. Smelling victory, he brings his burning whip down upon the old man again and again: each strike causing flesh burning and screams of pain.

The old man looks up at the Hound, his eyes burning with blood and sweat. His body trembles with pain. Darkness starts to creep in. Each breath is harder and harder to catch. He tries to scramble away but the Hound stays with him, matching every step. His vision starts to fade out. He knows his time is near. In a last, desperate measure, he calls on the magic of fear. The Hound steps back, trying to block the magic, but it takes hold and the Hound is forced to run away.

The old man lies back looking into the sky, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Get up, old man,” He thinks. “The hound will be back."

He staggers to his feet and slowly stumbles back to the temple. Once inside, he slides down the wall and rests on the floor. Reaching for his bottle, he is surprised and happy to find it is not broken. He splashes some rum on his wounds and then takes a sip. He is wearily hanging his head, when he hears a voice:

"Nice fight, old man, but next time … you will not be so lucky"

The old man looks up and removes his helm, his dirty, sweaty hair falling into his face. "Perhaps you are right, old friend."