Wielder of the Fangs of the Father Dylan Grimmkell. Another commission of my main boy Dylan by @warchiefeny thank you again for doing him so much justice!
At present, I have no internet at home due to a catastrophic phone failure (busted screen XP). I did go through the old story files though, and found something I’d written up but since lost track of.
...
It felt as though his blood had turned to ice. The hand of death crept closer, closer, ever closer to his heart. If he didn’t act, he would freeze to death. And it would all be his fault if he did…
He’d outsmarted himself. While he was no longer subject to the mogu’s blood control, Tsaobai Kang, junior mage of the Shado-Pan, had placed himself in mortal jeopardy to do so.
The look of anguish and horror filled the eyes of the mogu as Tsaobai’s intent became clear. A look he never forgot…
The first finger of death closed about his throat. Unable to move a muscle, Tsaobai felt his life force ebb away…beat by beat of a heart that was calming, was soothing his mind to sleep…
A sleep that would never end.
…
A harsh cry strangled itself in his throat, Tsaobai waking with a gurgled mix of a shout and a cough. His fingers were cold – especially those of his left hand. As the world came into focus, he focused on the sensations of life.
He was alive. Death was not near him. Well, it had come close. The young mage spluttered for breath, the cough that had cut off his anguished shout doing its best to keep him from breathing for a little while. Once the ball of mucus had been coughed up, Tsaobai wrinkled his nose and groaned. Again, he could breathe.
Was he getting sick? He knew his body well, and it was possible that he’d overdone one of his frost spells in training the other day. Or it could be that someone else had gotten him sick in the order.
The thoughts were rapid fire, following logical conclusions. A ruthless logic, at that, for Tsaobai Kang’s mind seldom worked its way through a problem at a snail’s pace. He was a quick thinker – which had both aided and cost him at different periods of time.
But the nightmare had returned.
He shivered as he looked down at his torso. The nightmare was rooted firmly in reality. A gash spanned from just below the left side of Tsaobai’s ribcage to just above the kidney on that side. He held his fingers to it, calming himself. Thinking again, on ruthless logic. Prime numbers were the easiest ones to dicate. Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen…
His breathing calmed. The gash was still healing from his encounter with an ancient mogu blood mage. His foe had left a wicked mark on Tsaobai – and the young mage’s dreams had been forever haunted by the memories of that night.
It was one thing to feel the chill grip of approaching death on your body. It was another to know that you were under someone else’s command. Tsaobai had felt both within seconds of the other – the first sensation had been someone else’s willpower, reaching around and supplanting his own. Then Tsaobai, using his last erg of control, had chilled his own bloodstream to the point where, instead of feeling the mogu’s control… He felt the breath of death itself in his ear.
He buried his head in his hands, his features twisted into a grimace.
This nightmare had only one cure.
…
Tong Sho-Kung observed the bonsai plant he’d been tending to for some ten years. In all that time, the plant had gone about its will where it could, but Tong had pruned it back here and there in a dedicated manner. A botanist and a master of horticulture, the elder Shado-Pan was also more than a little something of an alchemist. Or, as some had said when they saw how big the older Pandaren’s belly was, an ‘ale-chemist’.
A delicate snip removed a branch that would have strained the tree, such as it was, and the monk observed his action with a soft grunt and a content nod. It was these little things that brought him joy. Whether it was distilling the essence of a rain poppy or creating an elixir made of ghostcap, Tong was glad to have an opportunity to hone his craft.
A knock on the door interrupted him. During all the tasks that Tong had about the Monastery (both those he imposed on himself and those he was called upon to do), he found most of the interruptions occurred while tending his plants. Approaching sixty years of age, but with a cheeriness that belied his order and his duties, Tong was not the sort to let such things bother him.
That the knock came in the hour of the wolf came as little of a surprise to Tong. The heavy elder softly stretched out his chi, a more tangible use of his spiritual abilities soon twisting the door as though his actual hand were acting on it. The wicker slats were slid to the side, revealing a familiar face.
“Young Tsaobai Kang.” Tong bowed his head. “Is something the matter?”
The mage looked rather pale, to Tong’s eyes. He nodded at once to Tong’s words. “Something is indeed the matter, Elder Sho-Kung. Do…you have a Draught of Dreamless Sleep?”
This made Tong think over all the concoctions he’d made. “Not right now.” He admitted. “My last vial of Dreamless Sleep was specially requested by Master Snowdrift a couple nights back. I do have the sweetgrass I need to make more…”
Tsaobai looked as though he were about to groan in despair. “…I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He said softly.
It clicked at once in Tong’s mind. “…did you have a nightmare, Tsaobai?” Tong asked, his tone considerate.
“The same one.” Tsaobai did not nod. His eyes seemed to be regarding a peak many miles in the distance. That was, of course, impossible, considering the Shado-Pan Monastery’s greenhouse was fully enclosed and walls of wood and stone blocked off all the peaks of Kun-Lai that surrounded it.
“…I’m sorry.” Tong gestured to the seat on the other side of the table. At this late hour, the greenhouse had only three of occupants – Tong, tending to his bonsai, a young woman of the Blackguard who dozed near one of the ginseng plants at the end of the greenhouse, and now, Tsaobai. “I remember that incident all too well.”
One of the order’s oldest allies and most steadfast backers had lost their life in that incident. A mogu blood mage had come about in Krasarang, and been responsible for a string of disappearances. By the time the dust settled, Elder Shaman Sung Yu, who Tong had called a friend for many years, was dead – robbed of his life force by the mogu blood mage, along with three other shamans. Then a more powerful blood mage – no, a blood magister - had been raised from the dead using the four shamans…
Tsaobai had wrangled with the magister personally, after Sung Yu’s murderer was slain by the spirit he raised. While he had prevailed, and had lived through the encounter, he did so on a razor’s edge, approaching a point that most Shado-Pan dared not flirt with. To straddle the edge of life and death itself was an experience that had cut into the mage’s heart, and humbled him more than any wound or any blade ever could.
For a time, the mage said nothing, then he met Tong’s eyes. “…I do not want to talk about it.” Tsaobai said softly. There was a soft shake to his tone. “If you must know, elder…it ended…with my death.”
“And then you woke up.” Tsaobai nodded decisively. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks. Tong held out a paw. “Please give me your hand.” He instructed.
The mage stepped to his feet, made as though to leave…then he sighed. The mage approached Tong, then closed his eyes. He held out his left paw with a soft bow of his head. Tong Sho-Kung softly gripped it. While warm and full of life, Tsaobai’s grip was far, far cooler than most Pandaren that Tong knew, and that included even the other frost mages of the Omnia Discipline. “Your chi is unsettled.” Tong breathed softly. This was an obvious thing to him at once – the younger Omnia’s breaths and pulse were all off their normal beats – out of rhythm. Tong breathed softly, calmly. In an instant, he became the port in the storm that Tsaobai was struggling through.
Tsaobai nodded once, gently, but said nothing. Tong brought his other hand – but he did not infuse Tsaobai with his healing mists. The other would have to ask for them. That he did not was an indication of a couple things, to the elder Shado-Pan. The first was that Tsaobai thought he could handle it on his own, and the second was that Tsaobai was afraid of having to do so on his own. But these thoughts had no voice. They were mere flickers in the mage’s eyes.
When one had felt the touch of approaching death, their eyes were never the same afterwards. This was doubly so if that touch had been a strong one.
Focus on my presence. Use my eyes to see, Tsaobai, and I’ll guide you.
Tong felt the mage’s pulse soften, then it became warmer, with each beat of his heart. The cold grip of Tsaobai’s hand began to heat up, until it was as close to normal as the mage might ever manage. His specialty was frost magic, after all…
“Do you feel better?” Tong’s voice was gentle.
Tsaobai nodded once. He still said nothing…but the haunted look in his eyes and the stare of one who was looking into the distance were gone.
Tong smiled kindly at him. “Good. Now…I’ll see if I can produce a Draught of Dreamless Sleep for you before the sun rises.” He squeezed Tsaobai’s paw. “Head back to your quarters, and I’ll have it ready.”
“I have morning lessons with Snow Blossom.” Tsaobai’s voice didn’t quaver, but it wasn’t as recovered perhaps the rest of him was.
“I will inform her that you are not well and will make up that lesson another time.” Tong’s voice took on a note of command. “Now then. Off to bed with you. I promise you that no nightmare will come near you again this night – certainly not that one.”
Tsaobai suddenly wrapped both his arms about Tong’s great belly, burying his head there. There was a muffled word along the lines of a ‘thanks’, then a nuzzle given to the older Shado-Pan’s enormous midriff.
Tong only smiled and patted the younger Omnia’s back. “I am glad that I could help.” He murmured.
Tsaobai lifted his head, something of a smile on his features. “Thank you again, Elder Tong.”
As he left, Tong Sho-Kung, a veteran of five decades of the Shado-Pan’s service, closed his eyes and breathed in the night air. The hour of the wolf was almost over – and it was time to make a Draught of Dreamless Sleep.
