⚔️Serberia

Veserod

The hungry flame crackled, its light flickering with weak reflections on the tarred walls of the hut. A young man sitting cross-legged methodically checked each of the items laid out in a row before him. A curved knife, a flint, a tourniquet and rags for bandaging, a bundle of jerky, a spare bowstring. Not much, but more than enough under the current circumstances — the mountain already drains a person's strength, especially in a blizzard, so the less weight you carry, the better. As if to confirm these thoughts, a gust of wind slammed into the hut wall with such fury and roar that it trembled. The young man frowned, unwrapped the meat, and shoved one strip into his teeth. Veles Rusoarissen — the honorable father and something like the head of the village — strictly forbade him from going out in bad weather, though he himself did so constantly. That was easily explained by his experience — live and hunt on the mountain for several decades, and your authority in the village becomes unquestionable. All his life, Veserod — his son, young and inexperienced — could only hope to prove himself and someday surpass his father through hard work.
Chewing the salty, hardened mass, the young man picked up the bow and carefully examined it by the light of the hearth. Running his finger along the rough grooves on the grip and a shallow but long longitudinal scratch that was clearly about to become a crack, he frowned even deeper. Carefully removing the remains of the torn bowstring from the damaged bow, Veserod took the spare one, set it on one limb, braced the bow against the floor, and with great effort stretched the other end onto the second limb. Having done this, he hissed through clenched teeth — bright red stains spread across his sleeve and the side of his shirt. Setting the bow aside, he took off his shirt — fresh blood had seeped through the bandages wrapped around his torso and arm. Calming his heartbeat, Veserod cut the bandages with his knife — damp with blood, they came off easily, barely needing to be peeled away. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, he carefully washed the bleeding marks with boiled water from the now-cooling pot and re-bandaged himself. These were the last of the available bandages, so the young man tried to do everything thoroughly, though it was extremely awkward. The rough stitches hadn't come apart — that was good.
Dressed and finishing the strip of meat, he threw the last twig into the fire and began packing his gear. Four arrows, a cracked bow, damaged flesh — not the setup Veserod would have wanted for his first foray up the mountain into a blizzard, but he would never have another chance. Damping the smoldering coals, he left the tiny hunting hut — the last refuge on the way to the summit. The wind howled, bit, tried to get into his eyes and nostrils, but Veserod only pulled his clothes tighter. Casting a final glance toward the foot of the mountain — somewhere down there, in clear weather, one could make out his tiny village, but now, through the thick layer of icy precipitation, it was impossible. The young man had no specific idea of where to go and couldn't rely on reading tracks, but he knew one thing — his goal was higher up the mountain, where the storm raged fiercest, and that goal was a demon in the form of a three-meter bear.

It was a cursed year, and in keeping with it, the winter was also harsh: snowdrifts reached two or three times the height of a man, small animals froze mid-step, turning into ice figures quickly buried by snow, mountain streams froze to the bottom, and even the hardiest grasses perished. The villagers helped each other, cleared snow, patched up buildings, dug out food supplies prepared for a rainy day from the frozen ground, and shared them among themselves — this had always been necessary in this area, and now it was the only way to survive. The cold and hunger drove large animals from their natural habitats as well — deer descended closer to the village in search of food, followed by wolves and bears. It would seem — prey coming right into your hands, just shoot it — but in reality, the danger of venturing beyond the village had increased many times over, making it harder to go out for firewood or to the road; round-the-clock watch became necessary. Driven mad, the predators no longer feared light, strange noises, or smells, and increasingly tried to get inside the settlement. After a while, grim news arrived about the silhouette of a giant cave bear dwelling near the village — with it came a deadly frost, and its roar could be heard through the storm.
The old-timers said that in especially bad years, once every few decades, the mountain spews out this monster, which sows devastation in its path. It is completely impervious to arrows, axes, and spears, and can only be driven off by open flame. With Veles in charge, all the few locals — hunters, old men, women, and children — prepared the village as best they could for the inevitable clash with the bloodthirsty spirit, but pits and barricades were almost useless under the constant layers of drifting snow, and torches burned poorly in the storm. By the time the giant invaded human territory, the only resistance it faced was the cold steel of the local men. Veserod fought alongside everyone else until he took damage from the demon, which with one swipe pierced his sheepskin coat and knocked the breath out of him. By a stroke of luck, the blow was glancing and partially blocked, otherwise the beast would have torn his body in two.
Regaining consciousness, Veserod found himself buried under the rubble of one of the houses. The village was ruined, the huts torn apart, mutilated bodies dusted with snow. Somewhere out there, amid the chaos, Veserod managed to find the dying Veles. Once a mighty hunter, his face slashed to ribbons, stripped of limbs, hearing, and sight, he spent his last moments in the firm embrace of his son.
After giving himself first aid and gathering the few supplies he could find, the young man left the village and headed for the summit — to where the deep, bloody furrows left by the beast led. Under normal conditions, the people of these lands never left the bodies of the dead, lest local predators develop a taste for human blood, but Veserod had neither the materials nor the physical and moral strength to arrange a funeral pyre for the entire village at once, and there was no longer any need. The mountain had given birth to both people and animals alike; every living creature here gained strength at the expense of another and sooner or later returned to the earth. Perhaps what had happened was meant as punishment for people who had disrupted this balance. At the very least, the cruel harvest would finally appease the gods of the mountain.

Veserod did not know the way to the summit, but there was no need — the beast's trail, if one could call it that — a cyclopean swath of churned-up snow and ice — led him to a wide crack in the rock, beyond which lay a cave. The young man had no bait with him, such as the locals usually used when hunting bear — the wind-blown smell of blood from his wounds would serve as that. Veserod pulled off his gloves, took all four arrows between the fingers of his drawing hand, and aimed into the darkness. The cold quickly numbed his hands and robbed them of sensation, but he stood motionless with an arrow nocked. To his surprise, the bear moved surprisingly quietly for its size — the high-altitude wind muffled the slow stomp of heavy paws, but the beast gave itself away in the darkness by its ragged, foul, intermittent breathing.
At some point, all sounds from the cave ceased. Veserod frowned, clenched his teeth, and took a deep breath. Daylight from behind him flashed into the darkness of the cave; the hunter released the arrow and dove aside. A bone-chilling roar erupted from the crevice, amplified many times over by its acoustics, and a few seconds later, an enraged carcass burst out. Kneeling nearby, Veserod froze for a moment. For the first time facing the demon one-on-one at such close range, he realized its size was perhaps even more than three meters. The bear's shaggy hide was covered with broken arrow shafts like needles, and in one place, the handle of a spear lodged in its thick hide could be seen, in another, a dagger. A fresh arrow from Veserod stuck out of the animal's eye, but it seemed to cause no discomfort at all.
The numbness of his mind had no effect on the shooter's muscle memory, and a second arrow was on the string in a split second. Splashing bloody saliva, the demon charged at the hunter on all fours with a roar — Veserod managed to shoot it in the open mouth, rolled over the loose snow, and narrowly avoided a swipe from its paw. The second shot was unlucky — the arrow pierced the bear's cheek from the inside, which it didn't even notice, biting and spitting out the shaft. Cut off by the beast from the trail and the open space, Veserod rushed into the dark cave from which the demon had emerged.
Nocking the third arrow on the run, he slipped on the icy cave floor and tumbled head over heels — this saved him from another paw swipe. Regaining his balance, Veserod pressed his back against the wall, turned toward the bear, and drew the third arrow — it rose on its hind legs and advanced menacingly on its assailant. The young man thought to blind the beast's other eye, but from this angle, he couldn't hit it. Scanning the beast's body, he couldn't even distinguish its genitals among the tangles of thick fur. Then Veserod loosed the arrow blindly, at where the bear's heart would be and the hide was thinner. To his triumph, the arrow sank deep — the beast shuddered in pain and fell to all fours. Blood flowed from its mouth, its throat rattled — even the vengeful spirit of the mountain cannot withstand such damage while bound in mortal flesh. Yet there was nowhere to retreat, and the wounded beast had plenty of time to finish its enemy. Veserod nocked the last arrow and realized that during his fall, it had snapped and lost its head — this pointed stick the bear wouldn't even feel. The hunter's eye swept across the cave walls and spotted the glint of an icy stalactite hanging ominously from the ceiling right above them. Honestly, the young man held out no hope, but the mountain gods favored this battle, and after the hit, the cracked icicle fell, finishing off the predator.
Catching his breath and getting to his feet, Veserod drew his hunting knife and drove it into the dying animal between its ear and jaw. His father had taught him that killing on a hunt was permissible only for self-defense and sustenance, never out of rage or for pleasure. Today was the only time in the young man's life when he could not uphold that principle. Having slain the demon, he took its fang as a trophy and left the body in the cave — let the scavengers return it to the cycle.

With this deed done and his ancestors laid to rest, Veserod himself was ready to return to the soil, water, and wind. The wounds, hunger, weather, and sense of fulfilled duty made the descent from the mountain far more grueling than the ascent. The young hunter trudged waist-deep through the snow, as if in a delirium, wanting only one thing — to stop, collapse into the snow, and never get up again — but every time he felt that now surely all was lost and his last strength had deserted him, the image of Veles appeared before him, and his spirit whispered through the wind and blizzard: "Veseroood... Veseroooooooood..."
"Father..." Veserod would answer. "Wait for me..."
But his father would not let him die.
"Veseroooooood..." he would blow through the fur hat. "Live, Veserod... Do not let our lineage perish, Veserod... Spread our seed, Veserod... Now you truly are — all our Lineage..."
It was impossible to dispute a parent's command, and in his fever, the hunter obediently continued his path.
He did manage to descend and reach the road by which the village traded the mountain's gifts with the outside world, where people picked him up and took him to the nearest settlement. Severely wounded and unable to work, penniless, a grim fate awaited him — had word of what happened not reached the ears of some minor nobleman visiting that town. Baron von Breckendorf, about whom all sorts of rumors circulated, took pity on the young hunter and nursed him back to health, paying for the doctor's services, food, and shelter. When the time came to leave those parts, the baron offered Veserod to come with him and find a new life. He did not insist, but for the young man, the question of whether to agree or not didn't even arise — he loved Scharnhorst and would have liked to stay there forever, but repaying the baron's kindness with good service was utterly obvious.
Veserod still had to undergo a long rehabilitation in Baldre: the injuries sustained on that fateful day had horribly crippled his once peak-human hunting skill — for a long time, he couldn't even hold a drawn bow in his hands — and, it seemed, would accompany him with pain for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, his father, the elders, and all his ancestors adhered to a strict rule — a person must live and work on the land, in unity with all that exists; only then is he happy and his life gains meaning, and Veserod fully shared this. He needed time to recover, get used to the new climate, and feel the nature around him, but over time, he not only returned to hunting but also discovered the joys of farming, which was simply impossible in the mountains.
Yet, despite the considerable time that had passed, Scharnhorst did not let go. The hunter sometimes dreamed of their harsh but rewarding days of ordinary hunting village life, but that was rare. Far more often, the demon bear, the battle, his dying relatives and friends visited him at night — this was a matter of course. And though he clearly felt that the page had already been turned and the memory was slowly fading, in his dreams he always relived it as if for the first time.

Origin: Scharnhorst B; 05.757
Conviction: Spirit of the Wind
Equipment: composite bow, one-handed hatchet, hunting clothes and knife, various camping gear, long-lasting provisions, bear amulet — a cave demon-bear fang on a string.