Berceau du Chat

[SachikoMaeda]

Chapter 1: "The Kill"

OOC Note:

Spoiler:

There are some parts that are directly translated from RP. Mythor is muhaha8's Night Elf Demon Hunter!

"Learn to separate yourself from the kill. Then I shall teach you."
To separate myself from the kill.
Something I've done for survival.
Something I've done for game.
Sometimes for revenge.

Revenge.
The damn Legion.
The demons.
They pushed me to this.
My family has been ruined.
My people have been divided.
The one man I looked up to was corrupted and twisted by demons.
What can I do?
What options do I have?
I can only get back.

A lone Blood Elf walked the snow covered paths of Winterspring, his long and messy ebony hair moving in the gentle icy breeze. His right arm was pressed close to his chest by a makeshift sling of a Scryer's tabard. In his left hand he held onto a handmade bow that gently rest against his shoulder. His clothes were a white to blend in with a few patches of black to match his hair. From looks, the elf had been on this path for quite some time. Ice crystals began forming in his hair, giving it an added glisten in the sunlight. The eyes of the elf slowly went from the path up to the partly cloudy skies.

The blue skies. His eyes were once blue. He could remember those days quite well. His father was a more caring man then. Before the wars. Before the Legion. Looking to the sky was as if he were looking back into his past. His eyes narrowed, gaze lowering. The view he had now was of his worn, snow covered boots. "I remember before I picked up a bow," he thought as a faint frown crossed his lips, "I was just a kid... Playing games..." He moved one foot in front of the other as he continued down the path. Ear twitching with each crunch under his feet, he focused more on his thoughts.

He enjoyed the kill. Whether it was the joy of food he would get from killing an animal or the rush from shooting down a demon, it didn't matter. He sought it out to take what he needed and what he felt had to be done. "What did Mythor mean by seperating myself from the kill? Why would I want to do that?" It had been weeks since the elf met the Demon Hunter that offered to teach him the ways. He was left only to discover the meanings of his words. Ever since that day, the elf named Matou Bebelle'belore wandered the lands in meditation. Focusing...

The crunching of his steps halted as he looked up in realization. He smiled to himself and up at the sky before turning and running back to the tainted Felwood where he had met the Demon Hunter. He maneuvered his way through the trees with a silent grace. Little attention was paid to the scenery as it changed from the snowy hills to the dense forests. After a few hours of searching, he finally found who he was looking for, sitting by the same tree he met him.

"I learned."

Mythor frowned, his hands resting on the glaives at his sides, "Is that so?"

Matou nodded faintly as he made his way to the sitting Night Elf, "It wasn't easy... But I think I figured out your words."

"Then explain."

The elf slowly lowered his rear onto the ground as he gathered his thoughts, "If I kill for the joy in it... Then I'll lose control. I'll eventually try to take on something I can't handle..."

"And?"
"I would die, thus making me useless to the cause."

Mythor frowns thoughtfully. "And?"

Matou rubs his chin in thought, "We would be short a hunter.... And losing numbers to fight the Legion would be bad not only for us, but for everyone on Azeroth."

Mythor shakes his head. "You missed one important detail about losing control. There is a monster inside all of us. One we can only control, not conquer. If you lose control of yourself, you will lose control of it. That is a fate worse than death itself."

Matou blinked. He looked down to the grass as he thought over Mythor's words, "I see..."

Mythor shrugs his shoulders, dropping his glaives. "We will all lose control at some point in our lives. It is inevitable, and the next generation will have to kill the previous. But one should not lose control if he needn't."

"So if I were to lose control, I would have to be killed..."
"Aye"

Matou looked to Mythor curiously, "And same for you."
"That is correct. But as I said, we all will lose the fight someday. It is a fight that cannot be won."
"But it's a fight worth fighting," Matou said as his right hand gently moved to the bandage on his right bicep.
"Of course. But it's best you accept now that you cannot win it, either way."
"I know it's a war that cannot be won.... But any effort to slow them is better than letting them run free."

Mythor nods slowly. "Then so be it. You seem to understand."
"Then you think I'm fit to learn?"

The Demon Hunter stood with his glaives. He stowed the weapons on his back as he spoke, "I believe you are."
Matou looked to his mentor. He stood slowly, not caring to brush the dirt from his clothes, ""Then what do you want me to do?"
"We will begin with the basics: demon types and groupings. Races, if you will," Mythor begins to walk off, "We go south, into Ashenvale, to begin."

Matou followed quietly behind the Demon Hunter. The trip was silent, not a single word spoken between the two. The young Blood Elf was never really one for conversation to begin with. He had spent so long inside his own mind, locked away in his room by his parents. He might never achieve his dreams of aiding his people as a Magister, but he could help not only his people, but everyone if he took this path. Pride for himself and what he would soon do carried him along now.

The trip was a lengthy one, leaving Matou tried and aching. He was expecting to sit for a break when Mythor came to a halt. His gaze traveled from the path to the Demon Hunter, "Here lies a taint that has remained for far too long. My kind have been unable to wipe it from this world," He sighs, "It is the perfect place learn."

Matou looked down the path with the faintest of frowns, "I can feel it..."
"Do you? I feel it very strongly.
"It's a horrible feeling.
"But at the same time... It's home to me. Strange, mm?" Mythor shakes his head, "Anyway, I want you to identify these demons, and their weaknesses."

The young Blood Elf's eyes scanned the surroundings. He pulled his bow from his back and chose an arrow from his quiver. He readied the arrow as he silently stalked down the path, eyes darting about. He halted in his tracks once he spotted a stray Infernal, "Hrm.... I don't know their names..."
"You will learn."
Matou glanced at Mythor then back to the Infernal, ""Then what is that one?"
"It is called an Infernal. It is more a construct than an actual demon, however."
"And what are they weak against? How would I fight it?"
"Their weaknesses are in the joints, and the large glow in the center of their chest."
"So I would aim for the joints."
"Or the center of mass, yes."

Matou raised his bow, pulling back on the arrow as he took aim. He moved slowly with the faintest of adjustments. Once he was confident in the shot, he let go. The arrow takes flight and crashes dead-center into the spark that powers the Infernal. It lets out an unholy roar as its form shakes, and falls to pieces with an explosion of Fel. With that, Matou lowered his bow and looked to his mentor as the arrow appeared back in his quiver. Mythor nodded, "Good. Pick another target."

Again they traveled down the path. After a short wile of walking, Matou halts at the sight of a Felguard, "That one... I've seen one like it before... I didn't fight it..." Mythor moves forward to stand by Matou, "A Fel Guard. Brutal warriors. They are vicious, yet they gloat."
Matou casts a glance at Mythor, "And their weakness?"
Mythor smiles knowingly, "Think about my words."
Matou nodded slowly as he raised his bow to take aim at the Felguard.
"This time, fight it hand-to-hand."
Matou blinked as he lowered his bow. He looked back to Mythor with his brow knit together, "Hand-to--... I've never fought hand-to-hand before."
"It is the way of the Hunter. You had best learn."

Matou looked back down to his bow. He frowned as he slung it over his shoulder and looked to his bare hands, "So I can only fight with my hands..." Mythor shakes his head, producing a medium-length dagger. He sticks it into the ground. "Use that."

Matou looked to the dagger. He pulled it from the ground and inspected the blade quietly, his eyes locked on the fel that greened the blade. He remained fixated until Mythor spoke up, "Remember, they are very haughty creatures." The young Blood Elf looked up at the twitch of an ear. He stared down his target before making his silent advance. He broke into a sprint, lunging at the demon and planting the dagger into its back. The Felguard howls angrily and bends an arm back to grab Matou and toss him to the side with ease. The elf rolled across the ground, skidding to a halt with a grunt. He pulls himself up rather quickly and charges the demon again, this time aiming the blade for its chest.

The Felguard lets out a laugh as he backhands the small elf away. He rolls away again, only to pick himself up again. He grunts as he looked the demon over. Another charge. The demon moved to smack Matou away again, only to end up with the dagger in its hand. It roared at the elf and reared back its axe. Matou's eyes moved to the axe as he pulled the dagger away and darted between the guard's legs. He moved as quickly as he could to plant the blade into the demon's back again. The demon turns this time and smacked away the blade.
"They gloat over their prize..." echoes from beyond the fight.

Matou watched the blade end up a good few feet away. He scurried along to retrieve it as quickly as he could. The demon cackled and towered over his prey. "Strike," comes the voice. The Felguard hefted his axe and prepared to swing. Matou grabbed the dagger and rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the oncoming axe, "How do I disarm it?"

The demon swung a split second later, its axe crashing into the ground. "Strike," repeats Mythor. Matou glanced to the Hunter for a second. He looks to the demon and lunges the dagger into the axe bearing arm of the Felguard. The demon lets loose another blood-curdling roar as the blade hits its mark, slicing open the inside of the demon's elbow. It takes a moment to switch its axe to its other arm, removing it from the ground. "Strike." Matou's ears pin back at the word. He quickly pulls the dagger from the guard's arm and plunged it into the demon's stomach. The small elf roared as he repeatedly stabbed the demon, not stopping until the monster fell. The young elf stood over the corpse, covered in blood as he tried to catch his breath.

"Good," Mythor turns and walks away, "Come, we will set up camp and wait for a few hours." Matou looks to Mythor and follows behind, ignoring his aching muscles, "Wait for what?"
"For dawn."
"What will we do then?"
"We will hunt again. But you must learn first to use the demons' weaknesses against them."
Matou looked back in the direction of his fight, "Felguards... I have to use their axe against them?"
Mythor shook his head. "You failed to listen to me when I told you its weakness."
Matou ran a hand across his face, "The fact that they're haughty?" Mythor simply nodded, sitting and setting aside his glaives. The younger elf crossed his arms in thought, "And how do I use that against them?"
"Simple, really"
Matou peers at Mythor. He sits himself not far from his teacher, expecting words of wisdom. Mythor sighs, stretching his shoulders. "Slay them when they gloat."
Matou blinks, "I didn't see it gloat..."
"Gloating over triumph isn't always verbal. That aside, do you speak its language?"
Matou shakes his head, "I don't..."
"Quite. So you cannot know."
"Well how will I know when it's gloating?"
"Learn their language, or recognize their actions."
Matou nods, "I'll work on studying that.... Somehow..." he lay back on the grass, resting the dagger on his chest.
"It will come in time. Now rest. I will keep watch. The demons are likely searching for us."

Matou closed his eyes, keeping both hands on the hilt of the dagger. He kept the blade close to him, just in case. He felt the faint demonic power lingering on the blade as Mythor wandered off. Matou lay in silence, enjoying the fact he could finally rest. Aching like this after a fight should not become a regular for him. He would have to work more to improve his endurance if he were to protect himself with this simple dagger. His first day as an apprentice to a Demon Hunter and he survived. He smiled to himself.

[SachikoMaeda]

Chapter 2: "Distance"

I cannot leave.
If I leave, I die.
If I fail, I die.
I speak to no one of my training.
What I do in training shall be known by no one,
unless I take an apprentice of my own.
These are my rules.

My bow is gone.
I've passed along my arrows.
I have nothing binding me to who I once was now.
Now my only focus is to become someone new.

Matou ran along the forests of Ashenvale, taking caution in dodging the main roads or anywhere the Sentinels may be stationed. He had been running every day now for a week straight, the next day pushing a longer distance. His breathing had become heavy as his muscles screamed for him to stop. No matter the pain, he continued to push himself further and further. To disappoint his teacher was not an option. The young elf had long since lost track of time with the thick Ashenvale canopy blocking his view of the sky, though he knew he had been running longer than he had ever run before. His body ached for nothing but rest. To climb into one of the countless trees in the wood and nap for hours on end. A dive into one of the rivers would have been a wonderful choice as well, yet he pushed forward. All this effort would be worth it. With each success he pushed himself toward, he knew he was closer to learning of the "final rites" he heard Mythor speak of. For that day to come was what he had yearned for.

The hours passed by with the changing scenery of the woods into the Barrens. As Matou looked to the bright sky, he shielded his eyes with an arm. The hot, dry air made it difficult for his already sore body to move. "I can make my way to the Goblin port and pick up supplies," he thought as he pushed on through the barren wilderness, "Thought at this rate, it's hours away..." His mouth twitched as he breathed heavily from the ongoing activities. He couldn't possibly stay at the port for long at the risk of Mythor watching him. The elf glanced over his shoulder, peering at the empty path behind him along with the fading trees of the Ashenvale forest.

Matou frowned further before turning and making his way down the path. He stared down at the road as he walked. Silence. Thoughts began crossing his mind of what he would possibly do in Ratchet. Not one thing that had crossed his mind was appealing to him. "Why would I bother?" he thought as he paused, a hand resting on the dagger he kept at his side, "I can sustain myself..." The elf closed his eyes as he continued onward. The hours passed and the temperatures increased. His advance now came at a grueling slow pace as he dragged himself along. Hardly able to move in the heat, he found one of the lone trees of the plains to climb in to.

Minuted turned into hours as Matou sat in the tree. He waited until the sun was setting by the hills to make his way out of the tree. The elf groaned as he pushed himself back into running in the now cool air and made his way back to the path. In time, he finally made his way outside of Ratchet. He looked to the side as he passed the Goblin port, looking to the building windows lit by candles and lanterns. The city looked almost as if it was a lantern itself in comparison to the now night sky. His gaze moved forward once again as he ran under the star-lit sky.

For days he ran back and forth. He made his way from Ashenvale, through the Barrens, then back to Ashenvale with hardly any break. In time, his muscles ached less. He could travel further with less stress. His determination to achieve his goals drove him every step of the way. The days of training turned into weeks as his once frail looking body grew to one with more toned muscle. Every time Matou returned to Ashenvale, he would leap from tree to tree using his hands to swing himself from branch to branch. The task only grew in difficulty as his weight increased from the added muscle mass. He knew it would be difficult, but it only moved him a step closer to receiving his own glaives.