(OOC: This has nothing whatsoever to do with the Grand Duchy, but I don’t think it justifies a thread of its own either, so it goes in here for now)
Thirty miles south of Càrn a’ Tàir
Oroduin Highlands, Kandarin Federation
It was the long journey to end a long journey. As Dougal Haston, Private First Class of the Army of the Kandarin Federation, peered out over the mist-shrouded forests, he couldn’t help but think think that an end was exactly what was intended.
Getting into the Phoenix Guard, the Army’s special forces, was tough. The Army saw to that. For those crazy - or foolish - enough to try, there was a gauntlet of obstacles that maddened the sanest man. “Boot Camp” was six months of being pushed to one’s absolute limit. The subsequent training missions were arduous affairs that pitted one team against another for a limited number of supplies. The course selected for strength, endurance, courage, innovation, but above all else observation- the ability to detect the hidden flaw in the enemy, or the hidden flaw in oneself, or the solution to a nagging problem. It was this demanding requirement most of all that whittled the number of humans down, leaving only elves. And so there was quite a lot of pressure on the only human left in this team of twenty trainees that faced the last stage in Oroduin’s Guard training regimen.
The Highland Course, or the Two Hundred as it was colloquially called, was wilderness survival at its most aggravating. The course ran through two hundred kilometers of mist-shrouded alpine forest sweeping around the base of the barren slopes of Càrn a’ Tàir. Two hundred kilometers of bramble-choked, uncharted green hell, and they had to cross it in four days with only a uniform, a knife, an empty canvas, and a bag. There were only two rules: Each man had to act alone, and no one was to set foot on the mountain. As he trudged down the slopes of the nameless hill that began the course, Dougal knew it would be his hardest challenge yet - but also knew that he would be able to beat it.
It was on the first day that he figured out exactly how he would survive. Food and water were attainable by a few quirks of local biology that were almost certain to be overlooked. A local species of tree-dweller that lived above the canopy was just a little too slow, and the rains just a little too heavy in some parts of the valley. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he only needed to make it last for a short time. The real problem wasn’t survival. The real problem was the fact that at the end of the first day, he had only made twenty kilometers, and that was from dawn to dusk, as fast as he reasonably could go.
The second day was no better. By three in the afternoon, Dougal had only made ten kilometers. What was worse, he had seen at least four other members of the team, so it was clear that there wasnt something the others had all figured out that he had missed. As he rested for a moment under a huge pine tree, Dougal Haston concluded that the course was impossible. There was simply no way that a man could cross two hundred kilometers of this muck in four days. On open road march, itd be miserable beyond belief, but still possible. This was not. He looked at the forest, then at the mountain. The rules be damned. Nobodyll know.
Thick forest gave way to scraggly trees, which gave way to weeds and scrubs and finally to the bare rock of Càrn a’ Tàir. The face Dougal would have to cross was a sea of rocks, each no more than one meter across, no doubt the remnants of some primeval rockslide from above. He would have to trek over ten kilometers of this to pass through the narrow valley between the mountains twin peaks to the objective on the other side. It was still better than 165 kilometers of forest-jungle-bog. It took the whole rest of the day to get just halfway up, and so he built a makeshift shelter and settled down for a very uncomfortable night.
The next morning, Dougal rose to find the whole valley below shadowed in mist. Not one tree poked up through the thick blanket of fog that shrouded the course. To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and the wind had picked up, scouring the mountain with a boreal chill. Still, it was too late to turn back. Gathering his gear and what was left of his food and water, the soldier resumed trudging up the mountain.
The rocks became smaller and slipperier as the mountain rose and the day went on, culminating in a heavy rainstorm around noon which dumped not just rain, but yet more fog over the whole mountain. It became hard to see more than ten meters in any direction. Dougal was tired, frustrated with the mountain and frustrated with himself. Too late for regrets now. he told himself. Just keep going. And so he did. He was sure of his sense of direction, which said that the pass was just ahead. And yet the pass never did emerge out of the fog bank. It was as if the mountain went on forever and ever. He began to tire after a few more hours of this, forgetting to watch his step and forgetting where he was going. Finally, Dougal slipped and fell.
He caught himself just in time, breaking his fall before a sharp rock would have spitted his skull, but not, the pain in his body told him, before injuring several other things. As he lay where he fell, he counted a twisted ankle, a broken finger, and at least one rib. He lay there for a few minutes, eyes closed, not moving partly out of fatigue, partly out of pain, and partly from the sheer cold of the mountain. With an exertion of sheer will, he sat up and convinced himself to look at the thing hed slipped on.
It was a human skull. Specifically, it was a human skull attached to a human skeleton, which still wore the tatters of a Kandarin Army uniform and still carried the gear issued on the course. Oddly enough, it didnt appear to have fallen or even to have any broken bones. It lay flat on its back, facing downhill, one skeletal hand shielding its eyes.
I guess they werent kidding when they said it was a survival course. Dougal remarked grimly. He took a minute to relieve the skeleton of its knife before trudging on. The fog had let up a little, and he could see in the distance the grey walls of the cliffs ahead, which marked the edges of the pass. He didnt need to see it to know that the pass was near, for as he walked, he noticed that the sound of his footsteps in the now-gravelly rock echoed as heavy thumps off the cliffs. It was a short walk, less than two hundred meters, but it felt like forever before Dougal reached the pass and stopped to rest.
He took a swig of his remaining water and leaned against a cliff face, looking out over the valley. The fog was still thick, but in the far distance he could see the other peaks of the Cairndells piercing the sky. And then, suddenly, he heard another thump. It had never occurred to him how much the echo of his footsteps sounded like a heavy crunch, like something far larger and heavier than he was walking over the rocks. Especially now, as he was standing still and wasnt walking at all. After that crunch came another, and another. It was as if someone was coming up the mountain the same way, but taking steps three or four times the length of his own. Dougal looked in the direction of the noise, but could see no one there through the thick fog.
The footsteps got louder. They carried even through the wind, which had suddenly become stronger, its rush whipped up into a howl. Dougal suddenly felt an inexplicable, piercing fear grip his entire body. He let go of the cliff face with trembling hands and started walking as fast as he could down the mountain on the opposite end, afraid to run on his injured ankle. He knew it was not fast enough, that nothing would be fast enough. He had to get off the mountain, and he had to do it right away. But there was no escape. The only way down was as long as the way up, and the steps were coming closer. He stumbled twice as he walked before beginning to run, only to stumble again, tumbling headlong against a rock. His fall turned him around, facing uphill into the mist. Forcing himself to look, Dougal thought for a moment he could see a huge figure, menacing and grey, with terribly long arms and legs. It was moving down the mountain after him at an impossible speed. He could not run, and he could not hide. In his moment of desperation, Dougal Haston had an idea.
Ignoring the pain, he climbed up on the rock hed hit. Is that all youve got? He shouted into the wind. It didnt take away the danger, but it did lift his spirits. Wind? The cliffs echoed his shouts into a surprisingly loud bellow. Is that all youll do? Scare me? Go bump in the night like some kiddie nightmare? Cant do more than that, can you? Dougal pulled out both knives and assumed a defensive stance. Come out and fight, you bloody coward!
The footsteps stopped. The wind shifted, changed from a howl into a mocking laugh. And then the footsteps resumed
but this time, they faded, moving further away. Dougal shouted after them, barely containing laughter of his own. Yeah, go on! Run away! He continued taunting the steps until they had faded entirely, lost in the shadows of the Cairndells.
The next day, Dougal Haston finished the Highland Course with six hours to spare. He was one of only three of the entire team to pass. Afterwards, he was sworn to secrecy as to the contents of the entire course, and so kept his story quiet just as the rest of the Guard did.