She left him behind with the bleeding wound on his leg and didn’t look back.
How could anyone be so stubborn? All he had to do was strum three bored chords to proove that he belonged to me. Just something—but no, he answered with the stoic calm of prey, accepting his role and the fact that a huntress was claiming him as the Red Tribute, and… *ARGH!* she thought, making her way through the forest, feeling actually a bit disheartened. I mean, just how clear do I have to be? Well, at least one part of the ritual is complete, and I’ve openly declared my ownership by claw and fang.
worthy bard, is there a German version available?
Worthy traveler, of course, … use this magical rune
Admittedly, that didn’t solve her problem just yet… but she had openly staked her claim. That bought her some time to figure things out—or at least, as much time as it took for him *not* to get the idea to do something stupid, like confronting his non-existent executioner to demand the Red Tribute back. Granted, the odds were slim, but it could happen. And yet, it could all have been so simple; she could have just walked out of the tavern last night thinking, “A pity about the little bard, but the law is the law.” Then she would have consigned him to his fate, and everything would have been perfectly fine. But as it stood? Once she was out of earshot, she kicked a small stone through the woods in annoyance. “How could you be so stupid?” she muttered to herself, running the whole thing over in her mind.
What exactly had happened?
Just as the laws of nature demanded, she had set out when the time for the Red Tribute arrived. There had been the ritual devotion to the endless moon, invoking mercy for her prey; the bow to the Law of Claw and Fang; and then, as the moon rose above the treetops, she had set off to fulfill her task—up to that point, her world had been perfectly in order. And then, in the deepest hour, she turned her nose to the wind and caught a scent. She picked up the trail of the night’s tribute. She lowered her head in humility before her task, and the hunt began. …
And then… yes, there he sat, before a fire. Our eyes met, and I saw that he knew! He recognized me and the gravity of this sublime moment. That little bard—half-fox, half-wolf, neither one thing nor the other—sat there with the composure of prey conducting itself with absolute honor, demonstrating just how deeply he respected the rites and customs of the forest. He certainly hadn’t agreed to *this* turn of events, yet he closed his eyes before his small fire and awaited his final dance. He did so with an honesty and sincerity that gave me—the huntress—real goosebumps. No negotiating, no haggling; simply acceptance.
And then he began to play a tune on his old lute—his notes cut through the darkness and… — She rested her paw against her chin and… then it seemed to her as though the Moon, the stars, and the Eternals were looking down upon her, waiting.
She sat down by a tree trunk, rested her head on her paws, and looked up into the treetops.
What immense pressure… the Eternals watching her pass judgment. Without a word, without a comment, without a sign—nothing at all.
She pondered a while longer before making her decision. She had the right to claim him as the tribute; he was playing what was effectively his final tune, and there was nothing but the certainty of their shared destiny. So, she let him continue his music, and then decided to approach him. And then something happened—something unfathomable:
She stood at the edge of the firelight, fixing her gaze upon her prey. She looked back with acceptance and dignity before the law of claw and fang, and the melody resonated between us as the fire suddenly flared a whitish hue and the Moon’s light lay across the flames. The entire circle was filled with a silvery glow, borne upon the sounds of that lute. A majestic sight granted to the little bard for his final journey. She stepped one foot into the circle. And peace enveloped her. Just her, the melody, and a glowing fire. Above it, the soft light of the Moon. And a peace she had never thought possible for herself—a huntress in the shadows of the night. And, quite unobtrusively in the shadow of the glowing circle, a small bard played with bowed head, waiting to return to the earth. And in the melody hanging between us lay an honesty that cut deep into the heart.
She withdrew her foot from the circle, and the veil lifted—no, it felt wrong to take prey here, in this place; not at this hour. He belonged to her—the law demanded it—but she would decide when and where. So she crept up to the halfling, pricked her ears, and drank in his scent deeply, so as never to forget it. And he did not deny it to me.
And theredid I just walk away without looking back?
She looked up helplessly at the sun: “Why did I leave? A huntress simply walking away from Claw and Fang while in the midst of her duty—that makes absolutely no sense! Even if you memorize the scent of your prey… once it’s gone, it’s gone! Man, how could I be so stupid? Argh! And what did you do then, you blockhead? When you realize what happened, you don’t turn back; instead, you go to the tavern to drink some pine mead… There is no more undignified way to end the night! And then, to top it all off, that little bard shows up while I’m sitting in the corner, and when he starts to play—oh man…” She truly regretted having picked that particular bard—the one who would now sing of the encounter. Still, she pricked up her ears, determined to endure the humiliation fully and learn from it.
And then, he surprised her. Not a word of arrogance, no mocking song about an incompetent huntress—just absolute, honest respect for Claw and Fang, and for the fact that the Ancestors had spared him so he could tell the tale of that sublime moment… She remembered exactly how wretched she had felt. He was sincere and honest, and he didn’t know why the Moon Goddess had acted as she did. And when he went on to sing of her beauty, her eyes, and the majestic way she had stood before him—well, her heart was won over: she simply liked him. So much so that she wanted to stand up and ask for forgiveness—only to tear him apart moments later. But no, she felt a sense of responsibility.
She rested her head on the tree stump and wore a frustrated expression. “And like a fool, I actually ran back to that fire circle, only to discover it was nothing but smoldering embers in a forest clearing. I looked up at the moon and the stars, thanking her for letting me experience this—this incredible peace. And I thought about how that little bard was someone special, someone whose life ought to be spared from the law. How could such utter nonsense have escaped my lips?”
After a while, she stood up and walked on, frustrated. Well, it is what it is; he knows the custom of the Claw and has at least understood that he belongs to her. Or rather, he *technically* does—since the rite dictates that he must submit, allowing her to grant him the grace of her protection. Oh well, the Rite of the Claw is dragging on a bit now; he knows they’ll meet again, and she intends to have him.
He really should have just listened: “What was so hard to understand about ‘For today, little bard, play me a song—because I am curious to hear what he plays when he is fully aware of who I am’? If he had, he would have submitted to my wish, and I would have invited him to my fire and concluded the rite. But what does the little morsel do?” She mimicked his voice and tone:
“‘If I play, I play out of conviction, from the heart—not because I want to bargain or beg for my life with sweet words. And if not, then not. Period.‘
I’d expected at least a bit of bardic cunning, but no—he was brutally sincere and honest. And he is right with it from his point of view. Oh well, he’ll likely play at the tavern tonight in response to my request; I can talk to him then. Maybe I’ll come up with something by then.”
And she had to admit:
She had laid claim to him before the world, and now she was beholden to her own prey.
How embarrassing…