back on the topic of how aware viktor and archemorus have been of what’s happened while they’re dead….

i keep thinking about how they must have reacted upon first finding out what happened to their homes due to the jade wind. how fucking awful it must have been for them to learn the destruction that was wrought upon their homes and people.

i don’t think it would make them regret killing shiro… but it would hurt, knowing that them killing shiro resulted in that

Lore Episode 28: Making a Mark (Transcript) - 22nd February 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I talk a lot about New England folklore. One of the biggest reasons for that is because the north-east part of the United States serves as a sort of cultural bridge between the old world and the new. It was there, more than anywhere else, where the old tales and superstitions first set root on American soil. The witch hysteria of the late 1600s was an aftershock of a larger tremor that shook Europe for decades. The American version of the vampire has roots in eastern European folktales and legends. Even holidays like Christmas and Hallowe’en were really just old-world injections into the cultural soft tissue of America, and the needle pierced us in New England first… most of the time. There are other parts of the country that played host to pioneers and adventurers as well, people who risked their lives and loved ones to travel across the cold Atlantic and build a new home here on these shores, and the age of colonization brought more than just settlers and supplies. It brought lore. Settlers up and down the east coast of what would one day become America came ashore with heads full of superstitions and a propensity to attach meaning to things we might overlook today. Put another way, they brought food for their journey, and the seeds to grow more here. They came with minds that were perfectly wired to build new folklore on the backs of old tales: new fears, new legends, new hauntings, and we can still find those creations in many places along the eastern seaboard - places like North Carolina. Before the vacation homes and sun-baked tourists crowded along the sandy shores of the Outer Banks, pioneers were attempting to carve out an existence there. Those that survived left behind more than buildings and descendants, though. Today, the Outer Bank is home to tales that still send shivers down the spines of locals and tourists alike, because folklore, whether its new or old, has a way of leaving its mark. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore. Brigands Bay sits on the northern coast of the southern part of Hatteras Island, between the towns of Frisco and Buxton. Hatteras is part of the Outer Banks, which, on the map, look like nothing more than a thin string of earth and sand a few miles off the coast of North Carolina. Imagine the island as a backwards capital L, hugging the coastline near the Pamlico River. But don’t let that thin strip of sand and stay-parks fool you – Hatteras, like many of the other islands out there, is still big enough for stories to take root, and that’s because it has a long history, longer than most parts of the country, in fact. Near the northern tip of the island, just to the west, is Roanoke Island, the site of England’s first settlement in the new world. Although the colony there disappeared sometime between 1586 and 1587, Europeans didn’t stay away long, and it was their constant activity in the region that gave rise to so much of the local stories, still told today. There’s a legend in Hatteras of the horrible deeds of one particular captain. According to the story, in 1710 an English ship crossed the Atlantic carrying refugees from Germany. They were known as “palatines”, and they had initially fled the middle Rhine area to settle in England, but there were so many that the English decided to help them move to the new world. When these refugees boarded the ship, they hid their valuables, afraid that they might be stolen by the ship’s crew. After a successful journey, the ship entered the waters inside the Outer Banks, heading toward New Bern on the coast. Their new home was in sight, and after such a long journey it must have been a relief to see it. Sensing they would soon disembark, the palatines removed their valuables from hiding and gathered them together for the final leg of their journey. Now, maybe it was the sight of all that treasure – the jewellery and coins and precious heirlooms – that triggered what happened next, or perhaps the crew had planned it all along. But here was their chance, and they decided to act. Claiming that the weather wasn’t good enough for a landing, they told the passengers to return to their cabins and wait until morning. During the night, the crew moved systematically throughout the ship, killing the sleeping refugees and stealing their treasures. After killing the passengers, the captain and crew set fire to the ship and headed to shore in lifeboats, but the ship didn’t sink. Instead, the legend claims that the flames grew higher and higher while the ship began to move forward into calm waters. Fearing for their lives, the crew abandoned the lifeboat and were never seen again. To this day, locals whisper of a ghost ship that can be seen under the first full moon of September. This ship, orange with flames, passes near the Ocracoke inlet three times, and then vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Another prominent local story involves the capture of the legendary pirate, Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard. Teach patrolled the Atlantic and Caribbean in his ship, Queen Anne’s Revenge, for a little over two years, and in the process became one of the most feared pirates of his day. As history records, Blackbeard was finally cornered by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and his men in November of 1718, just inside the Outer Banks near the southern tip of Hatteras. In a battle that was horribly bloody for both sides, the great Blackbeard suffered no fewer than 20 sword wounds and five gunshots before he was finally brought down. The English beheaded his corpse and tossed the body into the sea. His head, though, was kept. Maynard hung it from the bowsprit of his ship, and it was turned in later to collect his reward. Locals there near Ocracoke tell of a spot known as Teach’s Hole, where the legendary pirate once anchored his ship. If the stories are to be believed, Blackbeard’s ghost haunts the location – there are those who have claimed to see strange lights, both above and below the water there on the coast. They say it’s Blackbeard, swimming through the waters he used to patrol. Others say you can hear voices there. When storms blow in and waves crash against the shore, locals claim you can hear something besides the rain and thunder. It’s the sound of a man crying out in pain, the same words, over and over: “Where is my head?”

Hatteras is still popular with visitors today, though I would assume none of them are pirates. People still build homes there, they have streets and restaurants and parks and trees, tourists flock there every summer to take in the scenery, but right there on Snug Harbour Drive, near Brigands Bay, is a tree that’s called the island home for centuries. In fact, it was most likely ancient when the colonists first arrived hundreds of years before, and although most of the people driving by it are completely unaware, this tree has a story to tell. According to local legend, it starts with the arrival of a women near Frisco back in the early 1700s. They say her name was Cora, and she brought along a baby. They were always seen together, the child held tight to her chest or strapped into a sling. For an area frequented by sailors or widows of those who were lost at sea, this wasn’t an unusual sight. The Brigands Bay area was even more wooded then than it is now, and it’s said that she took up shelter in the forest there rather than in the small community that was forming on the coast. But it wasn’t living on the literal outskirts of society that earnt her a reputation as an outsider, it was her knack for the… unusual. Some have said that cows she touched would dry up and turn sick; when the fishing got rough and the nets were empty, Cora still managed to bring in enough to feed herself and the child; and when a local boy decided to poke fun at the baby, legend says that he got so sick he nearly died. Naturally, people talked. People always talk when things don’t fit the norm, and that talk spread. In an era when it didn’t take much more than an unpleasant disposition or off-colour comment to earn a woman a reputation as a witch, it seemed Cora was making it a little too easy for the locals to be suspicious.

The legend also tells of how during Cora’s stay, a ship called the Susan G ran aground off the northern coast of the island. The captain and his crew left the ship and came to town, and from there they made plans to repair it and continue their commercial journey. It sounds simple, right? Just repair the damage and move on – but doing so meant unloading all of the cargo, piece by piece, and bringing it to shore. The captain’s name, according to the legend, was Eli Blood. Now, that better have been his real name, because… come on, how perfect is that, right? Captain Blood. This captain enlisted the help of locals to move the cargo off his grounded ship and in the process, he got to know quite a few of them, which was a good thing judging by the repairs, he and his crew from Salem, Massachusetts, were bound to be there for a very long time - and it was during this long stay that he and his crew heard the stories of Cora and her baby. The heart of the rumours pointed to one, single, sensational conclusion: Cora was a witch, and the child she brought with her was her familiar, her supernatural pet. And, as it turned out, Captain Blood was probably the last person on earth that this mysterious Cora wanted to draw the suspicion of. The captain, it seems, was not just a sailor from Salem, Massachusetts. He claimed to know Cotton Mather, the puritan minister who was a passionate voice in support of the Salem Witch Trials. He had read Mather’s books, he was a student of Mather’s methods, and apparently shared the man’s intense hatred for the dark arts. So much so, in fact, that he considered himself a “white witch”, someone trained in combatting the forces of darkness with their own brand of magic. He claimed to have his own familiars, which he fed with drops of blood, and those familiars acted like spies for him, informing him of black magic nearby. Captain Eli Blood considered himself a witch hunter. Now, I realise this sounds incredibly hypocritical, which it is of course, but back then it was also heroic – it gave the people of the island a feeling of safety. At last, they might have said, we have someone here who can deal with Cora, the witch, if she gets out of hand. And that’s when the body of a man washed up on the beach.

The body wasn’t one of Captain Blood’s men, but it drew his concern nonetheless. It was the body of a young man from town, and although no makes could be found that pointed to the cause of his death, there were a number of other clues. Local legend tells of how the man’s face was twisted into a horrible expression of fear. His hands, they say, were clasped together, as if he had been kneeling before someone powerful, begging for his life. The man even had the numbers “666” carved into his forehead. The most damning evidence of all, however, were the footprints in the sand near his body. They were smaller than a man’s, and they moved away from the body in a clear, definable direction: the woods. Someone needed to investigate the man’s death, they said, and who better to do it than the witch hunter himself, Captain Eli Blood – he had little else to do while he waited on the ship’s owner to send help and supplies. This sounded like the perfect job for his idle mind. Captain Blood, for his part, agreed. He gathered his men, mostly slaves from Barbados who all had a healthy cultural fear of black magic, and together they went in search of Cora’s shack in the woods. When they found her, she was inside making breakfast for herself and her child; the men seized them both and brought them back to town. They accused Cora of witchcraft and murder, of course – how could they not, in a society governed by deep suspicion and intense fear of people who failed to fit in? Now, before you write them off as barbaric, remember that this is a flaw we have yet to overcome – we still fear those who are different from us. Maybe it’s genetic, or maybe it’s culturally ingrained. That fear is like a snake hiding in the bushes, always ready to strike, and it struck hard for Cora.

Captain Blood had her bound, left hand to right ankle, right hand to left ankle, and then carried her to the shore. There, he ordered her to be thrown into the water – it was a test, he said. If she floated, she was a witch, and seeing as how the tide was low and the waves were calm, of course she didn’t sink, how could she? Satisfied with the results, the captain moved on to his second test. Pulling his knife free, the man tried to cut a handful of Cora’s hair, but the blade failed to do its job. More proof, he declared, that she was, in fact, a witch… or at least proof that he needed to sharpen his knife, but hey, I’m no witch hunter. The final test was the most creepy and ambiguous of them all. Taking a bowl of seawater, the captain asked each of his crew to cut their fingertip and drip blood into the bowl. When they had all done so, he stirred this mixture with his knife until it foamed and swirled, and then he chanted words that no one else understood while staring hard into the bowl, and then raised his face in triumph. “She’s a witch,” he exclaimed, and then, as if needing a second opinion, he passed the bowl around to the others. Each of them, according to the story, saw two things in the bowl: the devil and the face of Cora. That was all the proof they needed – Cora was a witch, pure and simple, and now her execution would be completed.

The captain had his men gather firewood and branches and pile them at the base of a large oak tree near the bay, and then Cora and her child were tied to the tree, ready to be burnt alive. Now, what happened next will sound unusual. That’s the fingerprint of an old story – they sometimes take on a patina of oddities and otherworldliness. Sometimes, the patina adds texture, even value, to an antique – I’ll let you be the judge. According to the locals who tell the tale to this day, Captain Blood approached the tree with a lit torch in his hand, ready to set fire to the wood and burn the witch and her familiar alive, but another captain, a local man named John Smith, held him back, asking instead for Cora’s trial to go through the proper, legal channels. Smith, you see, being a sane man, wanted to do things right, but as the men argued, two things happened. First, the child in Cora’s arms twisted and writhed as it transformed into a large, black cat with shimmering green eyes. Second, a dark, ominous cloud began to gather overhead in an otherwise cloudless sky. Both men cried out in horror, and then Captain Blood lunged forward with the torch to ignite the kindling. It was at that very moment that the cloud overhead rumbled, and a lightning bolt flashed down, striking the tree and blinding everyone around it. When the smoke cleared, the tree was empty. The ropes were still there, as was the pile of branches and firewood, but the woman and the cat were gone without a trace. Well, that’s not true, there was one clue, and it’s difficult to believe. There, etched by lightning into the bark of the old oak tree were four, clear letters, which spelled out one single word: C, O, R, A. Cora.

The Outer Banks is just like any other place in the world on many levels. It has a history, and over the centuries that comprise that history, stories have been told. In a lot of ways, story is one of our greatest legacies. Wherever we’ve been, we’ve left story in our wake like footprints in the mud. Some stories are true and act like time capsules. Some are exaggerations of the truth and are meant to entertain later generations more than anything else. Some, though, serve to fill in the blanks, to answer those lingering questions or to explain the things we can’t wrap our minds around. Are there really fiery ghost ships and headless pirates haunting the Outer Banks? Was the word on the Cora tree, a word that you can still go see for yourself if you want, really carved into the bark by lightning? The chances are pretty good that it’s all just a collection of old, entertaining folktales, but some stories do both. Beneath their decorative paint and fantastical flourishes, they conceal a grain of truth deep in their core. The most famous local legend in the Outer Banks, by a mile, is the story of the lost colony of Roanoke. The island is located of the west coast of Hatteras island and, when the English settled there in 1585, they knew they were on the edge of the world. Building a settlement there took a lot of guts, but it came with a lot of risk and danger. When John White and a hundred new settlers landed in July of 1586, the first settlement was gone, so they stayed to investigate. They set up their own fort there, and also worked to establish relations with the local native American tribes: the Croatoan on what is now Hatteras and the Coree on the mainland. White left for England one year later to get supplies, but didn’t return for three years. When he did come back, no sign of the English could be found. He’d left them with a plan, though: if they were forced to leave, they’d been told to carve a cross into a nearby tree so White would know they’d been attacked, and he did find a carving, but it wasn’t a cross. It was a single word: Croatoan. This was good news because it meant they’d departed peacefully. White wanted to search Hatteras immediately, but when a terrible storm blew in, his men refused to stay. However painful it might have been – after all, White’s own granddaughter was among the missing – they left the very next day. It’s interesting to note that the Croatoan lived in southern Hatteras, in the area between modern day Buxton and Frisco, right by the Cora tree, and if it wasn’t really lightning that carved those letters, perhaps it was an actual human being. Sure, it could be nothing more than a centuries old prank or just a bit of lover’s graffiti, anything’s possible. Or maybe, like a myth with a grain of truth at its heart, this tree is the last hint in a chain of clues that point to the final destination of the settlers from Roanoke. You see, the Coree tribe on the mainland went by a few other names. Some called them the Cores, or the Coranine, or interestingly enough, the Cora.

[Closing statements]

Sorry for not uploading sooner

Chapter 6?

It was decidedly a bit colder than yesterday, Hotch thought, as a bitter wind suddenly cut right through his cloak. He leaned against the archway that stood over the road leading into Shade’s Grace, watching for any signs of movement. It was certainly easier to find a quiet spot in the village than it was back in the city, even while everyone here was panicking over the demorrans’ arrival.

Hotch sighed. Demorrans. Because fuck him right?

Long buried memories began flashing through his head: Bravenport burning, the intense drumming of demorran war skiffs, his feet pounding on the cobblestones, running away blindly...

He gripped his bow tightly, knuckles white. He couldn’t go through something like that again, not even here. He could leave right now. Run back to his cabin, grab his stuff, and go. He was already standing at the ex-

“There you are Hotch!”

Hotch exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath, as Shyla snuck up behind him. “Hey there, Shy. I didn’t hear you coming.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Someone was saying you walked off during the emergency meeting. They thought you had run off or something.”

“What? No, I-I wouldn’t do that,” replied Hotch, keeping his eyes on the horizon. “I... just needed some quiet. Figured I’d make sure our new friends weren’t coming back sooner than promised.”

Shyla took a place leaning on the post across the road from Hotch. “I think I’ll join you for a bit. I literally had to sedate Welsher to keep him from chasing the demorrans, never mind that he broke a few ribs.” She gave him a look. “So, do you have any ideas on how to get through this soldierboy?”

Hotch’s lip curled. “I’m not feeling very soldier-y right now. All I’m doing is standing around staring out into the moorlands. Meanwhile, you’re out here saving old people and picking fights with mounted soldiers.”

“Uh, no,” Shyla replied. “You’re making it sound a little too dramatic. Really I just wanted-“

Suddenly, a long, drawn out howl pierced the air, cutting Shyla off. It was accompanied by another howl, then another, and another, until the chill wind was filled with them. Shyla stood up straight, and looked to Hotch. “Whoa, does that howling sound close to y-?” She was cut off yet again, as the howling momentarily ceased. A new noise took its place, one that filled Hotch with a dread even colder than the air around him: a mirthless, inhuman cackling, intermingled with the distant baying of dogs.

Hotch drew an arrow from his quiver. “I think we should head back to the house now Shy,” he said hoarsely. His eyes darted around rapidly, but he couldn’t see anything moving.

“Yep sounds like a plan let’s go,” Shyla exclaimed, already moving briskly towards the village. Hotch followed suit, not tearing his eyes away from the road leaving town.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tyka... woke up.

The first thing she noticed was her splitting headache. It was as if something had wedged itself directly behind her eyes, and just kept digging in. It was mind numbingly painful, causing Tyka to roll over with a groan, rubbing her temples. And roll she did, falling over the edge of whatever she was lying upon. She hit the ground with a loud thunk, and she groaned louder. She had yet to open her eyes, and her head was killing her. Maybe she could sleep for just a little longer...

•Get up.•

Tyka’s eyes shot open, firelight burning into them as fiercely as flame itself. Squinting against her headache, she called out to the voice. “Thorn? Was that you? Where are you?”

Looking around, the young elf was surrounded by unusual shapes and objects. Wood carved and bound together to form a floor, walls, a ceiling. Fire contained in a hollow stone pillar. And metal, metal knives and rods strewn about the place. Tyka felt her heart drop into her stomach, and she sniffed the air, drawing in all sorts of strange scents. They confirmed her suspicions: this was a human dwelling.

•Undo your bindings•

Thorn’s voice echoed in her head, and Tyka realized that her hands and feet were indeed tied together. Deftly, she brought her hands to her mouth, and grabbed onto the binding with her sharpened teeth, biting it apart. She did the same with her feet, and stood up, palming her head as the migraine threatened to throw her off balance.

Thorn was leaning up against the frame of what Tyka assumed to be the entrance. It’s vine covered shaft and rose shaped spearhead were the only semblance of nature in the dwelling. •You’ve been asleep for far too long now champion. Much time has been wasted.•

Tyka crept over to the spear, feeling very uncomfortable. “I’m no champion,” she growled. “I don’t even know how I got here.”

•Do you need a refresher?• said Thorn, voice droning. •Your people attacked. Your father commanding you to steal me away. You running through the forest, chased by Demons. Ringing any bells?•

Tyka slowly shook her head. “After that I mean. Why did I pass out?”

•You ran for two days straight. Even after you lost your pursuers, you continued leaping from tree to tree. Nothing I said was stopping you: You were doom-driven, champion. At least, until you got careless, and smacked your head into a branch and plummeted to the forest floor.• The spear paused, vines swaying. •Then your squirrel guardian picked you up and spirited you to the edge of the woods.•

The elf perked up at that. “Zimpa saved me? She’s still alive?”

•Yes. She took a risk and brought you to a human hunter, who then carried you to a village with a healer. That was two days ago.•

“Two days...” Tyka took a moment to collect herself. That meant it had been four whole days since the Demons broke through the earth into the Wood. Four days since that gigantic shadowy beast stared her in the eye, bore right through her soul. She shivered at the mere thought of its twisted face.

“I’ve wasted enough time,” she suddenly declared. Four days was far too long a time for anyone to be fighting creatures like that. “Where are the humans?” Tyka asked as she took Thorn into her hands. As she did, her headache began to slowly recede.

•Their village seems to be having troubles with other folk,• Thorn said, •so they’ve been out for some time. But they would be of little use in a fight against Demons. You need to go and find one of their cities, and gain their support. Then the other Phylacteries must be found, as well as other champions to wield them. They will be the only chance we have at throwing the Demons back into their pit and saving your people.•

Tyka rested her head on the wall, breathing deeply. “Okay. Do you know where to find a ‘city’?”

There was a long pause before Thorn responded. •No, not exactly. But I know that many humans gathered around Clasitheron and her temple, along the southern coastline. So you should travel south, until you reach the sea.•

“Better than nothing, I suppose.” Tyka stood up straight, around a full four feet in height. “We’d better be off then.”

She tried pushing in the wood covering the entrance, but it wouldn’t budge. What point was there in covering it up if you couldn’t get in and out quickly, she pondered. Instead, Tyka approached one of the smaller gaps near to the entrance, and nimbly crawled outside. The day was coming to a close, it seemed, and there were numerous other dwellings scattered around the tree line. There was no sign of their inhabitants, however.

“Where are the humans?” She wondered aloud.

•As I said,• Thorn spoke, •they had some unwelcome guests this morning. They may all be hiding inside, or they may have departed for a larger settlement. Probably for the best, considering how close they live to Al’theruun.•

“True enough.” From the entrance, Tyka could see the setting sun through the bare canopy, and so began heading south. It did not take her long before she stopped, gazing out at the vast moorland before her. Gently billowing rises blanketed with patches of snow and grass stretched out across the land, dotted with small shrubs and the occasional boulder. Any trees were few and far between, giving Tyka pause.

“It’s just so... empty!”, she exclaimed. “And it goes on and on too!”

•What were you expecting   champion?• , the spear said. It almost sounded amused. •The Natural World has far more variation than simply forests and streams.•

Voices drew Tyka’s attention back towards the village, and looking back, she noticed the first signs of life amongst the dwellings. Two humans, a man and a woman, were walking some distance away at an urgent pace. The man carried a bow over his shoulder, causing Tyka’s nose to crinkle in distaste. Bows were tools for murderers, not hunters. Neither of them noticed the elf, but even so she kept low.

Tyka felt Thorn shift slightly in her hands, and one spectral hand gradually emerged from it. The hand slowly pointed at the humans. •Those two,• Thorn seemed to whisper. •Those were the humans that saved you. The hunter and the healer. They must be heading home.• The hand vanished back into the spear.

Tyka shook her head. “I suppose we should be leaving then, before they come looking for us.” And with that, the she-elf turned back around, and ventured off into the vast expanse.

She took not ten steps, however, before she noticed something amiss. “Thorn,” she whispered. “Are these lands always so quiet?” Truly, there wasn’t an animal to be heard, nor was there any breeze to sway the grass or drift the snow.

A moment passed, as if Thorn was listening. •Perhaps,• he finally replied. •It is winter, after all.•

“Maybe.” Though she felt apprehensive, Tyka took a few more steps forward.

Out of nowhere, a mound of snow suddenly rose up, and shook itself clear of the ground, revealing a monster Tyka knew could not be natural. It was nearly the size of a wolf, with matted, sickly green fur and an elongated snout, brimming with teeth. It’s eyes were nearly pitch black, but as the light of the dying caught reflected off them, she could see a multitude of colors shifting and gleaming. The bizarre creature cackled, horrifyingly similar to the laugh of an old man, and began creeping towards Tyka on long, lanky legs. She instinctively back away, only to hear more cackling from behind her. Looking around, she saw three more of the creatures, each varying in size but carrying the same malevolence in their gaze, blocking any escape.

These beasts were wholly demonic, that much Tyka could tell, especially considering they had managed to sneak up on her with nary a sound nor smell. “Altheron’s breath,” she cursed, lowering Thorn’s spearhead towards the one in front of her.

•To your left,• Thorn directed the young elf. •The tree, get up the tree, now!•

With the speed and elegance of an elven hunter, Tyka suddenly darted to the left, moving towards a tall aspen. The wolf creature, seemingly expecting this, lunged towards her, huge jaws opened wide. Thorn, however, was quicker. Jerking against Tyka’s movement, the spear reached out of its own accord, catching the monster in its shoulder. It howled with pain, black blood spraying into the snow. It backed off just long enough for Tyka to sprint to the aspen, and skillfully shimmy up its smooth trunk to a branch twenty feet up. Steadying herself, she saw the whole pack of wolf demons rush the tree, desperately claw at the base of the trunk while laughing maniacally. To her great shock, she watched as the began gnashing and biting the tree, splintering the trunk. Even from this distance, Tyka could see blood dribbling from their jaws as they hacked at the trunk, but they showed no signs of relenting as the tree began shuddering ominously.

The elf began to panic, breath coming in short gasps. There were no other trees around, and at the rate the beasts were going, the tree would fall any minute. One way or another, she was going to have to rejoin them on the ground, but she doubted she could outrun-

With a yelp, one of the laughing voices suddenly went quiet, and Tyka could see an arrow sprouting from the large creature’s eye. It slump to the ground, twitching violently, as the other three faced their new attackers. Tyka saw the humans from before approaching the creatures, the hunter with his bow drawn and another arrow already nocked, while the woman stood a few paces behind. “That’s gotta be the worst case of mange I’ve seen on any animal,” she heard the hunter yell. “Go on now, get out of here!”

Normal wolves might have run, but these demonic creatures instead began rushing at the hunter, baying fiercely. He loosed an arrow, hitting one of them in the front leg and sending it tumbling, but the other two were practically on top of him. Tyka took the opportunity to hop from her branch to the ground, and sprinted towards the wolves still standing. Human or not, she wasn’t about to let anyone die saving her life.

Before she could reach him, however, something very odd occurred. The woman, who had stood back until this point, suddenly cried out, “Hotch!” and raised up her hand. From her palm, a bright, burning white beam of light erupted, weaving past the hunter and split in two, which then impacted the two remaining wolves. As if they’d been struck by a great fist, they were immediately launched backwards, skidding across the frozen ground. They began twitching just as the first one had, apparently dead. The creature with the wounded leg, small than the others, slowly stood up and began limping away, cackling despite its injury.

Tyka cautiously approached the hunter, who was staring back at the woman, as if dumbfounded. “Shyla, how did- what jus-?” He suddenly noticed Tyka, and quickly aimed his bow at her. She stopped just as quickly, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Okay, let’s just slow things down a moment,” he declared, sounding more than a little confused.

Kia Orana from the Cook Islands

Our adventure started at 4.00am on Thursday the 1st of June, I had a surprisingly good sleep that evening considering what was happening, maybe the couple of rums I had earlier had helped me drift off to sleep, or maybe it was the exhaustion of the previous few months hard work all catching up with me. Regardless of the reason, 4.00am on Thursday the first of June signalled the start of my second around the world trip. It was arranged that my mum and dad would take me up to the and we would meet Sarah there. However we ended up in convoy regardless on a still day in Scotland's capital. We drew into the drop off bay behind Sarah and Mo and as we said our goodbyes and the tears started to flow, I was hit with a surge of excitement, I knew his feeling, and it meant that a great adventure was about to start for the two of us. We decided it best to say a short sharp goodbye at the airport drop off. Prolonging it would only make it harder for our parents, it's also a good thing we did, as if we had went for that cup of tea with them, there's a very good chance we wouldn't have left at all... Our flight plan was Edinburgh to Abu Dhabi and then Abu Dhabi to Sydney flying with Etihad airways. Followed by a very short stop over of 4 hours and then a flight from Sydney to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands with Air New Zealand. We approached the Etihad check in desk and were treated by a young women who was doing well to force a smile at that time in the morning, we said our formalities and handed over the relevant documents and then she said the words that nobody wants to hear at the start of any trip, let alone a world tour..."I can't check you in" Etihad were under the impression that our final destination was Sydney and that was to be our final stop, as far at they were concerned we were flying out with them to go and holiday in Australia, not the Cook Islands, and to allow us entry to Australian soil, we needed a holiday visa, which we didn't have as in reality all we were doing was a connecting flight. So this meant, if we didn't get the holiday visa for Australia... we weren't going to the Cook Islands. The good news was, our new friend could get us a visa, the bad news was, it was going to cost us extra money. We were going to have to pay for a three month visa so that we could see the inside of Kingston International Airport, the other thing was, it would take up to half an hour to come through. Putting pressure on us getting through security and departures. I wasn't worried about Sarah getting one, however because of my two year working holiday visa that I had there, I started wondering if for some reason I wouldn't be granted one, if that happened, what would happen about our trip? How would we get there? What about the money we would have wasted on these flights? It was to turn out a godsend that we didn't have that cup of tea with our parents before checking in, thankfully both visas were granted and the money was begrudgingly handed over, had a swift final pint of Tennents and a glass of champagne and headed for the gate. If we had went for tea, we would have probably missed our flights. Our flights were uneventful in all honesty, which is exactly how I like them. I watched a bit of tele, a few movies and then tried unsuccessfully to sleep. Sarah managed a lot more sleep than I did, the only thing she disliked about her flights was the fact she had selected a fruit platter as her meal of choice, so for a full day, all she got to eat onboard the flights was segments of fruit. I've never seen her demolish a burger like she did in Sydney. The Rarotonga flight was a whole 45 minutes shorter than scheduled thanks to a strong tail wind pushing us across the South Pacific Ocean. Darkness enveloped us for the whole trip until the captain announced that we were preparing for landing, the sky started to come alive with a red hue that hinted at revealing our destination. Somewhere below us an island 32km in circumference and home to only 12,000 people was waiting for us to arrive. As our final decent commenced, daylight broke to reveal a postcard worthy view of a tropical oasis in the middle of the sea, Rarotonga. At first glance, lush rainforest and exposed rugged mountain tops dominate the middle of the island, while perfectly white sand beaches allow crystal clear lagoons to lazily lap against them. In the distance, some other smaller islands are visible, although which of the fifteen islands that make up this beautiful country they were I'm really not sure. After almost 18 months of planning, we were finally here, Sarah's face was as perfect as I imagined it would be. The excitement clear for everyone on board to see. We got off the plane jus as daylight was fully up and surveyed where we were. Gloriously green trees covered the whole of the island and even from the runway we were now standing on, I could see the sea. As we walked towards the arrivals terminal a very welcoming site was overhead, sunshine, only broken by a sign that read "Kia Orana, Welcome to the Cook Islands" The Cook Islands came about thanks to my friend Lee, who I travelled Australia, New Zealand and Fiji with on my last adventure, him and my other friend from home Matt are on working holiday visas for New Zealand already and we decided that we should all meet for a holiday before we arrive in New Zealand, Lee had just finished a walking holiday in Nepal and would meet us there, Matthew was flying in from New Zealand and Lee's girlfriend Rebecca would complete the party of five. We were driven to our accommodation be Terè the care taker of the house, we had rented a small apartment near the downtown district of Averua, the main hub of Rarotonga, and when we arrived at a little after 7:30am the house was quiet, it had been thirty seven hours since we started our travels, and we were just glad to see our final destination. As Terè started showing us about the property, Matt appeared to greet us we said our thanks to Terè and headed for a nap, I hadn't properly slept in a day and a half and I didn't want jet lag to hit me any harder than it was probably going to. When we got up, lee was awake and after a quick catch up with him and Rebecca we headed out to see the island. The first thing that we noticed was just how small the island is. Rarotonga is 32km all the way around you can drive around the whole of it in just over half an hour, the speed limit anywhere on the island is 50km an hour which works out at 31mph. Buses, of which there are two, don't have destinations, just "clockwise" and "anti-clockwise". Nobody is in a rush to do anything, we went for brunch and our first meal was brilliant, after going and buying in some food and beers, we headed back to the house for a wee drink and further catch up before heading out for dinner, a quiet night was had to try and fight our jet lag, which was slowly catching up with us. We rented a car so that we had some freedom to see the island at our leisure, this turned out to be a good decision as it gave us our first opportunity to see what I would describe as the postcard side of Rarotonga. Muri is on the south east side of the island, it is where a lot of the swimming and snorkelling happens and is also home to the Muri Lagoon, a beautiful area with a shallow lagoon perfect for lazing around in, after initially lazing around in the waters we decided to rent paddle boards for an hour and laugh at each other attempting to stand up and paddle around the lagoon, annoyingly it was me who fell in the most and was the main cause for laughter, Sarah was very steady, along with Rebecca and Lee, which makes me and Matty think that weight has something to do with it. Muri isn't just a site of outstanding natural beauty. It is also where the people of the Cook Islands congregated many years ago before sailing out in search of new land, over 300 vakas, a form of large canoe met around the lagoon before heading out to cross the South Pacific Ocean in search of a land with large large lakes, big mountains and long white clouds, 6 Vakas made it over to the new land, which eventually became colonised by the Maori and was named Aotearoa. Known to you and I as New Zealand. The history here is something of a mixed bag, it seems that every one of the 15 Islands that make up the Cook Islands has a different number of vakas that left from Muri lagoon, some say that it was over 300 as said above some more, some less, but what I like about it is that everyone knows the story. Every island knows their history. Every child is taught it and everyone has an opinion on it. In Scotland, everyone knows bits of history but very few know it to the same extent at the Cook Islands do. They take their heritage very seriously too, still having tribal areas and villages that they belong to. We seen some of these villages and areas when we attempted the cross island walk on our third day. This walk goes right through the middle of the island from north to south on what we assumed was a well walked track. The first 45 minutes was gentle incline through some small settlements and past some houses and farmland. What followed can only be described as a climb up to the "needle", which is best summed up as a bit rock that sits almost right in the middle of the island. From the needle you can see out to both norther and south coastlines and most of the western side of the island. With a "climb the needle at your own risk. Injury and death can occur if caution isn't taken" sign stuck to the start point of the small but quite physically demanding rock climb to the look out point. Our trek over the top to the south side of the island involved several river crossings and climbing down some rather worn looking tree roots to get back down to sea level again and then get picked up on the clockwise bus back to our local pub at Trader Jacks in Avarua. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in these beautiful islands, during my times there I was able to take in a culture show, snorkel the Muri Marine reserve, eat more fresh fish than I care to admit, learned about just how many ways there is to use a coconut tree (of which there are many) and had time to finally relax, unwind and recharge my batteries ready for our year in New Zealand. This part of my travels for me will be remembered for just how chilled out it was, and that's ok. That is exactly what the locals want you to do. They actively encourage you to sit down, have that other beer and watch the sun go down. We visited the third best beach bar in the world (according to CNN Travel) whilst there and although we went to watch the sunset, we could easily have just sat on the beach, drinking beers and swapping stories until it rose again. In conclusion, visit this amazing place, but be prepared to relax, the charm of this island is that really, you have no choice. Once you accept that, you will find yourself buying a colourful shirt, saying "Kia Orana" to everyone you meet and start opening coconuts that fall into your garden like the locals do, or at least attempting to. You will nap, walk around in bare feet and forget your wearing a watch. Everyone works on island time, shops open when the owner wakes up and close when he or she feels like it. A sign may read "back in five minutes...island time" this could be anything from six minutes to an hour. Buses aren't where they are meant to be, ever, activities you book will start late as well as much more. At first it will frustrate you. You will wonder why people can't stick to schedules and opening times, however that's not how things work here. The faster you get tuned into island time the more relaxed you will become. Something missing in most of our lives. We now move onto New Zealand to start or year long working holiday visa, however I'm very glad we decided to visit this little island in the South Pacific, being on island time for ten days has really helped us to settle into the travelling way of life again and we look and are ready for whatever comes our way next. Ata wai wolo Rarotonga!