Drokkan - The Misunderstood Bull | Valhastynn

The last light of day bled like a dying thing over the jagged teeth of the Dragon's Tooth, painting the alpine snows in shades of violet and blood-orange. The air was a sharp, clean knife in the lungs, carrying the scent of pine, cold stone, and the primal thrum of magic that was the mountain’s true lifeblood. Far below, a deep, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the rock—the slow, sleeping breath of the primordial dragon that slumbered in the world’s core.

High on a windswept ledge, that thrumming was drowned out by a more immediate, violent symphony.

A roar, not of a beast but of frustration, echoed through the crags. Drokkan, a colossal monument of muscle and dark fur, brought his fists down on the shale-like ground, sending a spray of sharp fragments flying. Before him, a massive Frost-Spined Bristleback scrambled for purchase, its hide a armor of frozen, magical quills that clattered like bones. The boar was as big as a pony, its breath pluming in the frigid air, eyes glowing with a faint, malicious blue light.

Drokkan was a terrifying sight. Blood—the Bristleback's—smeared his dark chest and arms, matting the fine hair and starkly highlighting the white tattoos that swirled over his skin. His pupil-less white eyes were narrowed in concentration, his massive, forward-curving horns gleaming menacingly in the fading light. With a grunt that was more bull than man, he lunged.

It was not a graceful hunt. It was a avalanche of pure force. He tanked a glancing blow from a quilled shoulder that would have impaled a lesser creature, wrapped his tree-trunk arms around the beast's neck, and with a final, wrenching twist, brought it down. The sound of the impact was a sickening, final crunch.

Panting, hot breath steaming in the air, Drokkan straightened up. He prodded the dead beast with a bloody foot. "Stubborn," he rumbled to the twilight. "Tough meat. But good for stew."

A soft whump-whump of wings broke the silence. A large, grumpy-looking Great Horned Owl, feathers the color of bark and snow, descended with an air of immense put-upon dignity. It landed precariously on one of Drokkan’s massive horns, talons scraping against the bone.

"A spectacle of pure elegance," the owl, Borog, intoned, his voice a dry rasp. "Truly. The poets will sing of the great Drokkan, who wrestles his dinner into a paste. Did you have to pulverize the best cuts?"

Drokkan blinked, looking from the owl on his head to the carcass. "Drokkan was hungry. It ran." He bent down, hefting the enormous boar onto his shoulders with a grunt of effort. The weight would have crippled a team of oxen. To him, it was a satisfying burden.

"It ran because you announced your presence by knocking over a small copse of trees," Borog hooted. "Subtlety. A word. You should lick it. Learn its meaning."

Drokkan's tongue, thick and dark, snaked out and licked a patch of blood from his bicep. He considered the taste. "Iron. And... magic. Tingly."

"I was being metaphorical, you walking butcher's block," Borog sighed, preening a feather back into place. "But since we are on the topic of your peculiar diet, must you always eat them raw? A little fire. A moment of culinary ambition."

"Fire hot. Cooks from outside. Drokkan likes inside still... wriggly." He snorted, pleased with his explanation, and began trudging back towards his cave, the Bristleback's frozen quills scraping against the rock face.

They bickered like this for several minutes, a familiar, comfortable rhythm. It was only as the first stars began to prick the deep indigo sky that Borog seemed to remember something.

"Ah. The reason I was searching for you, before I was so rudely interrupted by your attempt to redecorate the mountain with boar viscera." The owl fluttered down to perch on the boar's head, looking upside down into Drokkan's face. "There is another one. At the Pillar."

Drokkan's heavy footsteps faltered. His great head tilted, a gesture of pure, simple curiosity that made his horns sway. "Another... shiny-rock-bringer?"

Borog let out a exasperated click of his beak. "A sacrifice, you great lummox. The skin-things. The ones that scream."

Understanding, slow and warm, dawned on Drokkan's features. "Oh. The skittish ones. With the funny ropes." He'd been curious about these strange, hairless creatures the mountain sometimes delivered. They were like brittle, chattering monkeys, but they never stayed. He'd tried to offer one a leg of venison once. It had just screamed louder and run faster. It had been confusing.

"Yes, the ones with the 'funny ropes' that they tie themselves up with," Borog droned. "A pointless endeavor. They always run. They always die. It is a waste of a perfectly good trip down the mountain. We have dinner to attend to."

But Drokkan's curiosity, once piqued, was a stubborn thing. Maybe this one wouldn't run. Maybe this one would like stew. "Drokkan wants to see."

Despite Borog's grumbling prophecies of wasted time, the minotaur changed direction, his innate sense of direction pulling him unerringly towards the place the humans called the Offering Stone. The path was long, the Pillar standing alone in a clearing littered with strange totems and talismans that hummed with weak, fearful magic. They meant nothing to Drokkan; they were just oddly arranged sticks and rocks.

Finally, the Pillar came into view—a flat, dark stone stained by weather and ringed by whispering charms. And there, tied to it with thick ropes, was a new one.

Drokkan stopped at the edge of the clearing, the dead Bristleback still on his shoulders. Borog took wing, landing on a nearby talisman post. "See?" the owl muttered. "Same as the others. Pink and soft-looking. Useless."

But Drokkan didn't see 'same'. He saw new. He dropped his quarry with a ground-shaking thud that undoubtedly startled the bound man, and approached. He moved with a startling quietness for his size, his white eyes wide with innocent fascination.

He didn't speak. He just... investigated.

A low, rumbling snuffling sound came from his chest as he leaned in, his hot, hay-scented breath washing over the man. He sniffed his hair, his clothes. He reached out one thick, blood-caked finger and poked the man's chest, testing the give of the flesh. Then, following his most reliable instinct, his tongue—rough as sandstone—licked a stripe up the man's cheek.

"Hmm," he grunted, processing the taste. "Salt. And... sweat. Different from Bristleback."

"They all taste like that!" Borog called from his perch. "And they all end the same. It will run, it will fall, it will freeze. A blizzard gathers on the peak. It will be here before the moon is high."

Drokkan ignored him, his simple mind working. This one felt different. With a delicacy astonishing in his brutish hands, his thick fingers began to work at the knots of the ropes. They were complex, but he solved them the way he solved a stubborn root—with persistent, steady pressure until they gave way.

Once the man was free, Drokkan took a few steps back. He sat on his haunches, a mountain of dark skin, muscle, and dried blood, and simply... waited. His head was cocked, his expression one of hopeful, genuine curiosity. He wasn't a monster standing over his prey. He was a lonely creature who had found a new, fascinating thing, and he was waiting to see what it would do.