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Swaxce, the Warrior Goddess
by Paradox_Az
Aspiring writer
3 days ago
Macla ran through the forest, as fast as her hooves could carry her. She had been trying to escape this accursed forest for what seemed to be days now, the early dawn fading into night as she kept on running away, away from the rhythmic beat of war drums that she still heard over in the distance.
It was supposed to be a simple fight: raid the lupine tribe inhabiting the groove and bring back captives to her herd’s shaman. Weak prey for an auroch war party such as themselves, the trial being one of speed: strike and take them before they could react. Prove they could move like the winds yet strike as thunder.
Their expectations went unfulfilled. They reached the camp, only to find it abandoned, its occupants missing. They ransacked it, searching and falling to find any clues as to where the lupines went, and were ready to turn back, their quarry replaced by trinkets taken from the camp.
A few seconds later, they were met with the echoes of war drums, and a rain of projectiles coming from the trees. Lupines concealed within the pine needles threw everything they had at them, stone and spears on her and her warband in unrelenting waves. The furred ones had expected them, and even brought allies from other tribes to hunt the hunters.
They tried to fight back on her orders, ready to chop the trees down with their axes to even the odds. And they would have, if not for fighters emerging from the shrubs, ready to protect the trunks. What should have been a temporary setback had turned into a well-thought-out trap, one that left her group no way out.
Macla could not let the lupines capture her. As the chieftain’s daughter, being captured would have meant disgrace, and she had no will to fight to the death either. So she ordered the others to fight going forward, and when she saw an opening in the lupine’s circle, she ran through and did not look back.
She had been running since, carried by her fear, her limbs numb because of her blood turned ice cold. She had let go of her axe a long time ago, throwing it away in the hope of confusing her pursuers, and yet the war drums were still as present in her ears, perhaps even closer than they were before. And yet, she never saw anyone when she had peered over her shoulder.
Macla had to stop before her heart gave out. There was no one there but her. She should be able to…
She slowed as she passed by a deep puddle and barely reached it before collapsing on her knees. She barely paid attention to the haggard gaze and messy fur of her reflection as she drank straight from the pond. It tasted foul, but it was fresh, perfect to clear her head and soothe her burning throat.
As she finished drinking, she noticed that the drums had stopped, and was left to wonder where she was. She had run toward her home, she was sure of it… but the woods all looked the same to her, and the moonlight barely shone through the canopy. She could advance without fear of falling, but everything beyond her few next steps was a complete mystery… one she would have to brave.
She took a deep breath, on that pained her burning lungs, to stead herself… when she heard wood cracking on her left.
She turned her head just in time to see a tree collapsing her way, jumping back as it was about to crush her. She dodged the trunk itself, leaving it to fall on the now dry puddle, but was still buried under its numerous branches full of pine needles that flagellated her bare face and arms. She pulled herself out of the spiky foliage, now wary of the silence surrounding her, looking for whatever pushed a tree down on her.
Macla shook with dread as she quickly came to understand it wasn’t war drums following her since the battle. It was the rhythmic sound of hoofsteps belonging to something much, much bigger than her.
“Stand up and fight, worm!”
The booming voice made her stand, but she barely spared a backward glance before running away. She saw what had tried to kill her: a female auroch twice her size, made of muscles and scarred flesh, with red eyes shining with hatred that followed her every move. She did not need to be a shaman to recognise Swaxce, the warrior goddess… nor to comprehend the clear killing intent emanation from her cold stare.
“You promised me a fight! Come and claim it!”
Dazed by the powerful shouts, Macla barely heard branches being pulled from bark, and turned just in time to see the goddess hurl one in her direction, steady as a finely crafted throwing spear despite the foliage still clinging to it. She tried dodging, but the best she could do was to make it tear off the right side of her leather garbs instead of her back. And it still was fast enough to embed itself deep in another tree.
She had to keep going, and to stay out of the goddess’ sight. She hoped to gain enough time to put some distance between her and the raging deity to return to her herd safely, and it might have worked had she seen the southern plains, her land, appear beyond the remaining trees. Far from invigorating her, the sight made her realise she would soon be exposed and defenceless.
She gulped as the edge of the woods creeped ever closer. Her time was running out.
“You craven! Praying for a fight, yet turning tail when it is offered to you!”
Swaxce’s words made Macla stop behind a thick tree, which made the deafening hoofsteps stop in turn. She, along with her warband, had prayed to the goddess with her herd’s shaman for their success in the upcoming fight. There hadn’t been any fight before the lupines showed up, and she fled as soon as she could to save her own skin.
She came to the dreadful realisation that she did own the goddess a fight… one she had turned away at every opportunity. And now, the goddess had come to collect her due…
Her shaky hand took the knife still attached to her belt. A tiny thing made of bone that had seen its fair share of use; it was worthless compared to the axe she had abandoned earlier, and yet it was all she had. There were stones on the ground, however. If she could perhaps distract the goddess for a moment, maybe she would be able to get a good hit, give the deity what she sought before being smitten.
A bad plan… but it was all that she had.
A piece of rock in hand, she tried to steady herself and got ready to throw… only for Swaxce to enter her sight, her size enough to conceal the myriad of trees stranding before her, her weapon, a slab of grey flint taller than a young tree and thick as an auroch, raised high and ready to strike her target down.
The chieftain’s daughter threw the rock, aiming for the large face of the being in front of her. It broke as it hit the goddess snout, sending tiny shards that barely elicited a blow from her nose in response. A giant hand grabbed her waist and effortlessly lifted her before she could understand how little impact her attack had.
She still had her knife, and tried to stab her way out, but it did nothing. The dulled blade bounced off the fingers she tried to pierce, and the moment her weapon found some purchase in an old scar, it broke in half, leaving her with only a handle in hand as she came face to face with the goddess, close enough to feel her breath against her fur. It reeked of rancid blood, enough to make her dizzy as a will-rending stare shook what little of her courage remained.
“A miserable fight, befitting your being. Let me give you the glory you deserve before you return to your worthless herd, worm.”
The hand released its grip on her, and for the fleetest moment, she thought she would come crashing down on the ground below. But her eyes caught sight of a greyish blur approaching her as fast as a falling star, before being struck in her torso.
Her gaze grew hazy as she cried out in pain, unable to comprehend what happened. She felt as if she weighed nothing, drifting as if she was untethered to the material world. Was it what the shaman saw, when he communed with the gods and spirits? Would she be pulled up to the night sky above her by Stella, never to be seen again?
It’s only when she crashed on something soft, the pain now erupting in her bruised back, that she understood: Swaxce had struck her with her club, leaving her to land in the southern plains. She had finally reached her homelands, with only a broken body for spoils. As she tried to get back on her hooves, she saw the goddess, looking at her from the edge of the woods with her hand resting on her club’s grip, dismissing her with a snort as she turned to leave.
She wanted to speak, but only a blood-filled cough managed to escape her mouth. As she looked down, she saw in the moonlight that her garbs had been torn to shred by the goddess’s weapon, the stitching broken by the force of impact. Small puncturing wounds were even visible where the uneven flint surface had been pointier, but they seemed to only go skin deep and not to threaten her immediate survival.
As she got used to the pain, she realised how lucky she had been. She still felt her arms and legs, even if they hurt all over, and the goddess could have easily cleaved her in half if she so wished… but she did not. Instead, she let her live to return to her herd, alone and broken, but still standing.
As she propped herself up with her elbows, she resolved she would redeem herself. She would return to her father, to her shaman. Tell them what happened, what she did. She would face her punishment for her failure. And if they allowed her, she would return to the clearing with her herd mates to rescue those that she left behind, be it to lead them or just to stand by their sides as they take revenge on the lupines.
________________________
A story a wrote as an inspiration for the attached picture, the Warrior Goddess of Grouerra standing above one of "her" flock that reneged on the promise of a fight she gave her, before turning tail in battle. With that, half the pantheon of this setting now has an established appearance. Only three more to get a full "collection", so to speak !
Many thanks once again to
rottenroye, who can't seems to miss in the artwork department !
It was supposed to be a simple fight: raid the lupine tribe inhabiting the groove and bring back captives to her herd’s shaman. Weak prey for an auroch war party such as themselves, the trial being one of speed: strike and take them before they could react. Prove they could move like the winds yet strike as thunder.
Their expectations went unfulfilled. They reached the camp, only to find it abandoned, its occupants missing. They ransacked it, searching and falling to find any clues as to where the lupines went, and were ready to turn back, their quarry replaced by trinkets taken from the camp.
A few seconds later, they were met with the echoes of war drums, and a rain of projectiles coming from the trees. Lupines concealed within the pine needles threw everything they had at them, stone and spears on her and her warband in unrelenting waves. The furred ones had expected them, and even brought allies from other tribes to hunt the hunters.
They tried to fight back on her orders, ready to chop the trees down with their axes to even the odds. And they would have, if not for fighters emerging from the shrubs, ready to protect the trunks. What should have been a temporary setback had turned into a well-thought-out trap, one that left her group no way out.
Macla could not let the lupines capture her. As the chieftain’s daughter, being captured would have meant disgrace, and she had no will to fight to the death either. So she ordered the others to fight going forward, and when she saw an opening in the lupine’s circle, she ran through and did not look back.
She had been running since, carried by her fear, her limbs numb because of her blood turned ice cold. She had let go of her axe a long time ago, throwing it away in the hope of confusing her pursuers, and yet the war drums were still as present in her ears, perhaps even closer than they were before. And yet, she never saw anyone when she had peered over her shoulder.
Macla had to stop before her heart gave out. There was no one there but her. She should be able to…
She slowed as she passed by a deep puddle and barely reached it before collapsing on her knees. She barely paid attention to the haggard gaze and messy fur of her reflection as she drank straight from the pond. It tasted foul, but it was fresh, perfect to clear her head and soothe her burning throat.
As she finished drinking, she noticed that the drums had stopped, and was left to wonder where she was. She had run toward her home, she was sure of it… but the woods all looked the same to her, and the moonlight barely shone through the canopy. She could advance without fear of falling, but everything beyond her few next steps was a complete mystery… one she would have to brave.
She took a deep breath, on that pained her burning lungs, to stead herself… when she heard wood cracking on her left.
She turned her head just in time to see a tree collapsing her way, jumping back as it was about to crush her. She dodged the trunk itself, leaving it to fall on the now dry puddle, but was still buried under its numerous branches full of pine needles that flagellated her bare face and arms. She pulled herself out of the spiky foliage, now wary of the silence surrounding her, looking for whatever pushed a tree down on her.
Macla shook with dread as she quickly came to understand it wasn’t war drums following her since the battle. It was the rhythmic sound of hoofsteps belonging to something much, much bigger than her.
“Stand up and fight, worm!”
The booming voice made her stand, but she barely spared a backward glance before running away. She saw what had tried to kill her: a female auroch twice her size, made of muscles and scarred flesh, with red eyes shining with hatred that followed her every move. She did not need to be a shaman to recognise Swaxce, the warrior goddess… nor to comprehend the clear killing intent emanation from her cold stare.
“You promised me a fight! Come and claim it!”
Dazed by the powerful shouts, Macla barely heard branches being pulled from bark, and turned just in time to see the goddess hurl one in her direction, steady as a finely crafted throwing spear despite the foliage still clinging to it. She tried dodging, but the best she could do was to make it tear off the right side of her leather garbs instead of her back. And it still was fast enough to embed itself deep in another tree.
She had to keep going, and to stay out of the goddess’ sight. She hoped to gain enough time to put some distance between her and the raging deity to return to her herd safely, and it might have worked had she seen the southern plains, her land, appear beyond the remaining trees. Far from invigorating her, the sight made her realise she would soon be exposed and defenceless.
She gulped as the edge of the woods creeped ever closer. Her time was running out.
“You craven! Praying for a fight, yet turning tail when it is offered to you!”
Swaxce’s words made Macla stop behind a thick tree, which made the deafening hoofsteps stop in turn. She, along with her warband, had prayed to the goddess with her herd’s shaman for their success in the upcoming fight. There hadn’t been any fight before the lupines showed up, and she fled as soon as she could to save her own skin.
She came to the dreadful realisation that she did own the goddess a fight… one she had turned away at every opportunity. And now, the goddess had come to collect her due…
Her shaky hand took the knife still attached to her belt. A tiny thing made of bone that had seen its fair share of use; it was worthless compared to the axe she had abandoned earlier, and yet it was all she had. There were stones on the ground, however. If she could perhaps distract the goddess for a moment, maybe she would be able to get a good hit, give the deity what she sought before being smitten.
A bad plan… but it was all that she had.
A piece of rock in hand, she tried to steady herself and got ready to throw… only for Swaxce to enter her sight, her size enough to conceal the myriad of trees stranding before her, her weapon, a slab of grey flint taller than a young tree and thick as an auroch, raised high and ready to strike her target down.
The chieftain’s daughter threw the rock, aiming for the large face of the being in front of her. It broke as it hit the goddess snout, sending tiny shards that barely elicited a blow from her nose in response. A giant hand grabbed her waist and effortlessly lifted her before she could understand how little impact her attack had.
She still had her knife, and tried to stab her way out, but it did nothing. The dulled blade bounced off the fingers she tried to pierce, and the moment her weapon found some purchase in an old scar, it broke in half, leaving her with only a handle in hand as she came face to face with the goddess, close enough to feel her breath against her fur. It reeked of rancid blood, enough to make her dizzy as a will-rending stare shook what little of her courage remained.
“A miserable fight, befitting your being. Let me give you the glory you deserve before you return to your worthless herd, worm.”
The hand released its grip on her, and for the fleetest moment, she thought she would come crashing down on the ground below. But her eyes caught sight of a greyish blur approaching her as fast as a falling star, before being struck in her torso.
Her gaze grew hazy as she cried out in pain, unable to comprehend what happened. She felt as if she weighed nothing, drifting as if she was untethered to the material world. Was it what the shaman saw, when he communed with the gods and spirits? Would she be pulled up to the night sky above her by Stella, never to be seen again?
It’s only when she crashed on something soft, the pain now erupting in her bruised back, that she understood: Swaxce had struck her with her club, leaving her to land in the southern plains. She had finally reached her homelands, with only a broken body for spoils. As she tried to get back on her hooves, she saw the goddess, looking at her from the edge of the woods with her hand resting on her club’s grip, dismissing her with a snort as she turned to leave.
She wanted to speak, but only a blood-filled cough managed to escape her mouth. As she looked down, she saw in the moonlight that her garbs had been torn to shred by the goddess’s weapon, the stitching broken by the force of impact. Small puncturing wounds were even visible where the uneven flint surface had been pointier, but they seemed to only go skin deep and not to threaten her immediate survival.
As she got used to the pain, she realised how lucky she had been. She still felt her arms and legs, even if they hurt all over, and the goddess could have easily cleaved her in half if she so wished… but she did not. Instead, she let her live to return to her herd, alone and broken, but still standing.
As she propped herself up with her elbows, she resolved she would redeem herself. She would return to her father, to her shaman. Tell them what happened, what she did. She would face her punishment for her failure. And if they allowed her, she would return to the clearing with her herd mates to rescue those that she left behind, be it to lead them or just to stand by their sides as they take revenge on the lupines.
________________________
A story a wrote as an inspiration for the attached picture, the Warrior Goddess of Grouerra standing above one of "her" flock that reneged on the promise of a fight she gave her, before turning tail in battle. With that, half the pantheon of this setting now has an established appearance. Only three more to get a full "collection", so to speak !
Many thanks once again to
rottenroye, who can't seems to miss in the artwork department !
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