[sub][i]KhoZee Productions present...[/i][/sub][centre][h3]NISSHI the NAMELESS[/h3]
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[h1][sub]Mish-Cheechel the Avenger[/sub][/h1]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/LDRtUBd.gif[/img]
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When Mish-Cheechel first set his eyes upon flames, the raging firestorm in his eyes bloomed like a great carmine flower and his raging heart swelled in recognition of a thing that was nearest of all creation to it in nature. That was how Mish-Cheechel discovered that vengeance was not ice, but fire. He sat for many sunsets and moonsets by the flame, now gazing into it and now boring his eyes into the grave that some strangers had chosen to erect for his son - or so the people said. Neither Clan Rod nor all of bjorkkind had known graves before - [i]they had never had need for graves before[/i]. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed as the anger threatened to overwhelm him. Grinding his great teeth against each other, he stared balefully into the fire and gripped his new spear in his hand. It was not like the spears of the days before the Green Murder, the days before the bjorks started to cultivate the flame; it was fire-hardened.

His stomach rumbled and pain lanced through his abdomen. He had not eaten in longer than he cared to remember, and sleep had not set on his eyes since the day his boy’s life had been severed by the eagle god. And he would not be Mish-Cheechel if he joyed in food or drink, or allowed himself to rest, before the Green Murder lay dead at his feet. The sound of his teeth scraping incessantly filled the silent air and the fire danced and cast eerie shadows, almost mockingly, before him. Rising in a sudden gale of fury, he swept his great tail and scattered the flames and embers in every which way. His dire eye did not spare even the monument that those [i]kind[/i] strangers had built for his boy and he pounded the spear against the [i]mocking effigy[/i] that sought to eternalise the form and face of his Zabitsyn. The spear glanced against the stone and left no mark, but the vengeful Mish-Cheechel paid no heed to compassion’s right and did not, in his fury, perceive the gravity of the sacrilege.

A great gust of freezing wind blew down upon him then, as if screaming some terrible note of discord. The glowing embers of the fire were blown away into the night and darkness took hold under the dimming, cracked moon and the indignant stars. A voice rose above the raging chorus, one feminine but of no lassiebjork or of the Green Murder- Nay this was something different. Something elemental.

“YOU LEAVE! NOW!” She roared like the wind itself! 

Mish-Cheechel swept his blade-like tail and turned in the face of the growing gale. Another bjork may have bowed and whimpered, or let up a conquered wail, but Mish-Cheechel was no coward nor was he weak or frail. He braced himself and bravely met the ice and hail: watch him greet the strikes of winter then - twice, thrice! - watch him assail! “I’ll not leave, deathspawn, I’ll not fear: but in the earth I’ll leave you dead, I swear!” He leapt into the heart of the wintertide, his snout frosting over and his great brows gathering swift-rising flakes of snow, and he struck with his fire-tried spear and swept with his mighty tail and snapped with his wood-crushing teeth.

The wind whipped and bit but never seemed to lash out with the intensity to maim him and try as he might he wasn’t really hitting anything either. It was just wind whipping at him; ice and sleet and snow. It began to push at him, testing his limits. The voice came again, still matching the same pitch and roar. “DEATHSPAWN? YOU! YOU DEFILE! LEAVE FRIEND ALONE!”

If Mish-Cheechel heard, he neither gave response nor stopped. He stamped his feet and beat his tail and lashed out tenaciously with his spear. He turned and crouched and leapt and swirled, he bit the vaporous air. And when he paused, he took a breath and loosed some silvery puffs into the frosty night, then leapt once more to fight the frost, the cold, the winter - that is, to fight nothing, to fight himself, to swing and strike only, to give vent to his furies rather than loose the flood of grief. Vengeance and rage was better by far than grief! Through the night he raged and surged, unceasing was his madness. When at last dawn broke he lay huffing on his tail, flailing with his arm, turning now this way, now that. “Defile, pah. You can’t defile the dead - only the living are defiled.” He growled out, and then his voice rose, “what do the dead care for defilement when their very death is defilement!? Go tell the rain not to get the river wet!”

The wind, by that point, only gusted over the manbjork. Then at last when his voice fell quiet, the wind dissipated altogether and he could hear the sounds of birds chirping and water running. “Fool Bjork.” Came the same voice, quieter now and from behind. He turned his head and came face to face with standing rocks. Pebbles, stones of different shapes and sizes, had all formed the vague shape of a manbjork. Through the cracks there came a wispy mist that glowed a faint blue. “Dead is dead. Living remember! Living no defile! You leave now. No more touch friend!”

Sitting up and hefting his spear, Mish-Cheechel eyed the strange creature. “What are you? The voice of the restless dead? Some haunter of graves? Are you real or am I going mad? Whatever you are, get going from my sight, I’ll have no more of this madness where my boy lies.”

The stones rubbed against each other as the odd creature looked to him and then the grave, then back to him. "You… Father? Friend father?" She asked in a much softer, quieter voice before the stones collapsed entirely and all that remained was an ethereal cloud. Like mist on a sunny day, the blue glow about it fading to grey. Whatever it was, it was shapeless and had no discernable form, and simply waited there before him. There was silence between them and Mish-Cheechel looked away from the strange ghost. At last a sigh whistled through his teeth and he got up.

“Whatever,” he muttered irritably and walked off, heaving a massive leather saddle over his shoulder as he went, “I’ve bears to kill, no time for this shit anyway.” He dragged his tail until he passed the last of the stone effigies, the wooden stirrup carved delicately by the Carver bouncing thoughtlessly on the ground behind him. 

The mist flew beside him, taking the vague shape of a bird in flight. "No kill. Kill bad. Stay?" She said. The manbjork scoffed and glanced at the bird, his pace unslowing.

“Kill bad eh? Maybe once, long ago - before the Green Murder. But now, kill good. Kill is very good.” He smacked his tail against the earth as the first of the trees rose up around them, but before he quite disappeared a voice gave him pause.

“Uncle Bish! Uncle Bish!” Mish-Cheechel did not turn, but his walking slowed so that the shouting kit was easily able to catch up. “Where’ve you been uncle Bish? Pap is lookin for you.” Mish-Cheechel, enormous even by bjorkman standards, got down on one knee and patted the kit.

“Tell your pap I won’t be long, Brat-Hwopak. I’ve just got a little somethin to do.” He rose to the kit’s protests.

“But uncle Bish-”

“That’s not my name anymore, Brat.” Mish-Cheechel’s voice cut across him like ice. “Go on home now.” Whatever home remained, at least, though Mish-Cheechel did not say it. Brat-Hwopak looked sullenly at his uncle, and then his eyes fell on the bird. He frowned as Mish-Cheechel walked past.

“Uncle Bish, I know that bird! Wait, wait.” He leapt off his tail and tried to catch it, but failed when it easily flitted out of reach. “It feels just like that thing by the river! It used to play with us before...” he paused, “uh, before.” Mish-Cheechel turned, cocking his head and lazily closing one eye.

“That thing you little kits were screaming and laughing about, ah yes. I remember.” He opened his eyes and almost smiled, but the ghost of joy was immediately set upon by sorrow; before the snow of sorrow could settle, however, the flower of fury blossomed and grew across his eyes. He bit down on his teeth.

“Come on home uncle Bish, everyone’s waitin for you.” Brat repeated, pulling at Mish-Cheechel’s hand. Irritation flashed and Mish-Cheechel snapped his hand away.

“You go, Brat, and tell your pap and all the manbjorks, if menbjork they be, to come and and kill the eagle god with Mish-Cheechel, to come and kill the death-bears and dire-wolves and blood-eagles; tell them to come and fell the trees with Mish-Cheechel, tell them to come and dam the rivers with me. You tell them that Brat-Hwopak, and if I’m not back by the time you are grown, you come too Brat-Hwopak, you come too. And now I must go.” So saying, Mish-Cheechel hefted his spear and heaved the bear saddle, and went off into the trees. 

The ghost bird flew around Brat-Hwopak's head a few times, mimicking the songs so familiar to their world, then it flew after Mish-Cheechel and transformed into a long, serpent-ghost that flowed water. She looked at him again, or at least gave that impression. "Kill eagle god? Kill wolf? Kill bear? Kill before?" She questioned. Mish-Cheechel only looked at the thing with bemused annoyance.

“By all things, how’d you do that. How’s it that so much weirdness is suddenly all over the place. I don’t remember this being so before, no I don’t.” He huffed and shrugged the slipping saddle back onto his shoulder. “You talk weird, ghostie-fellah, and I’ve got to be honest and say I’ve not a clue what you’re trying to say,” then he looked at the snake and nodded slowly and spoke slowly too, “but yes, kill the eagle god; kill good. Eagle god bad. Eagle god kill the good. Mish-Cheechel kill eagle god. Mish-Cheechel kill the wolf, kill the bear, kill the eagle, kill the tree. Mish-Cheechel kill them all. Kill is good.” He was silent for a second and then his eyes seemed to light up. “How abouts you come kill the eagle god with me, eh? You were friends with my boy weren’t you? That’s what you meant before, I remember now, that’s what Brat-Hwopak said. Aren’t you angry for Clan Rod? Aren’t you angry for Zabitsyn and all the other kits? You seem the strong sort, so how abouts it ghostie? Come kill the god with me.”

The ghost, for her part, let out an annoyed hum. Whether it was something he said, or a lack of answer to what she was trying to say, that perturbed the mist remained unclear. After a while, and after taking the form of a small toad, she replied with, “No,” before continuing, “No. You kill… before? Before eagle god?” She asked again in a slower voice, as if mocking him. But it seemed to go right over Mish-Cheechel’s head, he only gave out an ‘ah’ of understanding before shifting the saddle on his great shoulders.

“No ghostie, no I did not. But no one killed before, see? And no one died before either. There were no graves before - just like there was no eagle god before, and no death-bears or dire-wolves or blood-eagles. There was none of that before. But now there is, and now there will be. If the good don’t learn to kill then they will only know to die. And I am not dying anytime soon, not before vengeance is had and justice is served - I’ll not be Mish-Cheechel if the eagle god isn’t soon at my feet, gurgling up its quick hot blood. That would be justice.”

The ghost shifted again into that of a rabbit. It hopped around him, or at least mimicked hopping. Some of the hops didn’t look quite right and it leapt as high as his head. “A path Bissh. Dark. Danger. Death.” Before his eyes the bunny hopped into the air, only to be snatched by a large owl. She next flapped silent wings and hovered above him, the bunny joining her mist. “I go. Protect you. Bear might eat.”

Mish-Cheechel raised an eyebrow at the owl. “I’m not one to reject support - not even the dam can halt the river without support. But you’ve not even told me your name, ghostie, or what you are or where you came from. If you’re going to walk the dark path, the path of danger and death, if you’re going to walk the warpath with me, then I’d first know your name.”
The owl returned to the mist and she grew smaller with no discernible shape forming. “Am Nisshi. Nisshi-ni-iak ak ek!” She struggled with the latter half of the word. Frustrated, she let out a growl. “No name!” She shouted, zipping around his head like an angry fly and causing the manbjork to dodge and crouch away from her wild motions - and it could only be a her, Mish-Cheechel was now convinced. Before long she calmed down and settled in beside his head, hovering. “Pa- Old Bjork create many. Am alone now. No name.” She finished in a longing voice.

Mish-Cheechel paused by a tree and stared silently for a few seconds. “Well I’ll tell you what, no-name ghostie - see that there bear?” His voice was a whisper, and he gestured deeper into the forest where a massive bear with a great white coat had its snout buried in a tree’s hollow. “You help me get this here saddle on its back, and you’ll have earned a name.” He did not wait for a response, but dipped onto all fours and stalked off with saddle and spear.

The prospect of a name seemed to energise the misty ghost. With a loud, audible gasp, she flew ahead of Mish-Cheechel. Forgoing stealth, she took the most direct path to the bear, fading in and out of the undergrowth and through wood and rock. She was upon the bear before it had time to say anything, yet the beast did not react. It hadn’t even heard her gasp, too engrossed with whatever it was doing in the hollow. Then the mist disappeared into a boulder and the same blue aura Mish-Cheechel had seen earlier began to glow around it, before misty tendrils erupted forth and grabbed more rocks. 

Now this was loud, as rock and stone grated upon each other like a landslide. The bear removed it’s head, coated with honey, and looked startled and dumbfounded at the sight before it. The rocks coalesced, growing taller, as if a great beast was awakening. The bear backed up as the ground quaked and shook and dirt landed this way and that. When the stones had become as tall as the bear could stand, the Nisshi walked forth and grappled the bear! A mighty tussle thus began, snapping trees and crushing brush, but though the bear was strong underneath all that fur, who could withstand the very ground? The ghost had the upper hand and, knowing it, was humming triumphantly. 

Though wide-eyed at the display of incomprehensible power, Mish-Cheechel did not waste the opportunity. Jumping forth, he threw his spear aside and now ran and now leapt on his tail as he charged towards the bear, the saddle held above his head. Trapped as the bear was in its battle with the ghost, it could do nothing against the saddle that the manbjork pressed to its rump. “Die, fiend!” He bellowed triumphantly. 

But the bear did not die, it rather stopped struggling and fell back from the tussle with the great stone-ghost. The saddle almost slipped from its rump, but Mish-Cheechel swiftly righted it and watched the great white thing in puzzlement. He turned back to the ghost and shrugged. “Well, the Carver didn’t actually say it would kill it, I just assumed that.” He looked at the bear and found it sauntering up to him, tongue lolling as it panted. Mish-Cheechel was swift to back away, suddenly regretting dropping his spear. “Alright this isn’t working, I’m out of here!” He skipped in a great circle as the bear chased lazily after him, saddle jostling on its back. The ghost, for its part, began to laugh. “Get it ghostie! Throw a rock right at its head!” He shouted back as it became apparent that his attempt to escape was futile from the start; no bjorkman could outpace a bear - not on land, at least. The bear easily outran him and then lay panting right by the spear, eyeing him with a broad, sharp-toothed grin. Mish-Cheechel halted and began pacing backwards, keeping his eyes trained on the creature. It leapt forth then sat again, grinning broader yet. At this, the manbjork raised an eyebrow and stopped, stared at the bear, then glanced over at the still-laughing ghost. “I think this bear is making fun of me. And I think you are too. You friends with animals or something? You can, I don’t know, cast your mumbo-jumbo hocus-pocus on them like the eagle god?”

Instead of an immediate answer, the rocks thundered down into a pile, and the ghost became a white blur. Then she giggled. “You fun Bissh. Be strong. Be brave. Bear no hurt. See?” A gust of wind blew over him and into the bear, which didn’t really seem all that offended by it. She then flew over the bear as if for the first time seeing what he had placed on its back. “What saddle? Purpose?” She questioned, gusts of air seemed to glide across it, as if she was feeling the leather.

Mish-Cheechel approached, eyeing the bear with residual suspicion. “Well, I don’t trust it, but if you say it's safe...” He righted the saddle on the bear’s back and shuffled it so it fell snugly behind the great thing’s broad shoulders. “And stop calling me that - Bish is gone. Bish is dead. The eagle god killed Bish, understand?” He fastened the saddle into place, knowing to do it by instinct or as though he had done it an infinite number of times before. “Well, now that I look at it like this, this thing looks like some kind of seat. That Carver is some crazy fellow, how is a bear-chair of any hel-” his eyes widened suddenly as everything clicked into place, and his mind slowly unscrambled the deluge of information that the god had pumped into it. “Oh, it’s a chair, yes, for riding. A riding chair. A [i]saddle[/i]. I see.” He blinked. “So, wait…” he looked up at the ghost, “so it wasn’t your mumbo-jumbo that made it like this.” He frowned. “You little fucker - you laughed as what you knew was a wild animal chased me! You’re a real piece of work, ghostie, a real piece of work.” He spat on the ground by the great white bear. “If I knew how, I’d spear you from head to bottom, I swear.”

The ghost laughed again, a high and pure note. “ No. No. No. I laugh. You ran. Afraid. Much talk you. Will need help. I protect. No worry.”  The wind about her faded and her mist formed again, this time in the shape of a running bjorkman. “Bear no aggressive. Saddle you see?” she said. 

“Well, I’d be stupid if I didn’t run - if you fight and run away you’ll live to fight again, understand? I’m not out here to die, I’m out here to kill - and that goes for you too.” He clambered up onto the bear’s back and settled into the saddle. “How do I get this thing to go. Hey, hey!” He clapped his paws and then, with a flash of inspiration, thwacked his tail against its rump. With a jolt, the bear started forward and made its way through the trees. “Well, this is much faster than walking, that’s for sure. Won’t be long before I find that Green Murder like this.” He glanced down at the ghost, who was still huffing and puffing beside him in the form of a running bjorkman. “Acht, stop that will ya. If I had that mumbo-jumbo of yours I wouldn’t run either. I’d zap every bear and zim every wolf, just like this:” he lifted a paw and made a throwing motion, “zim! Splat. Zim! Splat. I’d be a real good zimmer.” He paused and glanced at her. “Zimmer. Zima. There. That can be your name. Zima the Zimmer.”

The mist- Zima, gasped once more. “Zima? Ziiiiiiima? Zima!” She loudly declared, letting out a joyous whoop and holler. She turned into a swimming otter, then a songbird and a multitude of others before she settled back upon the form of a hopping rabbit, giggling with jubilation as she went. “Yes! I am Zima! You are Mish-Cheechee! Hello! I am Zima!” Then as quickly as her happiness had come, she grew deathly quiet and turned to Mish-Cheechel. “What is Zimmer?”

The bjorkman scratched his head and shrugged. “Somebjork that goes ‘zim!’ I guess. That hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo you do - like throwing rocks and turning into…” he gave her latest form a sidelong glance, “rabbits. You looked better as an otter by the way. Always liked them otters, fierce folk. Now if we bjorks were otters that Green Murder would never have gotten us the way it did - have you seen them fight? Have you seen them run? Even I’d think twice before going up against an otter. But we’re not otters, no good for that sort of thing. Like some god just shat us out without thinking or something. No, not like those otters at all.” He glanced at one of his paws bitterly, regretfully. “So anyway, Zima it is. Mish-Cheechel and Zima - maybe they’ll sing great songs of us when we kill the eagle god.” He yawned suddenly, and his stomach rumbled, and he blinked in pain. “Acht,” he groaned in irritation, then yawned again. “And don’t call me Mish-Cheechee, that sounds silly,” he managed through the yawn.

Zima zipped around him, having taken the form of a small mink. It seemed, if she cared for otters, she did not show it. “Mish tired? Mish hungry? Mish sleep?” she asked him, her mink curling up into a ball amongst some leaves. Her words immediately drew him from whatever momentary weakness had him, and he sat up straighter.

“No no. I’m not tired. I can rest in…” he scratched his nose and stifled a yawn, “I can rest when the eagle god’s screams echo in hell, Zima. So I say let’s go and get it done.” The great white bear continued through the woods. Mish-Cheechel the Avenger muttered dark vengeance as it went, and fought off those twin tyrants: hunger and sleep. Zima, for her part, began to hum as the duo carried on.

[list][*][hider=Summary]
Mish is being edgy with vengeance and meets the Nisshi champion at his son’s grave, which just happens to be the bjork kit Chailiss and she buried. They have a small spat over the night but the next day they come to an agreement of sorts through the chattering of one of Mish’s nephews who ran up and vouched for Nisshi after asking Mish to come home. He refuses of course, because vengeance, and the two talk for a time, bickering this way and that before coming across a bear. Mish is like, we gotta get that bear and begins to stalk it, but he also promised Nisshi she would get a name so the spirit got excited and basically dominated the bear so that he was able to put the saddle on it. He freaks out of course, and begins to run away after nothing happens and the bear begins to chase him much to the laughter of Nisshi. Eventually it hits him, after some words from Nisshi and chastising, about what the Carver’s saddle does and he mounts the bear and names the nisshi spirit, Zima the zimmer. Who knows what a zimmer is for sure but the two keep trudging on to kill the Green Murder. 
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[*][hider=Spirit]
Zima started with 2 spirit
[indent]+2 for post
=4 spirit[/indent]
Mish-Cheechel isn’t actually a champion, get rekted. DDDDDDDDDDDDD: this is injustice of the highest order. How can Mish not be a champion! A travesty! An utter joke! Is justice dead? Is honour some mummy in a 3,000 year old grave? Woe and curses!
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