Fable - Ask A Different Kind of Wilderness

[Aeyliea]

Wheels rolled through murky water, the scent redolent of human waste and the loss of hope.

The 'van had wended its way through the edge of the uncivilized lands of the Savannah for weeks, stopping at every fly-blown village and trader's stop along the way. And every single minute of the journey twisted the savage heart of the white-haired 'van guard with the pain of loss and rejection. It was a pain she had come to know all too well in the months following her escape from the hands of Vel Anir, escape from a prison for the crimes of murder and violence. Both were the only things she knew and understood, here in the land of the betrayer of the Moon. Such predilection to violence lent her naturally to the profession that so often employed it...although, as it turned out, the 'civilized world' was far, far less violent than her own.

But there was violence, and then there was violence. Hers was of blood and bone, born of slights against honor, soul, and faith; theirs was against teh spoken words, against profit and personal gain. In its own way, their world was sickening to her.

Aeyliea Tie'lan, outcast of the No'rei of the sandy wastes far to the west, walked alongside carts laden with goods. Spears and bucklers strapped to her back shifted with her steps, the intricate braid she was wont to wear swaying with every step, clicking as stones and bones and feathers shifted with it and clattered against one another. Votive offerings to the pantheon of her people, the vaunted Seven of whom none would acknowledge her. None save for one, and she was not entirely certain that the beast that had answered her call was anything less than a demon or a desert djinn, a creature born of the Sea of Stars. A lost soul, a corrupted one doomed to wander eternity for their sins...

...and now lodged solidly in her head. The bronze-skinned woman scowled at the thought. She hefted the sack that held her meager belongings on her shoulder, gripped in her left hand as the left arm was twisted by a terrible scar and not as useful as the right. In a world born of violence, she was always ready to snatch up her short stabbing spears and mete out blood and death at a moments notice.

Alliria. The name rolled through her head, hooded eyes the color of stormy skies wandering the muddy street and the ramshackle buildings at the outskirts of the great trade city of Arethil. Summer heat pressed upon the city like a vice, and its denizens did not venture out without need in the heat. So close to the straight, to the sea, the humidity here was harsher than any she had known living westward. Sweat ran down her face and back, trickling between her breasts and darkening the light linen shirt she wore beneath her stiff leather shirt. Even the leather had darkened from sweat.

Of course, she could not see the water. Had she, she would have stared harder at that than the profusion of humanity that surrounded her now. Here, there was water enough to raise an eye at - stagnant pools that swarmed with midges and bugs and wafted an unclean scent that spoke more of waste and filth than the pools of manure-tainted muddles of the street did. She had stared at them a fair bit as well, but it was the people that she stared at now.

So many. And so many shapes and sizes and colors that it defied logic. Not a single soul looked as she did - tallk, lithe, scales of slate-blue glistening on the tops of her arms and fading into bronze skin; those same scales were a patina on her neck as well, and aside from the tall shape of Komodi, she was unique in this crowd for having them. Orcs, elves, humans, and other she did not recognize trawled the streets. More, none of them gave her a second glance, her or the half dozen other sword-and-bows that trotted alongside the handful of carts that were part of the caravan. Just another group of souls, a few among a multitude and one of many groups that would travel through here this day.

"First time in Alliria?" She turned, her scowl becoming a touch shallower. Maas had caught up alongside her, and the tall barbarian gave his typical bright smile at her attention, however much she might want to stab the fool. "Big place. Easy to get overwhelmed."

She shook her head slowly, muttering under her breath in her own native tongue. "Big. Smell of kazua rotting in sun," she replied with a scowl. Her common was broken at best, but at least it could be understood. Usually, anyway. She offered the tall man a tight smile that had only been earned in shared hardship. Maas was a betrayer after all, same as every soul in this city. Same as the 'van master, and the guards.

"Yeah, and that too," he agreed. He matched her pace, and for once she did not disabuse him of the company. "Should take care, here. Inner city's not too bad, but this part of towns' rough. Not that you'd end up a whore for some pimp," he said with a chuckle at the mere thought of someone trying, "but you can easily end up face down in an alley somewhere with your throat cut." He paused, and spat to one side. "Me, I am going to take my coin and find another 'van heading back out as soon as possible. Hate cities in general, this one most of all."

She shrugged, cast a sidelong look at him. "Not know alley," she offered, and Maas simply laughed. "Don't matter. What I meant to say is they'[ll steal everything you own and leave you dead in the streets. Here its not about your pedigree, its about you being fresh-faced and easy pickings."

She sniffed at him in a pointed way and scowled. He splayed his hands in mock defense, and for a moment she thought about drubbing him in the street right there and then.He had seen her fight - the guards had been eight strong at the start, and ten carts instead of the six and six they had now, the reduced carts carrying more than they had started out with. A man and a woman lie buried beneath stones along the side of the traders track some miles back, offerings to the Seven given in blood for their carelessness. The sands and the grass were an unforgiving place, and only the strong could survive. And the weak?

"Red smile for any try," she growled, and let her good hand brush the top of the long and wicked knife she wore at her waist. The thing was not quite long enough to be a short sword but too long to be called a knife, and she wielded it with deadly skill. "No honor here. Touch, blood in sand, flesh for coyotes," she added. She did not know if the 'yotes ran in the cities, or the vultures even, but if anyone wanted to try and take her things, she would leave them right where she found them. She had far less compunction about killing people than did many of the city folk. Even the criminal kind, of whom she had never met, had some scruples about it. She had none.

In the wild, death came sudden and without warning. Her people had been thus for thousands of years. It was one of the things that made integration with the outside world so difficult for the few that actually ventured forth, and she was no exception. And she had not chosen to venture out of the burning wasteland. The choice had been taken from her, and she had been forced to go.

The wagons and carts came to a halt. She kept walking toward the front, and Maas followed. "All the same. I intend on finding another 'van heading out. If you would like...?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. West, not go - Seven, they no let me." She stopped as she saw the master of the caravan coming their way, stopping at each guard as he did to pay them. The others did not even bother to stick around after; there were watering holes to go to, and blood and death to forget in the bottom of a cup. When the man who kept the pay reached the pair, he gave them a false grin as he stopped. "Earned your weight, you have," he said to Maas, and then turned to the Seer with only a little more strained grin. "You as well," he said, and handed her the pay. Silvers and coppers, coins that meant little to her. Had meant little, anyway; the world outside put value on this bits of metal that even now she struggled to understand. She nodded in acceptance, but said nothing. The relation between her and the others had been strained at best, and only eased after the ambush and the blood spilling done thereafter.

Apparently Maas was remembering that, too, and looked away. After a moment, he grunted. "Know a place near. Good enough food, beer's passing," he said.

The No'rei shrugged, but when he left the 'van master to his final duties, the carts going their own ways, she followed him in silence.

***

Good enough was the best that could be said of the hole that Maas took her to.

This was the Shallows, a place filled with ne'er-do-wells and scofflaws, mercenaries and the other low-living detritus of society. It showed. The sign outside proudly proclaimed the establishment to be 'The Silver Crown', though whose crown was the question. If it was silver, it was tarnished black. The floor was covered in rushes half gone to rot and smelling of vomit and sour beer and wine. The low ceiling was stained black from smoke and other, much more suspicious stains. The bar - almost too grandiose a term for it - was simply wooden planks stacked on top of empty rain barrels, their surface gouged and chipped and full of splinters.

This hour of the day meant there were few patrons here. Only the hopelessly lost souls, those that had fallen into the barrel of beer and refused to leave, were here. They, and the handful of toughs and the like who were off duty or else stopping for lunch. The darkness indoors was barely broken by the handful of low burning lanterns on tables - as few and low as possible to keep the oppressive heat from becoming any worse. When the taller mercenary stepped through the door, a few of the denizens looked up from their warm drinks with bleary eyes, then returned to their wordless contemplation.

The Seer stepped in behind him, and scowled at the scene before her. It was as much different from the dives they had stayed in while traveling the traders' roads as those roads had been from the trackless wilderness from which she haled. She was still unaccustomed to not being an object of note; the further from the wild lands she went, the less known her people were. If she was an objoect of attention now, it was simply for being a woman of exotic beauty and not because she was related to the wild tribes that were so well known for their bloodshed and violence towards any and all outsiders.

That penchant still existed within her. But here, the few souls that were present cared nothing about anyone or anything beyond the cup in front of their faces.

She settled in at a table where the mercenary she had followed led, removing the handful of short stabbign spears and the hide buckler from her back and setting them on the disgusting floor at her feet so that she could sit in the chair straight-backed, almost the comic picture of some prim and proper nobelwoman. The effect was only ruined by the sweat-soaked clothing and the oily, travel stained hair in its intricate braid.

Maas raised a hand and bellowed for service, and the man behind the counter - shifty eyed, sallow and sour looking - perked up, and began to make his way towards them. For her part, she simply looked round the dingy room with a bland expression of distaste. Behind, someone else stepped in from the muddy streets of the Shallows, but she did not bother to look and see who or what.

 

[Drystan]

"Hrn..." the Knight of dusk grunted. "Fuck."

Drystan had learned, from an early age, to expect the worst. From places. From people. From monsters. It had become something of a rule of thumb for him, and as he readied his blade to do battle in the dark swamplands outside Alliria, shadows encroaching all around, he made a mental note to congratulate himself for always being bloody right. If he got out of this one alive, of course.

Maybe he should’ve agreed to go for that drink after all…

***

"Come on, can't you just... relax? We're in Alliria, Drystan, for Gods' sake! The world won't be overrun with dread beasts of the night if we take a day or two to ourselves! Even we deserve to treat ourselves to a vacation now and then, yes?"

Drystan did not bother to divert his gaze from the slightly cocked window of their inn's room, which led to a bustling street of the Outer City. Merchants peddling their wares made boast of their ability to project their voice over one another, creating a cacophonous salesman's melody over the incessant rhythm of the crowd's murmur, people from every corner and every walk of line flooding the ample walkway. Whores worked the corners, peddling their own 'wares' in a more subdued yet coquettish fashion, and drunks lined the tavern doors and alleyways, their merriment sustained by uncertain feet.

“No,” he replied in the plainest of fashions as he observed a small band of rascals getting ready to unburden some poor fool from his purse.

Jagod let out a sight that was as charged with frustration as it was with drama. “-Come on-! We’ve been traveling the lands non-stop, righting wrongs left and right, then left again!” the young man insisted. He fancied himself clever with words, from time to time, a fact that irritated Drystan to no end. “It’ll be fun! I promise! We’ll visit the markets in the Inner City, grab some souvenirs, maybe even grab a drink in some of the taverns, too…”

The Knight of Dusk let out a gruff exhale, finally looking over the table to his bunkmate. Jagod, the man opposite, had been his partner for over half a year now. Not by choice, necessarily, but because their travels and duties had kept them away from the Monastery for a particularly lengthy period.

The two couldn’t be more different, however. Where Drystan was relentless in his search for evils to maim, Jagod was happy to find any excuse to relax and indulge in their youth and good fortunes. It wasn’t that he was a -bad- Knight of Dawn, precisely. In fact, most of the time, he was a fairly suitable companion. It was more that whilst Drystan had chosen this life, Jagod had never had much of a say, and now that he was growing used to being away from home he was beginning to realize life had a fair bit more to offer.

"Your promises mean very little to me," Drystan retorted, blunt as a truncheon to the head. His voice was low and gravelly, and might have almost been pleasant, were it not for the flatness of his deliveries. "And I know what 'having a drink' with you entails. If you want to drink yourself witless and waste your keep on wenches, that is your prerogative. But I personally see no reason to bear witness to your ridicule."

Jagod scowled at him. "I am a Knight, of Anathaeum" he proclaimed, full of wounded pride as he held a challenge in his glare, his chair screeching over the wooden planks as he stood from the table and squared himself. "Just as much as you are. Likely more. You'd do well to remember that."

His viridian eyes were met by Drystan's own glacial gaze, perennially framed by a frown, it seemed. On their own, the pale visage of his eyes might have been enough to deter any man, harsh and uncompromising as they were, but the arcane symbols that had somehow been inscribed upon them were enough to disconcert anyone.

"There is very little I do not remember, ‘Syr’ Jagod, and even less I do not notice," the man told him calmly: everything about him suggested he was largely unimpressed by the display, from the dullness of his bizarre eyes to his body language, even as he remained seated. "I remember, for example, that you favour your right side exceedingly when you are swinging that mace of yours, and have noticed that all the ale you’ve been indulging in since we left the monastery has made your arm slow. I remember only ever seeing you use your pyromancy at range, likely because you lack finesse to control it in shorter distances. Not that you’d risk using it here anyway. And I remember that night in the Steppes, when you told me we should ditch the mission, because it wasn’t worth risking our lives over. And I noticed not only fear… but bitterness and resentment. Doubt in our duty.”

Jagod’s lower lip trembled as his nose furrowed, giving Drystan a look that could only be described as seething.

“Would you like for me to keep going, or shall we measure our ‘knighthoods’ now?” Drystan asked him, unmoved.

After a moment, the Knight of Dawn scoffed, breaking eye contact as he looked away. “You know. I tried. I tried to be your friend. But everyone’s right about you. You’re a bloody jerk, Drystan, and not worth the effort.”

Drystran had already returned his attention to the streets below. “Mhrm,” he simply hummed his agreement. “Go have your fun, Syr Jagod. I’ll go have mine. We shall reconvene here at dawn in two - make that three days' time,” he told him.

Jagod frowned deeply at this, looking. “And what kind of ‘fun’ are you going to have?” he asked him. “You know you’re not supposed to go off galavanting without me,” he chided. “You are on your last legs with the Order - and don’t think I don’t know what you get up to whenever we separate.”

The Knight of Dusk clicked his tongue, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ll be fine, Jagod. And I’m sure I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about. I’ll go out and find some new books. Maybe have my gear looked at. Fuck, maybe I’ll even find a quiet corner in a tavern and get a few in me,” he said, looking back at him just long enough to give him a poignant look. “That we work together does not mean we have to pretend to like each other. And it certainly doesn’t mean you have to try and be my friend.”

The door slammed hard and loud. Clearly, a statement. One to which Drystan paid little mind as he readied to make his way out, long gone before Jagod ever made it to the inn’s front door, his figure soon traversing the city’s rooftops, making a beeline for the slums.

It took Drystan all of two hours to get into trouble.

Though the place was new, the beats were familiar. Move around, read the boards, listen to the locals. Search for signs of trouble. It wasn’t long before he learned that a few families that made their home in the Shallows were having something of a rough time: food had gone missing, which in turn, made them short on money to pay the local crime lords their ‘taxes’, and disease was beginning to run rampant in the district.

He talked with the people, promising he was there to help. As usual, his eyes and demeanour made it a little hard to break through to them, particularly to such hardened yet simple folk, but he had learned certain motions and phrases that all manner of people seemed to find reassuring over the years - mostly watching his fellow Knights of Dawn deal with the populace.

Everyone was puzzled and tense, and even the scumbags who ran the place had no answers for the swamp folk. A curse, the elders had sworn, each superstition they blamed their ill fate more absurd than the last… that is, until a grizzled old lady broke down in tears over her sick granddaughter, assuring him that the Plague Maiden had come visit them - that she had seen her scurrying in her black robes during the night, and that some fool must’ve looked directly into her face.

Others might’ve taken the women’s words as nonsense and moved on. Drystan had scowled, steeling himself, as he always expected the worst.

Tracking anything in the swamp lands was a nightmare, and he’d had to wait for night, perched upon a tree, burning away energy as he activated his nightstalking runes. He’d had good luck discovering which houses had suffered the most food theft, and from there, it was easy to deduce which way the ‘thieves’ were coming from.

Pesta. Plague trolls come to scavenge food from the town. There were just a few sick, but if left unchecked, the disgusting creatures would spread their myriad diseases like wildfire, and could come to decimate the entire slums… hells, with how many people travelled through and from Alliria, they could infect the entire bloody town, and beyond.

It was a catastrophe in the making, and he couldn’t chance of letting them into town again, jumping down from the tree to meet them. Fortunately, it was just the two. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but he’d have to scare one into running back to their nest, just to make sure he got rid of every trace of them.

When he arrived, Drystan reminded himself that he had learned, a long time ago, to always expect the worst. That did not make being right any more pleasant.

***

Great fires had burnt in the marshes that night, but the mists were too thick for anyone to have seen. In fact, as the Knight returned to the Shallows, he was met with some puzzlement and resistance as he insisted on setting fire to a number of things, including his own clothes, his very own gear all put to the torch, only the metal pieces surviving.

The common folk would not understand or agree to his demands, urgent and unreasonable as they seemed, so he spent a good part of the morning talking -and often punching- his way into talking with one of the local gang leaders. Practically naked and frantic for attention as he was, it had taken some convincing and a lot of punching to have his way, but his fists were terribly eloquent, and he could be quite convincing, when one cared to listen. After some explaining -and a fair few threats- Drystan left content that he had transmitted the gravity of the situation and that the place was being quarantined for a couple of weeks, with medicine and trained healers coming in to check in on the sick. He even got some ill-fitting new clothes out of the exchange.

It was fortunate that he wore a mask, he thought, despite the teasing many of his fellow knights subjected him to for it. Nevertheless, he had taken one of the alchemical concoctions he’d carried precisely in case he suspected disease, bathed thoroughly, and set the remainder of his possessions to flame again, just in case. It was also important that he'd left most of his valuables back at the Outer City, he thought, before crashing at a seedy inn and sleeping for the best part of the day.

By the time he woke up, he found he was starving, and could bloody well go for that drink. And as it so happened, he had been recommended a place with good enough food, and passing beer.

He followed in behind the pair in something of a mood, and as Maas bellowed for service, Drystan made his way for a table of his own, intercepting the shifty-eyed, sallow and sour looking ‘tender with a firm hand to his shoulder, his runic eyes demanding all of his attention.

“They can wait,” he assured the man gravely. “I have had a very long day, and I am very much in need of a drink, some cheese and the biggest bloody steak you have. Or whatever the fuck passes for steak here, hrm?” He gave the man a slight squeeze to the shoulder and a slight shake, before releasing him with a slight push back towards the counter. “Good man,” he commended in a fashion that sounded more condescending than complimentary, moving to settle down on the nearest table.

 

[Kallach]

"So I tell you, we found what we thought to be a vampire, but how can a man be so sure? The thing we found, gods forgive me, was the ugliest whoreson I've ever seen in my life."

Kallach turned to look at the man and nodded, one eyebrow slightly cocked. He was sipping black tea from a strangely shaped metal mug.

"An interesting story, for sure, but I'll need you to describe it to me, the creature, I mean."

The man next to Kallach squinted, placing the heel of his palm on his brow. It appeared as if he was contemplating something at length, when in truth he was merely forgetful, courtesy of his advanced age.

"Ah, sir, you ask for much. I'll do my best, but don't expect me to note every little detail! This olden head of mine has forgotten more things than you could possibly remember."

Kallach rolled his eyes at this reply.

Learn more? My ass. I didn't bother to notice you, you bag-of-bones, because I was particularly confident in your talents, but rather because I wanted the tiniest bit of information.

However, being Kallach, he chose to smile at the man rather than express his thoughts out loud. The corners of his mouth pulled his lips into a thin line, creating a small smile.

"It's all good. Please continue."

Kallach continued, pounding his free hand's fingers against the surface of the worn-out wooden table. Looking at it, he deduced that it was probably constructed from pieces of an ancient barrel that had been used to store either wine or ale.

"Erm, right. It looked like a person, but also didn't. Its upper body was humanoid enough, but its arms were ridiculously long and its hands looked like talons."


"Like this," the old man croaked, gesticulating wildly to emphasize the point. The whole ordeal must've left him bewildered for him to behave like that. Kallach couldn't help but chuckle.

"Huh, what's so funny? I could've damn well been eaten by that thing!"


"Oh, it is nothing. So, what about its lower body? Did it have legs?"


The grey-haired local scratched the back of his head sheepishly before glancing to the side. He didn't want to be heard, much less taken for a fool for what he was about to say.


"Many a man would declare me mad over what I'm about to say, but its lower body, if it could be even called such, resembled that of a segmented worm."

"You've surely seen nagas or at least heard of them, haven't you, good sir?"

"Indeed I have."

"Good. Then you'll know what I'm referring to."

"Sadly, I didn't get a good look at its face. All I can say is that it is unbelievably grotesque and deformed beyond all humanity."

 

[Aeyliea]

Maas scowled at the man that had cut the line, and considered making an issue of it. The blood spilled not too long ago reminded him that fighting was not always the best option, and that some things were not worth it, anyway. He settled with muttering under his breath, speaking low what his opinion of the man.

The wildling watched the fellow with hard eyes. Unlike Maas, she did think that violence was a delightful solution to so many problems. In fact, the Seven prized the strong over the weak, and those who could defend their convictions would shine brightly in the serpentine eyes of the patrons of the No'rei. Her eyes looked over the markings on his flesh, scorn etching its ugly mark on her face. Either gross parody of her own people and their markings, or else meaningless, they did not lend the fellow any go-

She paused. That marking, there on his exposed bicep, had a meaning among her people. Her lips twisted in distaste. There was no telling if it was by design or by accident, but she was unlikely to give any charity to one of the Sundered. She made a low sound in her throat of distaste, to which Maas raised an eyebrow.

"Kind of gets the blood up a little, don't it?" he asked her companionably. "Some people think they are the gift of the God's," he said, and then shrugged.

"Not of Seven," she replied in a flat tone, accent so thick it made it difficult to follow her words. "Betrayers weak. Man? Marking on arm - there?" She pointed at the man, careless of whether he could see or not. Tact was not anything she cared about. "Marking for...maker of crime? Take person in bed, not with will. Vile. Evil, and marked so." Her eyes glittered with malice, but she remained seated. That such a man should be among decent folk - and some impetuous as had been displayed - was disgusting. Those with so many markings among her own people would have not likely even come in to such a place, even though there was no analog for it. The lowly, inheritors of souls stained black with dishonor and actions looked on by the People with disdain and disgust, did not run with the people.

Maas shrugged. "Probably just a tattoo. Us 'betrayers' don't put as much stock into body art as you do," he said. "Doesn't make him any less a bastard, though." He did not keep his voice down, but he did not yell it, either.

She sniffed, and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She scowled at another table with yet more outsiders (to her at least), running on about things she did not understand. She disliked this place, but then she also disliked her companion almost as much. Still, he knew more of the world of the Sundered than she did, and every time she tried to go her own way, bodies tended to pile up in her wake. For some reason, the people in the cities did not appreciate the fact that insults need be answered with blood.

"What ever," she said. "Man should not be here. Not with clean people," she added.

 

[Drystan]

Drystan, being sure that all was as it should be, allowed himself a moment to breathe, near-deaf to the world as index and thumb rubbed over closed eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. Finally, a moment's...

"...thought to be a vampire..."

His eyes shot open, then narrowed. Always. Expect. The worst.

He leaned his forehead atop his hand as he tried to listen in, the gesture exposing his bicep in a rather overt fashion - not that he thought that a problem, busy as he was trying to be discrete. He could not, however, hear the old man, nor his younger interviewer, with any semblance of clarity. He sighed, the sound turning into a characteristic grunt as it filtered through his throat.

He -hated- using his runic hearing. It was one the earliest series of runes he'd tattooed on himself. He was young, barely more than a child at the time, and had used a mirror to etch them unto his flesh himself, the ink hardly worth noting compared to the highly magical tincture he'd used for all the other significant markings. He'd thought being able to spy on his peers and superiors would allow him to learn valuable information, not to mention discover what others said of him, that he might be ready to put them down. It was something he came to regret almost immediately... And not just because of the things he learned.

He always meant to fix them. To make them more refined, more manageable. But he always put it off in liue of something else, giving himself excuses not to think about them, and the memories associated with them. He grunted, then took a big breath...

It was fortunate the tavern wasn't terribly loud, at least, as the sound around him became clearer. Much too clearer. A grizzled mercenary's knife slid over his plate, the screech sending a shiver all throughout his spine. A woman who's better years had left behind counted what little coin she had left, the clashing of mints like gongs going off. A discreet fart whistled its way out of one of the patron's arseholes...

And then there was the 'interviewer' tapping away at the wood. For all Drystan cared, in that moment, he might as well have been a war drummer...

Focus. The old man.

"...looked like a person, but also didn't. Its upper body was humanoid enough, but its arms were ridiculously long and its hands looked like talons."

"Like this," the croak was jarring, but Drystan watched attentively as he gestured, finding no amusement in it, as opposed to the young man, who's chuckle bounced inside the corners of his brain.

He concentrated, going through his mental bestiary even as he tried to focus on the conversation. He needed more information, the bewildered old man too vague. Thankfully, the 'interviewer' was not bad at his job, and asked the pertinent question.

"Oh, it is nothing. So, what about its lower body? Did it have legs?"

"Many a man would declare me mad over what I'm about to say, but its lower body, if it could be even called such, resembled that of a segmented worm."

"You've surely seen - weak. Man? Marking on arm - there?"

Drystan blinked, the woman's voice imposing itself over the man's. Was she talking about him?

""Marking for...maker of crime? Take person in bed, not with will. Vile. Evil, and marked so."

Of course she was, genius. And the implication of what she was saying were not much to his liking. In fact, Drystan had been called a great many names, and accused of a great many things, and yet, he did not quite remember the last time he'd given a fuck. If only Jagod could see him now, bleeding with knightly pride.

He seethed at them. At her. Awful woman. -Pretty- awful woman. FOCUS.

He looked back to the pair discussing the creature, hoping he hadn't missed any vital information. From what he'd learned so far, there were just too many variables. The description was vaguely reminiscent of a moritere, but those things were huge, not to mention very, very far away. Unless someone had been stupid enough to try smuggling an egg here... a hatchling? That still did not explain why he called it a vamp-

"Probably just a tattoo. Us 'betrayers' don't put as much stock into body art as you do," her companion's voice imposed itself. "Doesn't make him any less a bastard - face. All I can say is that it is unbelievably grotesque and deformed beyond - What ever," she said. "Man should not be here. Not with clean people," she added.

The Dusk Knigth gritted his teeth, fist slamming the table in a short and quick motion, grunting under his breath as his concentration was shattered. "Fuck!"

He looked to the pair, his runic eyes narrowing upon them. It took him a good, few moments to rip his gaze from the exotic woman to give the barbarian a piece of his mind. "I'll have you know that I am, in fact, a bastard, what with my mother being a whore, Gods bless her bones, and the fact that I don't have the foggiest idea who my father is. Likely some miserable drunk who knew not when to leash his cock," he explained, unabashed about the nature of his origins.

"And yet, whilst you remain an excellent judge of character, the same cannot be said for your ashen-haired friend," he turned his chair towards them and leaned forward over his knees, his scabbard held almost casually on his sinister, his rune-laden eyes seeking to pierce her own. "Firstly, I can practically smell you from here, so I'm not sure you're the most indicated to comment on anyone's cleanliness," he observed dryly. Hyperbole, perhaps, but the woman didn't exactly give him a host of ammunition, at a glance. "And secondly, I have been accused of many things in this life. More than a fair few of them true. Normally, I do not bloody well give a damn what people think or say about me. 'Vile'. 'Evil'. Sure. Whatever. But I do -not- take women by force, nor do I take kindly to the implication that I do," he sentenced gravely, not feeling the need to further justify himself in that regard.

" Now, it seems to me, judging by the looks of you and the fact that you can barely fucking string a sentence in trade, that you hail from some backwater corner of the world. That, or your Gods failed you miserably when imparting wits. Frankly, my personal suspicion is that the truth lies somewhere in between..."

Drystan cut his tirade short. It was, by now, second nature to activate his aural sight when expecting trouble. After all, it gave him a significant amount of information not just in terms of his fuel sources, but what he was to expect from the people he was facing. But looking at her... The Dusk Knight did not understand what he was looking at, freezing dead on his tracks, his entire body tensing, coiling like a spring ready to jump, even as his mind tried to make sense of what he was looking at.

Power, untamed and unfettered, dark and fathomless, coiling around her.

"...What the fuck are you?" he barely managed to ask.

 

[Kallach]

"If my memory serves me well, it was devouring some sheep when you discovered it."

"The word 'devouring' might not be appropriate."

As he spoke, the elder man nervously massaged the back of his neck. His beaten-down face wiped with a look of disconcert.

"Oh?"

He was now interested. Kallach figured the locals were actually dealing with a mutant werewolf or some other shape-shifting creature, not a vampire at all.

"I think it was draining their insides. One by one, the sheep were sucked dry by a long tube that protruded from the creature's maw like a second mouth."

While tracing his index finger around the mug's metallic rim, Kallach thought about the ramifications.

He brought the circular motion to a premature halt when he felt that someone was eves dropping on their conversation.

The back of his neck's hair stood straight up. Someone was utilizing magic nearby.

When Kallach shook his head, his eyes followed, their path being deceptively covered by the earlier movement. They quickly combed the area and found the knight, who was practically dripping with magical force.

It was, at best, a clumsy spying attempt. It couldn't help but pique Kallach's curiosity. The knight's decision to spy on them for whatever motive was beyond him. Kallach would have readily revealed their plans if the outsider had only approached them and inquired.

By no means was the existence of vampires and other parasitic creatures a closely-kept secret.

"Hey, do you even hear me? Hello?"
The voice of the elderly guy, who was gesturing with one hand in front of his face, jolted Kallach out of his reverie.

"Yes, I am. But I must depart right now."

"Wh-"

Kallach took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and threw half-a-dozen gold coins onto the table in
front of the man.


The man gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing.

He cautiously got up from his seat and said something along the lines of, "Buy your family something nice." More an order than a suggestion, the words came over as such.

"And thanks for the help. When faced with otherworldly dangers, people often shit their birches first and run later."

Drystan
Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

The mercenary looked up as the fellow the savage had indicated slammed his fist into the table he sat at. For a moment, he weighed the pros and cons of trying to de-escalate the situation; the Guard tended to look unfavorably on bodies on the floor and there was literally no chance, in his mind at least, that there wouldn't be at least one or two on the ground by the time this played out. The woman he had brought along with him - like a puppy found on the street and taken home - was at best rabid. Killing came to her, it seemed, as naturally as breathing did.

He couldn't help but remember the brigands on the road. They had killed two of their number, to be sure, but they should have collected them and brought them to a magistrate. Only, the No'rei had went to each of the wounded men and woman and cut their throats, else thrust that spear of hers into their hearts. No survivors, and by her design.

But, then again...

He raised his hands in mock placation and shook his head. "Don't look at me, pal. She's a bit of a handful to deal with," he said. The crooked smile on his face could mean anything.

She hadn't paid any attention to the fist against the table, but at his first words, she had looked round to the fellow. If the obvious anger in his words or demeanor bothered her, it did not show; the blue-grey eyes of her did not blink as he heaped vitriol at her. The words were too quick for her to follow along, and she did not even understand more than three in five...but there was no need to understand the words. She could pick their meaning clear enough.

She slid the chair she was sitting in back, and sat forward, her eyes intent. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a dozen degrees, even if it was only an impression and not reality. "Not say women," she said in a dangerously cool voice. "By force, any. Man, woman, child...not matter. Marking is marking." She grinned at him mirthlessly, canines nearly long enough to be fangs gleaming in the dim light. "If not guilty, then why put ink to skin?" She stood from her seat. The man was taller than she was, weighed more...

...and it would not have mattered if he was ten times her size, and weighed a hundred more. A No'rei would no sooner back down from a fight than an ascetic priest would lie with a woman, most especially where honor was involved. That such a disgraced soul would speak to her would be enough to spill his heart-blood on the floor before even taking into consideration the fact that he was Sundered. Child of betrayers, one and all, with the original sin of their forefathers still staining their souls black as pitch.

The eye of this knight caused something in her to stir, and a chill ran through her flesh as the serpentine shape coiled round her soul opened a singular eye, a yellow orb so fathomlessly ancient as to challenge the stars in the sky. It fixed on Drystan for a moment in lazy regard...and then closed, and went back to sleep.

The sensation of something terrible having been eluded soaked the room. All that was left was banal violence, and Aeyliea was more than willing to mete it out. "Chosen of Seven, Betrayer. Aeyliea is Seer of No'rei. You words many colors on wind; pretty. Meaningless. Stand down, or blood will be." The words were delivered flat and emotionless, her features smooth. Nothing special, no reason to rejoice. The impasse was palpable; her honor would not allow her to stand down even had she wanted to, which she did not. The idiot had chosen a marking that had a distinct meaning to it, and nothing could change what it meant. He could be angry about it all he wanted - often, the stained were. But the soul was the soul, and its crimes were that souls' alone to bear and atone for. No amount of outrage could change it.

That serpent in her soul stirred again in agitation, and the Seer shivered again so that the beads and bones in her hair clicked briefly.

Maas looked over at the other table where the fellow was dropping a ridiculous sum of money on the table and snorted. Money like that attracted all manner of trouble; someone at a table closer to the door choked on something, and got to his feet with wide eyes before ducking out the door.

"Now, kids, play nice or we'll be up to our neck in city guards," Maas said. He watched the two warily. "They don't like people getting gutted here, Aeyliea. Not unless theres a real good reason for it."

"Not problem for you," she snapped, eyes fixed on Drystan, body tense like a spring.

 

[Drystan]

The words she spout almost seemed distant not. He no longer cared what she had to say about his stupid runes. Not after what he'd seen. He'd once heard that if one looked into the abyss long enough, it eventually stared back. He always thought it was a silly proverb. What would the world be, if there were not a few willing to stare into it? But now, it had stared back at him. Briefly. Lazily. And there was not a single piece of his soul that hadn't shrieked and recoiled.

-Focus-.

Options. He needed options.

Drystan made a quick count of how many patrons were in the room, and wondered how to get them out. Or whether he should get -her- out. Both were too risky.

He did some maths in his head. Calculated the distance between them. If he cranked things up to eleven, he could get to her quick. -Very- quick. Go straight for her heart or her brain, end things quickly and ruthlessly. Sure, he'd likely get kicked out of the Order and end up in jail for murdering the pretty murder girl, but that was something he was willing to endure, if it meant stopping whatever it was that he was facing. He...

Was brought out of his contemplation as a plate and a drink were served before him. He frowned, the mundane act bringing him a . What was he thinking? This wasn't how he did things. He was letting fear and emotion cloud his judgement, and -he- controlled these things, not the other way around.

'Get your shit together, Drystan. There's an explanation for all this. You're tired, and being irrational.'

The sound of coin over wood briefly tore his attention towards the 'interviewer'. Was he headed this way? He couldn't much dwell on it, considering the situation at hand.

Her words were about as meaningful to him as his own were to her. The Seven. Seer of the No'rei. He felt like these things should maybe mean something to him, perhaps give him some helpful insight, but he was drawing blanks. And despite it all, her challenge made his blood boil, wanting to rise to meet it...

No. Too many innocents.

"I am seated," the man responded plainly, if only to buy some time whilst he put his thoughts in order. "And whatever you think my markings are... you are wrong. As to why I wear them, it's simple. They let me do things like this," he explained as he brought out a few coins for the bartender.

One of the coins began dancing over his knuckles. Faster. Faster and faster, until his fingers became a slight blur and the bronze was all but an ochre shadow. Not a clever idea to show off like that in public -he knew this much- but in his mind, it was very much a necessary distraction.

The coin continued to frantically caper over his fingers, shooting from one hand to the next. A little parlor trick he indulged in when he was bored during long carriage rides or nights camping out. The runes in his eyes shifted, focusing his vision until all he could practically see was the edge of their table, and... flick.

The mint flew off his hand with incredible force, whistling through the air before landing on the edge of their table, biting deep into the wood as it encrusted itself inside it. And yet, should they look his way, his hands were now raised, not unlike Maas's moments earlier.

"You. Me... Misunderstanding," he simply said, that the language barrier might be shorter as he conceded. "Let me pay for your drinks."

 

[Kallach]

If for no other reason than the fact that the girl reminded him like a munchkin, he thought the entire situation rather comical. She was dwarfed by the opponent, who appeared to be a knight of some sort.

Kallach was a substantial individual. In actuality, he probably had a slight height advantage over the knight at six feet six inches. He was also as big as the dude, if not more. The spherical muscles that adorned his wonderfully wide shoulders must have been the size of a toddler's head.

Though, he was hardly intimidating, in part due to his facial features, which were soft and boyish, but also because of his attire. Kallach sported a tea-colored, form-fitting robe chased with sprawling floral patterns, each flower seemingly more ornate than the previous one.

He muttered, "And what do we have here?" without addressing anyone in particular.

He moved up to the knight's place at the table and gave the man a brief evaluation.

As he did so, his eyes faintly glistened, casting a dark blue hue that cascaded down his prominent cheekbones.

He prepared to speak but instead smiled while cocking his head to the side.


On the other side of the Knight's table, Kallach slid a chair into place and sat down. With his head resting on the flat of his palm and his mouth pushed into a broad, toothless smile, he was now facing the stranger.


"You were listening, weren't you?"


"And don't lie to me. I know you were. No one here knows how to wield magic properly. No one but the two of us."


Kallach half turned, flashing the wild girl a subtle wink before addressing the knight once more.


"You could've simply asked, you know? You are drawing unnecessary attention to yourself by doing this."


Aeyliea
Drystan

 

[Aeyliea]

"Not want drink," she spat. "Markings are. <<Thrice damned Betrayers do not know anything at all! Why paint words on your flesh if you know not the meaning?>>" The flow of her native tongue was like water over stones, harsh and melodic in its own way. Her features became even harder, if it was even possible. "Tricks are of the djinn, not of the Seven," she snapped.

She had seen plenty of magic, and was completely unimpressed by the trite display. She, too, knew magic - of the sort granted to her by her pantheon. She had seen the Betrayers and their demonic spells before - magic called from nothing, no offerings given. Regardless, she did not need magick in order to defeat this Sundered soul. She was openly caressing the handle of the long-bladed knife now, debating pulling it and carving the man before her like a roast on a spit.

"Many words, too fast. Not need understand. Threat and insult only answer in blood. Is this not way among coward Betrayers? Tongue-flaps like tent in wind, say nothing." She advanced a step or two, clearly in aggression. She might have gone further, except another stepped in.

Her braid might have been the tail of an extremely offended cat at this point, swishing back and forth as she turned her icy eyes between the two men. Once again, the thing in her head opened an eye, but this time it stayed open - barely a slit, barely awake. But still watching.

"Not want here. Leave," she snapped at the other man. He was even larger than Drystan, but as before it mattered not one whit to her. She would not back down from the aggression shown her, however justified it had been. This other fellow was only going to make things messier if it came to blood - and it would come to that unless something came along to deescalate this scenario before it went any further south.

Her hand gripped her knife, now. The short spear she preferred would be more ideal, but if that came to her hand there would be at least one body before long. Her delicate looking face was set in a snarl that twisted it into something unlovely, flashes of white where her near-fangs caught the light.

 

[Drystan]

He let out a gruff exhale. Seven this. Seven that. Chosen of the Seven. There was little reasoning with zealots, in his experience, and this one did seem to have an unhealthy fixation with blood... not to mention his very existence seemed to offend her. That wasn't anything particularly new for the Dusk Knight, to be fair, but rarely were people so forthcoming about their distaste.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sliding of the chair, a brow quirking as he regarded the 'interviewer'. Larger than him, indeed, he noted, even as he called him out on his not-so-subtle spying. And indeed, a magic user: practically crackling with the stuff, not to mention imbued with the near-obligatory arrogance and self-entitlement that came along with it. Great.

There was something else, too... Something hard to put a finger on, at a glance, what with his life being threatened by the girl and forces unknown.

"No, by all means, please take a seat," the Dusker gestured to him with an open palm, not bothering to restrain the sarcasm in his tone. "I was actually rather hoping for -even more- lecturing," he told him as he slowly came to his feet, indulging in a long sip from his drink before putting it down, a satisfied exhale escaping him as he wiped the excess from his chin "Hrrrn... But if it's all the same to you, I would rather have this conversation whilst little Miss Bloodletter here is not actively threatening to stab me," he suggested.

His left foot slid forward, a slight bend to his knees as he lowered his center of gravity. Sometimes, violence was simply an inevitability. There were no further witty remarks or retorts, his own scowl deepening. She had made her intentions abundantly clear, and the time for words was over.

 

[Kallach]

Right on cue.

Kallach shrugged. He had no intention of lecturing the man. He did, however, examine him in his head for any haphazardness.

"I would've assumed you were some sort of mercenary, but no, that can't be the case," he added shortly.

Kallach smiled and pointed at the man's sword. The blade's flat was covered in intricately engraved glyphs that revealed its actual origins. He wasn't conversing with a mercenary. Quite the opposite.

"You are a knight, aren't you? A knight errant, dare I say. Wandering the countryside in search of vile beasts and evildoers to slay."

Then he was reminded of the girl. She was still there, hissing and fussing like an affronted she-cat. It was a laughable display. Still, Kallach was a little worried that she'd stab him in the back if given the chance.

He turned to face her while leaning his chin against the chair's backrest. Kallach leaned forward and looked at her with wide, glittering eyes. He suddenly yawned and put one hand over his mouth in an act of fake politeness.

Will you spare me the theatrics?

"You can't defeat us both, and even if you did, the tavern would expel you. Hell, you are liable to be charged with murder since you are an outsider, and an unruly one at that!"

Kallach perused his surroundings. People were looking and even gazing. They anticipated bloodshed and saw it coming in their minds' eyes. A handful of them gave discreet nods of agreement to what Kallach had said. All of them wore expressions of tense amusement.

"And if we kill you, well," he paused and clicked his tongue, "we'll get off scott-free under the pretense of self-defense."

"So you can either bugger off and bother someone else, or sit down to have a drink like the rest of us mostly civilized people."



He could've sworn that he heard someone laughing at the "mostly civilized" part.


Drystan
Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

They had been here for half the day already, whiling away their hours while they considered whether or not to continue working for the day or to call a cessation to the work. The bounties paid here were decent, if not as rich as they would like. The big bounties - the ones from other nations - they knew of but did not pursue. Much easier just to work your turf, know the ground better than someone who hailed from elsewhere, and to help the local economy out, you know?

The woman sat at the back of the common room, and two of her companions sat with her. None of them were much to look at; leathers and chain for armor, simple blades, bows, and an axe for weapons, not to mention the truncheon best used to knock someone senseless when taking them to the magistrate.

Alysa leaned back, and poked Hal in the ribs, pointed to the table with the mercenaries seated at it. "'ey. That who I think it is over there?" Hal shrugged, picked up his drink and downed the rest of the beer in one long draw. He sat it back on the table carefully, just so, and then belched behind his hand, all proper-like. "Seen a face like that not long ago. On the board, 'fact."

She nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Vel Anir really, really wants that bitch. Fifteen gold crowns of the heaviest weight for bringing her in alive. Three dead ain't bad, neither."

"Not when you consider the local riff-raff fetches some silver, it 'int. Must be a reason for the price. Not worth it," sad Jevidiah. He scratched at the butchered thing that passed for a beard, criss-crossed by numerous scars where the hair would no long grow.

The three watched with faint interest as the conversations at the other tables wended their way along, and then the altercation began. Well, would eventually begin - no blood had been spilled yet. Alysa considered just getting up and going somewhere else...but something held her back.

"Might be an opportunity," she mused aloud as the feral cat got up, hands all over her weapons, her broken and barely understandable common filled with a venomous hate that practically promised there would be bloodshed. "What say we kick back and watch, boys. Might get a vacation outta this day yet."

The laughter was partly for the insult that the fellows at the other table managed, and partly out of the joke that they would ever take time off from lining their pockets with easy money.

****

Maas sighed, and slid back from the table further. He did not rise to his feet, but he had a sense of being alert and ready to move at a split seconds' notice. He was no fool, and knew trouble when he saw it. His companion was trouble, and these other two were also trouble and quite possibly in trouble as well. The 'feral cat', as the patrons of a table not far away thought her, practically radiated anger and violence, and despite the fact that Kallach was not wrong in his assessment...

...the woman would not back down. She stood down not one, but two men who were both bigger than her, and the sense of absolute and utter fearlessness radiating from her tricked him into thinking that this might not go how the other two thought it would.

It didn't. She spat imprecations in her own native tongue that it was probably good that he couldn't translate. "Kicked out? Not care. No honor here, not you or <<the rapist>>. Only tongue-flap noise. Not your ...problem, now is." The No'rei dropped into the middle of that statement seemed completely out of place.

The knife was out of its sheath so fast is was difficult to see it, and then she was lunging at Kallach while steering wide of the other knight. One first, then the other; the flurry of attacks she unleashed were not designed to wound. She wasn't playing it the way the civilized of the world might - a duel, some rules to follow. She was aiming to kill, because there was nothing less that the Seven would accept in answer to their insults.

The wild was cruel. It was kill or be killed, and she brought it with her into the streets of Alliria.

 

[Drystan]

Going for the other guy first. Smart, but not something he was keen on allowing, either. Drystan knew deadly intent when he saw it, and though the fellow might be something of an arrogant arse, that didn't quite merit a violent and bloody death.

A well timed backhand, at best.

He vaulted over the table with the ease of someone who'd practiced the move a thousand times over, only for the scabbard of his blade to intercept the knife. She was fast. So fast. Drystan blocked with his sheathed blade once, twice... then his left hand came into play, as if it were to intercept the knife: it didn't an invisible force seeming to block the attack, again and again as he followed the weave of her blade at a frenetic pace, with little space to maneuver, counter or retreat as he just barely held his ground between them.

 

[Kallach]

He was swift as well as she was.
His limbs were startled awake as magic flowed through them. For a brief period, his pupils dilated, and in that instant, he seen her rush at him with her knife flashing and her teeth baring.
Nearly out of the blue, Kallach ducked, leaping to the side as Drystan flung himself over his head to deflect the strike.

The floorboards under the soles of his feet were cracked by the quick and forceful movement.
Not so fortunate was the chair he was seated in. Under the sudden eruption of magically enhanced muscles, its flimsy frame gave way, releasing a storm of splintered wood in all directions.

He landed some meters away from the two, his upper body hunched forward, a strained expression gracing his handsome face.

"Whew, nearly got me there."

Kallach put his hands together after wiping his brow with a sleeve. His fingers formed an odd symbol. They were interlocked, sans for the thumbs which were pointing forward, parallel to one another.

Then the most bizarre thing occurred. Smaller than a tennis ball, magical spheres appeared all around Kallach, each tightly suspended in mid air. The shape of these spheres quickly started to shift. They developed eyes, wings made of membrane, limbs, and long bristles.

They were insects, a peculiar cross between a crane fly and a hornet. Each one had long legs, an almost identically long, prehensile proboscis attached to its elongated face, and was roughly the size of a house sparrow.

Each of the insects had a huge, barbed sting that curled forward as it flew from the end of its abdomen.

Their broad wings beat together in unison with a purring motion. To make such a racket, there had to be eight, no, nine of them.

Their heads, adorned with colorful and complex eyes, shifted, all seemingly staring at the wild girl.

"Eleven against one? Seems pretty fair to me."

 

[Aeyliea]

The flurry was met at every twist, stab, and slash by something unseen. The blitz was broken after a moment, though; such a sustained assault could not be carried out indefinitely. She broke from the interference, back stepping to where she had been seated a moment before, dropping in a single fluid motion even as she replaced the knife at her hip. She missed, and the weapon clattered to the floor.

Didn't matter. She came back up in that single motion with the short stabbing spear she preferred and the light buckler, hide stretched over wood and banded with crude iron straps. The weapon sported a foot and a half of gleaming steel, tip as sharp as a needle and the edges of the blade as razor. It was clearly a cherished possession and well maintained.

She saw more magic, and sneered at the men before her. They needed to call upon the arcane arts in order to stand against her - unsurprising for the soft, weak city folk that these lumps of flesh were.

Maas had gotten out of his seat, and backed away with his hands raised. Clearly he wanted nothing to do with the fight that was breaking out - he had seen the inside of far too many jails and cages to willingly put himself back in one over a comrade that at best tolerated his existence. And, for her part, she was happy not to have him try and give aid. It was her honor that the one had slighted, and then another had stuck their nose into without being asked.

"Talk too much," she said, and then went back at the fellow with all the bugs again. This time she had reach in her favor, even if she was outnumbered. She wouldn't have backed down if there were a hundred against her one. In this case, it was still two men and nine fabrications of magick.

And within, that reptilian eye was focused on the confrontation, a sense of amusement and long-suffering weariness radiating from the presence. Rather than being directed at the two interlopers, it was focused on the Seer herself.

She barely noticed, pressing the attack again while some few of the patrons in the tavern decided they needed to be somewhere else. It would only be a matter of time before the city peacekeepers showed and put a halt to all this.

That was later though.