Open Chronicles Bone Orchard, Burnt Heath

[Yulsel]

A cloying, greasy smoke was in the air, visible black against the grey sky from miles away. Yulsel gave a sharp whistle to his eagle, Wolfsbane. She was to abandon the prairie-dog she was tailing and follow him. He rode quickly to the smoke's source.

It was a mass grave.

Swinging himself in one smooth motion off of his horse, Yulsel glared out across the burning heap of what had, until only recently, been a band travelers.

Pillaged. Again.

Usually, he felt little for those foolish enough to make the journey south to Dornoch with little more than simple daggers and an archer or two. Those who could not defend themselves should stay at home, by others capable of doing so. These foolish travelers, however, were going through the Mirminuk lands, his lands. Wolfsbane gave a screech where she circled high above. Satisfied for the moment with her watch, he picked his way through the scattered bodies. They were fresh, still smoldering. He would need to call Burri and his apprentice out before sun-fall to perform the proper rites, place the white stones on their eyes and their hands over their hearts as they burned. He did not have the time. They clearly had no valuables, and what horses had been traveling with the band, for they had left heavy tracks, had been taken as well. His horse circled the site at a gentle trot, disturbed by the carnage. She was young and still somewhat wild, not yet used to the violence of sentients. She had not been named yet, would not be named until she survived her first true battle.

The raiders couldn't be far off. Wolfsbane hooted more melodiously. Yulsel's ears pricked up. She could not see clearly between the terrain and the smoke. Usually he felt comfortable dismounting with only a cursory glance around, but this close to the southern coast, there were trees and rolling hills, not just plains and plateaus. Others could be close enough to pose a danger, just tucked away in the brush like the cowards they were.

Considerate of his urgency, he knelt quickly to say a few words over the corpses. Looking down at one, a young boy robed in warm pink now stained with blood and dirt, he cut a scrap of fabric from the boy's sleeve and tied it 'round his hilt.

He would not remove it until these people were laid to rest and, if possible, their killers put down like the dogs they were.

 

[Dhara]

"KEEP IT MOVING!"​

The whip's crack caused the moaning and crying to cease for a few, precious seconds, before it started up again. To Dhara it was nothing more than a dull irritating background noise, like when you could hear the humming of a mosquito's wings in your tent at night. At least the source of this noise was going to do nothing more than serve her wine when they had learnt the Ways. But that was not a concern for her. Batu was the Slave Master of her band and he knew his job well. She had never had a complaint from the other tribes who bought their slaves from her. In fact, she was go so far as to say she possessed one of the best Slave Masters in the Steppes. There was a reason people bought them from her over others. Dhara gave a soft grunt to herself to bring her mind out of such thoughts; it did not pay to grow distracted so soon after a raid. If there were any other Bands who had been circling the same pray as they had they would be watching them now, assessing their weaknesses.

Dhara kicked Baystard into a gallop.

The Juuyin Tribe she commanded had swollen over recent months. Some had joined her from other, smaller, tribes looking to seek safety in numbers. Others had joined when offered the question of death or service. The core, however, had come with her from her home the day she had murdered her parents and younger brother for her right to rulership. It was they she trusted above all else and it was to one of those she rode now.

"Keep a close guard on our rear and flank," she leaned to the side and spat some blood from her mouth. "I do not trust these Southern lands," her eyes scanned the clusters of foliage where small bands could conceal themselves with ease. "Let the dogs have a loose leash, too." The man she was talking too was a good foot taller than her with a shaved head aside from the long plait that ran down his back. He looked at her with heavily lined eyes and nodded solemnly. Jortun had been one of the first to follow her and shared her fleeting trust for the newest recruits. "I do not like these Southern Plains."

 

[Andrei]

Andrei took a cursory glance at the corpses or what remained of them, which wasn't much. There must've been half a dozen of them in total, though it was hard to tell the exact number due to their unsightly condition. Whatever happened had reduced the muscles, skin, and adipose tissue to a charred, coal-like consistency, with only a few yellowed bones remaining as an indicator of humanoid origin.

Andrei reached down, picking up a severed finger. It was small, undoubtingly belonging to either a short woman or a male child. The thought sickened him. Someone, or something, had murdered the bunch in cold blood, but the reasoning behind the degree of careless brutality escaped Andrei's grasp.

With one arm outstretched, Andrei observed his mount draw closer, curiously sniffing the nigh-unrecognizable digit. Besides its horselike torso, the thing he rode looked nothing like an equine. Instead of legs, it had four grotesquely muscular human arms attached to where its natural limbs should've been. Each ended in a vaguely human-like, four-fingered hand at its end, tightly gripping onto the loose soil.

Neither a stallion's scruff nor a stallion's head graced the grotesque being. A man's head hung where a stallion's should've been, bald, pale, covered in layers of gaunt, leathery hide. The neck holding it appeared both too long and not nearly girthy enough to support anything heavier.

Its nostrils flared, mouth slightly parted to take in the offering. And though bitter in taste and smelling of death, the creature consumed it with no protest.

Andrei tugged at his green shemagh, pulling it over his decently sized, albeit perfectly straight nose, making it easier to speak without having his words come out as muffled gibberish.

"Not even warriors, but women and children. I wonder..." His slitted pupils darted about the field of slaughter, surveying it with utmost diligence. There he saw pieces of jewelry, broken weapons, cloth, and even a toy or two scattered amidst the sands. Most were half-buried, soon to be invisible to the naked eye.

"It wasn't an adventuring party. They would've been better armed. The observation concludes as such: a civilian caravan. Still, it'd take me hours of digging to be 100% sure."

The creature reacted to Andrei's monologue, teeth bared. Its was a maw filled with rows upon rows of inwardly facing snags, each sharper than a dagger.

"E̴͔̘̐̓̏̾̽́n̴̮̙̺̖̯̼̓̑̂̒͛͋̅̔͘̕͠ê̷̡̪̻͈͙̣̈́̓̎͒̊͋̕͠m̴̨̻̦͈̳͉̗̟̑̃̀̈́̌̿̀͌͊͘͝ī̵̢̻̬͎͚̜̗̰̖͉̫͖̊̎̄̿̅̒͛ͅe̷̡̫͇͎͔͗͊̔̕͠s̷̢̮̬̗͕̞̱̰͙̺̎̈́̋̈́̂̂̑͜


A simple "Perhaps," uttered from Andrei's thin lips was enough to reaffirm the sheer, undiluted hate bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Yulsel

 

[Yulsel]

Wolfsbane gave the two warbling cries that meant danger, strange danger, was coming. It was not the call of a lone rider or the call of a band, but the signal for a monster or beast.

Cutting short his eulogy of sorts, Yulsel brought his mount to him with a breathy, quiet whistle. She came by at a trot, just slow enough for him to thrust a hand up and threw himself up. Once seated, she picked up to a swift canter and he sat low, flattened to her back. Guiding her with his legs, to keep his arms free, he drew his sword. He brought them to a copse of trees slightly uphill of the site and turned.

For a few, moments, he strained his eyes with bated breath. Soon, a beast or demon of some variety came along on a twisted, abominable mount. Yulsel’s blood heart was thundering, even as he held perfectly still. The thing was unnaturally pale and tall, as if stretched beyond its limits when being made. He watched as it stooped to pick up something from a corpse. He feared that it planned to consume their bodies, never allowing their bodies to be dealt with properly or their spirits released. Even if it did begin to feast, he would not be able to stop it. Alone, he dared not provoke it or its steed.

But perhaps soon, for better or worse, he would not be alone. He could hear horses coming near, a group by the sound of it. Closing his eyes to listen, he heard the crack of a whip. Wolfsbane would give signal if she spotted the group, but without making a noise, he would not be able to respond. She knew his gestures but, tucked into the shrub as he was, she would not see him clearly.

If those riders were bandits and raiders, perhaps they and the beast could deal with each other. If they were honest folk, he would need to ride out and aid them. He hoped they were not another unarmed band of naïve travelers. Defending a pack of children and crones against this thing would only get him killed. He eyed the interactions this fiend had with its mount and the manner of its gestures. They indicated some level intelligence. Another bad sign. It was unlikely Yulsel would scare them off as easily as a pack of steppe hounds, with only some bellowing and a rear and stomp of his horse.

Dhara

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Thelios was not far from where a string of raids had taken people, and reportedly, dumped them into mass graves. Thelios, ever worried about it's borders, it's trade- and being good neighbors, sent none other than Aratus to conduct a sort of diplomatic mission.

That being, to return with the heads of those responsible for the raids that impeded some travelers to Thelios. As a gesture of goodwill from Thelios to the rest of the lands- especially the Southern Plains.

While not gifted of a tracker himself, Thelios had enlisted the help of locals by way of purchasing their time. The tracker had let them onto a caravan- one that was supposed to have reached it's destination some time ago. They had gone back and forth for a while now, and only recently picked up a trail. The riders from Thelios- horses strong and cloaks so blue- were tearing through the desert, hot on the heels of those responsible. All in all, there were 14 of them. 12 of Thelios' better warriors, the local tracker, and Aratus himself, who lead the party.

They had observed from afar- or rather, the tracker with his what Aratus assumed to be magical seeing device, the divergence of the slave caravan. The riders came on one of the higher dunes, casting long shadows over the slaver Caravan. There were plenty of stories of the strong warriors of Thelios, clad in blue cloaks and wielding hefty spears, defending their city. Not a single raiding party, invasion, or bandit had made it's way into the city's walls thus far.

They all lined their spears in unision, but did not make a move. They were giving the enemy time to fester in their fear, taking advantage of their fresh, green recruits. It was one thing to slaughter town guards and helpless civilians- it was another to take on an Athallian war party, hell bent on coming for your head.

 

[Dhara]

A simple version of hand talk flickered back and forth amongst the Band without the hands so much as moving from the reins. None of them betrayed the fact they had been aware of the approach of the blue-cloaked figures or that they even noticed the bird of prey wheeling up above. It was always easier to pose as a simple caravan when transporting goods - human or otherwise. Not many would be idiotic enough to attack the Juuyin Tribe if they knew who it was, though others would attack in the hopes of claiming glory and Dhara would rather not risk losing some of the slaves.

The grey war beast beneath her snorted with agitation and Dhara stroked the wrapped handle of her blade but the 'Caravan' didn't show any signs of giving a flying fuck of the ponces upon the hill. This was a Free Road. There was no tax to give by way of passage and their Band, reluctantly, had not committed any crime on their way down from the Northern Passes. If the Cloaks attacked first then it would be them in the wrong and sinking her blade into one of their skulls would be all the more sweeter. If they thought they would find green warriors in the manner they were no doubt used to, they would be sorely mistaken. The people of the Northern Steppes were said to be born into the saddle with blade in hand.

As the thought made her wet her lips in anticipation one of her scouts came tearing back from the direction of the bird. Dust flew up in his horses wake and Dhara nudged her horse to meet him half way.

"A massacre," the scout spat, whirling his horse about as Baystard lunged to bite its neck. Neither rider seemed at all bothered by the horses antics. "The Khatiti Tribe, they left their mark," Dhara wrinkled her nose in disgust. The Khatiti enjoyed setting their victims aflame rather than meeting them with steel and giving them at least the honour of a worthy death.

"A warning," she summarised and the scout nodded in agreement. Dhara snorted. "They will be close then - JORTUN!" she wheeled her horse back towards the man she had been riding alongside and her shout came only a second too soon. From the other side of the Blue-Cloaked fools came a sudden ululation and the sounds of many hooves. Stained still in the blood of their recent kill they came.

 

[Andrei]

Andrei's ears tingled, soaking up the ambient noise like a proverbial sponge. "Company," he muttered into the face-covering cloth. He had heard them approach; two, possibly three different groups, all numerous in their own right. Still, he struggled to see them clearly despite his superhumanly developed ocular prowess. The terrain did him no favors. Nonetheless, he anticipated conflict between the rapidly approaching groups. Being curious but wanting no part in it, he pulled back, reining in his grotesque mount.

The clangs of steel betrayed them. The strangers were armed. They had to be. Andrei's steed appeared no less aware, sniffing the air with its concerningly human-like nose.


E̷͙͖̠͇̥̤̱̭̽̿͊̆ṅ̵͔͓̠͙̈̄̔̓̐͂̑͌̊͌͌̈ę̷̦͈̼̲̭̻̥̩̮̳̝͉̟͙̓͌́̾͂̅̏̉͘̚͝m̵̟̪̥̖̈̀̑͛͗̂̄̔͝i̸͈̪̯̙̦̤͇̮͝e̴̡͔͛͋̈̈́͊ͅs̸̢͉̾̐̈́̈͆̒̈́̒͘͝͝?̶̩̼̇͗̍͐͐̿̈̓̂̋̏̊̅͠ ̵̢̧̡̟̤͗͗̀̌̇̓̔͂͘͠F̶̠̰̳̦̝͍̭̲́̾̽̽̍̔͒͑̅̓ö̷̦͔͙̙̠̼̦̅̆̈́̇͗̑̀͝͝͝ô̸̩͆̓͂́́̐̅́̽̃̃͠ḓ̴̡̙͙̲͇͍̺͈͖̺̆̓̈́͂͐̂̐́̌̋̂̄͜͜͝?̵̛̲͔͉̮̤̟͇̰̜͙͓͇̂̿̈́͛͒͋̓͑͂̈̓͊͗͝ͅ


It spoke in a mish-mash of disjointed voices that only an occultist of Andrei's caliber could reliably decipher. Shaking his head, the pale man shrugged, hoping for the best while anticipating the worst. The least he could do was defend himself if push came to shove.

"I hope not. This place reeks of death already. All further bloodshed would be ill-advised."

The creature's head bobbed up and down as it seemingly understood Andrei's sentiment but disagreed with it. After all, it craved sustenance, having gone for hours without food. Its body pleaded to be fed, slavering at the thought. Andrei, displeased with the reaction, felt compelled to whack it over the head but abstained from doing so in fear of being bucked off.

"Best be prepared."

Bringing the palms of his hands together, Andrei began to secrete a black-ish substance. Right from the surface of his skin, it seeped, forming perfectly round, gravity-defying orbs the size of a ping-pong ball. He chuckled as they robbed the very light around themselves. Perhaps calling them black would've been a disservice to their true nature, for there was no mortal comprehension of color that could explain the effect.

Andrei compelled them by the power of his will to move closer and coagel into a single sphere, and the convex blob changed shape much the same, influenced by Andrei's unspoken desire. It moved as if possessed, lengthening into a deadly design, a single-handed, cavalry inspired saber, as Andrei would've dubbed it, topped off with a vague but wieldable cup guard-crowned hilt.

 

[Yulsel]

There were far too many suspicious folks in the territory of the Mirminuk clan this day for Yulsel's taste. A band of foreign soldiers from the far north had crested the hill. In all the pounding of hooves, it took their coming into view for him realize there were two distinct parties on horse back. Those in sight were clearly city folk, traipsing about with the unsubtle arrogance of those more used to defending a fortress than to patrolling vast swaths land. They halted on the hill top, unabashedly visible and facing what Yulsel presumed was the other company below. As the other riders had the sense, at least, to travel through the valleys, they were still out of sight, even drawing close as they were.

The beast in the clearing had noticed the display being made on the hill and was busying itself with some devilry, drawing a dark sword from the air.

With three strange bands moving through their land, he should let the council know. There was infuriatingly little in the way of specifics at this point to share with them. Three groups, possibly two if the riders in the valley were mere travelers, possibly four if no party currently making itself known was responsible for the sacking of the caravan. Eyeing the creature by the bodies, he decided he would need to call Wolfsbane to him to send a message. He was tense, readying himself for flight if the noise provoked it. Forcing his muscles to relax, he issued one low, piercing whistle into the air.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

The Athallian band was set on by a different party altogether- although, in the daylight, it was difficult to sneak or take the enemy by surprise.

Hooves and shouts, commands and orders.

The Athallians dismounted their horses- some of them, at least. Others began to get into formation, rigid discipline on full display as the would-be ambushers were met with a swift defensive posture. Thelios had no city walls.

And the riders that set on them found that out. The Athallians cut down the first few riders that tried their defenses, who were running high on their fresh kills, the arrogance of their prowess. Aratus himself was on the ground, his horse handled by one of his other men. His spear gripped tightly in his hand, he ordered the band forward, four spears working in unison to remove rider and horse from the equation. The rider was met with another spear to the chest once removed from his horse. Another rider came, her blade meeting the shield formation, and her life being cut short by a sharp thrust from a spear, catching her in the shoulder, then a second through her ribcage, killing her nigh-instantly.

Blood met the sand, and the attack of the war party was in disarray- sending riders from what he would later know to be the Khatiti tribe over each of the parties, though certainly disorganized at this point, no less dangerous than before.

 

[Dhara]

As the main diversion hit the armoured knights atop the hill, those who had been laying in ambush in the valley itself threw back their odd changing cloaks and leaped at the Northern tribe. Horses reared with screams but Dhara's warning had at least been enough for most to draw their swords even if they weren't in the position they might necessarily have liked. More riders appeared over the opposite crest of the valley to the current fighting and poured down into the divide like an avalanche. Dhara curse and, casting one glance back at those Jortun had gathered to surround the cargo to protect them, yanked the horn from her hip and gave it three short, shrill blasts without once slowing down her steed.

With her knees she turned her stallion up towards the hill. The incline meant her horse had to work a lot harder than those running down but her advantage was that hers was less likely to break their leg going at a speed. The front guard had turned to protect the middle and so it was the rear guard that came ploughing up the slope to join her charge. In hurried movements she dropped the horn where it bounced against her back and yanked one of her axes from its holder on the saddle. She smashed into the side of them a second before the rear guard crashed into the other.

The shrieks of horses and people echoed throughout the valley from all three clusters of fighting. Horsemen broke away into smaller groups where they thought their horse might win them an advantage creating even smaller skirmishes all along the valley path. Battle was a thing she at least trusted her people to do right and if they died? Well then they were weak.

She laughed with pure joy as her axe cleaved a man's skull in two and turned to find another.