Fable - Ask Homeward Bound

[Aeyliea]

Sun settling towards the horizon, another day come and gone in a flash of heat and light and the dry, ever present wind. The sea of grass stretched endlessly from horizon to horizon here, studded by wind-stunted trees and the occasional hill pushing up out of the flats. During the right time of year, this place would be a sea of green, but so late in the year, with summers' fingers tracing lazily behind it as it set off into the distance, the land was sere, the grasses brown or tan and dry as paper. The endless susurration filled the air, rising and falling with each passing gust.

She continued onward. She had lost track of how many wheels of the sun it had been since she had escape Vel Anir, how many leagues she had covered. Out here, where the civilized only trespassed with armed escort, she was free. The immense sky, the blazing heat of the day, the sere wind blowing out of the east...all of these things spoke of home. She had cast about for the spirits of home, seeking their guidance in tracking the ever-moving tribe across these dry wastes.

Only, there had been no answer. No whispered greeting from the ancestral spirits that dwelt within this land. Only silence that seemed deafening to her shamans' ears.

She had grown harder in the weeks crossing this fast land. She had already been a hard woman before, but all of the excess fat seemed to have melted off of her. She was still as beautiful as a desert rose, but it was a primal beauty now. Her eyes were not sunken, but seemed larger instead and if anything, they ere sharper than ever, those blue-grey orbs; her cheeks were not hollow, but seemed sharper. The incessant wind tugged at the tail of white, her hair loosely braided so that it flicked about angrily like a lion's. She sorely felt the lack of charms woven into it, as was her custom; they had been stolen or destroyed by her captors months before.

Supple limbs, or at least her right arm and legs were; her left arm bore a cruel scar that snaked across her forearm, and the arm itself seemed to be missing meat from within it. The little and next finger of the hand on that arm hooked back into her palm, and no matter how hard she tried to move them they would never move again. Already the muscle in those stricken digits had atrophied markedly. That whole arm hurt, from time to time. It would forever commemorate her weakness in being captured.

How many miles made? How many to go? Without the whisper of the Wild to guide her, she did not know. She had neither a shield nor a spear, and the lack of them made her feel naked and alone, out here in the wild lands. She wore no armor, only rough woolens stolen from some hut on the way out into the taste. That, and a heavy workman's knife, suitable for hunting and the like. Or it would have been, had she a bow; as it was, it was grubs and rodents caught by snare that she had subsisted off of, and tepid water from the secret places in the land, those that she could find without looking.

Now, though, even the spirits that gathered round the water holes were silent.

She caught the scent of smoke, faint but very much present. There was not enough wood here, in the grasslands, to easily build a fire, and the scent she smelled was of burning dung from the great herds that roamed these plains. The No'rei woman slowed her quiet approach and, now that she needed to be, moved in utter silence. She had been born of this land, and could move like a wraith when needed. It required not the use of the spirits to accomplish, only skills learned from birth.

Closer, following the scent of smoke. There, in a little hollow cleared of grass, was the source. The fire was low, and nearby were a pair of horses with their reins loose. The beasts had been hobbled so they would not wander too far from their owners. The general lay of the land made it so that even those tall creatures could not be seen from further than a hundred yards or so. Eyes narrowing, the woman crouched low and started to circle in the other direction, so that her scent wouldn't alarm the animals. She needed a better look at who was there; the saddles on the beasts certainly indicated that they did not belong here.

And she was right. She was often enough, and in this case it was clear outsiders, pale skin alien to the residents of the savannah. Her own was bronze. Seated round the fire, two men and a woman sat, some animal stuck on spits and roasting over the low flames. She eyed them from a distance - at least a hundred yards - with deep distrust. Outwardly, it was difficult to tell if they were from Anir, or from one of the other cities that sat on the edges of the grasslands. The woman wore a robe, and the hood was thrown back to reveal dark hair and dark eyes that gleamed with mischief. The shaman could not see any weapon on her person.

The other two were different. One was a tall fellow with graying hair and a beard that was more gray than brown; he sat with his back to her, running a whetstone over the steel tip of his spear. It was of the longer variety, not the short that she preferred to use. His armor sat on the ground nearby, gleaming in the golden light. She marked this fellow as the first to die in her head, dismissing the woman.

The other was a sharp-eyed younger man, and he was staring in her direction, unaware that she was there. He wore light chain mail over leather, and carried a sword and a great longbow on his back. He was not in the act of removing his accoutrements as his older peer had done. He was gesturing wildly and speaking in the common tongue quickly and angrily with his companions. Aeyliea knew enough of the trader's tongue to get by with, but was not fluent in it. As quickly as these people spoke, she could only pick up one word in five.

"...too relaxed, old man," the younger fellow said heatedly, and the older fellow barked a single laugh. He continued to hone his spear as though the younger man were not trying to nettle him. "This is not a safe place," he added.

"As if I don't know that, boy," he said mildly in reply. The woman huffed to herself, but said nothing.

"That wretched savage cannot have gotten too far with it," the young man said, and started passing angrily. "What could they possibly want with a magical artifact like that, anyway? Damned savages."

"Savage or not," the woman said in a smooth voice, "they are not stupid. Even the more primitive people that live out here know magic when they see it. How else do you think they have stood against Alliria, Elbion, Vel Anir, and all the others that have sought to claim these lands as their own?"

I will kill the old one first. Steal his weapon, and use it to kill the other two. Steal one of the horses, set the other free. She crouched lower, starting to work her way through the tall, dry grass towards their camp. A step at a time, with the patience borne of one who had been given life here, where boredom was not a concept that could be understood.

"All it does is amplify ones natural abilities," said the old one, mildly. "It is not particularly strong. It was to be a component in Lady Esterielle's more recent projects. I am pretty sure they are much more worried about the other materiel that the savages seized. Do you think they would send a hundred of us out here just to fetch a trinket?"

Aeyliea paused. She understood a hundred well enough. After a moment, though, she resumed; what was it to her that there were more? These ones had things she could used. After so long bereft of equipment, taking it from these soft dwellers of the cities was appealing for more than just obtaining their equipment.

"Phaw, believe whatever you want, Regord!' The woman shook her head.

Closer. Closer she came as the banter went on....until...

"Regord, look out!" snapped the boy, already reaching for his sword. To his credit, the old man was definitely quick and very much aware of his surroundings. Unfortunately for him, it was too late; Aeyliea came in like a striking viper, and expertly slipped the knife in her hand to the left of the spine, midback. The tip found his heart, and like that, one of the three was already dead. She let go of the knife, snatching the old fellow's spear as he dropped it in his death spasm, and round on the young fellow. She had some trouble holding the longer weapon, with half of one hand not working properly, but she would manage well enough.

 

[Len Dy't B-taa]

"Move as though you are without bone or muscle, as free and without true form as the crashing waves that fall from the tallest of rivers, as ferocious and untamable as the wild beast emerging from the tree line to strike at it's dinner. Do not ask your body to move, and do not tell the ground beneath your feet to catch you. The steel in your hands is your anchor, tying you to the world. Hold your blade dear, as it is the only thing that prevents you from floating off into what cannot be known or spoken. Grip your sword and never be forgotten, my love."

The words never left Len. Not even death and the generations in the unknown abyss that followed it could ever erase those words from his broken, stitched mind. Since he awoke, dragged from an eternal rest into the body of another, the thoughts and memories that evaded him would return in throes. Fleeting, but powerful emotions would threaten to emerge and face him towards what he had become.

He remembered the first time he'd heard those words in his head, telling him to go forth and not to be forgotten, whispered through the darkness into his ear from a voice as soft as velvet. She had kept him warm on the last night of his Illya, both of their bodies chilled to the bone by the treacherous winter that had battered their shelter for a month prior. He could barely see her form underneath the dim light of the torches hung on the wall, but the way her warmth enveloped him was enough to assure him of all that he'd needed to know. Yura had been his first lover, borne out of a friendship cultivated through years of learning together. It was when he would dance that he would recall the time they'd spent together, underneath the Fifth Tree. Life had been simple back then, it was before he knew the pain that the end of his Illya would bring. The times of drinking exotic concoctions on the branches of the seven between his training sessions wouldn't last. Much like many who grow up far too quickly, he wished he hadn't taken them for granted. By the time his love for Yura had finally blossomed, they had to go their separate ways. Len was willing to break from his fate, to run away with her and live out life cast out from his home. He asked her... "What do you want me to do?"

Those words... "Grip your sword and never be forgotten." That was her answer.

Even in his return to The Aberrant Kingdom Yura's touch still lingered, though he would never see her again. His life would become nothing but battle and horror, soaked in naught but blood and valor. No longer would he dance for the entertainment of those he cared about, only for the entertainment of the kings he served. When he wasn't killing in their name, he was not celebrated, but used as entertainment. Len didn't question, he didn't turn away from his duties. He lived only to defend the land whom had given him everything. Yura's love had taught the young Len an important lesson, a lesson that would hold true even until the day he threw himself upon his own blade in defiance of those he'd served:

Sometimes the gentlest grip is one that is as hard as steel.

It was with that gentleness in mind that he'd chosen not to lash out in violence against a world where all that he'd known was dead and gone. Why fate had seen fit to pull him back to the land of the living, he was not sure. Perhaps it was that elusive emotion, the one that had been promised to him as he held Yura in his arms that night. She'd made him a promise that still rang in his ears and haunted him through every dance and every life he took. "One day." She'd told him, "One day you will like you. You'll see all that you have to offer our world, and you'll love yourself the way that I love you, Terios. The Kings and Lords will see you as more than a jester in a knight's clothing. They will embrace you as I have."

Perhaps, he thought to himself as he began to slide his heavy, plate armored frame down the small rocky outcropping he stood on to investigate the group sitting around a campfire, that was why fate had truly returned him to this world. Perhaps it was to serve this world until he found that love that she'd spoken of. He had vowed protect this Savannah, guard these roads from evil until the difference he made was undeniable. For whatever time he had left...

He would chase that love.

And yet on this day, more and more of these land-roamers had seen fit to intrude on his lands. He protected those who travelled these paths, but this new group had brought only violence to the place his home had once stood. Len had already encountered several; they had stopped him as he roamed the Savannah in attempt to interrogate him. Both of the men were now food for the wilds of the Aberresai.

Now three more, sitting around a fire spatting about something or other. A smaller one in light armor, a large one with heavier wear sitting beside him, and a woman in robes. They were not just a group of bandits, Len decided. These were militarized to an extent that they knew to split into varied groups. The creature snarled behind the clay mask he wore over his face; These people were too dangerous to allow them to remain here in his land. He reached to his back, for the silver sword that hung there...

But before he could grasp it's hilt, one of them was already dead.

The smaller male had spotted somebody, and even Len's trained eye was taken aback at the speed with which the woman hiding off to his right hand side sprung from her spot. The old man stood no chance against such a swift opponent, not without his armor. He went down like a bag of stone, and the striking young woman lifted his spear to confront the other male.

As far as land-roamers went, she was extremely impressive in both her agility and pure boldness. Still, ally or not she would be at a disadvantage: Her weapon was too large for her, and while she may be able to take the young male, there was still the robed woman. Len grasped his blade by the hilt, charging from his own spot with surprising speed for one clad in full plate. He'd moved with it most of his life, his body used to it as if the weight was his own. He closed in quickly, taking a swing at the young male's neck, and then spinning with his swing without hesitation to see if he'd connected, his arms outstretching into a T, blade now aimed at the robed one. He offered no words, but a nod to the woman who'd struck first.

Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

He did not. The youthful warrior was on his guard, and while he had not expected the second attacker, he seemed to slip smoothly to one side to avoid the attack. The No'rei's attack wasn't any more effective; gripping the haft of the spear midway down, trying to use it as she was comfortable with, it was an unwieldy weapon. The half dozen stabbing attacks she made were awkward and slower than she was accustomed to. The fellow easily parried all of them with the blade in hand, and she was slow enough in her attack that he managed to get a couple of swipes in at her himself. She dodged one, parried the other with the damnable stick on her spear, and then danced back.

Another had entered the fray, she noted; she did not recognize the attire it wore. Another enemy, she thought to herself. The odds were stacking against her in a decidedly unpleasant way. Even if this one considered the others foes as well, she could not trust an outsider not to turn and face her, too.

"Goddess damned savages," the woman said suddenly, standing from where she had been seated. There was no mirth on her face; eyes like shards of ice, a mouth that spoke of supreme irritation. It looked like she had eaten a lemon, to be honest. She held a staff, now, and it was an intricate thing, wood inlaid with what appeared to be silver in intricate whorls and wild designs. She held it to one side. "Urtiel, do not play with your food," she said to the boy.

"Yes, Lady Eren," he replied in a sour tone, and then poised on the balls of his feet, attacked the taller figure of the two of them.

Aeyliea had used that momentary distraction to close the distance with Eren, but the woman parried all of her attacks with that staff. It was not inlaid with silver, as it turned out, but inlaid with steel, and the woman moved with a surprising reflex. "Damned savages," she said dismissively, catching the spearhead squarely on her staff, and then pushing outward. A wave of force radiated out with her, and it carried her attacker into the air and a dozen feet beyond to land maladroitly, at the ready and with a shocked expression on her face.

 

[Len Dy't B-taa]

Len wasted no movement, took not one extra step. He'd been raised to see every twitch of any muscle in his body as a giant leap, and every leap had the potential to land oneself in great peril. His swipe was dodged nimbly; unsurprising, as he hadn't had nearly the same element of surprise that the woman now brandishing the oversized spear had been working with. He raised one foot off the dirt, shifting back as that spear wielding woman now took her turn at the young man. She was both quite obviously skilled, and fueled by a fury that added an extra dose of power to every stab and swipe she took.

Len was impressed by how well she handled the unwieldy item, even though her attacks proved fruitless. The brief moment of eye contact she made with him told Len that he was just as much of a foe as their current two opponents. When they finished these two, he would need to watch his own back lest he be next. Not that he was particularly worried. On the contrary, lowering down to a crouch as he watched her change targets, instead squaring up to the robed woman who'd been sitting down, he felt a smile cross his face at the idea of facing such a skilled warrior.

He'd have done well to pay less attention to the pretty Land-Roamer, and more to the man who was charging him. He'd heard the approaching steps, raised his blade to parry the incoming attack... but only just in time. The tip of the man's weapon grazed Len's neck, poking a small hole in his armor and barely missing an artery. Len doubled back, infuriated by the idea of having let his own guard down. Raising his sword towards 'Urtiel', he took a step forward before placing his odd foot sideways and sending himself into a spin. Tilting his sword back to rest against his nape quickly, he pushed on the hilt and shifted his weight as he spun, so that the blade's side would spin around his neck. As he completed the spin, he grabs the hilt and unleashes the blade's momentum at Urtiel. There was no time to worry about the women fighting across the way now, this one needed to be disabled first.

Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

It seemed that it was becoming a common thing, making makeshift weapons out of other people's preferred ones. She did not advance on the robed woman again, not yet; instead, she took the spear in her hands, held her hands apart along the shaft, and then dropped it across a knee with every bit of strength she had. It did not break on the first attempt, but on the second the haft splintered and snapped just above her knee, shortening the spear to something just a touch longer than three feet. Blood dripped from her hand where the splinters had torn them, but she seemed not to notice.

The native darted back in towards her female opponent, and chucked the useless length of wood at her as she did. Of course, Eren simply brushed the attack aside, but when Aeyliea came in close behind, holding her spear in one hand as she was much more accustomed to, well...

The flurry of thrusts were savage and precise, but even still, and even though the woman appear to lack any martial skill in particular, not a single blow landed. Each were intercepted by her staff or somehow - miraculously - missed her by mere inches. It was as though her attacks were being deflected by something she could not see.

And the shaman could certainly feel the use of magic in the air, but she could not see what it was the woman was doing. It was entirely alien to her, this magic of the city dwellers. Out of keeping with the wilds, out of tune with nature itself.

Urtiel grunted at the proficiency of his opponent, but he himself was no easy meat to be taken casually. When the sword-dancer began to get too complicated and far too flowery for his taste, he fell back, not quite disengaging by being entirely on the defensive, not seeking to attack until the nature of what his foe was about became apparent.

 

[Len Dy't B-taa]

It was wisdom, to retreat and reassess when pulled out of your comfort zone in such a life or death situation. Len's adrenaline, thundering through his ancient veins with all the force of the thunderstorms this patch of dry land so rarely saw, took pause in his system as he praised Urtiel's skill. He would reset himself, twirling his sword dramatically around his armored forearm as he spoke. "A worthy fight. Take a shot at me, boy." Flinging the blade in the air, he would reach skyward to grasp it's hilt before pointing it at his adversary. "I'll make it quick."

He lowered into a more professional stance, spreading his feet and allowing his vision to tunnel. There was only he and his opponent now, for why should he concern himself with the two women fighting beside them? He'd seen that fire in the other girl's eyes, burning as bright as the sun that had baked the earth beneath their feet. she was just as likely to turn against him as the mage she battled was. Neither was his ally, the same as all the other beings in this world he'd found so hurriedly thrust upon him. He would rely singularly on himself, and no other.

The sand grinds against the metal of his feet as he slides forwards slowly, silently urging Urtiel to make his move. A low growl of excitement shook his throat as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Yes, he was alive here, in the throes of combat with one who could last against him. He prayed this boy could last against him, could draw the sweat from his pores and blood from his veins. Anything was worth it to be alive for just a few moments.

He sprung forth once more, no frustration or aggression corrupting his movements. This was a dance, and Urtiel was his partner. He swings low, stops midway thrusts his blade skyward. His weapon still held aloft he raises an armored foot to thrust forward towards his gut, then bringing the sword down once more.

Aeyliea