Fate - First Reply Not All Cells Are Steel and Stone

[Maranae]

The clatter of wheels and groan of overloaded axles quite easily drowned out the sounds of nature, the dirt kicked up obscuring the sharp scents of the wilderness. All around trees towered over the narrow road that the half dozen carts rattled down with more than twice that number in men and women under arms. Short and tall, of a variety of races, they presented a mismatched coalition of guards from seemingly every walk of life.

The caravan guard was a high risk, relatively low reward job. It attracted those who sought adventure, who did not wish to be seen by the greater public. By those running away; either from their past or from themselves.

In that regard, the tall redhead was no different. It was only in the way she differed from all of her companions that was unique.

It was well past the middle of the afternoon. The shadows ran long, the air stifling and close beneath the canopy. Winter never really touched this land very harshly, but even so it was unusually warm for the season. Sweat stood out on her brow as she clung to the side of one of the carts, claws punching into the wood to get a solid grip. Claws and teeth, two features that marked her out as being not precisely human, along with her yellow eyes. Those swept the road ahead, scanning for any threat.

Her name was Maranae, and she lived in a cage of flesh and bone. And just that moment, she very much wished that they could pass another day without conflict. The battered and notched blade on her back was more for show than for actual use; the blade was dull as a club. The claws on her hands and feet and the teeth in her mouth were far more effective weapons.

The best weapons were those that never had to be used, though.

"Another quiet day!" Her eyes cut to the side, narrowed against the dust. She offered the boy riding alongside her a sunny smile that brought out the freckles on her cheeks, but she said nothing. Words were difficult, anyway; at best she sounded uneducated and simple. And maybe she was, outside of the set of skills that had been forced upon her. "I was expecting some excitement by now," said the boy, raising his voice to be heard over the clatter of the wheels.

A seeker after glory. The youth was perhaps twenty or thirty and elven, and clearly of some means. Clearly to anyone but Mara, anyway; the concept of money was tenuous at best, baffling at worst. The 'job' she worked now was more because she could pass unnoticed in most places as a guard, most of whom were seen as transients and degenerates anyway. It was quite likely that what she was being paid was grossly low, but she would never have known anyway.

The boy tipped a feathered hat that was liberally coated in dust, gifting her a bright smile that made him quite handsome, and then booted his animal up the line.

She looked skyward quickly and then back to the road winding ahead. Still a couple hours shy of dusk. Wending their way down the shallow valley in a generally northerly route, darkness would fall fast when it did. The hills and ridges around them were no mountains. The thick forest blanketing them rendered the majority of it impenetrable, though, and was precisely the reason the current load of goods that she worked to guard was under threat.

She was just think of that in her own, slow way, when a shout sounded ahead. She looked up, eyes narrowing on a tree that had been felled across the road itself. Eyeing the six carts, the dozen guards all suddenly alert and wary, and the equal number of drivers and others that had tagged along for the cross country trek.

Then back to the blocked road ahead, the man standing atop it as the carters hauled back on reins, and caravan guards drew bows or blades.

Maranae was no longer smiling as the man blocking their way started making his demands.

 

[Ruslan Gildal]

The roads of Arethil were never truly safe. It didn't matter if you were on Epressa or Liadain, all the world over travel came with its own risk. And so, hence why larger parties like this caravan tended to form, and why men like Ruslan joined them. He had a capable axe-arm to offer (along with a gift that need not be mentioned or shown unless absolutely necessary), he was no slouch when it came to the manual labor, and he himself could use the escort. Safety in numbers, after all; the most capable swordsman in the world could be brought low by a large and determined enough rabble.

So here he sat on one of the rear carts of the caravan—the one with the rather large and noticeable red-haired woman. Among the caravaneers she stood out (how could she not with the claws adorning her hands and feet?), and so Ruslan had pegged her for the time being as another auxiliary addition, just like himself. Everyone had somewhere to go, hmm? For Ruslan, for the duration of his Gezi, he had quite the number of things on his checklist out here in the wider world. Might as well take advantage of his extended excursion from home while he could—he planned on keeping busy, quite busy, upon his return.

Things were going fine. Another quiet day, like the young elf elf with the stylish hat had said.

Until, like the very mention of peace having been boldly spoken into the air summoned trouble, the valley into which they were descending had its path blocked by a felled tree. Ruslan, seated with his back to the front of the cart and his legs dangling from the cart's rear, didn't know it until the caravan came to a stop.

He heard the declaration of demands, dimmed as it was by distance. He couldn't catch all of it, but "precious metals" were gleefully mentioned all right. In a manner almost bemused and in disbelief he turned round at the waist and as well looked over his shoulder. "Now what do we have going on here?"

"Keep an eye out," said the other man riding on the cart, Goffred. He jumped off from the back with his readied blade. "Sometimes the craftier raiders like to distract first and then come in from the sides."

Ruslan slid off from his seat and dropped down to the road after Goffred. He reached to his belt and pulled his axe out, lifting it and resting it on his shoulder at present.

He glanced to the tall woman. Smiled a little and gestured to her claws, "What's sharper? Those, or that sword on your back?"

Maranae

 

[Maranae]

Mara's eyes were focused on the man atop the tree, who had yet to jump down. Who stood there with the imperious manner of someone who knew he would be obeyed, of someone who had nothing to fear. Her eyes sharpened on him, her pupil contracting into a vertical slit in the sea of yellow.

She blinked rapidly when the stranger spoke to her, cut her eyes to the side. Another like her, she had assumed from the outset: hired on for coppers on the day and rations, silver for any actual work that need be done. Such as the kind of work lining itself up right in front of them. She looked at her hands, fingers tipped in feline-like claws, then at her feet - feet with the tips of her toes left bare, the rest wrapped in leather. And then looked back up to him.

She played his words through her head again, and again, and thought of how to answer. Words did not come easily for her, and she had to make an effort not to sound like a child in her turn of phrase. For answer, she shrugged. "Not either. Not use if not need," she replied in clipped words that were definitely twisted by the fangs in her mouth. She flexed her fingers as she looked to the gesticulating highwayman, and shook her head.

Maranae did not take her weapon in hand like her companions had. Instead, she fixed her attention on the man currently shaking them down.

"No need for anyone to die," the bandit was saying to the 'van master, who stood at the head of her procession with her hands on her hips and thunder in her eyes. "Just pay the toll and you can pass," he said.

Mara tilted her head to one side to better hear.

"We pay no toll, thug," the woman who ran this caravan snapped. She was a bearish woman, stout and sturdy and absolutely impervious to intimidation. "Clear this damned branch out of the road and get out of our way," she snapped.

Her ear twitched. Other sounds, subtle as they were, caught her attention. She looked to the woods. At first, she saw nothing with that steady stare... but gradually the shapes emerged from the underbrush. Men in rough armor or homespun and mismatched bits and pieces of armor became visible on either side of the road. What had appeared to be simple underbrush turned out to be low wall constructed of woven branches so that it was difficult to see.

She was not well versed enough to know that the enemy would enfilade them from that position, their archers - numerous - ready to cut them to pieces. She merely gestured with those beclawed hands towards the emerging trouble, and said as much.

"Trouble," she murmured to Ruslan. Her blade remained on her back, her attention fixed on either side of the road.

"You'll give us what we want, or we'll take everything and leave you lot for the crows," the bandit chieftain said. The 'van master swore to herself, and then spit at him, "Go fuck yourself," before drawing a pair of wicked knives herself. The leader of the bandits had a heartbeat of notice before the stout woman was on him. The surprise on his face was quite comic, even as it glazed over in death as she dismantled him in a series of quick cuts.

Everything went insane after that.

 

[Ruslan Gildal]

"Ah, the masterful art of achieving victory with one's sword sheathed," Ruslan said, paraphrasing a line of similar sentiment from one of the texts he'd read at the War College. "That's the challenge."

Goffred, not too far ahead, turned back to the two of them and commented, "Nothing so fancy is going to happen here today. I've been on enough of these to know that if these raiders showed themselves, it means they think they can take us."

"Fair enough," said Ruslan, and then gave his axe a spinning flourish and added with a grin, "It isn't as though I have a sword to keep sheathed anyway."

"Money's money, though. And the loot from their dead bodies is money too."

And to this Ruslan gave an appreciative nod. Goffred's confidence was admirable, reminiscent of that Gildan courage back home. Good man. Ruslan thought about buying him a drink once the caravan reached its final destination.

Up ahead, the caravan leader was exchanging harsh words in what passed for negotiation. "Mama Bear" is what a number of the caravaneers called her, a nickname to match her physique and temperament and so all the more suited to her. One certainly did have to be tough to be in this line of work. As far as those negotiations were going, well, hadn't Goffred struck the nail square on the head? Oh, where was that elf with the stylish hat? Ruslan had half a mind to congratulate him for goading fate to summon them some excitement.

Trouble.

Ruslan glanced to Maranae, followed the track of her gaze, and saw then the tiniest rustling in the murky shadows of the shaded wood off to his left. And here one could note just how quickly things could go from relative peace to explicit violence. The bandits' spokesman found himself filleted by Mama Bear, and his lurking cohorts didn't receive this kindly at all, and thus the first volley of arrows came whistling out from the woods. A successful ambush, felling a number of caravan hands whose attention was elsewhere.

Ruslan had dived to the other side of the cart, pressed his back to it as he heard the thumps of arrows imbedding themselves into the wood. Goffred, a moment later, was around to this side too, his shield with no less than three arrows stuck in it.

Ruslan looked to the other man. Spiting the danger, he said with comical annoyance and an exaggerated roll of his eyes, "Archers."

The flippant, gallows humor worked. Both men, their hearts thudding in their chests, shared a laugh as the ambush continued.

Maranae

 

[Maranae]

The trap sprung, and it was clear from the outset that they were horribly outnumbered. Even though the ostensible leader of this pack of thieves had fallen before ever the first arrow had flown, they still rallied and fought.

Clearly, there was a chain of command, and the one who had stepped into the dead man's shoes still liked their odds plenty good enough to carry on.

Arrowed thocked into the wood of the vehicles, found the flesh of horse and man alike. Not all of the brigands behind the makeshift walls were archers - barely half of them were. The others carried axes and hammers and rudimentary spears and stolen swords, and they waited for the archers to soften the targets up. The screams of pain were entirely one-sided to begin with; it took a moment for the guards to string bows and knock and draw.

The fancy elfin youth cried out as an arrow took him in the leg, pinning it to the horse he rode. The beast scream in pain, bucking the young mercenary off her back and tearing the arrow free of his leg as she did. He landed badly, struggling to rise.

And the tall redhead herself too one too, high in chest. She gasped in pain as the force of it spun her off her perch on the cart. She landed face first on the dirt of the road, she sharp exhalation from the impact spraying blood into the greedy earth.

Silence save for the scream of the downed carthorses and the elfin youth reigned after that opening salvo. And then, bright and clear, Mama Bear screamed to them, rage dripping from every word. "South, break south! Leave the carts!" She suited her own words and barreled towards the barricade there.

As if her movement had spurred them on, the archers on that side of the road knocked and loosed again. Those to the north, once assured that they were not going to be attacked, simply dropped their bows from the ready position while the brigands with melee weapons surged over their barricade.

Maranae, now on her hands and knees, drooling blood, made a mewling sound as she gripped the shaft of the arrow and tore it from her chest with such brutal strength the wood splintered in her grip. Blood splattered on the forest floor. Face ghostly white from the pain, blood running down the worn and stained leathers, she got to her feet unsteadily. Turned towards where the remaining guards were now making their way...and pelted after them with a surprising turn of speed.

There would be a melee at the wall. Behind them, the varied weapons raised, their assailants closed in. The quickest stopped at the carts, taking a position to defend them if they should turn back.

 

[Ruslan Gildal]

Ruslan hazarded a look around the back end of the cart. He jerked back as the glint of an arrowhead caught his eye and, Regel willing, he'd reflexes enough to evade the arrow; the zip as it passed suggested it would have missed regardless, but there wasn't anything wrong with making sure and keeping sharp, eh? He looked out again.

The elf with the stylish hat was down, and far. Damn. The redhead with the claws too; closer, yes, yet this was what ambush archers loved, for a wounded enemy's comrades to break from cover and try to help. There was gear on the ground too from the fallen—bows, shields. Might as well be on the adjacent continent. Going into direct line of sight of the archers on the north side either to help a comrade or scavenge gear walked well over that dividing line between daring and foolish.

Mama Bear's resounding cry put into words the prevailing sentiment among the surviving caravaneers.

"No loot today," Goffred said, prepping himself for a sprint from the caravan.

"There's some to the south." Ruslan bumped Goffred's shoulder with a fist. "You've a chance yet."

"Yeah, I'm glad they put all their cross-eyed archers on the south side."

As if to punctuate his insult and inadvertantly prove it right, an arrow limply smacked into the cart in the little space between the two men. Ruslan and Goffred shared a quick glance, each a touch incredulous, their tandem huffs giving life to the shared thought of Well we didn't think that would be so true.

"Let's see if they're any more handy with a sword. Ready?"

"Ready."

They were about to break from the cart and rush south, rush to meet that half of the raiding force coming over their barricade with their melee weapons in hand. Plenty of the caravaneers were already in motion to that effect. But a surprise stayed both men as they saw the redheaded woman not only up and seemingly well, but sprinting faster than any of the other caravaneers. Ruslan and Goffred shared another quick glance, this one with the surprised shared thought of You see that too, right?

Dismissing the bemusement, Ruslan said, "Lovely day for a run," and at his words the two men went bolting after the other retreating caravaneers, not too far behind Maranae. Ahead was the southern barricade the ambushers had set up and the wave of raiders surging over it, their battle cries resounding with confidence. The only way past was through them.

If ever there was a test of the martial skills Ruslan had practiced in the War College, then this was it. Blood and glory, or dirt and dark. No two ways about it. With trust in Regel, trust in his axe-arm, and the promise of victory purchasing him everything this day, Ruslan charged into battle.

Maranae

 

[Maranae]

A good turn of speed, but one that would not let her forget the pain. Her chest ached where the arrow had been ripped free. Every breath was an agony and difficult besides; blood still drooled down her chin and rattled in her chest even as it leaked through the hole there.

The coppery scent of her own blood and that of her companions made her nose flare regardless. She could feel the beast within, always barely a breath away, stirring. And her world narrowed to what was directly in front of her. Her companions were vaguely seen shapes, the roars of triumph of the thieves behind them muted and distant.

Mara ran, stumbling and catching herself, coughing and expelling a red mist as she did. But she kept going, and came upon the barricade even as Mama Bear did. That worthy caught a heavy spear with one of her knives and deflected it just enough, and then fell upon its wielder.

The archers retreated and faded back as the melee fighters stepped up. And Mara, light headed and pained, came face to face with one of them. Wielding a spiked club, the brute overtopped her by several inches, squaring himself and swinging at her with the heavy weapon with the solid intention of dashing her skull into pieces.

That was what he thought would happen, and what would have happened if she were human. Instead...

...the descending weapon stopped cold, the girl swaying a little under the force of it. His arm was in her hand, and she had stopped the blow as cold as if he had hit a wall. He barely had time to register the shock before she threw him out of her way, blood spraying from her lips as she grunted with the effort. The man went down spinning, blood leaking from where her claws had unintentionally pierced his flesh.

Two more stepped up behind him, bearing blades. Mara's eyes tightened, but she readied herself to face them... and still without the blade on her back out.