Arena Event. Part 2. Small Village.

Fayru instantly faced the wounded man when he spoke, shaken out of her own thoughts. She had been contemplating the fastest course of action to take to aid Ashas given he was in danger. She had always been by his side, but now, unable to do so, she had to plan out a means to get to him fast as possible. Her eyes focused on the man, his voice barely escaping his throat. She tried to recognize the word he had uttered... perhaps it was his condition that rendered the word too difficult to understand.

"Sir..."

She spoke softly, making sure not to disturb him in his odd surroundings. She was sure he must have been surprised at his own condition. Planting a hand on his shoulder where she knew it wouldn't hurt, Fayru gently nudged him backwards to suggest that he lay back down.

"Your injuries are too serious for you to be active yet... you should feel lucky that you regained consciousness."

.

Torin heard the woman's voice, he thought it was a woman, it sounded like a woman's voice at least. He didn't understand any of what she had said though. What language was she speaking?

Then she gently pushed him back down onto the mat he was lying on. For all that she was gentle he could no more have stood against that force than he could have stood against an avalanche.

He tried speaking again, this time in the language of the traders from north beyond the mountain ranges
"Where am I? "

Fayru smiled. She could hear him clearly now, which would make things much easier.

"You're in Leighdum, near the Tarin Mountains. You don't have to worry about your safety, a lot of Sazil's resources have been spent ensuring the protection of this caravan."

She stood up slowly and quietly walked over to one of the medicine cabinets, aiming to retrieve a damp rag and new bandages, but watching him intently the entire time. By mentioning Sazil, she may be able to ascertain whether or not this man was a danger. If he wasn't, the name may also put him at ease. Her hand settled gently over a medical knife in the cabinet. If he was, she would be quick to exterminate such danger.

Torin listened closely. The response was in the same language but...strange, the speech quick and clipped. Hard to keep up with and harsh sounding compared to his own accent.

Then his brain caught up with his ears. The Tarin Mountains, geography lessons flashed through his head, maps and measures quickly stacked up against each other and his mind reeled at how far he had come. He was beyond Almoth now, so far beyond he wasn't sure he could make it back if he wanted to.

Bone and Ash he thought I wanted to, needed to, leave but...so far? How did I make it so far? I-I remember a fight...Cael... and faking my death. Then...a cart? A river? But I have come north and west...all rivers run south or east from Mardeo Something carried me for a time. I certainly woke up on a muddy bank not far from here...or was it? Gods, how far did I stagger on before I fell?

He put it out of his mind, he could figure out where he globally was after he figured out his immediate situation. The woman had a knife now he noted absently. Was she going to cut more bandages? He shifted slightly.

Sazil? A name said so sounds like something one should recognize instantly, a man of power? A merchant prince? No noble or there would have been a title. A caravan. To hire a caravan means he certainly has money, protection only means more. It also means what the caravan holds is valuable, or at least important. More and more weight towards him being a merchant prince or the heir to some position of power

"I am happy to hear we are so well protected. Though I rather suspect I left my enemies behind, along with everything else" the last he added bitterly. Casting about he realized he was not in his usual clothes, not surprising considering the state he must have been in when he was found but still somewhat worrying.

"Tell me, do you happen to know where my personal effects have been taken? I had a collection of ornamental knives and other pieces I'm quite attached to. Also perhaps a pack, filled mostly with books?" The books he couldn't give two pebbles over but if someone happened to activate one of the more dangerous runes accidentally there would be hell to pay." Or perhaps my set of gloves? They're a family piece and quite valuable to me."

The rune on the palm of the left glove was far and away the most dangerous to the untrained. It alone could kill someone without them ever realizing they were anything but slightly drowsy. At least the rest were obvious in their danger, once activated.

His lips tightened into a frown, and with deliberate movements he rose and began checking his weapons. As he ran a finger along Veanne’s edge (more to reassure himself than for any practical purpose), Aerywyn looked back over at Acria’s hand.

“It may come to that… if we get you into a bed you can rest at least for a short while in comfort…”, he said thoughtfully.

The blade grew warmer in his hands, and for a moment Acria felt as if there was something in that steel that shouldn’t be there. A smile grew across Aerywyn’s face and warmth touched his face and softened it, and if it was only for a moment it was very unusual. Then as suddenly as it was noticed the feeling disappeared, though there was a lingering feeling of benevolence in the air. Aerywyn himself seemed as hard as he was before however, and he slammed the blade into his scabbard, immediately calling out orders in a strange tongue.

In response several figures dispersed with softly rustling feet into the woods.

“They’re off then… are you coming?”, he asked the sitting woman.

Acria stared at the dagger for a moment longer, shattering it in it's entirety, but keeping the shards in place. The ice then wove itself around her fingers, especially coating the wounded one, forming ice nails over her hand. She breathed deeply, then stood up and looked at Aerywyn.

"Of course... although you still didn't give me a good reason..."

Fayru was surprised at how easily he spoke despite his wounds. She thought for a moment for a reply to his question.

"I'm sure Ashas would have them... he's particularly interested in you, due to your runes there."

With that, she gestured towards the sown metal plates on his shirt.

"So I believe he would have recovered anything of value that you would have had on you. Although, you were found by a mercenary I believe, and not any member of the mages.

Torin chewed the inside of his cheek a little more. It was an old trick he had picked up some years back, it wasn't as good as sucking a pebble but one could eke a litte moisture out that way, wetting his tongue and soothing his throat.

Ashas? A guard...? No, he's interested in the runes, he must be a mage to recognize them as more than the squiggles engravers sometimes put on weapons to impress. From her tone he's quite important...so who's running this caravan? Ashas or Sazil?

He shifted a little. The pain seemed less, perhaps the herbs were only now beginning to take effect.

More importantly, is he familar enough with runes to understand what are on the knives? I would be hard pressed to explain why I'm traveling with enough fire power to level a large village. Or my staff? Gods! My staff! Far less incriminating I suppose, but I need the damn thing. I feel practically naked without it, and walking over uneven ground may be difficult for me without it.

"Well then can you at least return my staff to me? I am sure you can guess why." he said wryly. The woman had to know he was blind, or close enough to pass for it if she was the one to have patched him up.
"Or perhaps tell me what is expected from me for this? As they say in my home: a coin for a meal or a meal for coin, and nothing for nothing."

He frowned inwardly. He had so many questions, but asking too many too fast would surely seem worrisome from a wounded stranger. He had asked too many already, but damnit if he wasn't in dire straights for knowledge. He knew where he was, roughly, that he was hurt, and someone with a name that put him in mind of a firepit had all his stuff. He knew very little else save the name "Sazil". What he needed to know were questions like what compnay he was in, how long he could expect to be an invalid, the source of any food he might be getting, whati, if anything was expected of him when he was on his feet again, where the nearest city was, what the local rulers policy toward foreigners was, and a million other things besides.

Fayru frowned at the man, and suddenly realized she still did not know the name of the object of her care. Placing the thought in the back of her mind until after she answered him, she considered the questions.

"Ashas would most likely also have your staff... or, again, the mercenary. In your condition, nothing is asked of you, but to answer any questions Ashas or Master Sazil may have for you. Now... may I ask your name?"

Rude to ask my name before she offers hers...but still I must be polite to my saviors I suppose. Then again...could word have traveled from Almoth of the war? Of it's heroes and villains? I was not among the greatest names but...the events at Becquerel may have given me some small infamy. Is it safe? It's not likely I am known but how long will it stay that way? Can I afford to have my name known if somehow my reputation follows?

Torin agonized for a few minutes, lying still and breathing a little heavily.

At last he answered " I am called Torin, son of Jon Milliner, if it pleases the eight."

With that all the strength seemed to flow out of him and his head sank back into the soft pillow. His eyelids seemed heavy and he couldn't hear the girls answer.
His last thoughts were:

It is done. Not quite a lie, not quite the truth, it is done now, for good or for ill

With a grin, Aerywyn headed off towards the town.

"I didn't say we couldn't tomorrow".

He would have to be careful though, and not just because there was a danger these mages might recognise something about them, realise their nature and expose it. Aerywyn hesitated as he looked over his shoulder at Acria, and for a brief moment his brow was furrowed as he weighed the consequences and possible actions. Finally, sighing heavily, he waited for Acria to catch up. It was only then that he realised how heavy the anticipation and tension weighed upon him, for the most difficult part of this plan was her.

Conctent with his answer, although still confused on the logic of his plan, Acria drew her hood down, obscuring her eyes from any who would look at her. She also drew the sides of her hood , matting her hair against the back of her head. Doing so would not draw such attention to her obscured face, the blackness caused by the magic within the robe itself.

She followed after Aerywyn, preparing herself for whatever opportunity or problem that would arise. A thin coat of ice slowly covered the areas of her skin that would not hamper her movement. As she walked on, the coat grew outwards very slowly, then would pulse inwards, compacting itself, before it would expand once more.

She folded her arms to appear like a priestess... like the many she had seen before they gasped their last, bloody breath, she noted.

Orton sighed, so far there had been no brawl, despite the fact some had ignored his orders about wine and beer. He looked up into the star-strewn night sky and a smile came to his lips unbidden. It was not terribly late yet, nothing had gone wrong today, and he had received good news.

He stretched back, and let the worries of the day wash away into the night. All was ready now. The man sent out for the medicines and poultices had not come back, if he had left at all, but Orton was willing to let him sleep off whatever booze he had snuck in some gutter. If nothing else they could always use the supplies the caravan had on hand, and being able to give the lazy drunkard a pay cut for not fufilling orders would do wonders for Ortons spirits, and his wallet.

He smiled again, it was not late yet, but he would go to his blankets. The ferry captain had agreed, they would cross the river tomorrow afternoon. He briefly gave orders for the fires to be extinguished in an hour or two and he trundled off to his blankets, humming gently to himself.

Torin stirred restlessly, drifting in and out of sleep. Finally he decided he could sleep no more and sat up slowly. The pain in his side was much diminished but he was feeling heady and slightly dizzy. His arm was still wrapped up but someone had apparently seen fit to give him a sling. From the noise coming from outside and the feel of warm sunlight on his skin he guessed it was mid-morning, a bit of a surprise, he rarely to up that early on his own. Casting his good arm around the still wagon his hand came to rest on a chair propped just beside the bed.

A little more exploring found a serviceable tunic and pants folded neatly on the chair. Moving slowly and carefully so as not hurt himself, he sat up on the bed, and donned the the clothes. His bare feet finding a pair of boots(wonder of wonders they were actually his, though the metal plates that had the runes in them seemed to have been removed) beneath the chair. He stood carefully his body felt...drawn. Not precisely painful, though there was some pain, more like his whole body was a thread stretched to just short of it's breaking point.

I feel...better. Not healed, not fully, I ache and I'm going to be in trouble if I have to do anything other than a gentle walk, and my arm is definitely out of commission for a while but overall...better.

He briefly considered waiting around for his healer to return, but quickly dismissed the idea as boring. Perhaps he would go find this Ashas, or, failing that, a stiff drink. He steadied himself on the chair with on arm, raised his leg and stomped down on the wagon floor with all the force he could muster. He nearly collapsed from it and his arm shook a bit, having to take more weight than he thought it would. It was worth it though. The brief stomp had sent a small vibration through the whole wagon, and had set innumerable little objects rattling. The larger pieces of the wagon quickly grew still and disappeared from his senses but he had a map of the wagon interior now.

Whistling what he hoped was a jaunty tune he found the door, climbed out, and down the brief set of stairs to the ground. He stood there for a moment. A gentle breeze crossed his face, briefly, and disconcertingly showing him a new scar just under his chin, not very noticeable but uncomfortably close to the throat. Men walked about and horses grazed. Dus rose in certain places and grass wavered in others. Grinning he wandered off towards what he hoped was a more central part of the camp.

((BI's gonna pissed with me for not doing this sooner.))

As soon as he could, Aerywyn rushed Acria into the least crowded inn and, after paying for the best room available, lay her down on the straw bed and tried to stifle her protests to kill him. He felt that somewhere in the back of his mind, Veanne was laughing at him in her faintly humoured manner...

Look at this... the feared Wraith of the Mark playing the dear old mother to a beast...

Aerywyn frowned, though he tried his best to ignore her, fearing listening to her more than anything else. That woman knew him all too well. When he had finally managed to reach into his pouch for the healing herbs, Acria had inflicted a few small cuts upon his face, her self-determination raging agaisnt his meddling. He scowled, growling softly as the smell of corruption, a mix of the corpse and of emptiness, slowly filled his nostrils.

With scarcely a word he left her there, promising only that tomorrow she would have her bloodlust fulfilled, and that the poultices and herbs would help her heal.

A drunkard by the front door yelled out, grinning toothlessly at him.

"Sha give ya' a hard time, eh? Knight's shan' be tryin' to bed 'em holy women, 'specially 'em dark 'uns...".

Aerywyn shot him a vicious glare, silencing the foul peasant before heading out into the night, searching for better inns and better information about these mages.

To think, these serfs had butchered my language so...

Orton chuckled to himself as he walked back to camp. The flooding had subsided, and the river captain would be prepared to ferry them across in about 3 hours. It would be simplicity itself to get the caravan ready in time.




Across the river in the trees on the opposite shore
Moriv squinted back into the telescope, trying to be sure that he had not been mistaken. he had not, the signal was still there. Possibly coincidence, but too valuable to not investigate. He smiled, and stood, stretching in the shadows of the trees. It wasn't often that he was able to do duty as a scout, people seemed to object whenever a leader did any of the actual work himself. Even now he wasn't truly scouting, he wasn't alone on the front, nothing but his wits between him and an early grave. Not bothering to turn his head he simply spoke.

"She's here boy. Get word out, I want everyone, everyone to be ready for a fight in under an hour."

Someone behind him raised his voice "Sir, all that's here are fish. New recruits, raw, we'll be lucky if they know which end of the sword to hold let alone take a ready mark."

Finally turning to see the man behind him he looked him up and down.
The other man was taller than he, though many were, and rangy. Younger by far, u already with the signs of his profession marking his face clearly to one with the seeing of them.
Moriv smiled gently, his hand resting on, almost caressing, the hilt of his sword.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, still smiling.

The other man paled, as Moriv began walking in a long loping stride. Moments later there were only shadows and a few flecks of blood to show anyone had ever been there.

Grotaar munched on the corpse of a bloody mercenary guardsmen as he peered through the brush at the caravan. He longed to walk into the camp but he knew that could never happen. His kind was not one to be simply shot cold stares or face inflated prices. His kind was one that was killed on sight, stabbed, shot and hammered until it no longer resembled anything akin to life. He would wait and bide his time. Shadowing the caravan from a safe distance.

He glanced back at the guardsmen. It had been his fault really. He had strayed to close to the village and the man had seen him and drawn his sword. He had been forced to kill him. Still, thought Grotaar as he licked a bloody finger, he had been hungry.

There was naught but a fuming scream within Acria's mind. She felt like she had been treated like a little child, locked in her room until she realized what she had done wrong previously. Even above that, however, she had been denied the satisfaction of watching wretched, ignorant fools slump to the ground at her feet, blood spilling freely from their bodies like water from a punctured bottle. Too long it was since their souls, their entire being lay in her hand as she added it to her collection. Too long was she offset from her goals.

Too long...

She lay back onto her bed, plotting within her mind. Ice began to grow across the bed, across the floor, enveloping the walls..

The next one who steps through that door, and isn't Aerywyn, is going to die... but it doesn't matter... I'll bleed the souls from this town until I see Master Jericho once more...

So she waited, the room getting colder... the ice, thicker... sleep itself could not tame her shattered mind. Acria lay in half-consciousness, subtly aware of her surroundings and of the ice embracing her surroundings.

Torin leaned against the wagon wheel and tried to think still thoughts. The sun was warm on his face and the breeze, gentle.

The woman who had been tending him was trying to get him to go back into the wagon. Torin had no intention of doing this but it was nice to know someone cared about his well being. He had even managed to get his hat, gloves, staff and a few of his knives back from Ashas. Well, Ashas had given him his staff gloves and hat back at least. It would be a while more before he noticed the missing knives.

All of it was nice. Life was wonderful. There wasn't anything to be upset about at all. He clutched his stomach tighter and whimpered slightly.

I am the only man I know who could possibly get seasick crossing a bloody RIVER.

The ferry they were on gave another little hitch in the current, and Torin whimpered a bit more. He might even have considered going back in the wagon, if it weren't for the fact that being in a closed space just made it worse. He had joined in, or rather been dragged along, on the third ferry crossing to the other side.

He had no idea why they hadn't just left him in the town, but it seemed the mages (that had been something of an unpleasant surprise, learning Ashas was a mage, and there were more about, though he didn't know who they were) had taken something of an interest in him. In particular they were going over his various affects and the runes on them. He had only gotten his staff back by protesting he needed it to guide himself, and his gloves by showing them what they did, or rather what the right glove did, with it's runes to aid his grip. He wasn't about to share what the left glove did with anyone.

He rather suspected there were going to be a lot of questions, many of them pointed, in his future, probably as soon as the woman tending him decided he was well enough to walk without an escort. He chuckled a little weakly at the memory or her face when she had found him wandering the campsite, having completely forgotten where the wagon he had rested in was.

The ferry halted with a bump, as it reached the bank. Torin felt a wave of relief wash through him, the crossing was complete.