The Warrior's Way (closed)

[Tshael]

3:30 a.m.

In the midst of the night, there was a calm to the room. A dying fire crackled in the hearth in vain. It cast a low glow over the room. The Silver Pub was empty, chairs stacked on tables and the shelves behind the counter devoid of the bottles that once lined the hardwood expanse. The room had been swept clean, the floors bare. Tshael sat before the fire, staring before her at a pile of dark metal. Her delyn armor had been neglected in the back of the bar, now spread out before her. The black metal caught the dancing light of the fire and she watched as the shadow of flames and her own form flickered from under the dust that coated the surface. Her lips pursed in a grim line as she moved her fingers across the metal. Dust smoothed away from her touch, falling away, dissipating in the air, and smudging her fingertips.

A ragged sigh escaped and Tshael let her head hang. A tumble of red curls slide before her and she used her clean hand to rub at her eyes and the dark circles that ringed them. They burned, dry and red with exhaustion and so many tears spilled in the night. It had been so long since her golden eyes had lain eyes on her armor, almost as long as it had been since she'd last been able to sleep through the night without being awoken with nightmares.

"Thor..." she quietly said, arching her back and feeling the tension in her spine pull as she looked up towards the ceiling into the stretch. In these wee hours of the night she never could get her mind off of her once lover, nor her lost child. "If only you were here." Thoracis Rakarth had always been able to calm the waters that seemed to rage around her. She could use his steadfast strength, the knowing way she remembered of him. She'd been in shambles for so long, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be strong herself.

Her hand reached behind her, searching for a moment before she found the rag she'd brought over. The soft cotton bunched between her fingers, and she oiled it from a dark bottle that had been sitting by her side. Slowly, deliberately, she picked up the first piece of her armor, her breastplate, and began to clean and polish the delyn with care. The quiet night moved on, pierced now and again by the quiet tick and crack of the fire as it watched on.

[Zook Murnig]

3:30 a.m.

Sharp pain pierced the dreams of a young magician, laying with his companion. The pain lanced through the muscles of his calf, as if the bone itself were ripping through the flesh -- and in a way it had already.

Since his injury in Raiaera, serving the spirit Nischa, pain was all he ever felt in his left lower leg. Even as he pulled back the blankets and rose to run his hand over the leg, he knew it would do nothing. He never felt anything below the knee in that leg any longer, since the hammer had come down, shattering the bones. The worst of it, however, had come just after, when his body had surged with energy, and the bones re-fused, disregarding natural shape. The deformity meant that not only were the muscles there weak, but he would forever be lamed, his footing insecure through the numbness.

Still rubbing absently at the warped limb, Cohen looked aside to find Gavrila still fast asleep beside him. He still didn't know how he felt about the girl, especially since the expedition in Raiaera, where she had saved his life no less than twice from the undead that yet lingered there. In the faint light of night, flowing through the drawn window, she was peaceful in her repose. She wasn't exactly beautiful, still gawky in her late teens, but pretty and striking in appearance. Her creamy skin almost glowed under the dark, straight hair that lay across her face, and Cohen thought of her bravery in the elven land. He remembered the strong will that had carried him from a watery grave, and repelled the dead that came for them both.

It would hardly do her justice, no matter how he felt, to let his weakness hold him back now.

As he slid carefully from the lumpy bed, he was acutely aware of not feeling the cold, weathered wood under his affected toes, even as the stabbing, shredding pain subsided. He hobbled to the pale, shoddily built dresser in his nightclothes, gait unsteady from the unsettling lack of feeling in his foot, and his knee giving way twice on the short trip. Upon loosing the swollen drawer, he began pulling out fresh clothes for the day.

Today, he decided, would be an important day. He would prove to himself, and to Gavrila, that she had been right to rescue him. That his infirmity would not remain so.

Finally, once he had dressed with care, he began to write a letter to his companion, telling her what was in store for the day, and not to worry for him. Quill scratching across parchment on the wobbling and knocking nightstand, he wrote:

Gavrila…

[Tshael]

5:00 a.m.

In her room at the back of the pub, Tshael gathered the last of her things in a pack. The gold she'd saved was already bundled in a leather skin and placed towards the bottom of the pack. The faded quilt on her bed was smoothed out, corners tucked under the straw mattress. On a square of sun-bleached red cotton, black filigree roses barely visible anymore with time and wear, a small bottle of lamp oil lay. The golden oil sloshed and coated the sides as she plucked it up and laid it next to a small tin of flints on a long, wide strip of linen. As she wrapped the items together, a small voice in her mind was laughing at her. She felt silly preparing torch materials for this trip, but the sensible side of her was reminded that she would be unlikely to return to the Pub once she left this morning. For the same reason she added a stack of rations, squares of honey, oat, nuts and dried fruits that she'd prepared the day before. They were wrapped in paper, twine wrapped and tied around the lot to keep them together. Her few belongings tidily packed away, she stood.

Her plate armor clinked softly as she moved, the black metal sifting around her body. For a moment as she turned to leave the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror over the vanity. All that dark armor shrouded her, making her skin look as pale as bones soaked in forest sunlight, her hair a halo of flame. Her fingers reaching out to the bedside table, she took up the candle snuffer and plunged the room in darkness before she left.

The steel horseshoes under her hooves thudded dully on the planks of flooring as she crossed the lobby of the Pub. Chairs were stacked on tables, the hearth was cold and clean. Behind the bar, all the alcohol was gone, bare shelving beginning to gather a fine layer of grey dust. The entire place was empty, ready to stay waiting quietly for her return. She sighed heavily, the sound almost too loud in the room still warm from the freshly killed and swept fire that had kept her company through the night. As she opened the door to the early Coronian dawn, she said goodbye. It was time to end this chapter of her life, despite the familiar pages that had been a comforting friend in her grief.

[Zook Murnig]

5:00 a.m.

A relative few businesses were open in the predawn hours, when the heavens over Radasanth's stone skyline had just begun to lighten, and the stars to disappear to their rest. Amongst these shops, a small, dingy, and somewhat suspect food cart seemed to have been fried into place on the cobbled street over several weeks. Cohen's stomach turned as he watched the sweat-soaked vendor of vittles work, making pancakes in caked pans for the cadre of clientele to be found so early in the morning. Still, he reminded himself, no alternatives had yet presented themselves, and he needed a full stomach, however uneasy, for the busy day to come.

Steadying himself, and nearly pinching his nose against the odor of overcooked oils that threatened to set his nostrils aflame, the starved magician hesitantly approached the cart. Pressing through the thronged mass of day laborers, he managed to shout his order over the din, and after several uncomfortable moments of clutching the greasy, weathered wood of the cart's counter, the grungy cook begrudgingly passed him a stale bagel and a hunk of soft white cheese.

[Tshael]

7 a.m.

The trip from the Pub to Radasanth had been a leisurely one. As Tshael had meandered down the avenues of Radasanth, moving from open farmlands to cobbled city streets, she felt as if she were saying goodbye to an old friend. Of course she wouldn't be leaving until that night, stealing away from Radasanth like a lover slipping out in the dark hours of early morning. It made her feel cold, a lump of ice in the pit of her stomach, to think that she might not be coming back tonight. She watched her reflection as she walked by shop windows. Her form was a ghostly replica of her movements, marred here and there by the swoop and splash of hand painted signage. Now and again she caught her own eye as she passed, the haunted bruising that encircled them almost the perfect frame for the bright flash of amber of her iris. For a moment the Dranak took comfort in the future. Live or die, after tonight she would finally be able to sleep.

As the sun began to rise over the tops of buildings, breaking through the clouds and washing the city in bright warmth, she began to turn down towards the Radasanthian Bazaar. Already the boulevards were filling with shoppers. Bakers were dragging their steaming wares out onto the road, the scent of yeast and jam filling the square. The morning quiet that had accompanied her as she'd come into the city was quickly being left behind has the drowning rumble of conversation and the barking call of merchants lifted into the air. The city was coming alive, blooming as the flowers do in the light of dawn. She smiled wryly, remembering so many years ago when she'd come stumbling into the market to buy her armor, confused and afraid of so many people bustling around her at once. Now Tshael deftly maneuvered between housewives laden with the day's groceries and a tailor who was zipping by with a stack of cloth towards his own shop. Children, dirty and orphaned, were already moving from group to group, begging and pleading for coin or food, using their group to hide a single act of pickpocketing at a time.

As she came into the market proper, she stumbled, a sharp pain and clang breaking her enjoyment of the urban chaos around her. Looking down, Tshael saw with dismay that one of her steel horseshoes had come undone. Finding the nail that had come loose would be impossible now, as the last few feet she had traveled had already been covered with the pathways of other shoppers. Who knew how far shuffling feet had scattered it by now? With a sigh she instead turned her attention to check her other shoe. It was worn down, scuffed. Likely it would have come loose soon anyway. It had been so many years since she'd been shoed, it was likely time to update anyway. Grimly hobbling on her way, her footsteps resounding with a metallic rattle as her left foot came down, Tshael pushed on to a small shop on the corner of two lanes. It was a small place, a brick building that looked more like a home than a shop. Nestled against the side of the house was an open forge, and a freckled face brunette boy of no more than fourteen was stoking the fires. Smoke curled upwards from the flue of the forge, curling around the tin roof.

The Mythril Matron

As Tshael pushed the door open, a small silver bell chimed happily from the doorframe.

[Zook Murnig]

7 a.m.

In the light of the rising sun, the morning's dew settled over Radasanth's streets in a thin mist. Cool, fine droplets breezed over Cohen as he wobbled down the cobbles of Warrior Way, one of the city's main thoroughfares. Dead legged, he hobbled from building to building, shoppe corner to market stall, pausing to steady himself and catch his breath every few yards. Few of this avenue's businesses were yet open, and the street was empty but for a pair of bakers, flour-caked, apron-clad, and puffing their morning cigarette on a stoop.

A chill ran over the limping magician mid-stride, and he nearly fell as he shivered violently in the brisk morning air. Catching against the mortared wall of another shoppe, he pulled his robe closer about him with his other hand. A thin, reedy voice called out from behind him, "Whoa-ey, mo' yer arse, drunk'rd." Pressing himself against the wall to let them by, he was confronted with a shrew in human form, an old woman of small body, sharp angles, long wiry gray hair, and an armful of trousers. She pushed past him, out of an alley, and into the shoppe. Having deposited her load on a counter, her crooked nose peeked back out at the startled young man rubbing his leg out front. "Ye'lrigh', boy?" she asked, jaw working furiously around what Cohen suspected to be the very wad of tobacco that had mangled her speech thus far.

"Fine," he responded tersely, cringing as he massaged the ache out of his thigh. "I'm fine."

"Oh-ey, tha's no foyne, boy," she pressed. "Ah saw 'ow ye're walkin' out 'ere. Though' ye were drunk, but drunk don' rub 'is leg." She was walking out to him by now, her posture stooped like she'd honed it for decades. "Nah, drunk don', but 'urt do. Ye keep walkin' on 'at, whate'er it is ails ye, ye'll regret it. Nah, ye need ta see mah son, Jackie." She tapped the sign hanging by the door, and it swung noisily out to where Cohen could read it.


Jack in the Green
Wood Goods, Britches and Hoes,
Seeds Sown and Tears Sewn

"In, in, we're nah open, bu' Jackie'll see ta ye if'n Ah tell 'im." The crone beckoned.

[Tshael]

11:30 a.m.

The blacksmith’s apprentice watched diligently over the shoulder of his master as he hammered the last nail. Shoeing the Dranaki had been a tedious task. Motherhood and working her beloved pub had caused Tshael to neglect her hooves in recent times. Picked and shod, she tested the new gait. The damascus shoes that had been placed were heavier than what she wore before, but she planned to tread in places unholy and a strong foundation would be needed in the times ahead.

Back in the shop as she rooted through her bags to pay, her attention turned from the farm tools displayed on the wall to the weapons behind the counter. They’d been skillfully made, but not what she was after for now. Instead she let her attention drag to a small table set to the side, displaying the beginning works of the apprentice smithy.

“These are yours?” she asked the boy, who fidgeted and flushed behind the counter.

“Yes ma’am.” He said in a quiet voice when gently nudged by the old master. Tshael turned her gaze back to them. There were simple tools, a few skinning daggers, and a small paring knife that looked like it could just barely handle an apple peel. Tshael felt herself smiling, before her eyes settled on the most elaborate piece displayed. An iron lantern frame, fitted with a hand-twisted wick sat towards the back. There had been some attempt at metal filigree along the edges of the windows, and upon the top a face that looked more like a skull.

“This,” she said, lifting the heavy frame and setting it on the counter. “I quite like it.”

The apprentice blushed and stammered, and when she left the smithy, the sun was hanging high in the sky. The lantern swinging from her pack made her feel less strange for packing the oil and flints. She started to make her way to her true destination. The Citadel rose on the horizon. One last offering of blood, one last chance to hone her strength, and she would be ready. Passing through a park on her way there, she found a spot under a tree to eat one of her rations. It wouldn’t do to go to battle hungry, and the children dancing through the grass before their lunch brought some measure of warmth to her heart.