View Full Version : Duty Calls
In the early pre-dawn hours, thick mist drifted to and fro in the small lagoon, disturbed only by Caron as he occasionally uncovered his post. This hadn’t even been his idea, loyalty was overrated. What should it matter if the queen or king ruled Alerar? The king seemed competent enough, what did it matter how he gained the thrown? But no, Itnar had insisted in throwing his lot in with the loyalists, Caron included. Now they were enemies of the state, fled far and fast to the little known continent of Istraloth.
Living in constant fear, staying just a step ahead of assassin after assassin, this wasn’t how he wanted to live. Every time his eyes closed, his old life flashed before him. His wife, his daughter, their home, middle class job, family friends, and the food, he missed that the most. It was strange that he should care about that of all things, but when eating fish day after day after day, even memories of things like black bread rolls were painful. What he wouldn’t give for some kind of grain!
As the mist rolled back in, Caron grabbed the wide-bladed tree branch and swung it halfheartedly. The mist shrank back from his improvised fan, though it’d be only another minute before it came back. The tedium was killing him, but slack for just a second and he’d be greeted by a dagger in the gut. That what’s Itnar kept telling him, Constant vigilance!’ It made sense, not even his elven eyes could see more than a foot or two in the fog, but mist made for a dull enemy. Tossing back his copper red hair, Caron stifled a yawn as he fanned the thick vapor.
~~
From a raised outcropping of rock nearly a story off the ground, Itnar watched as Caron went about his duty. Behind him several others lay in various states of unrest, and he knew he could do naught to ease their minds. Their last encounter had shaken them; these weren’t just any mercenaries coming for them. Edari’axa wasn’t about to let them go quietly, his new reign as dictator would be undermined if even one of these treasonous loyalists were allowed to live.
It began with just a few lowlifes out for quick coin, and they’d been dispatched by the skilled drow easily. This place seemed defensible enough, but Itnar was beginning to have his doubts. The islands of Istraloth were politically neutral, few maps even marked it as existing much less had detail, and Itnar felt he’d done reasonably well to build some good will with the lake people. Clutching the dagger at his belt, Itnar wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he’d doomed his friends and comrades.
The lake people as a policy refused to interfere with outsider issues, but they had been courteous enough to warn Itnar of the danger he was in. Recently a small group of pale humans with strange accents had been asking around about the drow. The lake people knew them as the dark-skins but Itnar knew the islanders had seen them and knew drow from humans. The pale humans sounded to be from Salvar and were hot on the trail, which could only mean one thing. Edari’axa was calling in his ally's help.
In all of Iain’s formal schooling, not once had he heard mention of this strange place. “Istraloth? What nonsensical place is this?” he had said. “What kind of a name is that?” he said. Well, now he knew why Istraloth wasn’t in any atlas he had ever read. It was a sad excuse for a continent, with its illiterate natives and uninhabited islands. The overall climate was pleasant, but this godforsaken mist was almost unbearable.
Squelch.
That same mist had concealed a large puddle, as it hid everything else, only to be revealed by the downward force of Iain’s booted foot. The mist hid everything – birds, animals, terrain – Iain hadn’t even seen the sky since he had set out on his lagoon-hopping adventure. If his life didn’t depend on it, there was no way he would ever come to such a place. Unfortunately for Iain, it did. His rights and privileges in Salvar had evaporated, and along with them his friends and assets. The Church of Eternal Sway had spoken, and Iain was thrown out. True, he may not have escaped with his life, but this situation seemed hardly better than any alternative. At least he wasn’t alone…
Iain thought breifly of his companion. They had set out together from Knife’s Edge, unknown to the Church. He knew nothing of this character, who asked to be called Sid Poseidon. He spoke Salvic, so Iain could only assume he was from some part of Salvar, yet he had no decorations of family or outwards signs of rank and position that could identify his family affiliations. About the same height, the two men had met around a campfire in the older district of Knife’s Edge, where a drunken wanderer was telling the news from Alerar to any who would listen.
He spoke with a bit of an accent, but Iain was able to understand him by listening closely to his words. “They’re on the run, those bastards. Afraid, they are, those drow, I can tell. Anyhow, they don’t want to be din’ any time soon. Already three bands o’ hired hands have failed, and the King is getting his knickers all twisted about what them loyalists might do to his new baby. He doesn’t even know where they’re hidin’, though I’s heard some speak about Istraloth.”
The man then proposed a toast to the new king of Alerar, may he rule by the seat of his pants, and started in on another story of his adventures with an Alerian chaimbermaid, but Iain had stopped listening. Salvar was eager to establish ties with the nation of dark elves, the proposed railroad system was proof enough of that. How would the capture of these renegades affect his standing with the church? If the King of Alerar was happy, the Church might pardon Iain, and that would be the end of his problems. It was a fanciful idea, this noble quest, but hope was all that Iain had. He closed his mind to the fact he was basing his expedition on the ramblings of a drunk, and set off on what he told himself was the key to redemption.
And now look where he was. Some hole-in-the-wall excuse for a nation whose natives couldn’t even provide him with a map. The fogs of Istraloth’s lagoons covered everything, and were slowly draining the vitality from Iain’s grand scheme. The concealed hill and dale, the villages of the natives, the threats of the uncharted and unknown land, and the fugitives which Iain was aiming to catch. There was nothing to do but trudge on.
In the drow’s dark palace, secrets and rumors had a way of echoing down halls, rounding corners, penetrating doors, and inevitably reaching curious ears. That was how he learned of them after all, the few brave souls that cried traitor and kinslayer at the newly crowned king. Fled to Istraloth, hoping to nurse their wounds and curse Edari’axa with each breath, tainting the hard work his majesty put forth to claim his thrown. Salvar was unwilling to stretch its new arms so far south, but other echoes whispered favor to those of far-reaching hands.
Sid found himself traveling south, isles unknown and uncharted his destination. He needed no favor for himself, the chosen few that occupied the palace wanted for little. Iain, however, did need a favor. A big one. The church was notoriously unforgiving, more than a few heretics had fallen to Sid in his duties before. To cross the church of the ethereal sway wasn’t just to cross a religion, but an entire nation. It was a deep hole the royal Iain Detrius had dug himself into, and now Sid charged himself with pulling him out.
Sighing, Sid stared blankly at the perpetual mist. As the long oak canoe gliding across the water, only the gurgle of underwater vents and the occasional croaking of toads or aquatic frogs broke the silence. Behind him stood the ferryman, a decrepit old man with only a loose understanding of common that poled the sea-bed below with a fifteen foot stick in lieu of a paddle, slowly. He’d long since given up conversing with the stone-faced and silent Sid, much to Sid’s relief. It’d been some hours since they’d left the outlaying islands of east Istraloth and yet the fog had not abated. Concluding that the continent was perpetually foggy, Sid sighed again. Finding Iain would have been time consuming enough as it was, much less in zero visibility.
He’d been told to stay out of the public, or for that matter private, eye and knew to meet Sid here, though the wide-spread islands posed a problem. Without detailed maps, well known islands, or previous experience to draw upon, detailing a meeting place had been all but impossible. Deciding it to be for the wiser, Sid instructed the old man to put him ashore.
Unaware he was being scalped, Sid paid the ferryman’s price and moved up the muddy beach. A few palm trees, some thick mud that squelched whenever he took a step, and alarmingly a snake were all that greeted him. Spotted at the last second, Sid’s quick hands caught the snake unaware and quickly snapped its neck. This was a bad sign of things to come. Nobles weren’t known for their quick reflexes, and these islands weren’t known for slow predators. They were uninhabited with good reason.
Stifling a yawn, Iain paused in his trudging to look around. He had no idea where he was, aside from the mainland of Istraloth, and couldn’t see any distinguishing features through the ever-present mist. He was supposed to be meeting Sid somewhere in the lagoons, but neither man had been able to set a place for their reunion due to a lack of maps or charts of the island nation. The thought had just struck Iain that if both men were moving, they would be less likely to meet than if one remained still while the other searched.
He walked a few steps more until he reached a small outcropping of rock. Glad for the high ground, he climbed to the top of the formation and took a seat, surveying the swirling silvery-white landscape around him. Suddenly, far off to his left, he noticed movement in the mists. They swirled violently and fled from a particular area as if banished by an unseen force. The noble chuckled, for it seemed that while trying to be aware of their surroundings the unsuspecting fugitives had revealed themselves. He stood as quietly as he could and jumped off his post.
Into the mud. He landed with a resounding thud and couldn’t help cursing out loud as the fetid water seeped into his boots. Immediately he regretted his actions, for the mist around the camp of the fugitives had ceased to swirl. They must have heard him, and were waiting for another sign of life. He crouched there in the mud, soggy and remorseful, knowing that even though he had located his prey, he was outnumbered and if they learned his whereabouts, he would surely experience a swift and final role reversal from the hunter to the hunted.
After about a minute, he began to hear voices, speaking in the strange language of Alerar. He couldn’t understand their words, but the gist of what they were discussing was by no means difficult to discern. They had heard him, and from the way the voices were coming at him he was surrounded. They hadn’t yet discovered him, but as the moments passed they were getting closer and closer to revelation.
The tip of a sword pierced the mist on the far side of the rock formation that concealed Iain’s hunched form. It was followed by a hilt, and the arm that held it. The time for action was now, Iain resolved, for if he was discovered without making a move it meant certain death. Taking a deep breath, he drew his sword.
The nearby drow had emerged completely from the wall of white, his head swiveling constantly in search of the source of the cursing. There was a splash and a cough from off to the dark elf’s side, and he whirled to face it, drawing a dagger from his belt as he turned. He was now fully armed and alert, ready for any threat to present itself. And his back was to Iain. With a swift motion, Iain stabbed at the fugitive’s spine, but the tip of his blade was deflected by some concealed armor and pierced the figure just below the ribs. The drow released a bloodcurdling scream and spun around to face Iain, right into a sucker punch. As his form crumpled to the ground, Iain watched it fall with mix feelings. One less fugitive, but if the drow didn’t know of his presence before, they knew now, along with every other living thing with ears in this damned swamp.
After several minutes of mucking about in the mosquito infested bog, Sid’s temper was running low. It he gained nothing else, his strong hatred of wetlands was developing quickly. Assaulted by flying bloodsuckers, thick low-hanging vines, knee deep sinkholes, Sid sincerely wished for the cold snow and bitter winds of Berevar, even the mildly warm and smog-choked city of Ettermire would have been welcomed with open arms.
Fed up with the location, one monkey throwing shit at him was just one thing too many. As he climbed up the palm tree after it, fully intent on strangling or crushing the black furred menace, unknown voices drifted across to him. Their accent was thick and familiar, the guttural tongue of the Alerans unmistakable. As he ascended the tree further, Sid rose above the mist and gained a wide field of vision. Every quarter mile or so rose a run-down structure of grey stone, each in various sizes and heights. The nearest building was nearly whole minus a wall that looked to have collapsed only recently, but just inside the lip of the opening stood the unmistakable form of a person. As he watched, a voice from beneath the mist shouted upward, instantly silencing all speech. The lone figure standing in view gave a few short hand signals, some form of command apparently, then immediately retreated into the shadow.
With baited breath Sid watched, but neither saw nor heard anything. About to credit the strange native people, the sudden bloodcurdling scream shook him to awareness. Sliding down the tree while breaking only those branches too small or too fast to catch, Sid sped towards the source of the scream. It could only be either Iain, which he fervently hoped against, or one of the drow they were hunting. He’d have been surprised to hear the martial drow scream, but he’d also been surprised by their flight from Alerar and efforts to hide.
As he ran right into the midst of the group, Sid spotted Iain standing over a fallen drow and heaved a sigh of relief. In a slightly winded voice Sid called to his ally. “Thought I’d lost you for a moment, though I should have known better, eh?”
Crouching low and rummaging through the dark elf’s pockets, Sid moved several items from the dead to the living, though he was careful to keep his back to Iain and his actions out of view. Taking both the man’s sword and dagger, Sid straightened himself and turned to give Iain an evaluating glance. Lightly armed and armored, he seemed capable enough. “Word of advice, try not to scream like a little girl when you kill the next one, okay?” Casting Iain a crooked grin, Sid looked about for more drow though he knew they’d fled. From their vantage point, an army could have surrounded them and the mist would have stirred just the same.
Sid’s appearance was definitely unexpected, but welcome at a time like this. As soon as he saw the body, he crouched and tried to conceal his pilfering of the drow’s personal belongings with his turned back. He did a poor job of hiding it, but Iain was beyond caring. He had more urgent things to worry about.
Now that Sid was armed (why he hadn’t been before was still a mystery to Iain) it was time to engage the rest of the band. In one smooth motion the knight removed his shield from its position on his back and fixed it in place on his right arm. He fished his helmet out of his sachel and placed it on top of his head. His view of the world now confined to a small cross surrounded by the blackness of the inside of his helmet, he had to search with his head a bit before the fallen drow fell into his field of vision.
Placing a booted foot against the body’s spine, he pulled his sword out of its fleshy sheath and turned to Sid. He knew nothing of the Salvarian’s fighting skills, and it would be an act of great trust to have him guarding Iain’s back. “We should move,” said Iain, “before the others can home in on us.” In a brisk walk, he strode around to the other side of the rock formation and melted away into the mist. He could only assume that Sid would follow.
Almost in the same instant that Iain departed, two more of the renegade drow burst into the clearing in the mist. One of them was moving so fast that he actually tripped over the body of his fallen comrade and sprawled head first into the puddle which had betrayed Iain in the beginning. Loud curses followed the splash, then a second voice in a stern tone, probably reprimanding his partner for his carelessness. After the hasty drow had lifted his soggy form from the puddle, the two stood over their friend.
The dry one, who treated the other like a leader might treat his men, said something softly in the language of Alerar, then knelt next to the body. Gingerly, he lifted the hood of the corpse’s cloak and pulled it over the fallen’s face. He then stood and walked stiffly back into the mist, sword still drawn.
The other drow acted as a guard through this miniature ceremony. His eyes darted to and fro, searching for any sign of movement. He backed slowly into the rock formation, confident that the boulders would protect his flank. He chose to remain when his leader walked off, and tried as well as he could to blend into the rock. He remained motionless, plastered against the wall, until a shrill sound caused his to leap forward, again landing with a splash and letting forth a string of curses.
The sound that had so startled the drow was the screech of a bird of prey. When he looked up, the drow saw that perched on top of the rocks was a sort of hawk, with mottled brown plumage and piercing eyes. He chuckled, and muttered something under his breath, then sheathed his sword in favor of a dagger and began slowly inching towards the bird. His adversary watched him the whole time, and as the drow came within a few feet of his perch he screeched again.
A smile cracked the dark face of the fugitive; his prey was within reach. Just as he raised his arm to strike at the offensive bird, a whirring sound filled the air and he was struck by some object with such force that he was thrown from the rock and to the ground below, where he rolled back and forth, unable to move and unwilling to reveal his pain with any sound. Iain ran into the clearing and jumped at the drow, plunging his blade into the Alerian flesh and piercing the dark elf’s heart. The drow died without a sound, and after pulling out his sword and retrieving his bolas (for that was the object that struck the drow), he made a clicking noise with his mouth and the bird, which Iain knew to be his kestrel, fluttered down from its perch and onto his outstretched arm.
Following for a time, Sid was content to allow Iain the lead. It was just as well, neither of them knew what lay mere feet beyond the swirling foggy perimeter of their vision. It was safer as well since leaders triggered traps first, so whatever spiked pits or poison darts or falling objects would be useless on Sid.
Not long after departing, Sid realized they had looped about when his boots fell into familiar muck with those same boot prints. Watching quietly, Sid observed the practiced and methodical execution of a second drow.
Good. That’s the mindset that’ll keep us alive. Don’t lose that edge, I’ll have need of it yet.
Indeed, Sid knew Iain’s value, both in the present and the future. A good sword arm would survive Istraloth, but a strong ally increased Sid’s strength in turn. Help him when it’s small like now, and keep the favor in reserve for when it’s needed. If Sid intended to live forever, such as he did, then those favors would be crucial. No one attained immortality alone.
“They’ll move in pairs from now on. We’ve got to move, set up traps and ambushes. Wear them down. I still count eight living. We can’t allow them to group up or form structure. Divide and destroy.”
Motioning Iain to move north, Sid departed to the south swiftly. Separated they were weaker, but the enemy wouldn’t know their numbers, their location, or whether to be on the offensive or defensive. A few steps more and Sid located the stone structure, placing his back against its cool surface and edging towards the corner where he heard movement.
Creeping carefully closer, Sid held the knife firmly, poised to strike. Edging around the corner, two mist-shrouded shadows stood only a few feet away. Scooping his hand in the sludge beneath him, Sid’s fingers snaked through the dirt until finding a smooth round rock the size of his fist. Hefting it at the pair, the rock missed both by several feet but sank into the mud with an audible splat. Watching as they started in alarm, Sid leapt from the mist with blade in hand. Stabbing the first in the throat, Sid turned to fight the second. At that moment, a third figure hiding just around the corner moved out and struck him from behind with something blunt and heavy, knocking him out. It was all up to Iain to kill the rest, and rescue Sid.
As Sid took off in what seemed like a random direction, Iain paused for a moment. Haste in a situation like the present could most definitely be fatal. These drow would be overcome with trickery and deciet, not any sort of rash offensive maneuver. Iain and Sid were outnumbered by six, and these fugitives were hard, battle trained veterans. Sid was surely rushing off to his own doom, and placing Iain in peril as well. Iain raised his arm and released Kaul into flight with the knowledge that the kestrel would never be far off, then made his decision.
Instead of going the opposite direction, as Sid had presumptuously ordered him to do, Iain followed the other human. He kept just enough distance between them that he could just barely make out Sid's silhouette through the mist. The man's tactics made sense against unskilled warriors, but against seasoned soldiers they spelled out death. He had never been much for gambling during his days at Harondale, seeing it as a pointless waste of capital, but Iain knew well enough that eight to two were poor odds, and eight to one were terrible, even for outlaws against a knight and a mercenary.
When Sid reached some sort of a stone shack, Iain hesitated. Advancing any further would make him visible to anyone within, so the knight waited just beyond the mist line. Sid's form temporarily disappeared, blending with the wall, but another form appeared behind where the mercenary had melted away. Sid was in grave danger, and there was nothing Iain could do to warn him.
The other Salvarian's form reappeared from the wall, flying violently into a blob of mist that was vaguely darker than the rest. There was an audible splat, as of a body landing in the foul mire, then the sing of steel as it danced free of whatever scabbard held it captive. Yet there was no sound of battle, no clash of dueling swords. Something was amiss, Iain knew, but from his position he could see nothing but swirling shadows. He moved forward once more, walking slowly, leading with his sword.
The scene before him was slowly revealed as a part would be shown, then obscured once more by the continuous movement of the mists. Sid's body lay crumpled on the ground next to the corpse of yet another drow, who had been felled with a stab through his throat. The bloody knife still clenched in Sid's fist was proof of the man's courage, but even more evident as proof of his stupidity was a large lump forming on the back of his head that was oozing dark red blood. The drow that had retreated from Iain before stood over Sid, his two short swords in their sheaths at his hip, brandishing triumphantly some sort of wooden fan. On the other side of the downed Salvarian was another drow, sword drawn, who had most likely been the secondary target of Sid's attempted ambush. He had never made it that far.
Iain didn't know if Sid was just out cold from the knock on his noggin or injured in any other way, but he couldn't remain still for long. The leader of the drow turned and knocked three times on the wall of the stone hut with the wooden fan, and almost instantaneously the five other fugitives appeared in the building's vicinity. One just narrowly missed Iain, but he was too busy heading for the shack to notice the petrified human that he passed silently within a foot of discovering. The elves gathered around Sid's crumpled body and began conversing quietly in their sinister language. Iain, unsettled by his near discovery, was at a loss. What should he do now? His companion had made a boneheaded move and gotten himself captured, jeopardizing the success of their mission. He must be saved, but failure was not an option for the Salvarian knight. For several minutes that seemed an eternity, while the drow conversed in hushed tones (constantly pausing to look around, aware that the chances of a hitman travelling alone were slim to none), the gears of Iain's mind were slowly turning, trying to create a plan that would get the knight and his impulsive companion out of this mess. Then, suddenly, it hit him.
He only had the faintest spark of a plan, but for now it would have to do. There simply wasn’t time to spend seeking an alternate, safer means of freeing Sid. The foundation of a plot was laid out in the knight’s mind, and he would just have to construct the rest as he went along.
The drows’ being occupied by their conversation was key in the plan. Iain moved quickly, not quite throwing caution to the wind but instead putting it in the back of his mind, suppressing the silent alarms that were shrieking with his every move with the urgency of necessity. He drove forward through the mist in a wide arc until finally he was on the opposite side of the stone hut than the drow party. With the knowledge that his actions may well cost him his life, Iain pursed his lips and let out a shrill whistle that pierced the ambient noises of the lagoon like a hot knife through butter.
There was a flutter of wings and a concentrated displacement of mist as Kaul dove and gracefully landed on Iain’s outstretched arm. Sheathing his sword, Iain perched the kestrel unceremoniously on his helm and approached the shack. He knew nothing of how sound the structure of the building was, or how much weight the stone roof would support. He only hoped it was enough for a man and his bird.
The stones of the hut’s walls were old, marked with the signatures of numerous pry bars in the places where the natives had hewn the stones from Istraloth’s living rock. They showed no sign of erosion. However, the mortar that was used to hold the stones together in the shape of a wall (gods only knew what it was actually made of) had begun to disintegrate, and there were places where chunks of the mortar had fallen to the moist earth, leaving gaps just large enough for a human hand. Or foot.
Using these crevices as convenient foot and handholds, Iain climbed as fast as he could to the top of the hut. The whole climb only lasted several seconds, but in his haste Iain had a misstep and his whole lower body slipped into the wall and made a noise of metal-on-stone that Iain was sure could have woken the dead. It was too late to pause, so he just finished his climb. The drow had surely heard him, but now he must capitalize on their paranoia. He just prayed he knew enough of their culture to lie about it…
Removing his helm, kestrel and all, Iain crept to the edge of the roof closest to the drow. None were conversing now, all too busy peering into the mist for something tangible to strike at. He placed the helm on the very edge of the stone, then retreated to about the middle of the roof. Drawing upon every ounce of courage he held in his noble frame, Iain took a deep breath and began to speak in his best deep-voice falsetto, talking into his cupped hands to further disguise his voice.
“I am Iava.” The name sounded immensely stupid once it had been spoken, but there was no turning back now. “Who are you who dare to trespass on my land? Who are you who take up the pretense of having the right to kill, in my domain? Speak truly, for those in my position have an innate sense of the truth, and say why I should not smite you all with the anger that befits a spirit such as myself.”
The die was cast; All Iain could do now was pray to whatever god there was that the drow bought his ruse, and wait for a response.
Huacamon Axayotl
02-26-07, 12:38 AM
Huacamon was a man of religion.
The High Priest Xaluin’s word was the ultimate law in the Axetec tribe. Through Xaluin, the Gods spoke to the mortals. Through Xaluin, they made their wishes and commands known. Through Xaluin, they administered praise and punishment. In all comprehensible ways, the High Priest was akin to a God on Althanas.
It was Huacamon Axayotl’s duty as jaguar warrior to fulfill any commands that the Gods saw fit to give him. That Xaluin might be abusing his power was a foreign concept, one that never entered the warrior’s mind in all of his years of training and service. To question his word was to question the Gods. To question the Gods was to question death.
The Gods had taken note of the new people that had begun to land on Istraloth. These people, dubbed “outsiders” by the Axetecs, worried the Gods. Huacamon had been sent to make contact with these outsiders. If they were considered to be friendly, he was to merely extend amiable greetings and return; if they were hostile, however… well, that’s where his spear came in.
Thus, the warrior found himself on patrol on that day. With a trained eye and sure feet he stepped through the jungle, finger-like palm fronds brushing his face and bare chest occasionally. Huacamon moved on confidently. The jungle was his home. With a faint smile of familiarity, he stopped for a moment and looked up from the path on which he walked. The thick treetops caught much of the sun’s light, leaving the jungle floor underneath dim and misty even at high noon. Even so, the occasional ray of light that leaked through was quite a sight to behold. They shone down radiantly, turning the fog golden with their energy. Smile still hovering about his face, the muscular man moved on.
“I am Iava,” the deep voice echoed eerily through the rainforest. “Who are you who dare to trespass on my land? Who are you who take up the pretense of having the right to kill, in my domain? Speak truly, for those in my position have an innate sense of the truth, and say why I should not smite you all with the anger that befits a spirit such as myself.”
The warrior froze, ears straining, sweat suddenly trickling down his forehead in anxiety. It was coming from somewhere off to the left. Moving carefully now, every step carefully placed, Huacamon approached the voice. Quietly using a hand to push a large plant out of the way, he peered in at the scene.
On top of a dilapidated stone house was a bird of prey. He didn’t know the name “Iava,” and he was unfamiliar with the kestrel as a God’s totem. But who was he to say such a God didn’t exist? Perhaps Iava had merely decided to keep his identity a secret until now.
A short distance away, there were a number of figures, partially concealed by the fog. The warrior ignored them. Iava, after all, would guide him and instruct him on how best to deal with the heathens. Wasting no time, Huac hurried forth. Within about thirty feet of the house, he dropped to both knees and placed his forehead on the ground in reverence. “My lord, I live to serve you,” he called to the divine falcon. “Is there any way I can assist you in your divine actions?” Head still bowed in awe, the jaguar warrior awaited the divine command.
All bunnying of this character in this quest is approved by me, as long as nothing... 'permanent'... happens to him.
Cheers.
Iain was surprised by the appearance of the savage man. His father would be beside himself at this new turn of events. “Son,” he used to say, “You should never be surprised by the success on which you depend on. To do so is folly, and any hesitation upon the manifestation of success will bring the consequence of irreparable failure crashing down on your pitiful head.” He was a wise man, and Iain had done his best to heed his words in every aspect of living. Iain missed his father, who he left behind in Harondale, but he couldn’t help but wonder…The old man knew his stuff, but there was no way he could have foreseen anything like this happening to his son. Ever.
Despite his father’s advice and his knowledge of his current situation, Iain exhaled sharply through his teeth at the appearance of the savage. Thankfully, the shrill whistle produced was more easily enough attributed to the kestrel on the roof than to the human hiding behind it. Iain’s heart was beating double time, a swift tempo that was gaining volume in the back of his head, trying to drown out all thought.
No. I must not be paralyzed by fear.
Throwing all of his doubting thoughts and second guesses aside, Iain again assumed his divine falsetto and addressed the newcomer. “Mortal, your services are what I need. These men have trespassed and kill with no regard to whom they might be intruding on. I say, I am no man, and from no mortal will I tolerate ir-rev-verence.” There was a silence that followed his last words that Iain could not tolerate. His voice had cracked, his falsetto had been exposed, yet the drow made no move to attack.
There was no way to reverse the ruse now without bringing the wrath of the drow, as well as the newly arrived savage, upon his head, only too human. He must end it, and end it quick. Lifting his hands once more to his mouth, Iain decided to take a safe route and resolve his “divine narrative”. The phrase was simple, only two words in length, but in the deep, gravelly voice of the “god” Iava it was given urgency and great meaning to those who heard it.
“Kill them.”
With this Iain drew his sword from its sheath at his side, his dagger from its sheath on his belt, and let out a battlecry in the language of his ancestors. The yell started Kaul, who ruffled his feathers and rose from the rooftop, circling the small building, barely visible through the mist. Iain stood, making himself visible to those on the ground, and almost jumped to the ground before he realized he had forgotten one small detail. The “god” spoke for a last fleeting moment, as the form of a human leapt from the roof of the shack and plunged a blade into the chest of the nearest drow.
“Spare only him garbed in white, for he bears the hawk!”
Lying in the muck, covered in filth, things both with and without feet crawling across him, Sid was doing everything he could to control himself. It was fortunate the drow were focused completely on the roof of their hideout. The wide grin and occasional spasms that moved across Sid’s body would have betrayed his consciousness all too easily. Rarely did he find humor in his work, but today was exceptional. His comrade was pretending to be some kind of divine spirit, and what was more, a native islander believed him! The outrageousness of his situation was overwhelming even his discipline.
Not losing sight of his precarious position, Sid knew he would need to act as soon as the others did, but not a moment before. Act too soon and blood would mingle with the sludge in which he lay, but wait too long and the result could be the same. As the others began moving, Sid clasped the dagger and slid it smoothly into the mud in case the drows’ attention returned to him once more.
The drow didn’t have any official religion that Sid was aware of, but even so Iain’s plan had bought time and gained them an ally. It was a clever move, and took more guts than Sid had. What if one of the drow had a bow? What if they had a gun, which was likely as Alerar manufactured firearms more than any other country, what then? That’s what Sid would have thought, at least normally. He would also have considered hidden enemies waiting to ambush him in his own attack, possibly a lookout on top of the building, maybe even a hidden enemy partially buried in the muck. But he hadn’t thought about those things, and now he lay at an extreme disadvantage. It was tempting to lash out at the drow preemptively, but it was temptation caused by impatience and longing to forever place Istraloth at his back. No, he would wait, and he would survive.
All bunnying approved
Yanking his sword free, Iain turned to the rest of the party. To their credit, they reacted quickly in the mists of Istraloth. Yells marked their partially-obscured actions to the knight, who hardly knew what to expect from a gang of fugitives.
“Eyes open, swords in front. Close the circle, let us see how immortal this Iava truly is.”
Iain was outnumbered, and the odds did not look favorable for his survival. The tribesman had turned and fled at the sudden movement of his supposed god. It appeared that his tradition of reverence was also a tradition of fear, in which the survival of an adult male is dependent on both his respect and a healthy aversion for the divine and carnal presences in his life. It was no more than what had been expected, he supposed, but Iain was sorely hurt by his hasty departure.
Iain kept his head on a swivel, wary of any drow sneaking up behind him for an easy kill. As he glanced back and forth, the knight backed slowly away from the sounds of shouting. All too soon, his back was pressed against the wall of the strange building. “A curse on that Sid Posiedon,” he thought. “This is his damn mission I am about to be sacrificed for.”
Hand to hand combat spelled certain death for the knight. Retreat was the only viable option. As much as the knight wanted to clear his name in Salvar, as much as he relished being in the good graces of a foreign noble, it would be necessary to be alive in order to enjoy any of those benefits of success. There was considerable risk at hand; it had been calculated, and the end, while justifying the means, was not going to be a bloody one. At least not today.
Sheathing his sword as silently as he could, Iain treaded lightly across the muck to his left. The deliberate footsteps avoided any sinking into the mud by the even distribution of weight over the sopping wet soil. With the drow growing nearer every moment, Iain circled to the left side of the structure then headed straight off into the mists before him. It was his hope that the drow would spend valuable time searching for their antagonist behind the structure, time that could be used to get as far from that wretched locale as possible. When he was about a hundred yards out from the building, Iain made a quiet clicking sound with his tongue. It was barely audible to Iain, the man who made it, yet he knew that Kaul would hear the call and follow the knight. As he plodded carefully away from his failed mission, the only thing keeping Iain from despair was the prospect of returning to civilization and indulging in a hot bath.
Taskmienster
08-17-08, 10:38 PM
JUDGING!
Characters Involved:
~Iain~ 7 posts
~Sid~ 5 posts
~Random Native with strange name (Huacamon Axayoti)~ 1 post
STORY (16/30)
~ Continuity ~ (5/10)
At a bit of a loss as to what… per se… is going on. The people are after you. Something about Salvar and Alerar. Umm… your mission is what exactly? Why Istraloth? Questions you should consider and explain a little bit better. It would have been great to see more come out of this quest as well.
~ Setting ~ (6/10)
The setting was fine, mentioned the fog ALL THE TIME, but it kept up the mood and atmosphere. There were a few times when you did a little better, like with the snake the foreshadowing of the island that Sid had landed on towards the beginning.
~ Pacing ~ (5/10)
Quick, staccato… led from one thing to another without letting the reader keep up. Try to slow it down, or at least pace it so that the story flows a little better.
CHARACTER (17/30)
~ Dialogue ~ (5/10)
What little dialogue was used was alright, nothing great but definitely not bad.
~ Action~ (5/10)
The action was done… alright. Somewhat weak. I didn’t get the ‘sitting on the edge of my seat’ feeling, but at the same time was curious enough to want to (as a reader of course) continue on and see what was coming next.
~ Persona ~ (7/10)
Loved it, the persona’s both of you portrayed were well executed and right on target. You started and finished with the same, true characteristics that fit them best.
WRITING STYLE (19/30)
~ Technique ~ (5/10)
Written well, but with little literary technique tossed into it…
~ Mechanics ~ (7/10)
No complaints, there were no true mechanical issues that I could see. A few little things here and there like a comma or missed parenthesis.
~ Clarity ~ (7/10)
Very clear, neat, and never had to re-read anything for sake of confusion…
WILD CARD (6/10)
I would have liked to see more backstory, more character with the actual NPC’s, as well as more follow up… but well done.
TOTAL (58/100)
GAINS/REWARDS!
~Ian~ 400 exp; 150 gold
~Sid~ 450 exp; 150 gold
~Random Native~ 25 exp; 25 gold
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