[Flashback] Stranger Things (Caelum)

[Rhuryc]

65th Spring, 507 AV Off the Kabrin Road There. Rhuryc nodded. He had finally finished setting up his camp, the tent properly erected and fire pit dug far enough away to not make a nuisance of itself. His pack sat propped up against a nearby rock, sword and shield strewn about nearby in a pile of their own. Fire. He needed a fire. At least he was prepared. Having spent most of the day securing the clearing for his own means he shoved a few choice logs into the pit and set one over the other, adding various twigs and dry flora as additional kindling. Satisfied, Rhuryc grasped at his gear and produced a set of flint and steal. He clashed the items against one another once, twice, and a third time, assailing the center of the as-of-yet started flame until the dried materials caught. Ah. With a grin, the man leaned back and observed his handy work. Time in the forge was more than enough experience to tend any flame. There was little else to do. A solid thud accompanied Rhuryc as he set himself down, his gaze casting up to the ever darkening day. Dusk was upon him. The waning light of the sun gave way to a star encrusted sky. A full moon tonight. The myriad of colors that grasped the night air filled it with activity and left a sense of curiosity in its wake. There were few places better to camp. Flat, yet varied terrain gave him a clear view on any direction and provided a harsh ascent for anyone looking to approach. Useful for the unsavory lot that tended to wander this far from the city. Not that he was worried about such things. His trek through the woods had been one of surprising ease. No antagonists, no strange meetings with unique, nerve wracking races bent on his ultimate demise. No, Rhuryc was in a good mood, one that he intended on lasting for the neck few days. Or at least the night. Maybe the bell. He could manage for a few chimes. Shlick. The scraping of stone against metal echoed throughout the wilderness, the flat of his wet stone sliding down the edge of his blade. The sheath sat just aside while he lovingly attended to the sword, his steady, trained hands gliding along with the utmost care. Absorbed in his task, his eyes would occasionally flicker to the faded writing that ran the length of the weapon, once more - for the thousandth time now - going over the symbols in his mind. They had to mean something. Logic demanded that it was simply decoration, or perhaps even the sword's name carved in some unknown foreign language. Whatever. From time to time Rhuryc would prod his fire with a handy stick he found earlier and would toss a bit of ration into his mouth, chomping whilst he attended to the weapon. A gentle, peaceful night. Now all he had to do was wait until something went wrong.

[Caelum]

Leaves rustled in fading shades of gold, the first breaths of spring's green gasping out to blow the full force of life into the forest. The Windrunner's hooves clopped against the hard packed dirt of the Kabrin road, a lonely, steady sound to companion the far less dependable warble of larks and mournful, mockingbird howl when night blanketed the world. The saddle and the horse wearing it had been beneath him so long they felt more like extensions of his limbs. Muscles ached within the skin of him, but tightened and released reflexively with the balance keeping that came natural as breaths horse back. Blood dripped thick through the make shift bandage knotted with weary but knowing fingers about his shoulder, the worn sleeve of a sailor's coat hanging empty as a scarecrow sack. The line of his shoulders was jolted to an angle, slumped in the lengthening shadows stretching free from the feet of the trees. Dark grew up out of the ground and who better than a son of Syna to know it? Light from the sky and black from below and all the souls spread between embattled as pawns in that struggle of balance. Ill luck had toppled him the day before, caught his from behind on the road he had traveled now for years -- seeking, needing, hungry. What he hungered, however, was not kin to the empathy of most men. Back in that other place he had learned to call home, amid a tucked away book shop jumbled full of antique dreams, was a wife who would not think to miss him for weeks yet. He thought of her though, his talisman against this place, a sea wall to catch up the returning tides of a heaven born despair. She could always foam them back into joy, into hope and windowpanes in a Zeltivan apartment painted gold to make the very best of every stray sun beam. That was a place as far off as his first home, anyway, and home was a difficult thing for a man who had only ever wanted to return to it and never, ever could. It had a hole in it, didn't it? His thoughts were a jumble of this, mixed up like pebbles in a babbling stream of fatigue. He kept trying to sharpen them, sharpen himself in the wake of the hope to come across a way station of the likes Syliran knights kept stocked and stored for just these occasions. There was none such, however, and night was settling in too deep, dragging claws across his consciousness even as the windmarks of his Drykas form spilled down his skin. It was time to stop and -- there -- through the foliage of a copse, the whirring flight of a blue jay beneath the canopy, was the beckon of firelight. As the horse's head turned toward it, unwilling to consider in this hour the possibility of danger in favor for the potential for feed and rest, Caelum found himself becoming the something that was wrong.

[Rhuryc]

The scraping ceased. Rhuryc lifted his head and shifted his gaze about the clearing, searching for the source of the rustling. Bushes, that was it, the wind playing tricks. And yet he was not satisfied. Rhuryc lifted himself from his perch and brought his blade along, the finely honed edge glinting off the light of the fire. Not the most subtle of fools. He took several steps forward, his boots crunching along the forested debris before he stopped and raised the weapon. For a moment he was a giant. Silhouetted against the flame, the thick, heavy coat at his back swayed in the night air, steel and leather offered in resistance to whatever hell decided to show itself. He could feel the adrenaline. His heart pounded, his muscles tensed, everything slowed in stark anticipation. That was until the beast came into view. Oh. A rider of some sort, one bereft of any brandished weapons or even hostile intent. Idiot. Rhuryc grunted and lowered his blade, the edge digging into the earth in a sign of friendship. Or at least one of apology. When he spoke his baritone filled the small field, snuffing out any possibility of misheard threats. "Hail, stranger." An arm raised in greeting as he turned and made his way back to the firelight. He barely gave the man a glance before deciding there was not threat. Cocky bastard. His brief inspection had not revealed much and with the darkness he could only assume the fellow was indeed a fellow. So long as there were no sudden movements Rhuryc was far too tired not to trust. "Something I can help you with?"

[Caelum]

Silence stretched thin as drum skin waiting for the first beat of war. The horse swayed to a halt, ears prickling forward, and the rider lifted his head in the shadow of the trees to watch the gleam of firelight off the long sword. Breath released itself from his lungs only when the man buried its tip in Semele's crumbling skin. A hand clad in a fingerless glove reached up to tug back to the hood of his jacket, revealing a face that was younger than people who knew him well thought it ought have been. Considering he had only been in this world for pushing on four years, it was actually entirely too old. Youth marked with Drykas ink and Drykas braids looped and tied up at the nape of his neck, a little pale beneath the burnish of the sun had left on his face. "Share your fire, mate?" He inquired in heavily accented Common. With mute entreaty, he flipped over his hands to display their state of emptiness. The horse whickered with weary hope. "Cold and late, isn't it? I have food to share, you like. But," and here he shifted his right shoulder, indicating a clumsiness of motion that was due to the swaddle of bandaging beneath his sleeve. "Not enough energy to make safe camp for myself." The blue jay chirruped in the branches and he tilted up his eyes, seeking through the weave the prickling of stars amid all the mountain peaks. His gaze lingered there, maybe over long, before drooping back down to the stranger whose privacy he had invaded. The corners of his mouth twitched. "You don't strike me as the type to murder and steal from me in my sleep."

[Rhuryc]

"You have no reason to fear, if I decide to commit murder you will see it coming." Reassuring. Rhuryc's gaze flickered from the stranger to his blade as he resumed his arduous task, the rhythmic scrape of steel once more shooing away the local fauna. A young man, illuminated now by the fire the man was exposed enough to see. Rugged, his chin was decorated with a shoddily tended half-beard and his clothing was ill at ease, wrinkled, torn in all the wrong places as if he had spent the better part of his time fighting thorn bushes. And losing. Nevertheless he made for a peaceful enough sight, his attention focused on other ventures that did not consist of violence. An air of nonchalance invaded the clearing, a sort of mild neglect towards the rider. Whatever stalked Rhuryc's mind it, at least, kept his sword arm at bay. "I've already eaten, but you're welcome to share. It's as safe as the road gets." The whetstone ceased. Rhuryc broke his attention and shifted his gaze to rest upon the form of his guest. With a furrowed brow he studied. He held his gaze for only seconds, but in those few moments hours could have past and one would be unable to determine the difference. There was something strange here. What he saw was a human, thin, well kept, but off. Difficult. Rhuryc grunted and cast the thought aside. If it was another ambush so be it. "Perhaps a degree safer than most camps."

[Caelum]

“I should hope more than a handful by your handling of that sword,” Caelum was curious enough to state. A companionable humor continued to lurk in the edges of his expression, keeping the corners of gold flecked eyes crinkled. The Windrunner shifted beneath him and he swayed as if betimes he found it more natural to ride than to walk. At length he shifted his weight and pulled his leg over, dropping with a sturdy grace despite the empty hanging sleeve of his jacket. The makeshift sling was clearly that – makeshift – but it had been done with some small degree of expertise, similar to the manner in which he went about stripping the weary horse of his bags and the Drykas styled yvas single handedly. “Caelum,” he offered, the name not at home with an orphan of Cyphrus. “You have my thanks. It’s been a petching long ass day.” The queer and inquiring look the young man gave him had Caelum pausing, eyebrows crawling up a bit. It was sloughed off with the roll of a shrug and he dropped his bed roll and a bag close to the fire. These were ignored, however, in favor of fishing a horse brush from a pack and putting it good use against the appreciative Vega’s hide. The mount always came first. “There’s some whiskey. Zeltivan. You’re wanting some,” he offered on a mutter.

[Rhuryc]

"This?" Rhuryc grabbed the blade by the hilt and raised it. There it hovered, the metal shimmering in the light of the fire. "Its for show. I'm a blacksmith. Never been very good with a sword." He chuckled and lowered the weapon, returning it to its sheath with a subdued shriek. He set the whetstone aside and instead went about tending to his shoddy fire. From somewhere nearby he had acquired a stick and was now engaged in a dull skirmish with the dying embers. The fire roared, flared, then died down once again, resuming its ever wearisome consumption. He would need more wood soon. Caelum? What? Oh. A name. That made sense. "Rhuryc." He said as he watched the other man tend to his horse. How exciting. Already he felt it. The common lack of interests, of companionship. Maybe it was that feeling, the one nagging at the back of his mind; something about Caelum was different. Strange. It was in his movements, the subtle grace, the way he shifted his weight around. Then again, how many Drykas did he know? Rhuryc found his own flask. He raised it in toast to Caelum and tipped it back, slogging down a suitable gulp. At least they agreed on one thing. "What is that brings you off the Kabrin? A lone rider is an easy target for some of the transients that favor its routes."

[Caelum]

The horse brush was vigorously in circles and scrubs down Vega's hide, setting the Windrunner to going lambent. It released a smile to Caelum's face and he canted his chin toward his companion. "Good to meet you, Rhuryc," he said easily. It was made easier by his fatigue, truth told, as he was typically considered to be aloof, even cold. Yet within these hours of the Bronze Woods he yet had in his heart the certainty of his wife waiting for him. Far down the road, but waiting all the same, in the ancient city of Zeltiva where she painted windowsills gold. The brush dropped and he paused, knocking out a lean hip to dig up his flask. The salute was returned before he knocked back a healthy -- even medicinal, he would claim -- dose. A clearing of his throat before he tucked the battered piece into his jacket and put together Vega's feed bag. His motions were graceful and economic, a man going about a thing he could probably do in detailed perfect in his sleep. Once his horse was settled, he sank into a corbie's crouch beside his lowered saddlesbags to begin digging one-handed through their carefully packed contents. "Out of Nyka," he explained. "There's a thing I need to deliver post haste to a friend in Syliras. What about you? There --" Breath stilled in his lungs. Vega had stopped eating, ears laying back. Sensitive to that which was often his lonely company, Caelum turned his head. "Rhu--" He began to warn while the whistling path of an arrow announced itself when it pierced a leaf in mid flight.

[Rhuryc]

Caelum spoke, he said something about meeting him? Whatever. Rhuryc wasn't paying attention anyway. Not out of disinterest or dislike, but something was wrong. Very wrong. With an uncomfortable shift the man turned about, his head swiveling around the campsite, straining to put his mind at ease. Damn fire. He could barely see beyond the parameter. Worse yet, the fauna had stopped it's nightly chattering. Petch. "Down!" He bolted upright. One hand went for his shield, the other his sword; metal scrapped against leather in a piercing shriek and Rhuryc was up, clearing the distance between himself and his companion. Something clattered against the steel disk on his arm as the man shoved himself in front of Caelum, protecting him from harm. With a grunt he turned and kicked at the Ethaefal's legs, pushed, and sent the man tumbling. "Stay low." And that was all he said. They came all at once. Three of them, at least that he could see, lightly armored, from the edges of darkness they swarmed forward, each charging with a battle cry of their own design. Rhuryc went to meet them. A loud, sickening crash sent the first man reeling as the brunt of Rhuryc's shield met the side of his head. The others converged. A long blade flashed in the light, it's path interrupted by a parry and followed by a streak that cut the flesh from the attacker's neck. A spray of red colored Rhuryc's countenance. The arrow was silent. When it pierced his coat he felt it enter his shoulder from behind, searing, intense pain replacing the calm demeanor he held in the face of battle. And yet he made no sound. Instead, his body jerked forward and spun just as the last combatant came around. Another blade. Rhuryc winced and threw his arm forward, shield swinging in a wild arc that cleared the space. The edge of the bastard sword took the bandit just below the sternum, sinking deep into his torso and sealing the kill with a dramatic pause. The Syliran let him fall and ripped his blade free, eyes up, narrow, watching for what remained. How many more could there be?

[Caelum]

Curses blistered the air. A grunt of pain followed when Caelum's injured shoulder impacted with the unforgiving ground, but he rolled once the moments of shock had dissipated and dangerous reality sunk in. It was toward the fire while steel clashed and sang, terrorizing the night. A flock of birds who had been roosting in the canopy erupted into flight, the thunder of their exodus quivering the low lying sky. The violence came to him in scraps and phrases, pinched bits of fury that once released clamored against every nerve ending. Dark eyes flew toward Rhuryc's back. He had just stepped -- no, flown -- between him and an arrow that would have found purchase in his throat. It was other blood than his that splashed and spilled while he dug his elbow beack beneath him, shoving up to a corbie's crouch with surprising grace considering his acute lack of martial dexterity. A long dagger, gifted him -- better said stolen off the captain of the Bright -Eyed Mariner -- was jerked from his boot. It felt heavy in his hand, long fingers flexing to adjust the grip. Drawing a weapon was not about fighting for Caelum, but rather about surviving. He took no especial joy in it. He doubted he would, either, even if he ever developed an unlikely talent. The only time he felt comfortable wielding a blade was when it was a scalpel. By the trembling quiet of their camp and the collection of corpses, it appeared he was too late any way. He was grateful for it, as well, if twinged by guilt. Shoving up to his feet, he stepped into Rhuryc's shadow, preparing to breathe out something like what the hell or are you okay when the next round was fired. It came with a clomp of hooves, a clip against a jut of stone. It sparked and Caelum whirled, the copse rattling around them. He had the space between heartbeats to make a decision, and not enough time left over to actually act on it. That was how he ended up on the ground again, stumbling over his own feet while attempting to dodge the swipe of short sword. A shock of stringy hair and a bulbous nose was all Caelum got before his attacker became a blur. Up and under, a memory chided. He was a physician. He knew where the damned kidneys were. The hilt of his dagger jammed into one even as blade sliced shallow to his thigh.