When the Sky Glowed Red (Denen)

[Lariat]

Timestamp: 16th of Fall

Dawn greeted the new day to find the young healer bound and gaged, lying unconscious on the deck of a Svefra Palivar. The sun had yet to take to his bare skin thankfully, skin left bare for his clothing had been stripped from his form the night before leaving him naked save for the loin cloth tied about his waist. A small bird landed on the tip of his nose, its vibrant blue feathers glowing in the warm dawn light, and brought his conscious to the light of day.

The deck rolled and bucked with the winding current, and occasionally even some water spilled over the lip to caress the young drykas's form with its bitter cold. Shadows moved around him, though he could not see their owners for that is the way they wanted it, their concentrations more on the land then maneuvering up the treacherous estuary. It was best the healer could not hear what they where saying for if he could have, their idle words would have run his blood cold. What they wanted to do with him, more or less their plans for him weere enough to pale most men.

Feet pounded the wooden deck, leather shoes slapping against the slick panels of the ship to turn the ropes in preparation for something. There was a sudden heaving jerk as the ship ran aground, it's prow slicing through the sand of a narrow embankment only to come to a rest half way to the stern. Wood creaked and canvas sails snapped in the wind but all was moot point in the shadowed land of the deaf. A rough hand found Denen's bound hands, and with surprising strength yanked him high into the air before setting him none to gently back on his feet. His captor wore heavy clothing, stood towering at 6'9, and kept his entire face covered behind a disturbing mask of a some sort of lion. On his hip, a shining steel sword gleamed, and sharply contrasted the black cotton of his heavy cloak.

"Move" The figures gloved finger's signed, his free arm pointing to the lip of the boat's side just behind him. As if the healer didn't get the point soon enough for the man's liking he shoved him along, causing him to imprint against the lacquered railing of the ship painfully. Heavy footsteps followed after the drykas, but he was not to hear them. Before Denen could even figure out what he was suppose to do against the railing, a powerful hand slapped against the bare skin of his shoulder and with a jerk tossed him off the side of the boat to fall to the sandy ground with a thump. Above him, three such stranger's laughed heartily, their thick frames leaning causally against the wooden railing as they all as one looked down at their prize. Yes, they where one step closer to achieving all that they had sweated and bleed for. There would be no stopping them now.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen was freezing. He murmured in his sleep, gave a tiny whimper, and wiggled about to try and find Sam's warmth. Why was it so cold? Sam always made sure he was covered before he left. Had he taken off his tunic, too? Something touched the end of his nose, and his head jerked to make it go away. Gods, had the tent blown over? He tried to open his eyes, but the bright light made his head pulse. The hard boards beneath him made it clear that he wasn't in his bed. Cold water bit his flesh, and Denen startled to wakefulness with a yelp that caused his scalp to tingle. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he struggled to sit up, only now remembering what had happened the night before. His mouth was parched, and every sound was muffled. He tried to call out to Sam, but the ship was unfamiliar. He was alone, and nearly naked, save for his undergarments. He finally managed to drag himself into a sitting position, shivering violently from the cold and fear. His long, dark hair fell over his shoulders, and he whimpered again. Where was Sam? The ship suddenly lurched, and the boy toppled over, his shoulder striking the deck roughly. He wasn't able to hear the ship, but he could feel it. He could feel the creaking and moaning of the boards, the shudder of timber as it met sand. But in the next moment, he was yanked from the ground, his arms protesting. He made a small sound of alarm, and soon found himself on the ground, staring up into the horrific mask of his captor. He made no sound. Sam would come for him. He knew that. Sam would save him. He had promised to keep him safe, but gods, maybe he shouldn't have left Endrykas. His legs shook, and he swallowed hard, trying to get moisture into his mouth. He was so thirsty, but he didn't dare ask for drink, and didn't know if these men would understand him, anyway. There was a sudden signing, however, and Denen turned to obey. It was foolish not to. He was no warrior. But before he could do as was commanded, he was shoved, and his thin frame hit the rail violently. He grunted and grimaced, and found himself looking down at sand. He was about to look back to try and ask what it was that was expected of him, only to see a large hand coming at him. Before he could even make a sound, he found himself toppling over the rail and towards the ground. He uttered up a muffled scream, and hit the ground roughly. His body ached, but something told him that this was just the beginning. The rough sand burned his soft skin upon collision, and he shifted to try and pull his arms free. He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut, and tried to push the gag out with no success. His blue eyes turned up to the three men, silently pleading for some sort of explanation.

[Lariat]

Other forms moved along the sand beach, people sharing much the same sentiment as their compatriot that stood above the young healer. Denen would soon come to know them as well as two sets of hands roughly grasped him on either arm and dragged him across the sand, pulling none to gently on his bindings to chaff at his tender skin. Slowly the boat grew larger in his sight, and soon revealed the gruesome sight of the half decayed body strapped to the prow, blood still yet staying the wood around it. From the tattered garb, it could once have been considered a Svefra had one ever ran across the flippant folk before. The smell finally came to him with the horrid vision, the bitter smell of flesh rotting in the blazing sun and worst yet it seemed to be getting stronger as he was dragged along.

His heels left tiny trails as they dragged across the sand, and soon sand mixed with blood that clung to the back of his feet. By now the smell was nearly unbearable, stinking of corpses that rotted for more than a day or so, and as he was finally dropped onto the blood drenched earth he knew why. Bodies of the previous crew lay splayed out beside him, some of which he could recognize as former members of the crew from his own ship. There faces were contorted into looks of absolute fear, their eyes stuck open forced to look wide eyed forever more. Closest to him on his left, the body of a elderly woman lay beside him almost as if she was snuggling him though her face was anything but natural. It's missing eyes and tongue where enough of a conformation without having to see Dira's smile adorning the older's woman's throat, but her body seemed so natural in the way it lay.

The other three men where down on the ground now, dragging bodies of their own, save each bore two torn and mangled corpses over either shoulder, and as one after sharing a wicked laugh dumped them over the drykas healer, delighting in the way he squirmed under the stiff corpses. The oppressing feel of the dead weight seemed to struggle to press the breath from Denen's lungs, and the fetid stink that came with them tempted the drykas to stop breathing so heavily through his nose. Blood seeped from old wounds to spill sluggishly over his soft skin, covering him from shoulder to toes, and some even spilling over his face and across his cheek. The dead might not have been able to speak but they seemed to be trying their best to stir him into utter revolution in that moment, but before the entirely disgusting feeling could overwhelm him the strangers removed the corpses from onto of the healer and dragged him back to his feet, pushing him back a pace or two to get a good measure of him.

From the side there was a sharp whistle, one of their brothers quick on the return from the previous night's festivities. He walked with a slight limp, but the seven foot giant looked hardly less formidable for the infirmity. Twin shortswords gleamed on his hips, and he seemed to be carrying something over his shoulder, the distinct shape of a body. The captor shouldered off the burlap bundle easily, and looked at the man who had been the one to grab Denen.

"I managed to destroy the rudder on my way out, but the helmsman gave me a bit trouble" he said in the long winding speech that was Tukant. As if to explain his leg edged out ever so slightly to reveal the blood that seeped through his thick trousers. He also nodded to the rack he dropped on the ground noting the helmsman's fate to his companions easily enough.

"Well met, and the Watchman, what of him?"

The figure seemed to stand a bit taller at this, his pale blue eyes relating that he didn't much care to be questioned so. "I did as asked, the man was removed from consciousness, and the bait set." The taller one growled, his eyes narrowing at the questioner's green ones before he himself turned to look at the prone healer. A cruel smile snaked it's way to his features, and much too slowly to not be deliberate he took a step forward his mockingly gentle irises steady on Denen's form as he lowered into a crouch.

"We're going to have fun with you" He spoke in clear common while he signed slowly, though his blunt gloved fingers seemed to struggle with the grassland sign he had been hastily taught.

[Denen Sunsinger]

He was confused and disoriented. He wanted Sam. Who were these men, and what in the world did they want with him? Denen had no friends outside of Endrykas. Well, no one besides Eldon, but he seriously doubted that Eldon had any relation to these men. He tried to piece things together in his mind, but nothing made sense, and the way the sand rubbed at his skin, coupled with the rough ropes at his wrists made it difficult to even think straight. All thoughts halted, too, when he saw where he was being taken. A strangled sound of alarm escaped, though stifled by the gag in his mouth, and his thin frame twisted in protest. But no matter how he might struggle, the men moved forward, until they dumped his body in horrid, bloody sand, and the reek of blood gushed into his lungs. Denen had seen death before. It was something healers grew up with. He had never, however, seen death like this. His blue eyes shot wide open, and he tried to scramble away from the gaping eyes and mouth of the old woman. The sight was so horrific that he could not even manage a scream. What sort of monsters killed old ladies? What did that mean, then, that they would do to him? So many bodies, some of the faces familiar from the ship. He wanted to vomit, but forced himself to swallow. He knew he'd suffocate if he didn't control himself. His stomach churned at the horrendous smell, and his eyes rolled. This had to be a nightmare. Surely, people so horrible were not real. He'd wake up in Sam's arms, and everything would be all right. This was just a very vivid nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was home. He was safe. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. But then, as they began to pile bodies on him, he knew this was no dream. This was a very horrible reality. He squirmed and writhed, trying to push the heavy, lifeless bodies off of himself, but in vain. Their cold blood made his skin sticky, and he heaved at the stench. These poor people. The dead deserved more than this! His nostrils quivered, and he tensed up. He had to stay calm. Sam would come. Sam would come for him! Gods, he had to! Sam wouldn't abandon him to this, would he? His skin crawled in revulsion. The dead weight was crushing, the stench beyond what he could stand. His fingers and toes curled, and he whimpered. His head jerked back as blood splattered on his cheek, and he cried out, though his throat ached and his mouth was parched. His shoulders thrashed and his body twisted, though the old woman's open mouth dropped against his shoulder, causing a shrill scream. Now, though, they pulled the bodies off, and dragged him upright. Denen shook violently, his underclothes soaked in blood, thighs trembling. The sudden whistle given, and he crumpled, his ears shrieking. He grunted in pain, covering his head with his arms. He needed to vomit. He couldn't stand it. His brain felt nearly ready to explode inside his skull. His thin frame rocked, and he clutched at his dark hair. Please, goddess, help me. Help me. Help him find me before it's too late. The thought that he might be dead at any moment weighed as heavily upon him as the corpses had. What if he died? Gods, he wasn't ready to die yet! After a little while, he uncovered his head, though he remained kneeling in the sand, unable to force himself up. He watched his captors silently, praying he might at least be given something proper to drink soon. He couldn't stomach food. He knew that much. Would they even care about such a thing? Did any of them speak Pavi? He swayed a bit where he knelt, pale and sickened. Goddess, please give me strength to endure this. I cannot do it alone. The newcomer drew near him, and like a tiny rabbit before a wolf, Denen looked up. He set his jaw, and refused to look away. As weak as he was, he was Drykas, and he was proud. His sharp, clear eyes, however, were expressive, and told of his unspeakable fear. He could not move, even as the behemoth crouched down before him. He clutched his arms close to his chest, feebly hoping to keep some sense of modesty, as he'd been robbed of it. How his heart hammered! How his head pounded! This man was, perhaps, to be feared most. The words that were signed, however haltingly, chilled him to the bone, and he sank down visibly. He slowly lifted his trembling hands and signed as best he could, “What have you done to my friends?”

[Lariat]

The giant of a man tugged off the cloth mask he had kept tight around his face so Denen could better see the twisted smile that he possessed. His deep blue skin looked almost black in the blazing light of the day. “ Your friends are dead, each and every one of them I saw to myself. The one you sleep with, he I took my time and pleasure killing” Deep laughter rose from the beast of a man’s belly, and he stood up only to kick Denen squarely in the chest, knocking him forcefully back down on the ground. Sand tossed up, and yet even more of the thick blood stuck to his form covering him more in the disgusting bodily fluids that so mixed with the sand. The four captors seemed not to care enough anymore to keep an eye on the young healer, not at all considering that this one would try to escape for where would he go after all? With six of some of their best guards milling about the area, the drykas would be hard pressed to escape over the minor cliffs that rimmed the beach here, much less get far enough away where there arrows could not reach. A big part of them almost wanted him to try, just to see his proud spirit ground to dust, but that would come later, business was at hand.

“ You claim he will come after him right, he needs to come after this one else we wasted much on this ” The lion masked one said, the loosely attached jaw moving slightly as the man spoke his voice deep and vibrant. The twisted face of his most current tormentor turned to regard the healer, his eyes roaming his bare form with something hinting at more than just mere appraisal. Something far more animalistic and base. “ He is the one, his lover will come for him for certain ” All four joined in a hearty laugh at that, and with a short motion, they signaled the others to come forward from where they worked to pile the bodies, and silently without question, four sets of arms picked up Denen and hoisted him in the air, carrying him to where the gods only knew.

* * * * *

It had been nearly three straight bells of walking, or rather in Denen’s case, being held aloft in the air while the rest of the group marched to some yet unknown destination. Only two guards walked behind the four men carrying Denen, these being significantly shorter than the four people who currently were not anywhere in ear shot of the traveling men. Perhaps they were just hiding in the grass and he had yet to see them, or maybe they had other business to attend to. Every 30 chimes or so they would switch out two of the guards carrying the young healer, and tried to keep as gentle as possible. This one had endured enough at the hands of the others, no need to get trouble all around. There covering barred uncovering their identities much like the hulking men with masks had, but it was obvious they were much smaller than those men that they kept company with, and even though they made up the majority of the group, the division of power was quite clear.

One carrying the drykas’s right shoulder stumbled for a moment on a hole in the ground he had not seen before, and fell to the ground in a heap causing the rest of them all to fall upon or around him. The healer managed to push the fallen man’s leg a bit wrong more so than the rest, and a loud crack rippled out as the man’s ankle shattered under the press. Agonized shouts went up in the grass, the man’s face flushed red with pain, and turning a hateful glare to the healer, he leapt at the drykas, pounding and inch of unguarded flesh he could with his club like fists. Hit after hit landed on the drykas’s sides, a few slugs even chancing on snapping his jaw to the side before the man continued the body shots once more. All too suddenly the heat of the moment got to him and steel flashed in his hand, the dagger tip gleaming brightly in the light of the day as he plunged it down to sink into the healer’s flesh. His plunging hand jerked to a stop before it could gain any momentum though, its sharpened edge only managing to cut into the skin partially before the man collapsed over on his side, an arrow still quivering from where it had found a nice spot in the center of his back.

Silent as death the hulking stranger with a horse mask pushed through the tall grass with a long bow in hand before him, an arrow already notched. His breathing through the long nose of the mask imitated almost too well the snort of a horse as he eyed the five guards yet still breathing, though his head did turn for a moment to see that the healer was still moving. Another giant of a man slipped out of the grass opposite of Denen and the remaining guards, his twin shortswords naked and poised to cut down any that might seek to continue the trouble. Before even another chime had passed the other two had came to the scene as well so that the hulking figures surrounded the rest of the guards, possessing the advantage of already bared weapons and size. “Raise your weapons and find your place with Dira” the lion masked one was quick to say in his grating, deep tone, his pale green eyes affixed on each and every one of them. The one with the horse head on some unspoken command went about removing the arrow from the now dead guard’s back, and rifling through his possession stuffing any trinkets or baubles he found into his cloak’s generous pockets. He didn’t finish with just valuables though the young healer would soon be seeing as the monster of a man pulled out a keen edged oddly shaped dagger, and with just a tight tug of the dead man’s head back, cut free the man’s mask to reveal the human face beneath. It wouldn’t remain long his though as the stranger buried the tip of his blade into the tender flesh of the man’s face and dragged it down before repeating the same on the other side and connecting the parallel lines under the chin and across the forehead. “ A pretty mask for our company eh? ” he laughed in Tukant, peeling the flesh from the man’s skull and thus depriving him in death of his identity.

Stumbling slightly the hulk of a warrior moved over to where Denen yet stayed, and none too gently grasped the back of the young drykas’s hair to hold him in place while he ‘fixed’ the mask to the healer’s face. He finished it off with a tight twine knot to keep it in place, using the holes he carved in there for places to start of the tie. ” There you go, you look better already ” he muttered in common, his companion all too happy to sign it to the healer for him.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Too naïve to know better, the boy felt a sudden, sharp stab in his chest. Too stunned to think or react, he simply stared, though the sensation was rather like everything inside of him had suddenly plunged down into his toes. They were dead. All of them. Sam was dead. Oh, gods. His Sam was dead. Denen's body went limp, and for all of his silence, his insides screamed. He could see only that perfect smile. That dark hair. Those eyes. Gone. Sam's hopes. Their plans, signed on skin in the darkness of their little tent. And gods, Issima. She had been an innocent in this. He had wanted to be her friend, had seen, clearly, the joy she gave Sam. He was radiant around her, and that delighted Denen. Luke. He had hardly known him, but it agonized him to know that he'd fallen, too, that he had been victim to these brutal men. And then, it struck him, and his insides twisted up. Durno. His sweet Strider. Had he died, too? Why had he survived, then? What use was a scrawny deaf boy? What did it matter? Whatever happened now did not matter. Sam was dead. No one would come for him. This would be his hell until the men bored of him and did to him as they had done to the corpses that littered the beach. He hit the sand hard, but could not will himself to care. He had gone numb. Sam. His prayers had been in vain, for he had been dead all of this time. And tortured. The thought that he had suffered struck agony into his heart. Not Sam. Sam had already suffered enough. Things had been going so well. It was just supposed to be a journey, not a nightmare. They were supposed to be safe. To go and return home with an adventure under their belts. To see that dreadful sea. It had been intended, on Denen's part, to give him a chance to see the world before he settled down for his quiet life as Sam's healer. None of them would return home, now. They were young, ready to burst forth into their lives, and now, it was over. Even if he lived, it was done. There was no one now. The men carried him away, and Denen remained still and quiet. He did not struggle as he was hoisted up, nor did he make a sound or offer protest. His body was limp and still, his sharp, blue eyes wide and staring. He scarcely noticed the change of men, and might have remained in this nearly catatonic state, had the man not fallen. He did, however, and Denen's thin frame came crashing down in the worst way. He grimaced, not realizing he'd broken the man's ankle—though it could hardly have been called his fault—and soon found himself set upon by flailing fists. The gag managed to stop his teeth from grinding, but the pain was very real, and forced him, however unwillingly, to come to his senses. He saw the flash of the blade, shouted, and closed his eyes as he felt it break the skin. But there it stopped, and after a moment, he opened his eyes once more, looking towards the source of this temporary salvation. What happened then left Denen in a sort of horrified stupor. He watched as the stranger looted the dead man's body, and then made a small sound of surprise and alarm as he began to cut off his face. When it became clear exactly what the purpose of this was, he began to shout in protest, trying to tug himself free. It was, however, in vain, and Denen soon found his face locked beneath the warm, bloody flesh that had decorated the dead man's skull moments before. It was then that he began struggling. He screamed and shouted, his thin frame thrashing as violently as he could. Panic seized hold of him, and he kicked and hollered as loudly as he could. His blue eyes stood out against the dead man's mask, drawn over his skin like some sort of repulsive decoration. His own lips, held tightly over his gag, could be seen beneath those of the mask. He could feel lingering blood dripping down his neck, soaking his hair and face. Seeping into the gag. He heaved again, body lurching. His hands strained and tugged at their bonds. He had to break free!

[Lariat]

"Stop his struggling"

A heavy fist crashed into the side of his face shortly after the guttural foreign words were spoken, the force sending him to the ground in a heap. All at once a every one started kicking the prone healer, showering blow after blow on his frame, kicking just hard enough to bruise but not enough to break his bones or kill him. A figure wearing a boar's mask and a massive hammer strapped across his back lifted a hand up, and as abruptly as it had started it stopped the five men backing off to allow the four hulking figures their say. One was quick to step forward, and through his lion mask, he eyed everyone in turn.

"Enough sport, we must be moving. He won't like it if we get back with his prize behind schedule." Grunts of consent went all about, and rough hands once again found Denen's arms and hoisted him high in the air to be carried amongst four of the men again. Blood continued to drip off his face, seeming to saturate his very skin though every time he struggled, the men underneath where quick to bend his arms and legs painfully to cease his struggling. The sun, and prevailing wind was quick to crust the oozing blood to his form though, and seal the mask to his skin it felt like but it was not yet apart of his face. For bells they walked even when the sun had well gone beneath the horizon, the leading four's vision not suffering in the slightest with the change of light. Each of them made their silent way through the grass, not much caring to run upon another of the predator's here, like they had for most of the journey. The four leaders were adept at handling them for certain, but that didn't make the five guards feel any safer because of it. This was the wilds after all, and no one was absolutely certain of safety.

Shouldering off the weight of the healer, they let Denen tumble to the ground, before walking past him to start setting up the camp. For now it was only them that could be seen, the men muttering to one another about them going to catch some food. The five similarly busied themselves preparing a campsite, clearing the area for their tents and the fire on which to cook flesh on. No need to worry about the healer who was hardly a threat.

[Denen Sunsinger]

The punishment was quick and harsh, but Denen fell quiet, his body shaking. It was difficult to breathe properly with the bloody mask on, and the terror in his blue eyes begged them to take it off. The kicks and blows rendered him curled into a tight ball to try and protect himself, but he did not struggle further. He continued trying to work the gag free, however, so that he could try and spit or something, or beg for water. Gods, he needed water. His head hammered, and his vision blurred as he fought back tears. He just wanted Sam. What had he done to deserve this? Had he offended some god? If he was to be sold as a slave, why would they kill the others? Denen was the least qualified of them all. He was deaf and clumsy, something these men seemed to know. He found himself lifted again, and only once or twice did he struggle, each time resulting in painful twisting of his limbs. He could feel the blood caking on his skin, causing the flesh to stick to his face. He was horrified of the thought that it might grow into his skin if they left it there. His silent prayers continued, pleading for some sort of divine intervention, knowing that with Sam gone, there would be no one to come for him. His family would not know where to start looking, and having been disowned, he doubted Stone would care. Sam was dead. There was no one left for him in the world. He thought of Eldon, his dear friend, but knew that to hope for him was foolish. Eldon had gone to Syliras. He had no one to miss him, nothing to return to. Denen was alone. That knowledge weighed heavily on him. Save for the time he and Sam had not lived together, he had never been alone before. And even then, it certainly hadn't been like this. He knew he had no chance of escaping these men. He had no idea of where he was, had nowhere to hide, and he couldn't run well. These men were huge, brutal, and he didn't want to find out what they would do to him if he tried to escape from them. When they at last stopped, Denen was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. He groaned in pain, shuddering in revulsion, and lay still for some time, trying to gather himself. But the men were busy, and in spite of knowing that he'd probably be punished for it, Denen lifted his bound hands and tugged the gag out of his mouth. He coughed and spluttered, and set to trying to untie the mask. If he threw it hard enough, maybe they wouldn't be able to find it and put it back on.

[Lariat]

The men who worked to get the camp in shape for their masters noticed to be sure the absence of the mask on the healer's face, but they simply shrugged it away and pretended not to be paying that one any attention. Best to not be drawn into the towering figures ire and thus earn more than their fare share of welts, and broken bones in the process. They had seen what had happened to their comrade and none wanted to share his grisly fate. Besides, the absence of the macabre mask from the soft features of this particular drykas was a relief for them all, and they worked better for it. So long as the man did not try to escape they would not be forced to dish him out any more unneeded punishment than was due.

In a few bells they had a small campfire going, each man taking a seat on the log, and bringing out various crafting things for which to occupy their time while they talked and spoke stories to one another. One even pulled out a harp, strumming a hearty tune as another spoke tales of his apparent past heroism and his ever present womanizing ways. For so the raucous group seemed distracted for the moment, too lost in the jovial little gather to take notice or even remember that they were supposed to watch over a prisoner.

[Denen Sunsinger]

Denen choked on the dryness of his throat. As the group settled down, he watched, wondering where the blue men had gone. It was dark now, and the men were distracted. Even with his hands tied, Denen knew this might be his only chance to escape. He began to inch away from them, trembling and agonized for something to drink. If he got far enough away, he could find a rock to shred his bonds on. He got to the line of trees, and there maneuvered his thin frame into a crouch, despite how his muscles ached. He half-crawled, half-stumbled away from the camp, before he shot upright and broke into a clumsy run. He ran blindly, hands hugged close to his chest, dodging trees and fallen logs as he tried, frantically, to get to freedom.