Encounter in the Glasslands

[Mordrain]

"What exactly would you call this?"

There was no more wind. The sun had come down and laid it's hands over Mordrain and Sadie as if to protect them from the stinging onslaught of its invisible force. To pay for this service, however, the sun had shown its brightest rays and most vicious heat; it was a display of power which had neither fascinated, nor disturbed Mordrain. It merely reminded him he was still alive. In this world, in Eyktol, and most definitely in the desert.

"I mean, I know you aren't in much of a position to think right now, which, don't get me wrong, is completely understandable, but, you should at least have some clue as to what this means. Don't you?"

It was the only place on Mizahar that he hated as much as he loved. The Burning Lands (or "Glasslands" in his own words) were a collection of sand dunes, canyons, massive monoliths of rock and minerals too hard to be mined away. During the day, the sun slowly transformed from a devilish red to a devilish yellow to a devilish white all in the window of nine hours. Then, when it reach its zenith, the sun would begin its eternal retreat, slowly surrendering the territory of the sky for the moon to take over. Its devilish colors never changed.

"Let's, uh, let's look at the facts here." He raised his fist and uncurled a finger. "It's been about... two days, at most, since Hai. And I can tell you from personal experience," he let out a dry laugh "that it hasn't been a very fun experience. That means you two," the tossed the thumb over his shoulder to point at the crumpled mess of a body behind him. Mordrain dog, Sadie, was crouched over an astonishingly dead man's arm, chewing on it with a vigor unseen in most war hounds. "have been following me for quite some time... and that means I'm getting sloppy."

Mordrain had kept Sadie close during his little exodus from his home. The shepherd's tan fur reflected the sun duly, constantly. They had shared meals, kills, and tales as they ventured across the sandy skin of Eyktol.

"Still! It's not like that would've gotten you anywhere." The warrior knelt down to examine his victim more precisely. "Isn't that right, Grendel?" Mordrain shook his head, allowing his hair to fall freely over his face. His sigh was harsh and powerful. "Now... I never liked you. I always thought you were some afterbirth that crawled out of your mother in the form of some hideous creature that disguised itself as a Chaktawe."

He had given away everything he owned, which wasn't much. He had used the funds he gained to purchase the necessary equipment to make this great journey he so desired. A body pack filled to the brim with tools and equipment, a sheath for his sword, Blaine, and assorted item that would make his odyssey more bearable. Now, if only he could get to Eloab.

"I never really understood why you hated me, though... I'm sure if you weren't such an ass we could've been great friends. Instead you decided to carry over that hate you harbored for... you know... him." His pale eyes flickered. Grendel's remained transfixed on Mordrain's unwavering stare. "So, maybe, when you have time to think after all this, you could find him and blame him for all your troubles. Because, let's be honest, I never did a thing to you." The warrior twirled his head around to examine his dog. The blood surrounding the corpse had scabbed over and had begun to crack under the intense heat of the sun. He did not care for the sight. He returned to face Grendel again. He found that his lifelong foe had changed his gaze. Instead of fiery defiance there was now a chilling acceptance. Mordrain approved of this.

"But," he raised his hands in a mock surrender "I can't influence you, that's your job. If you want to continue this blood feud then more power to you.... Buuuuuuut that didn't really get you anywhere, did it?"

Grendel gurgled up a frothy stream of blood in response.

"Uh-huh. I knew you'd agree."

Mordrain was clad in a under shirt of black velvet to keep his skin from irritating. Overlapping this was a loose, wool tunic that stretched down to his waist, which was covered by a deep brown, oil hardened leather vest. His belt held up a pair of fur-lined leather trousers, tanned in a similar fashion as his vest. His boots were shin-high and well-worn. His waist was criss-crossed with water skins. His back held up a sturdy backpack. His belt was checkered with filled pouches. His right arm held countless scars. His mind held something else entirely. In the times to come, Mordrain would begin to wear leather gloves, and the steel breastplate in his knapsack with greater frequency.

"I'll give you credit, though. I never thought you'd get ahead of me. You two must've ran pretty damn far to keep out of eyesight for as long as you, supposedly, did. Still, all your planning doesn't mean much when you're facing down Ol' Blaine, does it?" The warrior shouldered his prized bastard sword. It was a magnificent blade of pure Cold Iron. It's blade had been sharpened daily to the point of a natural hazard. A mere tap from the weapon was enough to chill and severe. It's handle was lengthened to accommodate two hands, while the pommel was a circular weight with a teardrop carve into it's bronze surface. The guard was curved ever-so-slightly upwards to catch incoming blades. The tip was crimson with Grendel's blood.

"So, in lack of better words, I'd say you've gone all this way, Grendel boy, to end up here. In the worst position of your life, I might add." Mordrain bent over, bared his teeth and spoke through a clenched jaw: "And your last." He lifted himself up and stood. His posture shot out an imposing shadow over Sadie and her prized cadaver. The warrior glared down at Grendel as the devilish rays of the fading yellow sun turned to red.

"Now!" he began. "Since Blaine, here, has seen its share of fighting today, I have no choice put to put it away for today." He drove Blaine into the sand, allowing the desert to drink in the offering of blood, before yanking the weapon out and shoving into its sheath. The sword-thief's mechanism 'clicked' in reply, effectively sealing the blade inside the solid leather casing. "Which means I have to deal with you in a much uglier way."

Grendel whimpered. His open gut hung out the tattered pipes of his entrails in an elaborate pattern on the desert floor. He couldn't feel anymore. But he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would never feel anything again.

Mordrain paused before stepping over his dying opponent. "For the love of the God's, Grendel." He drew his hunting knife from a well-concealed sheath on his belt. "It really didn't have to be this way." And with that he drove the knife down with all his weight and fury. The blade buried itself in the bone and flesh of Grendel all the way to the handle.

The thug known as Grendel fluttered his eyes and a jet of blood sprung out of his mouth and onto Mordrain's face. Everything turned fuzzy.

Then everything went away.

Mordrain held him knife inside Grendel for a few minutes. Eventually the man halted his breathing, then his bleeding. That was enough for Mord. He stood, slipping his knife out of Grendel as he did, and looked out to the direction of Eloab.

Sadie pawed her way over to her master's, and friend's, side. Her big head and long nose/jaw brushed under his hand for petting. Mordrain scratched her head gingerly while his knife dripped away the blood of his enemy.

They were alone in the desert again.

[Mordrain]

Timestamp: Season of Spring, Day 78, 512 AV
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"Heh... The stars are out."

Mordrain raised a calloused arm and uncurled a bloodied finger to trace along the outlines of the white and untouched dots in the sky. His breath was warm and calm, even in the dreadful cold of the desert night, and his body was clean and mostly intact. The sea of sand and pitiful shrubs was all the home he and Sadie needed. The two companions were drawn out upon the coarse surface of the world, Mordrain on his back and his dog on her side. Sadie's wet snout rested on the bicep of the warrior's arm while his gravely voice spun tails of the sky and the galaxies it held. The dog held a mild understanding of Mordrain's tongue, but aside from a few basic and compacted words the war hound merely found her master's monotone to be a distant lullaby.

Mordrain paid no heed to his dog's shuttering eyes and her steadied breathing. He did not need to attentions of those around him to talk, what little he did. He was a man of a personalized outlook of the world. He kept to himself a majority of his conclusions on life and nearly everything it enthralls. On the nights, like this one, when he decided to talk freely.... his lips would utter ideals and theories that most would never dare to comprehend. His days in Hai had given him much time to think; many hours, days, weeks and months to craft excuses for why the world around him had been so cruel. It was not the fact that his conclusions were so grotesque which made him an outcast, instead, his ideas actually made sense. And it was not the forces of society that drove him from his burden of a home, it was him.

And him alone.

Perhaps Sadie could grasp this. That what she was hearing right now was not the ramblings of a mad man but the confessions of one who tried so desperately to remain sane. This was all lost to her, as his strong voice became a whisper, and her eyes saw the empty reaches of space Mordrain was describing as sleep took hold of her.

"-d that's sort of what Outer Space is... I think. I mean, I've never been there, and I doubt you ever will, but it sort of makes sense, you kn-" His head tilted over to see his war hounds tender eyes safely shut behind furry lids. He let out an irritated sigh. "If you're going to sleep on me have the damn courtesy to listen to me..." He grumbled half-heartily towards his lifelong friend. The shepard merely hushed out a miniature Woof! as her dreams blurred past her fluttering eyes.

Mordrain gingerly lifted his arm to bring Sadie's head down to the sand. Her jaw landed with no noise at all, a slight incline formed around her snout from the impact. Mordrain lifted his hulking form out of the condensed sand and into the harsh tinge of the night's air. He cringed at the sudden change of comforts and rose to his feet. Before his dark brown boots were the remains of a minuscule fireplace that had choked out the last of its life admirably. He stomped out the embers with rapid taps of his boot. The smoke columns separated and danced around him in flourishes and seductive gestures, with clothing of blue and grey, before transparency took hold of them. Mordrain inhaled their sweet, sticky scents with an absent-mindedness that was becoming a rather welcome sensation. His grey eyes narrowed, examining the world in ways no one would guess from a single glance at the him, before widening to a standard diameter. His muscled tensed and relaxed in the biting cold and his stomach grumbled out its protests.

They had food, more than enough, but, to account for Mordrain's own self-imposed quest of self-cleansing and redemption, he would not eat. Sadie, however, seemed overjoyed at this decision of his considering her rations doubled overnight. This did not mean he was weak, though. Quite the opposite. This sense of weakness was exactly the cure Mordrain needed for sluggishness and exhaustion. He could not and would not allow himself to sink any further into carelessness and drowsiness so long as the slightest hint of danger still lurked around the corner... or sand dune.

Mutter off curses and swears the warrior began towards the pill of provisions not far from Sadie's ball of a sleeping pose. He knelt to nudge through the assorted items and scan them for any noticeable change. Deterioration and durability were important factors in a land such as Eyktol, where the sand carried by the wind cut into flesh and fabric alike with not quarter. He stifled through his rucksack and bodypack and satchels and the like before reaching what really mattered to him: Blaine. The metal-lined scabbard gleamed hazily in the star's beacon-fire. Mordrain undid the sword-thief's lock at the mouth of the container and drew his prized weapon. The Cold Iron rang in confirmation that it was still shard and deadly. Mordrain gave a smile of unchangeable approval.

He felt, in that moment, that should the worst come to pass in his great odyssey across Mizahar, that he would be ready for the challenges of wandering and discovering. No matter what they might be.

He positioned himself in a 'Falcon Guard.' His feet were separated evenly, right foot before, left foot behind, torso straight, shoulders back, arms upraised with sword grasped firmly between two palms. Blaine's handle was positioned so only the brass pommel could be visible in his peripheral vision. The blade itself was tilted backwards to it aligned with the bridge of his nose. As a result, at his forehead, the blade was only a few centimeters from his skull. He then lifted the blade even higher until it looked like he was stretching, rather than practicing. Blaine's deadly body straightened in the air; Mordrain could not see his weapon anymore but he could feel it perfectly. Blaine was a bastard sword and, though Mordrain preferred to wield it with one hand, during the times he laced ten fingers upon its grip the weight and balance of the weapon melded perfectly with him. So much so that he could practically fight blind with the sword. But seeing his opponent was just as well.

He brought the blade down with such force the wind parted with a deafening hiss. He lifted and repeated the action several times. On his fifth chop he started to usher out a song from his dry throat.

"The good times are killin' me,"

He circled in the sand, using his momentum, a vital part of his fighting style, to swing Blaine with terrifying force. His feet followed the tip of the bastard sword respectfully and artfully.

"Here we go!"

His feet halted and his legs lend forward. Instead of motioned swings and cuts he unleashed a series of basic, yet savage assaults in a wide birth before him. He did this flurry once, twice, then swept himself backwards and continued with the previously fluid strikes.

"Got dirt, got air, got water and I know you can carry oooon..."

His breath began to communicate with the motion in his arms and legs.

"Shrug off shortsighted false excitement and, oh, what can I saaay?
Have one, have twenty more "one mores" and, oh, it does not releeent."

He halted his selfish sparring when a thin membrane of sweat had appeared over his skin. He lowered Blaine into the sheath which was now in the sand and placed the bastard blade in the pile of assorted junk.

"The good times are killin' me..."

And fell asleep.