Solo A broken weapon.

[Gracen]

1st Fall, 512 A.V. outside Kalinor The last time he had been in Kalinor, his money belt had been flush, but this time not so much. Getting out of Ahnatep had been more trouble than he expected, and poor luck had plagued him in Yahebah too. But he had paid for his passage north guarding a merchant vessel from the fear of pirates, which amounted to him lifting heavy objects and staying up all night on watch for the main. But he didn't hold much with his chances of finding work in Kalinor that would maintain him long enough to look into a few things, or at least until another ship was heading back to Eyktol or on up to Lhavit with need for a hired sword. He realized then that he had become little more than a weapon. His skills pertained to killing people. He wasn't even a proper hunter of beasts. Perhaps that should become a short-term goal, and so here he was, gathering mushrooms and fruits, most of which he thought were edible based on the fact that he found birds or animals feeding upon them. When he thought he had enough to barter for a bit, he returned to his very temporary sort of camp. His Zavian seemed all right, availing himself of the green grass and the ground that didn't shift upon the swells of the sea. Spreading his trove of goods, he sniffed and examined the things he didn't recognize. The chanterelle, though, he knew from sight and also the vague smell like apricots it gave off. Those he washed in the nearby stream and ate himself, because gathering turned out to be hungry work. But when his horse snorted with alarm, he paused in mid-mastication, eyes following the line of the Zavian's attention. It was some sort of local goat, perhaps. It horns and the mountains were near, ergo it was likely some sort of mountain goat. Slowly, carefully, he swallowed his food, and then began to summon those inner reserves of power, infusing his body with djed as he had been taught to do, but never mastered. A broken weapon, he was. [/frame]

[Gracen]

He loosed his wakizashi from its sheath, feeling the djed collecting in his muscles until he began to shake like a leaf in the wind. Had he completed his training, he wouldn't be this sloppy, but some things were out of his control. He would have speed in spades, but he would pay for it later in aches and pains, not knowing how to use that same djed to reinforce his bones and all the things that connected one thing to another to prevent such shock to his system. He rushed the mountain goat thing, quiet as he was able, faster than he ought to have moved, but even so, the thing dodged his first thrust, bleating in fear and anger, attempting to flee. Biting back a curse, jaw soon to ache from all the amped up tension behind gritted teeth, he leaped after it, and after two more abortive attempts to kill the thing, it made an error, nearly tripping, but scrabbling on loose stones long enough for him to catch up. What he wanted to do was skewer its brain, the which would cause rather quick death and not a lot of bleeding. He imagined the Widows would want the blood as they liquefied their food or whatever it was they did. But the thing swung its head around at the last minute to keep an eye on him, and his strike went awry, too fast for him to correct it, and he scored it across the throat. It wasn't even enough to sever an artery or its windpipe, but his inexpert fumbling merely opened its vein and it bleated in pain and fear as it bled out. All he could do with his magical speed was back away so as not to get gored by its horns, cussing all the while. Grace wasn't a sadistic man, exactly, or he wasn't the sort of man who would kill a thing slowly that wasn't, say, the object of his revenge. All the same, out there by himself, he cleaned off his blade and watched with a strange mixture of rage and regret as the thing died by his hand. It wasn't clean. He wrapped up the fruits and the mushrooms, tied the makeshift pouch to his belt. When the goat was dead and down, he approached it with some oilcloth and rope, and tied it on before heaving the thing over his shoulder. His clothes weren't new, but they weren't blood-soaked either. He wanted to keep it that way, rather than excite the hunger of the Widows or some such. His whole body was shaking now with the aftereffects of his Flux, but he was still able to carry his prize. Regretfully, he looked at his Zavian, took the reins and led him back to the meeting point where the merchant would be leaving. He would just have to sell the horse and get a new one when he was in a place that could support them. "C'mon," he shot at it. It wasn't much, but without a horse he would be truly alone. [/frame]

[Poison]

THREAD AWARD!

Skills: Flux 1, Wakizashi 1, Hunting 1

Lores: if animals eat a plant, it's probably edible; side effects of Flux

Other Things: a dead goat