Solo [Rattling Chains] Reaching For Orion

[Razkar]

53rd Day of Winter
14h Bell

The sun shone and lied in its brightness. The day was sharp and the light hurt ones eyes, but the mind's hope of warmth was dashed the second the body stepped out into the open air to embrace it. It was winter sun: it deceived, and the lack of clouds only meant there was nothing to hold back the cold.

Razkar stepped from his tent and hissed. Breath steamed from his mouth like he was some demonic beast. But it was not just the cold that made him shiver: his wounds were still not healed all the way. The gashes in his leg and side were closed, sewed shut thanks to the grudging (and well-paid) help from Yakob, but stopping bleeding and gaping wounds were only half the process. He needed rest.

But every man has his limits.

"Up and about again." Yakob said as he sauntered up to the Myrian, heavy cloak wrapped around himself as Razkar's Cloak of Fallen was. Every footstep tossed filth snow in front of him. "Must I repeat myself?"

Razkar grimaced, knowing full well what the man would say. But two weeks of inactivity was more than he could take. Two weeks he had spent staring at the top of his tent, occasionally forcing himself upright to write in his journal or sharpen his weapons. The only times he took to his feet were when he needed to relive himself. Day after day after day, and he had seen his wounds close. He had rested. He had healed. He had had enough.

"I feel better."

"Your wounds are not healed fully."

"Myrians heal faster. You know that."

Yakob raised a satirical eyebrow, impressed at the Myrian's nerve but pitying his brains. "And the blood you lost?"

"Have got it back."

"That easy, huh?"

The Myrian just shrugged and Yakob shook his head. A stubborn, savage people. Why was he even bothering? He nodded at the variety of weapons festooning the savage.

"You wave any of those about too long, your wounds will open back up. And if you want me to patch you back up, I'll charge double." His face split open into a gold-toothed grin of avarice. "So, by all means, continue."

Now it was Razkar's turn to smile. He patted the bow in his free hand, and then the quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He wasn't a complete idiot, after all. Stretching and straining muscles as one would with an ax, gladius or knife would only exacerbate his condition, and there was no way he was willing to recuperate any longer than he had to. But he had to train. He was a warrior, and inactivity irked him far more than pain did.

So he found another way.

"Not swinging." He said with a wink, even as he started to walk away. "Shoot."

"Where are you going?"

Yakob called out to the departing figure, but the question was answered by his direction. He knew who lived in those tents off to one side of the mine entrance. And if a man was seeking instruction or partners in archery, he'd find none better.

Razkar was going to the Drykas.

[Razkar]

Runcratz could always tell when Gilztern was upset. After nearly twenty years together, the two had that sort of understanding that bordered on telepathy. A hand or foot out of place on one, the slightest change in facial expression, and the other would know something was wrong.

The Drykas sighed and put down his quiver. It was nearly fully, anyway.

"You worry too much about things you can't change, brother."

They're not brothers, but since when did that matter?

"They'll be hunting, about this time." Gilztern sat in the entrance of their tent, cross-legged and staring out across Rattling Chains, over the treeline at the impossibly blue sky. His voice seemed as far away as his eyes. "Deer, probably. Won't be a good haul but... but they'll need less this year..."

The sellsword's voice was choked with rare and private emotion. It was a testament to how much he trusted Runcratz that he was permitted to hear it. The rest of Provedan's mercenaries thought the two Drykas to be eerily stoic and silent; man-shaped bows that existed solely to put arrows into targets far away with unerring accuracy. They were inseparable, and after three decades with bows in their hands, rarely missed.

But they were not inhuman. They worries, cares, concerns... families. Or they did.

Runcratz sighed heavily, hating that he had no words of comfort for his closest friend. The news they heard in town from Endrykas was bad; the worst, actually. Plague. Disease. One that seemed unstoppable. At that very moment, hundreds of miles away, their people were dying. Gilztern had already lost his mother. Gods alone knew who was next...

The Drykas approached his friend slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder. Braided hair hung down past their shoulders. Gilztern closed his eyes and bowed his head. His bow and quiver were already in his lap.

"There is nothing we can do, brother."

"We could leave. Go and help them."

"You know where they are, this time of year. By the time we got there it would be too late to help. And what good would we do, showing up and then dying?"

"We can't just stay here."

Runcratz inhaled deeply and squeezed. He often had to be the cold, hard voice of logic in their partnership. That had been the way of it for many years. He hated that he had to turn his heart from the world to be that way, but the world was not so pleasant a place to allow it. Even after years as a sellsword across Cyphrus, Gilztern still had trouble with that.

Yeah, a hateful little voice said, and it's easy for you to say that, isn't it? Your blood isn't lying in a mass grave outside the tent city, covered in scabs and boils...

"If we could return, brother... we would. You know we cannot. They would kill us. In time, that may change." He withdrew the hand, a tiny example of what life would be if they were alone, without each other. "But now is not that time."

Gilztern was silent for many moments, then nodded his head slowly. The logic was infallible. They'd both been banished under pain of death from the horselord's city, and its rulers did not go back on such decrees. They couldn't. If they did, the authority they ruled under would collapse.

Outcasts. That's what they'd always been. But they had each other, and that was enough... until now. But even with Endrykas dying, they could not go back, could not risk it. Where would be the sense? What would they do? What would happen? They would return, offer to help, and all would be forgiven? Arms thrown open in welcome?

Of course, Gilztern said as he finally rose, with steel and yew at the end of them.

"Come," he said with a forced smile, "Help me shake off this mood."

Runcratz nodded sharply, and they left their tent for the makeshift archery range they had constructed by the forest. A bell or two there always eased their minds; the pleasing simplicity of a bow, an arrow, a target... and a mind to make all three one victory.

But today, the Myrian was waiting for them.

[Razkar]

"I want to shoot with you."

This in and of itself would not be seen as a bold statement, but when spoken to Drykas, it was a different matter. They valued the bow only slightly less than the horse, and secret techniques were taught to them from the time they could hold one. They were rightly proud of their reputation as... artists with yew. Outsiders were rarely, if ever, permitted to share those secrets.

"Trying to learn from us?"

"If I can." Razkar replied, face open and honest. "If not, then just be happy to shoot. Been in bed too long."

The two Drykas didn't exchange glances or murmur in some guarded tongue. They were sellswords, true, but had shed blood with Razkar more than once now. They respected his abilities, and knew him to be no coward or snake. In their world, that did not make him their friend, but...

"You have not earned the right to our fathers' teachings," Gilztern said bluntly, as if daring the Myrian to challenge him. When nothing but that black, dead stare replied, he just nodded. "But you have earned the right to shoot with us."

Runcratz did not need to echo his words. Razkar gave a bow that was almost a nod. He had not cared for the tone of Gilztern, but part of living was tolerating such things.

Until you need not tolerate them anymore, a dark voice added.

The two Drykas walked through the snow and the mud, bows in their hands and quivers on their backs. Razkar followed them. Past tents turned white and on ground churned to thick that planks had to be laid down to serve as walkways. The winter had hit harder and faster than the Myrian, born and raised in steam and heat, could have believed, but it had come, regardless of his belief. Now he wore his tunic and cloak and breeches and everything else he owned.

He was still cold. Still ached, especially in his wounds. But walking would not open them.

A fresh blast of wind slapped them as they came to the edge of the copse, where two targets were set up a hundred feet away. The trio walked over to them, and Runcrutz handed Razkar a spare one, sitting by a tree.

It was a saddle bag with a crude target painted on it, just like the others. It had been pierced dozens of time, but sewn up again and again. Straw was packed inside, now frozen by the weather. Razkar took it and grunted, side wound groaning back at him. Gilztern silently put up their targets: a knife stabbed into a tree, and a saddle bag hung onto it.

"Put up the target," Runcrutz said over his shoulder as they started pacing to their shooting position.

Razkar turned from them and unsheathed his kukri. He stabbed it into the tree just above head height, handle curved upwards, so when he hung the target... yes... it was whereabouts a man would be, from waist to head.

He turned back just in time to see the Drykas' loose their first arrows.

[Razkar]

The two Drykas chuckled when the Myrian jumped back in shock, spitting words in his native tongue that were probably not friendly. Their arrows had smacked into the targets and buried themselves in the wood behind it. Once he got over his surprise, Razkar had to admire their aim.

First shots, from a hundred feet, and they were only inches from center.

With an effort, he marched over to where they stood, smirking and notching fresh arrows. He knew they wanted him angry, rattled... a form of hazing that he knew well from the Taloba barracks. Best strategy? Don't rise to it.

"Good shots." He said as he joined them and grasped his bow with one hand, drawing an arrow with another. "At big range."

Runcratz cocked an eyebrow as he lined up his next shot, sharing a quick glance with his brother. Gilztern just shrugged almost imperceptibly. Cool one, eh? Maybe a little more prodding...

"Weren't worried we'd hit you?"

Razkar shook his head, but only slightly. It would throw off his aim. He planted his feet just like he had when he practiced with Vanator, a season ago. Sideways to the target, left shoulder and left foot pointed towards it.

"Not worried. I knew you hit what you aim at."

He drew an arrow and notched it on the drawstring, holding the bow firmly, raising it and drawing back the string with two fingers at the same time. Runcratz half-smirked back at him, even as he readied himself for his next shot.

"We don't always hit. Sometimes we've been known to miss-"

He let fly, and the only movement on his entire body was his fingers gently letting go of the drawstring. The bow, his arms, his torso, none of them moved, and the arrow flew through the air-

-slamming into the target. Right behind Gilztern's.

"Occasionally."

"Sometimes."

"Rarely."

Razkar just smirked as he bought his bow so the arrow was level with his eye. He bent his hand holding the bow back a little, letting it and the tension rest in its heel. Vanator was right: much more steady. He saw the target, imagined the arrow in it...

"Keep talking," he said, taking a breath, and exhaling slowly, "I learn new words-"

His fingers straightened, releasing the string and the arrow and half a moment later the latter thudded into the target. Off center. By quite a way. But not bad for a first shot, he thought, and reached for another arrow.

His Drykas partners snorted almost in unison. Amateurs. But at least the savage was trying. They loosed again and Runcratz let out a short chuckle, hitting the target before his brother. Gilztern grumbled something that Razkar couldn't quite make out what it was, but still flipped a gold miza to a grinning Runcratz.

The three notched fresh arrows, and continued in silence, nothing breaking it but the steady scrape of arrows pulled from quivers, the creak of bowstrings pulled taut, and the twang of arrows whistling through the air.

[Razkar]

Repetition was an unavoidable aspect of any training. Razkar knew this well. Hunts with his clan, training with the Taloba army, the sessions with Kevlar and Mizra in Riverfall... it wasn't just secret moves and brute strength, though they helped. It was doing the actions over and over and over until muscle memory locked them away and could summon them at will.

The Drykas next to him were his models, naturally. Within a few chimes he could see that the action of archery were impossibly smooth. Drawing the arrow, notching it, aiming and firing. They weren't four separate movements to them, requiring the tiniest pause between each one. No, when Runcratz and Gilztern did them, it was not "them". It was just firing.

And quickly. They could fire three arrows to every one of his, and considerably more accurate. But even at their fastest-

There was a blur to his side as Runcratz's arm shot up past his head, pulled and arrow and notched it, pulled back the string in one fluid motion and-

-a blink or two later, an arrow shuddered in the target. Not dead center, perhaps, but enough that if it were an enemy on the battlefield, he would be less-than-focused on continuing his charge.

Razkar kept practicing, and found his own movements getting smoother. His arms were getting used to the reach and pull of arrows from the quiver across his back, and now he was grasping them with the same two fingers he pulled the drawstring with, he saved a precious couple of moments when he notched and drew back on the string.

Once again, he drew, aimed, breathed in... held it-

And let fly an arrow down the range. That time, it barely missed the bullseye, and the Myrian smiled. A dozen arrows loosed, and all of them had smacked into the "chest" of the target. One had even hit the bullseye, but his smug satisfaction had been quickly destroyed by the Drykas.

They'd hammered three arrow apiece into their own target. Within half a chine. Each.

"Getting better, Myrian," Runcratz said out the corner of his mouth, eyes never moving from his target, "But not Drykas yet."

Razkar nodded, and kept the smile from his face. A compliment, if a backhanded one. He wasn't expecting that.

"Thank you."

"Wanna thank us?" Gilztern said bluntly, his quiver empty. "Go and collect our arrows."

To their shock, the Myrian walked away without a word... towards the targets. The two horselords faced each other and shared a look of shock. Incredible! Was he really so desperate to learn that he would do their bidding?Well, he was starting with his own target, methodically pulling each one from the target and the tree beyond and restoring them to his quiver.

Well, this was progress. If the savage could...

"Oh..."

Then he turned on his heel and walked back towards them, a rather pleasant smile on his face. Over a bell of shooting in the cold had made his wounds stiffen and complain, but he'd sooner cut off his manhood than show weakness in front of these two. As he walked by them he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Thank you for company." He said with a cheery wink. "But I not slave. You can get you arrows."

He didn't slow down until he was halfway back to his tent. By that point, his wounds were making his breath come in and out like icy spikes.

[Razkar]

The sun sank and night swallowed it, and the cold came with friends, relatives and well-wishers. The sellswords infesting and manning Rattling Chains in equal measure wrapped themselves in any cloth they could and groused that the slaves were better off they they tonight. At least they were underground and warm.

Apparently overlooking the fact that they were chained and destined to stay that way.

But the cold was biting, and the torches scattered around the camp seemed dimmer and more desperate that night. They shrunk into their faggots as the men did, and more bonfires were lit than before, larger, roaring fires for the men to crowd around. It was not just for luxury, either. A good fire could be the difference on nights like this between a man sleeping well, and not waking at all.

Razkar was inside his tent, anyway, and he would have taken the cold rather than enduring what he had to that night. Teeth gritted and stripped nearly naked, Yakob was working his own brand of mundane magic once again. The scarred sellsword wrung out a rag and finished cleaning the gashes in his leg and side.

He was healing, and the wounds had closed. But infection did not care how good the wound looked; only that it was vulnerable. So every other day, this was their little ritual.

"OK..." the human finally said after a few chimes, squinting at the gash on Razkar's side. It glistened with fresh water, shorn of all dirt and sweat. He nodded. "Looks good. Leg, too. So, ah...?"

The Myrian grumbled and flipped him a handful of cold mizas. He wasn't willing to pay him more than that just for washing the wounds, but the plain, hard fact was that he couldn't do it himself. Stretching and straining for that long just made his wounds ache, and Yakob, it had to be said, knew what he was going.

The Burned Man chuckled and actually bit each of the five coins before pocketing it.

"Pleasure doing-"

"-business with you." Razkar finished, rolling his eyes and stiffly getting his clothes back on. "Like you say each time."

"Hey, it's a classic."

"Is other word tart with "c". Um... clicker?"

"Think you mean "cliche"."

"Like clicker more."

"Suit yerself, Myrian. Two days, then we'll check 'em again."

He shuffled out and once he was fully clothed, Razkar... readied himself. He stil had work to do, not just to break his tedium, but to honor an adversary he had conquered.

That it had been on four legs rather than two was irrelevant.

Half a bell later, Razkar was in front of his own bonfire, Cloak of Fallen over his shoulder and wrapped tight around him. He'd spent most of the afternoon loading the firewood onto the bonfire before him, doing in five bells what should have taken him two. But his wounds were still biting at his sides, and he would not anger them further. He'd called Yakob to tend to his wounds and put off lighting it, knowing he would need it for the night.

It was worth it either way. Now the flames were as tall as he was and sitting in front of them, the cold was but a memory that occasionally whistled and blew against the back of his cloak. His head was bent low and he felt the top of it warm by the flame...

And the light. The light was important, because he had work to do.

Yakob watched him silently from across the bonfire. They did not talk; they had little to say to each other, and it was too cold to bother, anyway. But the Myrian was a curious sight that night, and the Burned Man had little else to do.

It took his eyes from the flames, as well. Even after many years, whenever he was close to them, his face burned...

Razkar had the remains of two paws laying next to him. Yakob guessed they were from a leopard, judging by the mottled yellow and black fur. The claws - each four inches long and wickedly-curved - had been cut and carved from the fur and flesh surrounding them. The Myrian had worked with the lakan he had claimed from the Akalak he'd killed weeks before.

He had come to appreciate the blades. Thick enough for hacking and cutting, but fine enough at the end for more careful work. He was using one now, actually.

Repetition, yet again, but it was simple work to an honest end. He took each claw in turn, held them at the pointed end, and worked the sharp, narrow tip of the lakan into the top of them. Twisted the blade left, right, left, right, left, right...

Slowly, steadily and surely, carving a hole into the top of each claw. He was at the last one now, the seven that came before it now laying in a neat row in front of his crossed legs. His eyes were focused on his work, but his mind was elsewhere.

Remembering the beast they had belonged to. How huge and fierce and proud the leopard had been when he and Saib had stumbled across a deer it had chosen for its prey. That dynamic shifted quickly to them becoming prey, but at the end, by blood and steel, they had been the ones to survive.

You fought well, brother, he thought to himself as he finished drilling the hole. He sheathed his lakan and examined the hole he had made; held up the claw and saw the flames through it. I remember, and will remember, your bravery. It took an ax, a gladius and a kukri through your skull to finally slay you. This is the best honor I can give you.

Razkar set the claw down and took off the string of beads he wore around his neck. They were not just for ritual, of course. The string the beads were set along was actually a thin but incredibly strong garrote wire, perfect for silent killing (if you could avoid all the flailing and choking). Razkar had yet to use the vicious weapon on this continent, but until he could...

He undid the steel clasp that held the wire together and gently, carefully poured the hollowed-out beads into his lap. Once he was left with just the thin, strong, bare wire in his hands, he studied it and the beads.

Two dozen beads... eight claws...

Yakob watched the Myrian put two beads on, then a claw, then two beads, then a claw, and so on until he was out of claws. Then he finished by putting an equal number of the remaining beads on either side. Odd as it sounds, Razkar did have an appreciation for symmetry in such things.

He fastened the clasp again and slipped it over his head, and the eight claws rested on his chest. He felt the sharpness of them even now, after many weeks in his saddle bags... yes... still lethal. And now adorning his body like a true trophy.

He inhaled deeply and let his head rest back. The clear sky afforded them better now, for every star in it was naked to the eyes. Not just those pinpricks of light, as many as grains on a beach, but also those strange swirls that seemed like... gas. Distant constellation and arrangements that he had often been blind to, raised under the jungle canopy of Falyndar.

Razkar felt a smile cross his face as he saw one he knew. A clutch of stars arranged in such a way, that if you connected them up right... he could see him. Legs and chest, arm extended as if reaching... or holding a bow.

The Hunter, they had called him. The Archer.

He shook his head. Sometimes the fates have a nice sense of timing.

Yakob watched the Myrian stand, looming larger and more terrible with his heavy cloak around him. He straightened up, nodded a silent goodnight to the sellsword-healer. The leopard-claw claw necklace swayed and danced around his neck, shiny bone glinting with the firelight.

"Nice necklace." He muttered around a swallow of foul but potent wine. "Know how I can get one."

"Yes."

Yakob blinked in surprise. Rare for Razkar to be forthcoming. Just as he got to the entrance of his tent, he spoke again: "Where? How? And how much?"

Razkar stopped, halfway into his tent, but Yakob could see his obsidian eyes shining as they looked at him.

"The Sea of Grass. Killing a leopard."

He answered two questions, but the third carried the most weight, and so he waited, giving it that weight.

"With fear, and pain. With luck and brave. And with steel."

With that he vanished from the fire and from the night and from the cold, leaving Yakob with the tattered remains of leopard paws, and something to mull over as his wine rotted his guts.

RecieptHealing: 5gm.0sm.0cm

[Jackalope]

Razkar

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Shortbow	+4	Testing A Myrian's Healing
Rhetoric	+1	Remaining Proud Despite Injury
Carving	+1	Some Things Cost More Than Miza

Injuries: Continued pain in your side injury, no further complications at this time

Inventory: Add one Leopard Claw Necklace

Witty Remark Here

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