Flashback Accepting the Challenge, Answering the Call

[Oworo Birdflight]

OOC : The following thread is written in the viewpoint of a nine year old, thus what he saw may not be what actually happened. Plus, there is more to the story that meets the eye."

What is conflict, if not a single instance that erases the past, changes the present and forever affects the future? ~G.K. Dalton *** 35th day of Spring, 501 AV Above Oworo's head, the birds of the sky called out to him, but he didn't answer them. Hand pressed up against the rough wood of the family's wagon, his small, frail body pressed against the spokes of the wheel, the young boy was not enjoying the pleasant morning as he watched unwavering tent flap standing silent before him. With each exhale of breath, steam floated upward, reflecting Syna's rays at the Sun goddess stood vigil above the open plains. A quick glance at the sun told the boy that it had been only an hour or so since dawn, too early to assume that the slight nip in the air was going to remain. Not that he felt the cool, Spring morning chill as it wrapped around his small frame like a blanket. No, Oworo was warm, his insides aflame, not from physical means, but from the warmth in his heart brought about by the dread, the fear he was feeling. Oworo held his breath as his eyes noticed a change in the scene before him. He could hear movement on the other side of the cloth, the irregular beat of a man moving about, only to pause for a moment before resuming his preparations. Oworo could only imagine his grandfather moving about, with his slight stoop of the shoulder that was only evident within the confines of canvas. He could only picture the unreleased tears ringing his hazel eyes, shrouded by his gray bangs as he held his head low in shame and weariness. Oworo wanted to part the flap and comfort him, wanted to wrap this thin arms around his thick waist, and hold him until he felt the reassurance, until he realized that things didn't have to change. But Oworo, crouched outside the tent, knew that things would never be the same again. Even if the hard feelings from the night before could somehow being reconciled, the memory of the encounter would not be forgotten. Oh, the mind had been clouded by the spirits and liquors passed around the night before, the mood jovial; one of Oworo's cousins had just bonded to his Strider, and the entire family was celebrating the joyous occasion. Even Oworo's older brother, Oemi, had drowned out his envy and was listening with fervor to grandfather's stories. Drunk on alcohol or drunk merely on the moment, were they all; a family drawn close through love. A family that now laid shattered, broken by a few, powerful words. Despite Oworo's youth, he had noted easily enough the sobriety brought about by his father's words that night. He had been the only man that night who abstained from the spirits, sitting on the outskirts of the campfire, arms crossed his brow creased as he brooded on his own thoughts. Oworo even saw him disappear into the Pavilion tent in the middle of grandfather's tale, but the young boy paid him no mind then; he was sitting at his grandfather's knee, listening as he spoke about days long ago. He had been so enthralled in the tale of honor and courage that he didn't realize his father's actions until the man was standing, flames dancing across the bare steel of the sword in his hand, until the challenge had been laid down. A challenge that Oworo didn't fully understand until early this very morning. All night he tossed and turned, trying to comprehend what he had just witnessed. His mind attempted to piece together all the signs, trying to develop a conclusion to this madness. The disappointment on his grandfather's face from the night before, his brooding silence the entire night, his meticulous slaving over leather with only torch as light . . . Oworo had took everything he had seen and finally decided, mere chimes ago, that somebody was going to die on this day. The tent finally parted and out stepped Morrad Birdflight, Ankal and grandfather to young Oworo. Back straight, the elderly man stood over six foot, his long, gray hair hanging free down his back. His normal, linen clothing had been replaced with armor, boiled leather that was stiff to the touch. A leather belt was wrapped his waist, a plain scabbard on his left hip, the black hilt of a longsword protruding out. Bright, hazel eyes surveyed the area, and rested on Oworo for a moment. Suddenly, with that brief connection, all the hardness escaped old Morrad. He suddenly looked the old man he was again, not the strong Ankal who had ridden against Zith and slain Glassbeaks in his youth; with merely his presence, Oworo had broken the barriers that his grandfather had built up around him. The weight of the entire situation came crashing down on him once more, and he had to look away from his young grandson to hide the sadness. When he returned his gaze back to Oworo, the young boy had risen and stepped forward. Morrad attempted to give a reassuring smile, but Oworo's dropping visage told Morrad that there was no reassurance was to be had this day. "Come, young one," the Ankal said. "Let's see what the day has to offer us." As the pair, father and son of a grand degree, drew abreast to each other, the birds above called out again. The two share a silent glance and then walked together to the area where the bird's cries would finally be answered.

[Oworo Birdflight]

Twenty pairs of eyes, large and small, brown and blue, all fell upon Oworo as he walked up alongside his grandfather. The young boy looks up once at Morrad, who had fixed his own gaze on the crowd opposite of him; taking the cue, Oworo did the same. His vision expanded as he took on the crowd, seeing all, trying to focus on one or two. He saw his mother, S'iadel first, the Benshiran beauty with the majestic azure eyes; those eyes were watching Oworo, tears wrapping around them, making them shine in the sunlight. They called to Oworo, asked of his presence at their side, never to leave its sight again. His mother wanted to hold her son, protect him from the events about to occur. Oworo shook his head silent, biting his lip to will himself to look away. Not wanting to falter on one person, he merely scanned the entire crowd, taking it all in as a whole. His cousins were all crowding around his uncle, Rothen, mimicking the stone face that the man had taken. Opposite this crowd stood his father's other wife, Arlera. She too had taken a stone face, emotion seeping through the cold visage only when she rested her eyes on her son, Oworo's brother, Oeno. Four years old, he was, holding onto his mother's hand without a solid idea of what was going on. Oworo could see Arlera's fear of the current situation. She knew how things were going to change too, and she feared for her son. At least for Oeno, she did. For Oemi, though . . . Standing farthest away from Oworo and his grandfather were two figures. The shorter, smaller, figure was Oworo's older brother, Oemi. At thirteen, he had began to grow more than just the hair atop his head. He stood near a foot taller than young Oworo, and use all of his ability to make this fact known daily. Oworo could even see some stubble hair on his chin, left to make himself feel like a man. Standing by their father, though, he looked all the child he was. Otoro Birdflight had somehow backed over one hundred and eighty pounds onto a five-ten frame and still make it look lean, strong. His dark hair blew in the slight breeze, and as he walked closer, one could barely hear the creak on his leather armor. He too wore a belt, but instead of a sword, the man sported a double bladed axe, the steel still shining from the oil rubbed along it. No stone face covered this man's visage. No, the man's lust for power and respect was as evident as the blue tint of the sky; all you had to do was look. Oworo felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and he broke his focus off of his father to look up at Morrad's weathered face. "Go now," he spoke softly. "Stand by your mother, and stay silent. Stay invisible, not just now, but from now on." "Don't speak of the future, grandfather, when you've yet to experience the present." A small baring of the teeth, a gesture that passed as a wizened smile. "Oh, son, I'm sad to say I've experienced this present before. Every night in my dreams, I've seen this." "Were you ever able to see what happens at the end?" "No," Morrad said softly, almost to himself. "But I think I know now what I didn't know before." The pair had finally drawn up to the crowd, and a circle formed around them. In his peripheral, he could see Otoro striding forward, with his son trailing behind him like a hound. He felt his feet hardening, and he willed himself to remain where he was. Would they continue this madness if he remained in the midst of it? Otoro had never been fond of him, but Morrad, loving Morrad, would rise above this, wouldn't he? Oworo was suddenly wrapped up in a bear hug, and he felt the hot breath of Morrad on his ear as he whispered to him. "Be careful come dark, when you lay down on your bedroll." A pause. "I love you, Oworo." Then, a slight shove backwards to push him onto the perimeter of the circle, beside his mother. Oworo contemplated his grandfather's words as Morrad turned to face his own flesh and blood. The circle widened as the crowd stepped back; Oworo felt an arm wrapped around his bicep, and he too stepped back. Though only a few feet, Oworo felt as if he was watching from the sky as Otoro released the axe from his belt, running a bare finger across the edge of the blade. Morrad didn't do the same, instead placing his right hand on the hilt, hazel eyes staring his son down. "Draw your blade, father," Otoro spit out, venom in his use of the name. "You brought this upon yourself." "I always saw the hate in your eyes, Otoro," Morrad spoke calmly as he slid his blade free from the scabbard. He looked at the sword once, which appeared to Oworo as an extension of his own hand, before sighing. "Do you care to go through with this, son?" There was no vileness behind Morrad's own use of title, which seemed to enrage Otoro further. No hesitation. "Yes, I am. And without further, discussion, Otoro leaps forward, bringing his axe down at an arc, hoping to lop the arm off at the shoulder. Oworo had braced for impact immediately, yet he still flinched at the sound of steel hitting steel as Morrad parried the blow fluently. The young boy then stood in awe as he watched a dance ensue, a duet of wild hacks paired with smooth deflections. Oworo knew little about the art of combat, but he noted soon enough that Morrad was merely defending himself; he had several opportunities to counter one of Otoro's wild misses, all of which could've ended this fight earlier. Yet Morrad only parried and blocked, leaving all offense to his opponent. As moments accumulated into bells, Oworo noted the difference in the men's movements. Morrad was slowing down, the boy could see, either from exhaustion or old age. Otoro, on the other hand, was thriving on the adrenline pumping through his veins, as well as the image of himself standing tall over his fallen father. Morrad was barely getting his blade up in time. Oworo's eyes focused on Morrad's face, watching for any sign. The face was creased, knotted in exertion and stress. And then, out of no where, the tension dissipated, and Morrad closed his eyes. Otoro took Morrad's sword hand off at the wrist, the blade clattering to the ground. The reverse stroke opened the old man up at the throat, his life essence pouring out on the front of his leather hauberk. The man dropped to his knees, as if in prayer, and then fell flat on his face. Blood dripping off the cold steel, Otoro held his axe up to the sky. He looked down at the body once more, and then focused his eyes on his brother, Rothen. A grin covered his face as he spoke directly to the man. It is done. I am Ankal now." Oworo turned on his heel at the conclusion of this, bursting into a run back to the tents, away from the Pavilion. He didn't notice the droplets of his grandfather's blood all over his face until he lifted his hand to wipe away tears and to pull it back, all covered in red.

[Oworo Birdflight]

As dusk fell, Otoro yelled in triumph as he intoxicated himself, yet no one answered his call. Oworo had spent the entire day in flight. He had eluded his parents, his brothers, everyone. He had stayed out of sight, yet he had seen all. He had seen his father drink himself into a stupor, with his older brother sitting at his hand, his own excitement for the future as his drug. His other brother, Oeno, had been whisked away by his own mother, disappearing into the Pavilion tent for the rest of the day. The others in his family had dispersed as well, giving themselves tasks and chores so they didn't have to participate in the merriment of their new Ankal. All of that hurt the child, but none so much as watching his mother. S'iadel oversaw his grandfather's funeral alongside his uncle, the only two willing to risk Otoro's anger to properly dispose of Morrid. They had taken up the corpse, lifting it as well as two people could, and carried it away from the Pavilion, away from the betrayal that still hung there. Oworo had followed them on foot, watching as they took his favorite person away forever. He had watched for the longest of time in a cusp of grass as the pair found a suitable spot to leave Morrid. They were speaking, giving last rites to the fallen hero, but Oworo had been too far away to hear what they said, but when he heard his mother cry out, he knew that it was all sincere. His uncle had consoled her, and lead her back to the Pavilion in his arms. They had passed Oworo, who had curled up in the grass, hiding himself, but they were too absorbed in their sorrow to notice him. This was a bell before Syna set on the horizon. Leth was high in the sky when Oworo had left his grandfather. He had waited until the two had disappeared from sight before he moved towards the body. The walk to it was the worst; his imagination was evoking such horrible images in his head, frightening the child. He had truly believed he'd see a monster when he came to the body, a figure that had replaced his grandfather. He was sure all the blood would make him sick. He had gotten sick that morning when he felt the warm blood on his face. He knew it would happen again. But it didn't. As he looked down at his grandfather, he felt nothing. He looked at the stump where his hand used to be; the blood had stained the leather as it had oozed out onto it. Flies were already crawling in his open neck, breeding the maggots that would defile his corpse in the coming days. Oworo looked down on this, and he didn't feel repulsed. He felt empty. Otoro had taken away from his son the only thing he looked forward to every morning. Oworo had never went to his own father with his problems or his questions; no, he sought out the old man as he labored over his leather in the shade of the Pavilion. Morrid had made him feel safe, made him laugh, made him feel a part of this family. And now it was done, struck down by jealousy and a lust for power. Oworo didn't know what he was to do now, with his one connection to the Pavilion gone. If his mother said they were leaving, he'd would've jumped for joy and been ready within the bell. But he knew that wouldn't happen. No, Oworo would be neglected, ignored by his father. He would sit by, watching his father berate his mother, curse his uncle, and ruin this family. For now, that's all he could do. For now. Oworo gave his grandfather one last kiss on the cheek, and then left him, running back towards the Pavilion. The camp was quiet, its denizens asleep; he could hear his father's obnoxious snores from outside. He slipped in quietly, stepping over his mother's dark figure as she lay on her bedroll. He went to his own bed, to laid down and sleep this nightmare away. Something hard beneath him distracted him though. Tucked beneath his blanket was a quiver. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he ran his fingers over the leather. He traced the design he found on it, discerned a bird shape on it. His grandfather's last words came flooding back to him, and then the tears. While his father had been preparing to kill, Morrid had spent his last night alive making this quiver for Oworo. He knew he was going to die, and wished to leave one last thing to the person he loved the most. Oworo fell asleep cradling the quiver in his hands. He awoke only one to the cry of a glassbeak, off in the distance, where they were devouring Morrid's corpse. In the morning, the Pavilion was packed away and his family left without so much as another mention of Morrid Birdflight.

[Translucent]

Congratulations On Your Hard Work!

Oworo Birdflight:
XP:+3 Observation
Lores:The Challenge issued and answered, The betrayal of family, Ankal's death leaves taint on Birdflight, Loss of a Mentor and Friend.

Notes:I liked the OOC note, thanks for working with me and being just awesome about everything Don't forget to edit your post.

As always PM me if you have issues.