Quest [Lorak plantation] Making a run for it (Vice)

[Vart]

21st of spring 514 Vart was nervous but determined as he took the rucksack filled with supplies out of it's hiding place. He had been slowly gathering supplies for seasons, arrows, food, water anything he thought he would need too survive for a while in the swamp. He hoisted the pack over his shoulders and kept to the shadows as he made way for the door of the small warehouse The sudden appearance of a lanter and footsteps made him dive for cover in the darkness. Holding his breath as he watched somebody walk inside. The man was unarmed. Vart wondered what he was doing here in this place. Was he a guard or something? He shook his head, in the end it didn't matter. He had to go. He grabbed the mace he had stolen a bit tighter and stood up from his hiding place. The man was still focused on other stuff, inspecting the goods, with his lantern, not hearing his soft footsteps as he approached from behind. With all of his strenght he smashed his mace against the back of the man's head. Like a puppet that suddenly had it's strings cut the man fell to the ground. Bleeding from his head. Vart put the bloody mace back in his belt and silently went to the door. He peeked outside, he didn't see anybody else around he quickly went outside and snuck through the plantation, away from the slave quarters, away from the bloody slavers and away from this damned city.

[Vice]

A sharp yell sounded as a man crumpled to the floor, eyebrows narrowing as a young man caught the visage of a slave wielding a mace. The witness, a Lorak, noted the guard's dazed condition stemming from the hit. Though luckily, with the slave's lack of skill with the weapon, he seemed to be relatively unharmed. A pounding headache surged through the skull of the fallen guard, and he would later suffer the indignity of being fired from his job. For being callous enough to allow a slave the freedom to injure him so was a one-way ticket to the poverty in the streets. But, this man, a young Lorak eager to prove his worth to the elder and more influential members of his family made sure that he knew where the slave was going.

It was obvious enough that the filthy slave made its way towards the southern border of the plantation. Heading into the city after attacking the hireling of a Dynasty member was to suffer the wrath of the Dynasty itself. None would be able to hide the status of slavery, and word spread like wildfire in the city of Kenash. This owed less to the smaller population and more to the Kenash Gazette, their ability to gather information and give access to the public about it was unrivaled.

The other man, the one struck by the mace, rose from the floor, growling loudly and following the Lorak as they gave chase to the slave. The Lorak, noting the guard's pursuit, shouted at him, "Go after him, you fool!" The Lorak spoke in Vani to the guard, rage compelling him to flicker to his native tongue as the man reached to his back. The Lorak archer then undid clasps that strapped a longbow to his back. When it was held in his left hand, he then reached for an arrow with his right, lips parted to shout out to the slave, using the Common tongue, "Stop where you are, cur! You may live through this yet if you obey, slave. If not, then an arrow will find itself between your shoulder blades!"

What will you do?I'm curious... two pursuing and one's an archer... At least the guard is rather dazed?

[Vart]

This entire escape plan hadn't gone exactly as planned. The guard was already up and somebody else was with him already. From the way the gibberish he used sounded like what the lorak family always spoke like, he was doubly petched. The family already knew then. He gritted his teeth and stopped any pretence of stealth for now. They already knew where they were anyway. He dared a quick glance over his shoulder, the guard he had given a pounding headache was already up but looked slightly unsteady. What was more troubling was the fact the lorak was unclasping a longbow and aiming it at him. Cover of darkness from the late evening and the setting sun. He couldn't help but scoff at the threat though. May live through this yet. He highly doubted that. His record was already troublesome, attacking a guard, stealing supplies and now an escape attempt. If he gave up now he wouldn't see the sunrise again if he was lucky, if he wasn't he would be forced to work under such supervision he wouldn't ever be able to attempt another escape attempt. He would rather get an arrow in between his shoulderblades then to live the rest of his life a slave. It was either death or freedom in his mind. And he wasn't planning on dying today! He grit his teeth and pushed himself to run a bit harder, not wasting any breath on a response. running in a random zigzagging patern too make it harder for the archer to hit him.. hopefully. oocI run of course I'm sunberth! death or freedom! being dominated for my entire life isn't in the cards!...; I'm gonna die aren't I ?

[Vice]

Making a Run for It

The first pursuant could hardly see in front of him, head pounding in his skull as it was. Vision was blurred, his ability to move put into question as he ambled forward, each step more of a stumble, and after four paces, the man fell to the ground anew. The Lorak archer scoffed at the guard inability to be of any use to the cause, quickly overtaking him, a kick thrown out to his ribcage, forcing the pursuant to bowel over completely, a groan sounding through lips. A single attempt to move afterwards was made, an utter failure of a thing before all attempts ceased.

The Archer readied his bow, pulling back the string with his right hand, locking his left hand in place as the shaft of the arrow rested on wood and flesh. A single eye closed as he made his aim, the arrow flying from the bow just as the slave zig-zagged. The shot was meant to end his life and puncture his heart, but the movement threw off the trajectory, and so the tip of the arrow merely grazed the slave's arm. Blood would flow freely from the wound, making its way to the floor and creating a faint trail to be followed, but the slave would be able to continue his flight, a gap widening between the archer and slave, though the former shouted out in Common,

"We have a runner! Guards, make chase!"

The shout was nothing more than a bluff, and the guards would know this due to the order being shouted out in Common, though the slave would be woefully ignorant of this. To the slave's left side, heading eastward, was a field, four scarecrows present, cloth flapping in the wind, a mask adorning the 'head' of each one, the swamps visible in the distance, likely more than a thousand feet away.

In the westward direction, several hundred feet away, was the overgrowth of the swamps, just beginning to show its face, trees shooting skyward, roots curling, gnarled shapes protruding from green waters. Straight ahead, was empty space, the gaps between fields, solid dirt and one of the formed Kenashian road leading to the city proper and other plantations was visible a great distance away.

Which way will you go?Three ways to go, each one with different dangers or consequences! So many choices, so many possibilities!

[Vart]

Vart screamed in pain as the arrow narrowly sliced across his arm. Pressing his other hand against the wound instinctively to try and stop the bleeding. But he couldn't stop, he couldn't let up. If he hadn't gotten out of the way that arrow would have hit him somewhere else. Not just in the arm. If he stopped moving then he was done for. Still gripping his arm he gritted his teeth and continued running. Ignoring the shout for guards. If the man was yelling for the guards then he had to hurry and get the petch out of this place! He gave a quick glance around fields and open spaces all round. But to the west he saw the swamp. It was only a few hundred feet away so extremely close and while not really that dense, he rather have some protection against the arrows of the man then run more then a thousand feet across barren terrain with no protection at all! He gathered all he had and sprinted towards the swamp as fast as he could, Still running in the zigzagging pattern to throw of the archers aim. He didn't want a second wound on a more vital part of his body. If he reached the swamp without getting an arrow through the head, heart or another vital part of his body he took cover behind the closest tree that was thick enough to cover him completely and took a moment to catch his breath. The sprint from earlier had worn him out a bit. But he knew he couldn't rest long. After not even a chime of rest he knew he had to get going again. Still breathing heavily and bleeding from his arm he ran from tree too tree. Using them as cover and sloshing through the green water. It working against him with every single step he took.

[Vice]

Making a Run for It.

Vart made it safely into the swamplands, voices in the distance cursing in a mixture of Vani and Common as arrows flew towards the darkening abyss of the trees. Arrows punctured grand and gnarled wood, to no avail. Metal arrowheads embedded into the material. Several chimes passed in the silence as Vart ascended into the swamps, the tapestry making sight all but impossible, forcing the slave to rely solely on sounds and touch to make his way about.

Silence lingered for a time longer, deafening in its absoluteness, though it was then interrupted by sloshing sounds in the waters of the swamp, the depth of which reached to Vart's knees. This made forward progress difficult, forcing turns and climbing onto trees to ascend in places. Humidity and moisture clung to the slave's flesh, the heat suffocating in its extremity. Thirst would no doubt clench at Vart's throat, a dizziness festering in him just as the sloshing noises grew louder.

Several voices, distinct from the Lorak and the bodyguard from before, could be heard in the vicinity, faint and only audible to the observant in nature, though the progress in the water was too loud to be ignored.

And then... stillness. It lasted for thirty ticks before a net flew through the air, intent on capturing the slave in his place as a smattering of silhouettes, three in number, emerged from the darkness. Shapes would be lost to the slave, appearing distant, indistinct. If the slave was captured, he would just be able to see them before sinking into the swamp. If not, then the net would be withdrawn and the silhouettes would move closer.

Choose your Fate!I'll let you decide if you were captured by the net or not. Mind your skill level and your surroundings if you decide the latter.

[Vart]

Vart's heart was hammering into his chest as he sloughed through the swamp, his legs burning from the exertion as he forced himself to keep up the pace as good as he could even though he was up to his knees in swamp water. Slowly however he was losing the man. There weren't any arrows flying around anymore and the further he had gone into the swamp the more hanging foliage was limiting his sight. He pushed through, a small smile getting on his face as he took a small rest. He knew he couldn't rest safely just yet, but for now he was out of the woods. He gathered his energy for a short while and taking a few gulps from his water skin to drive away the thirst before pushing on. Sneaking through the swamp as good and as bad as he could. Trying to keep the noise down from the sloshing water by moving slowly. He was sweating, hot swamp water was sloshing around in his boots, the heat was oppressing and there hung a stink in the air. It wasn't a pleasant place. Then he could faint voices and sloshing footsteps from others and he came to a halt. He crouched down in the swamp water till it came till over his shoulders. Trying to hide himself as good and as badly as he could. His hand on his mace in case he needed it. He held his breath, hoping that they didn't see him. When a net flew through the air at him however, he knew that his attempt at hiding had been shyke. He tried to get out of the way. But the water impeded him. And he got trapped by it. falling down, entangled in the net. He barely saw three silhouettes in the swamp before he went under. His nose and mouth filling with stinking swamp water. It couldn't end here! He groped around for his dagger and after a bit of furiously moving around he got his hand on it. He started to cut himself out of the net as fast as he could. His lungs started sto scream for air already. He wasn't going to die here! Not like this! Not by drowning in filthy swamp water! He gritted his teeth as he redoubled his efforts to cut himself free.

[Vice]

A chuckle escaped the closest silhouette's lips as the slave attempted to cut itself free, the man moving forward as another, smaller silhouette retrieved an object, almost cylindrical in shape. A breath escaped the silhouette's lips before he struck a segment of flint against steel, a spark forming in the darkness. With the struck object, an oil rag set ablaze, a torch lighting in a woman's hand as the collective stepped forward.

The woman was thin, mud drawn over her face in lines, across her shoulders, the mud flaking in its drying state. Though, it was not the only obvious difference between her and the Dynasty folk that ruled over the Lorak plantation. "Oi, Reg. Step forward, yeah? Looks like the slave be tryna get himself free. Dumbass, doesn't know what's good fer 'im." The forward-most of the trio, now revealed by torch light to be a large man, his head was devoid of hair, though his face sported a beard, scraggly and long with time spent not shaving.

A smirk materialized upon the large man's face before he turned to the third member, also a man, but of much smaller build, almost unsure in the midst of the moment, "Oi, Gall. Best stop shakin' like a little bitch 'n get o'er here. I need some help dragging this son of a shyke up. Let's get 'im up so he can lis'en to Cass like a petching man." The larger of the men, referred to as Reg, stepped on the slave's hand, loosing his grip on his dagger before he gripped at the material of the netting.

"Damn it, Gall. Get yer arse o'er here!"

The grip grew tighter, the large man pulling up on the net, bringing the slave's head, at the very least, out of the water before the other hesitantly joined. Both men pulled the slave to his feet, Reg sporting a smirk before pulling the net off of the slave, pushing him forward and towards the woman.

"Alrigh', Cass. He's all yers. Give 'im the rundown."

The woman scowled at her inferior, spitting at the swamp's floor before she stepped forward, a steel-covered club shaking at her waist as she moved to the slave with confidence in her step.

"Alrigh', you right bastard. I'm going to tell you how this goes. The name's Cass, and you're a slave. Escaped, run from the law, with a bastard of a scar mucking up your ugly mug. Ponytail to boot, too. Reg over there thought we'd have another girl in ar' ranks. Probably doesn' like takin' orders from un, eh? Anyway, it's not important. We're part of the Rujaro, escaped slaves, just like ye."

The woman pushed down on the slave's shoulders with intent to bring him to his knees, a smirk laced upon her expression before a moccasin-adorned foot pushed forward at his chest. "There, no ye'll have the swamp scent on both sides of ye. Got any questions, scum?"

[Vart]

Vart heard the sloshing come closer, it sounded muted underwater. Those bastards were getting closer and closer. He struggled harder, cutting with his dagger at the net as hard as he could. Some of the cords slowly fraying and giving away. He heard somebody stop next to him and stand on the hand he was holding the dagger with. Grinding his boot on it. Vart gritted his teeth and tried to pull his head from out under it, but the net hindred him. Eventually he was forced to drop his dagger. Then he felt the net tighten up and before he knew it he was hoisted back out of the water. Partially at least. Just his face so he could breathe. Vart spat out the filthy water. Sturggling back against the firm grip of the taller man. Who just held the smaller and weaker vart in place as the other guy came closer and grabbed him as well. He was hoisted back to his feet and the net was pulled off him. That was the first thing that tipped him off that these people might not be with kenash. They wouldn't have bothered pulling the net off him. They would just have drug him home. That and they were covered in layers of filth and grime that would have taken entire day's running around in the swamp to get on there. Not just a few moments. He noticed that the woman had a club at her side. The rest of the lot probably had weapons as well. Vart scowled as the woman started off her explanation. Peppering her speech with quite a bit of insults all the while. “Really, he was exited to get a girl? He looks more of an assrider too me. The way he was all eager to get his hands on me.” He shot back. No other insults really coming to mind. But after running through a bloody swamp and nearly drowning. Finding witty insults wasn't really his top priority. But at least now he knew they weren't about to drag him back too those pansy loraks for some quick bucks like he knew those soo called freeborn did sometime. He hadn't heard of the rujaro aside from silent whispers and in small stories of hope from other slaves. But he had always dismissed them as a bunch of bullshyke. Vart stubbornly kept standing when she tried to push him down to his knees. He wasn't going to bow for nobody, especially not to somebody who was just like him. An escaped slave. A quick kick to the back of his legs by reg. Dropping him on his knees into the muk and grime. The woman putting another insult on him when she kicked him over and he landed in the muck again. He scrambled back to his feet and gave her a fierce glare. He wasn't gonna bend over and kiss the arse on this bitch. “Yeah, what petch do the rujaro even do aside from run around in the swamp and throw nets at running slaves. Thought you guy's where stuff slaves told themselves to keep dreaming. The petch are you guy's planning with me now. Ya ain't just gonna let me go if ya ordered those two lapdogs of yours to catch me and put me on your knees for ya. And you ain't gonna drag me back to kenash either. Since that'll mean your heads would be on the block as well.” he said as he looked the woman straight in the eyes.

[Vice]

Making a Run for It

A laugh escaped the woman's lips as she heard the sass coming from the re-captured slave's lips. He spoke a big game, but the situation at hand was far out of his control. Cass could practically feel the vein bulging at Reg's throat, the larger man swinging the back of his hand at the slave, which would result in a fat, heavy red mark on the side of Vart's cheek. As the event transpired, Cass scowled, shaking her head at her comrade before she spoke out,

"Oi, don't abuse the new bitch. There'll be plenty of that to come if and when he survives the trial. If he wants to, anyway."

The scent of perfumed air was finally out of the swamp with the dousing of the slave in the water. The smell was not putrid and waste-filled, but natural, a heavy, muddy musk masking the scent of babied Dynasty brat.

"About petching time you get the stench of Dynasty off of you. Now we can speak like the normal, deprived shykes that we are. You want to know what we do, scum? The Rujaro is about breaking the chains. It's about going up to those loaded Dynasty pricks and showing them that we're not going to let them tell us what to do anymore."

The woman scowled at the words coming out of her own mouth, watching as Reg visibly spit into the swamp. Even Gall, who had been utterly silent through the whole scenario, began to move about and express rage, pushing a grunt from his lips as Cass continued speaking,

"You think it's easy to do what we do? We're not a group in the hundreds. This ain't no petching army of well-established thugs. This isn't a Drykas raider camp. What we are is a bunch of cursed petchers with burns on our faces, telling the bitches in the plantations that we're sick of their shyke. You can be one of us, if you want. If not, you can be on your way and run like the little vagik you are. You're sick of oppression? Then rid yourself of your oppressors. Tell us if you're in and we'll tell you what to do after that."

When the woman finally finished speaking, she offered Vart her hand, positioning herself in the water so that she could support the man's weight should he decide to stand with her. His decision would be his answer.

The Moment of Truth!What will you do? What will you say. Gosh, the tension is killing me!