Rhov clung close to the falling shadows gifted to him by nightfall, their forms twisted and warped by the flickering light of the fire. He estimated that he was roughly fifty meters from the campsite. Fifty meters from finding out if his dagger would drink deep from Arlen's lifeblood or remain starved for combat. Fifty meters from finding out if the path he had chosen to walk was right for him.
Movements cautious and retrained, Rhov took careful steps as he closed the distance between himself and the fire's glow. He knew that, while he had trained briefly in the art of stealth with his tribe's hunters, he was still prone to making novice mistakes. Mistakes that he could not afford to make tonight.
Fierce gusts cut through Rhov's leathers like a knife, the piercing cold chilling him to the core. An icy drizzle of rain needled through the air and pelted the forest with cool punctures of water. The storm had intensified, and while uncomfortable, it seemed to work in Rhov's favor. The thunderous roar of wind masked any stumbles he made while maintaining his slow crawl to his target, and the rain served to provide him cover from any suspicious eyes that might spot him.
Gritting his teeth from the intense burst of cold, Rhov remained undaunted from the rapid shift in weather. There was only his prey which lay before him, and he, the hunter, would not succumb to the trials of nature. He would persevere and claim the criminal as his prisoner. In his mind, there was no question, no second-guessing. It was either success or death, and Rhov would never choose death. Success was the only option, and Rhov proved determined to ensure the alternative would not come to fruition.
Ten meters now. Though the rain reduced the fullness of his vision, Rhov was now close enough to make out the rough shape of the inhabitant of the camp. He was tall and heavily built, at least 6'0" with fat features that splayed out wide across his body. His hair was wild and mangy, and the thick stench of alcohol managed to pierce through the heavy wind and rain. No armor, but a the hilt of a londsword poked out from the edge of his hip. It appeared he had left in a hurry, no time to grab armor or proper provisions, but just enough to arm himself. This man was undoubtedly Novos Arlen.
Dagger grinning through the raging storm, the Chaktawe stepped forward to disable his bounty. Unfortunately, it appeared Rhov had run his luck dry, and his he pressed towards his target, a rogue branch snapped soundly underfoot. Arlen's response, though muddled by drink, proved almost immediate. The sharp ring of steel loosed free from a scabbard echoed in the night before being drowned out by the thunderous clamor of the storm. His body now fully facing Rhov, the would-be bounty hunter received a detailed glance of his prey.
Small, rat-like eyes yellowed by age and circumstance. Teeth, brown and broken, formed a fractured snarl. Bulbous nose scrunched in a mixture of frustration and confusion. Eyebrows, full and bushy, raised high in surprise at Rhov's presence. Arlen's appearance proved an alarming combination of humorous and disgusting.
"What are you doing here, boy?" Arlen blustered in an angry procession. His stance had shifted from aggression to malicious curiosity in an instant. After all, what threat could a mere boy pose to such a hardened criminal as he?
Rhov's grin curled into a wolfish snarl. He decided that deeming Arlen with an answer would only delay the inevitable. He still maintained the advantage of surprise, as Arlen had devolved Rhov's threat level due to the Chaktawe's apparent youth. Rhov would ensure that this criminal would pay dearly for his mistake.
Steel flashing like a metallic fang, Rhov lunged forward against Arlen with a feral roar. Arlen, unprepared for such an aggressive attack, fond failure in his hasty attempts to parry. Rhov slipped in and around the rapist's defenses like a desert snake, striking fast when an opening presented itself and diving back before the brute of a man could retaliate. The hunter pushed faster and harder against his prey, diving in close to the massive man to ensure any attempt at a counter-attack would fall clumsily against him. Blow after blow, Rhov cut into the massive man, each strike more aggressive than the last.
However, the very style of combat which allowed Rhov to press his advantage would be his undoing. While his violent dervish of slashes proved effective at getting under Arlen's defenses, it took only one solid punch from the criminal to send Rhov crashing to the forest floor.
Blood dribbling down from his newly formed split lip, Rhov only had moments to react to Arlen's follow-through cut. Pressing his dagger close to his chest, he rolled deftly to his left before Arlen's sword buried itself in the place Rhov had been only moments before. Rhov clumsily scrambled to his feet as another slash cut through empty air. Arlen had the advantage now, and he proved intent on ensuring the Rhov didn't have a chance to respond.
The fatigue of battle had begun to creep up on Rhov. He may have been fast, but he lacked both the experience and the endurance to keep fighting for long instances. He could only dodge so many of Arlen's slashes before one managed to run him through. He couldn't outfight his opponent, not now and not in this terrain. So he did what any true-born Kalanue warrior did in a fight when outmatched.
He fought smart, and he fought dirty.
Rhov's breaths came out in heavy pants as continued to dodge blow after blow of Arlen's attack. He thanked Eywaat extensively for the fact that his opponents movements were dulled by alcohol, for he was sure if Arlen had been sober, this fight would have ended much sooner. Rhov knew he could not outlast his opponent, but if he could delay the fight until an opening presented itself, he could end this fight soundly and swiftly.
A sweeping cut forced Rhov to the ground, and he finally had the chance he needed. With his free hand, the son of the Kalanue tribe secured a handful of slick mud. Springing upward before Arlen had a chance to chain more attacks, Rhov launched a veritable ball of sludge at the criminal's face. The attacked connected, blinding Arlen, if only temporarily, and Rhov lunged forward against his opponent. Already off-balanced by his imposed blindness, Rhov managed to tackle the brute to the forest floor. Freeing his dagger-hand from its position under Arlen, Rhov stabbed downward into Arlen's forearm. The hardened crimanl shrieked in pain as the blade buried itself into his soft flesh, and the resulting struggle forced Arlen to drop his sword. Onyx eyes hard with anger, Rhov reared his head back before crashing it down into his enemy's nose. The sickening crack of bone drowned out Arlen's screams, the criminal's bulbous nose now transformed into a bloody mess. Arlen continued to writhe and struggle under Rhov's weight for what seemed like ages before he finally collapsed into blissful unconsciousness.
Panting from the exertion of the fight, Rhov simply sat in silence for a few moments. The icy rain continued to pour from above, the chilling waters cleansing the dirt and sweat from his wounds. His head pounded from the force of his head-butt, and his muscles ached from post-battle fatigue. Arlen's punch had managed to split his lip and set his vision spinning. The following slashes from his opponent's longsword had gifted him with a long gash that traversed horizontally across his bicep, and he was sure that would scar.
None of that mattered to Rhov though. He had won. He was alive, and now he could claim his bounty.
Drawing forth his manacles, Rhov clasped them securely around the wrists of Arlen. He would have to wait until the morning for him to regain consciousness in order to transport him, but Rhov imagined that would be the easy part of the job.
For now, Rhov was content to wait out the storm in his opponent's tent.
The job might have been dangerous, but Rhov would be damned if he didn't love it. Perhaps he did belong in Syliras after all.
