Closed Slaver Hunters 'R' Us

[Stye]

12 Spring 515 The night both conceals and reveals. Some distance to the southeast, an orange-yellow glow announces the city of Riverfall, it’s walls made visible more by absence of light than by its presence. Nearer, the lights of The Sanctuary cry out in the night. To the north, a faint flicker of light reveals the location of a campsite. High above the waves of a grassy sea floats a great horned owl, his night eyes piercing the darkness below to discover much that would otherwise remain hidden. Stye had ridden an unexpected nocturnal thermal up the cliffs, and now soared over the nightscape. He wasn’t hunting; he was reveling. Reveling in the freedom of flight. Reveling in the openness of the Sea of Grass. Reveling in a temporary escape from the confined spaces of Riverfall. The campfire piqued his curiosity. Wings beating steady, he cut through the clear, cold night sky, a shadow briefly obscuring the stars as it swept across the plain; soon he was soundlessly circling the campsite. He counted four … no, five people, close around the campfire; it was a bone-chilling cold night. There was a wagon, and several horses were staked a short distance away. He made another pass, not twenty feet above the ground, and observed that two of the people were bound hand and foot with ropes; both human, one male and the other female. The other three were men, and armed with swords. Two of them had settled into their bedrolls, weapons at hand. The third, bundled in a heavy coat, had apparently taken the first watch. The prisoners huddled together, thickly dressed but without blankets; so their captors could keep an eye on them, Stye supposed, to ensure they weren’t working free of their bonds. Stye’s stomach churned. How he hated slavers. He landed on a branch in a great, spreading tree, and wondered what he should do. He couldn’t take on three armed men. But he couldn’t just ignore the plight of their captives, either. A movement off to his left caught his eye. He peered into the dark and made out a lone figure some distance away creeping toward the campsite. Stye was a hunter; he knew another hunter when he saw one. This one was hunting the slavers. One man? Alone? That wasn’t going to turn out well.

[Tristann]

Padding along softly Tristann was careful to keep the distant camps fire to off to one side so he would not be looking at it.
" A common mistake men make on guard at night is to stay near the light where they can see well. Unfortunately it also makes you easy to see and ruins your night vision.
A mistake Tristann could take advantage of if his suspicions were correct.

No honest travellers would stop to camp out here at night with the safety of a city so close. Slavers or bandits, they're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to come so near Riverfall." Tristann thought as he steadily closed the gap between him and the camp pulling his hood down over his head and pressing down on his boot heels reassured by the solid thunk as the blades in them sprang out and then retracted.

As he moved Tristanns eyes scanned restlessly for any sign that he was not alone but other then a large bird he noticed a short distance away and dismissed as unrelated to his current goal all seemed quiet.

[Stye]

For several minutes, Stye simply watched the man standing guard. Not that he was actually standing; he was sitting on a mostly buried boulder. He had placed himself so that he had a good view of the area without having to look directly into the fire. Apparently this wasn't his first day on the job. An edge of leather chest armor peeked out from under a heavy fur coat pulled tight around his upper body, and his head sported some kind of leather helmet. Stye always thought leather helmets looked silly; not that they were meant to be fashion statements. The shortsword hanging from his belt had an odd hilt, and it took Stye a while to realize that the weapon wasn't a shortsword at all; it was a cutlass, which he thought was strange since that was a Svefra weapon of choice. Two ancient fallen tree trunks formed a large V on the ground, which provided some shelter from the bitter breeze. It was an obvious place to camp, and showed evidence of previous use. The other two slavers were sleeping against one of of the fallen trees, the captives against the other. One of the slavers had a shortsword at the ready beside his bed. The other had a dagger and a bow with a few arrows. They were both pretty much buried under their blankets. Stye wasn’t sure what to do. With Sword Man and Dagger Man out of the picture until something woke them up, and Cutlass Man looking like he wasn’t planning on moving from his rock anytime soon, it was as good a time as any to sneak up behind the slaves and try to loose their bonds. It would be easy enough to fly away if he was spotted. But what if he did get them free? What then? Where were they going to go in the middle of a cold night? He supposed the Sanctuary would be their best bet. But what if they didn't know about it. They’d probably make a run for Riverfall itself. Then it would be a race to see if they got to the gates before the slavers caught up with them. It was all so complicated. Stye wasn’t use to making this kind of decision. When he was a slave in Ravok, his master always made the decisions for him. Before that, his bondmate made most of the decisions. Thinking about Bhani sent a chill through him that ran deeper than the mere physical cold of the night. They had been taken to Ravok and sold. Stye worked the docks; Bhani was taken away and he never saw her again. But he knew she was alive; he could sense her presence. He just didn’t know where she was. He wished she was here to tell him what to do. But she wasn’t, so all he could do was guess what she would want him to do. He floated to the ground beside the two captives, putting the fire between him and Cutlass Man. The male captive had dozed off, but the female was awake and saw him as soon as he dropped out of the sky. Her eyes got big, but to her credit she didn't make a sound. Stye twitched his head back and forth as he examined their bonds. Each of them had small-diameter rope wrapped several times around their hands and feet, with the hands tied in front and pulled tight toward the feet. The rope continued up and around their necks a couple of times, and was tied off around a young pine tree several feet behind them, putting the knots safely out of their reach. But not out of Stye’s reach. He hopped over to the pine tree and shifted into human form on the other side of it. He inhaled sharply when the cold embraced his naked body, followed by an involuntary “Pfuuh” as he exhaled. Cutlass Man stood up, hand on weapon, and looked in Stye’s direction. Stye froze. Long seconds passed before the man sat down again. The campfire had blinded him enough that he hadn’t see Stye. He began working at one of the knots, shivering badly. The rope was stiff and unyielding, and it seemed to take forever to finally get an end to slip loose. But it wasn’t enough to release the rope. And that was only for one of the captives. He would have to untie the other knot as well. Oh, for a knife. “Hey, you.” Cutlass Man was standing again, looking right at Stye. “Get out here where I can see ya.”

[Colt]

The Web was a thing of many secrets. This in itself was not new to Shahar; his experience with the Web was lacking, to say the least, but he at least recognized that, amongst the glittering fronds and echoes, he was but an idiot child in comparison the the unfathomable knowledge and history that shivered through the great plains of Cyphrus. It was a bridge and it was a guide, guardian and predator in its own right to those that wished to unlock its secrets. It was an alluring beast, to be certain, and there was the ever-present pull in the back of Shahar’s mind as he made his way through the rattling grass, now made less brittle as spring was making itself comfortable.

Night had fallen, but Shahar could hardly sense it; the land around him was shining with magic, illuminated by the tight-woven strands of Djed far older and stronger than Shahar could ever hope to understand. They flooded the grasslands in pulsing light, so bright in their existence that Shahar was well able to track by them. The Web never ceased to amaze him, even while he did his best to focus on the task at hand.

Slavery had not often been a topic of Shahar’s thoughts; it was what it was, and only rarely did it encroach on his life. He had heard Hope refer to herself as a “slave,” although the term confused him; she was a member of his family, for better or worse, and slept in a tent of the same quality and location as his. Jalen, too, lived equally to the others of the camp, although Shahar did not know if the Chaktawe thought of himself as a slave.

Caelum, however, was beginning to turn his mind.

The trail had presented itself to him just as the sun had started her descent. Footprints, horseprints, those of the free and those of the bound. So far from the city, there was little else they could be but slavers and the enslaved, and so Shahar had found himself after them, using the light of the Web to show him the way.

There were five individuals he was following, near as he could tell. Two were restrained in some way, while three were not. They had access to a wagon and horses, mostly men with a single woman. He wasn’t sure what it was he was looking for; did he want to free them? Gather information? Inform the shape-changer? All of these possibilities he held in his mind, although he didn’t yet want to decide for certain.

He made sure to remain close to Merevaika; she didn’t seem to be able to see the Web as he could, and so he knew that to her, night was darkness in all of its absolute glory. His signs would be lost, and so he used his voice more often now. “Slavers,” he had said when they embarked. “We are hunting slavers.”

[Tristann]

Tristann had been steadily closing in on the camp, having circled it slowly looking for any sign of more sentries he'd chosen to approach the lone sentry he had seen from behind keeping the fire off to one side where it would not blind him.

Closing in quietly he froze as the sentry rose to his feet and began speaking.
"He can't possibly know I'm here, who's he talking to?" His lighter half thought as he looked around slowly to ensure the disturbance had not woken the sleeping slavers.
"Does it matter? He's distracted,let's kill him while his back's still turned."His darker half responded as the balance the pair had established on the hunt fell apart again leaving the darker half of his personality in control.

Moving in again Tristann slipped his hands into his Bagh Nakh and crept up upon the slaver catching sight of a 4th shape among the group of slaves as he did so, raising his hands to strike Tristann's shoulder joint cracked.
"To late scum."He grunted as the slaver began to turn towards him weapon in hand then grunted as first one then another claw burst out of his stomach in a welter of blood freezing him in a place as he struggled to understand what had just happened.

For an instant Tristann hoped the shock would kill the slaver before he could make a sound then he screamed in horror as his leg's buckled and he fell the claws taring through his body and out the side of his gut as he collapsed to the ground clasping desperately at his guts as they spilled out through the great gaping wound in his side, the scent of feces rose in the air moments later as the slaver voided his bowels in his final moments of life.

Already hearing the sound of the remaining slavers scrambling to arm themselves as they scrambled to understand what was going on Tristann tossed his Bagh Nakh in the direction of the slavers and yanked his Lakan from the sheathes on his legs spinning around and moving to place himself between the fire and slavers putting the sword armed one between himself and the archer in the process.
"Cut them slaves free whoever you are and keep them down, I didn't spend half the night creeping around to have them get shot now."

"This is bad."Tristann thought to himself as he lowered himself into a crouch before the fire the muscles in his legs bunching ready to launch him forwards as the slaver with a bow moved around his charging companion to get a clear shot the grin on his face widening as he tightened his grip upon his knives and sprang forward ignoring the lance of pain that radiated from his neck as the archer half blinded by the fire released his arrow to late leaving a shallow gash across Tristanns throat instead of going clean through it.

Roaring wordlessly Tristann crashed into the charging swordsman with the full force of body behind him winding him before jumping back as the swordsman responded lashing out blindly with his sword.
A flash of fear went through Tristann even as he moved fractionally to his right putting the swordsman between him and the archer again a cold shiver running down his spine as he realized he might actually die this night.
"He's good."Tristann thought grunting as he crossed his knives to block a swing from the swordsman his arms shacking with the strain of holding the blow.

[Stye]

Two running steps, and he swept the Bagh Nakh off the ground and slipped it on to his hand. This was a weapon he knew how to use. Two cuts and the captives’ ropes were loose from the tree. They should be able to get themselves untied now. “Run that way,” he pointed toward the road. “Then south. You are not far from Riverfall. Better yet, look for the lights of The Sanctuary on your right. It’s closer than Riverfall, and you will find safe haven there.” They were already freeing their hands. “Thank you, thank you,” the woman kept saying. He voice was so hushed that Stye wondered if she was talking to him, to her god, or to herself. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Think nothing of it.” After all, it was only his life he was putting on the line. One slaver was down. The second one had engaged the Akalak with a sword. They looked to be about equally matched. The third slaver was standing back with an arrow nocked, trying to get a clean shot. He danced back and forth, and it was surely only a matter of seconds before he put an arrow in the blue warrior. There was not much distance separating Stye from the archer, but it was enough that rushing him would be a risky proposition. Stye dropped the Bahg Nakh and transformed into his owl form. One downward thrust of his powerful wings propelled him up and across the space, closing the distance fast. The archer saw him, but not in time. Stye's talons latched on to the man’s face and gripped hard. He flapped his wings hard as if to lift the man off the ground. He couldn’t actually pick up something that heavy, but he was able to drag the man for several feet, which threw him off balance and made it nearly impossible for him to defend himself. A shriek of pain tore from the man’s throat and echoed into the night as Stye crushed his cheek bones and gouged one eye. Something solid hit Stye from behind, and sent him spinning toward the road. The archer screamed again as Stye’s talons ripped bloody flesh and bones off his face before losing their grip. Stye collided with something unforgiving, and fell to the ground in a heap. The world spun wildly around him, and his wings seemed to have stopped taking orders from his brain. He transformed into his human form, and tried to stand, but the ground tilted up and hit him on the side of the head. He looked around at the still-spinning world. A large and blurry man was coming toward him with a large and blurry mace. This did not strike Stye as a good thing. OOC : This would be the second slaver party arriving on the scene.

[Colt]

They came upon the slavers carefully; Shahar knew that they were not Drykas, and therefore did not have the advantage of the Web as he did. He could see by the light of magic, they could not. That was an advantage he intended to used to its fullest.

There were another, separate set of tracks now; larger and heavier than any human he had ever seen, save for… yes, it was an Akalak. There was nothing else that it could be. But was this Akalak a slaver, or was he, too, on the hunt for the hunters? It was another thing to be cautious of.

A scream pierced the air, jolting Shahar to the present. He crossed the remaining distance to the camp in a low crouch, moving as quietly as he could. Heel first, roll out to the edges of his feet, then in to complete the step. Just the simple act of being aware of his noise made the travel less obvious, and he could see clearly where the best places to put his feet were; dirt and black-grown plant matter, which would not snap under him.

The cost, however, was his speed.

By the time Shahar reached the camp, several things were happening; the Akalak, for it was indeed an Akalak, had led a direct attack and was currently taking as much advantage of the surprise as he could. So he was a hunter of hunters, as well; the odds of success were rising.

There was a second man, too, who was completely naked as he snatched up one of the Akalak’s fallen weapons and ran to the slaves, tearing through their binds and setting them free. Or at least, free enough to take care of the rest on their own. Brief words were exchanged, and the remaining two slavers squared up with the Akalak.

No, not remaining two. Shahar turned as the Web thrummed. Had he been inside it, he would have seen them from much farther away, but he would also have been helpless; there were others coming. He could see them, and after a moment of terror remembered that it was nighttime; he was still hidden. Shahar took cover behind a particularly thick swathe of grass.

There was another distraction, however, as a flash lit the darkness and heralded the departure of the unclothed man––and in his place, the arrival of an owl.

A Kelvic, then. Shahar found himself with new cause to aid.

The owl took hold of the archer’s face, and the archer, understandably, screamed. The owl ripped and tore, hauling the man a good yard and converting his face into a mass of red. This also had the effect of attracting one of the new slavers, who came at the owl with a mace and beat him away from the archer.

In addition to the man with the mace, there were four newcomers: a bowman, a crossbowman and two swordsmen, who were all moving quickly to join the fray. Against five––no, six, as the Akalak was still engaging the remaining man of the first three––the two fighters would have a less than likely chance of survival.

Shahar thought quickly. The biggest problem would likely be the two with the bow and crossbow; they were already drawing their weapons and moving into position to shoot, one on the far side of the fire––and one towards Shahar. He had the crossbow, although it was uncocked, and was already pulling out a string to load it. He was backing into the darkness, where the shadows would protect him from danger while still allowing a clear view of those by the fire. He knelt to get his weapon in order––and that was when Shahar acted.

He moved on instinct, not thought. It was a hunt, like any other, only with cleverer prey. And every hunter knew that the key to clever prey was to act quickly, and to react even more quickly––he needed to kill the crossbowman quickly and quietly.

The cocking string had been left on the ground as the man put his foot in the stirrup, and Shahar snatched it up, took it with both hands and hooked it over his quarry’s neck. He rose from his crouch in the same instant, yanking the man’s head into his knee and stunning him; with the single second of time it bought him, he wrapped the string around the man’s neck a second time to form a complete loop and pulled. The man struggled, but couldn’t cry out; the man the owl had mauled continued to scream, covering up the sound of rustling grass enough for Shahar to brace his knee in between the crossbowman’s shoulders and force his neck to stretch.

The cocking string was of the finest quality; it was meant to stand against hundreds of pounds of weight with ease. Shahar had spoken to crossbowmen before, and it apparently was common to use wire wrapped up in sinew. He didn’t know if that was true, but with the strength of this particular string, he wouldn’t doubt it. Within seconds the man had fallen limp. Shahar turned him face-down into the dirt, unwilling to risk the man faking it. He pressed his knee to keep him down, put one hand on his head, and with the other he calmly drew his knife and slit the man’s throat. He went under the chin instead of straight through the neck; he knew from experience that cutting through spines was both difficult and noisy. He also knew from experience that severing the trachea was both easy and reliable.

Had the crossbowman been alone, he would have been able to easily shoot towards the fire without being at all visible under the cover of night. His ideal choice in tactics meant that his death had gone unnoticed; the altercation in the firelight continued. Taking the string with him, Shahar slipped into a crouch to make his way around the outside of the camp; the new archer had also chosen the darkness.

Shahar’s hunt was only just begun.

[Merevaika]

The night had transformed from the still calmness to this. Men lay dead on the ground. The fire seemed to dance with excitement at the bloodshed happening, casting shadows on the slavers camp. Merevaika no longer saw slaves, but the slavers were definitely there. She still hadn't decided if they were stupid or brave.

Merevaika had ventured into the dark night with Shahar, the hunter who led her through the darkness. He could use the web, see what others could not and see when others could not see. He had been careful to make sure that he stayed close to the other hunter, being her eyes. It was he who had told her that they were slavers. Without him, she wouldn't have realised what she was huntimg. Only when he had told her had she noticed the captives, who were now far from here.

Merevaika, once near enough to see the camp illuminated by the fire, stopped, not wanting to go further. She preferred to observe the happening events, until she was needed. An Akalak had attacked them, rather recklessly in her opinion, first slicing at one with claws then when he had been spotted with knives.

The other, naked, freed the slaves before jumping at the archer, turning at once into a great owl. He clawed at the archers face before falling to the ground, human again. The Kelvic seemed helpless, unable to stand from the shock of falling. Over him was a man with a mace. Where had he come from?

Busy watching the action unfold, Merevaika had missed the arrival of five new men. An archer, like herself, a man with a crossbow, two swordsmen and the mace man. With the man locked in engagement with the Akalak, the two men were greatly outnumbered.

Shahar seemed to agree with her thoughts. He had attacked the crossbow man, killing him in silence before continuing around the camp. So he was joining this fight. Merevaika would join then.

From the grass in which she crouched the whole camp was in view. It was best for her to remain in her hiding spot, as she had no strength nor skill to fight up close. She did however, have her bow. With that she could fight, if not well.

The mace man had to be the first to go. Under him, the kelvic was helpless, and Merevaika didn't want to let him die when she could have helped. She pulled back her bow string, ready to shoot.

Unfortunately her aim wasn't as good as she wished. Instead of hitting somewhere fatal, the arrow thudded into his thigh, alerting him of her presence. He gave out a shout in pain, falting from hitting the Kelvic. Merevaika shot again, this time hitting closer to the chest. The mace man doubled back in pain, sinking to the ground. A clear shot was blocked but noe she had other things to deal with.

One of the swordsmen had noticed her, and managed to creep up behind her while she was occupied with shooting. He lept at her, swinging his sword wide. It sliced her left arm, causing her to drop her bow. Swinging again, the swordsman moved closer, but this time Merevaika knew and rolled out the way, accidently kicking her bow further from her grasp. He moved with her, not letting the woman stand.

She took her knife out, although knowing that she could not fight with it. It would give her the slightest chanve anyway. Stabbing at his ankles, Merevaika shuffled back. The swordsman, caught by surpirse at the new weapon, jumped back, allowing Merevaika to rise to her feet.

Her arm killed, the cut deep, and her only weapon was behind the swordsman, but at least now, if things got too bad, she could run.

[Colt]

Shahar carved a wide path around the fire. The bowman, unaware of his fellow’s death, was still focused on the altercation around the fire. To preserve his ignorance, Shahar wanted to remain behind him. With the cocking string in one hand, the Drykas drew a javelin with the other.

Shahar was only two paces away when another scream of pain erupted from around the fire. He looked that way and––she hadn’t. An arrow lay lodged in the man with the mace, and several people turned to look straight at the one who had put it there: Merevaika. And there was someone behind her, too; one of the swordsmen had snuck up on her and was making ready to use his weapon.

The bowman let out a shout of surprise when he turned and saw Shahar. He raised a half-drawn bow and let loose a clumsy arrow that only just missed the Drykas’ gut, ripping an inch-deep line of flesh off the side of his ribs. Instinct snapping him back to his intended quarry, the hunter wasted no time in throwing his spear. The bowman jumped back, which caused the javelin to miss its initial target of his chest and sink instead into his stomach. Blood immediately began to stain the man’s tunic black, and Shahar wheeled and left him to it––a stab to the gut, while much longer than a stab to the chest, would still be fatal. Eventually. Merevaika was his priority now.

She had taken a strike to her arm and had dropped her bow, and the two of them had shuffled; her bow was behind her attacker, but so was the fire. She had a clear path to run into the grasslands.

And that, Shahar felt, would be their best chance to emerge alive.

He sprinted for the bow, making no attempt to hide his passage. The swordsman heard him and turned, now suddenly finding himself with two foes to deal with. Shahar drew another javelin and barrelled forward, lashing out with no intention to do real harm. The swordsman parried easily, but took a step back to do so. That single step was all Shahar needed to grab Merevaika’s bow.

“Into the grasslands, Merevaika!” Shahar barked, hoping none of them spoke Pavi. “They will chase!”

[Merevaika]

Just as she thought that her life was at its end, Shahar appeared out of seemingly nowhere, swiping at the swordsman with his javelin and collecting her bow. It was the only reason she wouldn't have ran away from the site, and now the anchor was gone, she could flee. Merevaika put the knife away, the hand now moving to clutch the cut that was bleeding badly, and stinging like hell. He shouted at her in pavi, ordering her to flee into the grasslands.

He needn't say a word.

Merevaika was quick to flee, snatching her bow back off her companion with another word. Her heels kicked up the dust, heart pounding as she sprinted as fast as she could from the slavers, trying to disappear into the darkness where she could hide and catch her breath. Her steps thundered in beat with her breaths, hurried, with a survival urge of fleeing. They were heavy and desperate, as her body ached for rest and her lungs cried out for oxygen. Her wound needed seeing to too, but that would have to wait. She had to run.

The swordsman made chase, his footsteps sounding clearly behind them. Merevaika couldn't stop without risking her life, and it would be a very bad risk, as the swordsman would quickly catch up with her, and she couldn't use her bow close range.

But she was tiring quickly, and seemed to trip over every root there was to find. It was her exhaustion, her legs now longer flying through the air but dragging along the ground, catching on whatever they could be caught on. Merevaika cast a quick glance around, hoping to find Shahar and alert him of her tiring gait. He was her chance of survival. He would be able to help, and once he did, Merevaika would be safe. Hopefully, he would realise that too.

"Help," she called out, her voice croaking and out of breath. The noise echoed into the night, disappearing as she only could wish the swordsman would. "Help," she repeated, feeling her feet slip and body fall to the floor once more. Her hand moved to catch her, one soaked bright red. She had to keep going, keep fighting. The woman pushed herself up, aware of the man at her heels. He was close to catching her. Ever so close...