King of the Hill

[Tribal]

The cabin was relatively well lit for a building with no windows. On the west wall an open fireplace made of stacked stone took centre stage. A round, polished wooden table that sat at least four was positioned in the middle of the room with a single burning candle set on a silver dish alongside a custom dagger with a deep, red ruby stone fixed into the design on the hilt. It wasn't the only discarded weapon, as there against the right side of the fireplace stood a bastard sword near a pair of hunting bows that were hung upon the wall.

On the west wall, rows and rows of handmade shelving carved from local timber held up an assortment of small jars, each tightly sealed, containing different amounts of snake venom. The floor was littered with dusty pelts and the head of a handsomely preserved buck took up pride of place above the fireplace, a row of smaller mounted heads with less impressive racks lined the far wall. Below the decorative deer heads a young man, battered and bruised, sat with his head down and his hands in shackles. His hair was a sandy colour, oily and unkempt, reaching just beyond his shoulders. He had red markings on his wrists and black tattooing across his bare midsection, reminiscent of traditional Drykas windmarks.

His imprisonment seemed some cruel joke, for the key to his shackles was hung around his neck on a length on twine he couldn't reach, arms stretched out away from him by the chains that held him. When he heard the door creak open, forced by Shahar's spear, he did not raise his head straight away, but slowly tipped it back to take in the sight of the hunter and his hound. His lips were dry and cracked and his eyes a piercing blue. His body fringed shock while the white of his knuckles suggested something else, fingers curled against the chains that bound him.

In the northwest corner of the cabin a red fox bound with a golden collar fought against his own tether, seemingly frightened by the sight of Snow, who padded into the room with her hackles raised and her stance tight, moving lower to the ground than usual. She checked behind the door before looking across at the struggling fox and the young man in chains. Unsure, she shared with Shahar, safe?

[Colt]

The door opened and allowed the two inside. Snow took up the lead, body low and every muscle in her body ready to fight whatever lay within.

And what lay within, it turned out, wasn’t all that combative.

Furs on the floor. A table in the center. Shahar baulked a bit at the sight of the stuffed deer heads; he’d never seen such displays before, and it was even more grotesque than the spectacle of skins. But he didn’t linger on it for long, because the next thing he noticed was the man. Bound to the west wall by shackles and chains––devices that Shahar had only ever seen used by slavers––the man was sandy-haired and tattooed, making the Drykas wonder after his origins. But then his attention was yanked to the gold-collared fox in the corner, distressed at the sight of Snow and yanking at its leash.

Snow checked behind the door and found nothing, although the presence of the man and fox were real enough; she wasn’t quite sure whether or not they were a threat, and Shahar nodded reassuringly; alright. Door, guard, look outside, alert. With no other entrances to the cabin but the chimney, he would be able to focus his full attention on the inside if Snow was watching for anyone else coming from the outside.

With that organized, Shahar moved deeper into the building. He kept his javelin out, but slowly let it drop when no other threats presented themselves. He went to the table, then to the hunting bows on the wall; the presence of weapons felt vaguely concerning. Had Clive run? If he had run, wouldn’t he have taken a method of defense with him? Two blades and two bows, seemingly untouched; had there been more? Had Clive run unarmed? This mystery was not solved yet. Once Shahar was finished with the cabin, he would set himself to tracking Clive down.

Before that, however, he was concerned with the man in chains. Clive’s slave, the two dead men had said. Shahar looked at the man and returned his weapon to its quiver, striding over with caution on his shoulders.

“You,” he said in Common. Then, in his native language, “Do you speak Pavi?” Communicate inquiry? “You name have?”

He reached for his belt and unfastened his waterskin. It was only half-full, but the man’s chapped lips suggested that any water at all would be helpful. Shahar uncorked the skin and made a large display of splashing a bit into his hand to show the captive what it was, then raising it to his own lips and swallowing it down to prove it was safe.

Hoping his intentions were clear enough, Shahar stooped his shoulders and stepped closer, waterskin raised in offering, with the intention of raising it to the man’s lips and pouring some into his mouth as a sign of good will.

[Tribal]

The fox stilled when Shahar spoke and watched him before thrashing about again, pulling at its bindings and chewing on the thin, leather wrapped chain that kept it in the corner on its mat. Meanwhile, the captive seemed on edge, as if he had grown so accustomed to his captors, that the stranger’s presence made him feel nervous. When Shahar inquired about his ability to speak Pavi the slave only nodded before watching as the hunter poured water into his own hand to drink from; was this some strange form of torture the slave’s eyes seemed to ask of him.

When Shahar then offered the captive water, he drank enough to wet his lips before looking down at the key around his neck, “Please,” he spoke the word in Pavi before trying the same in Common, “Free?”

The red fox yelped sort of like a dog, making a long, whining sound, “Valen,” the slave said quietly, muttering his name, trying to draw the hunter’s attention away from the fox.

[Colt]

Shahar’s pause in speech was enough to hear the fox in the corner begin yapping again, and a quick glance over revealed the animal writhing about, trying in vain to free itself.

In the meantime, the slave was somewhat distrusting of Shahar’s kindness. Shahar frowned softly, more accustomed to such a look than he would like to admit; it was a look that had entered his camp many many times in the form of lost or wandering souls, souls that assumed that everyone in the world only did something because they wanted something in return. Souls that had learned long ago to distrust kindness of any sort.

Shahar sighed. He would be playing this role again, then.

The man asked for freedom, and the fox yelped. Shahar glanced over, sensing a vague inquiry from Snow. Nothing, he replied, and then the man was speaking again, drawing his attention away.

“Valen,” Shahar repeated. He slouched back and regarded the man in chains. “Hello, Valen.” Greeting, formal, recognition, introduction, I am, “Shahar Dawnwhisper.” I am, “From Endrykas.” Visitor, new, passing through, searching, question.

He returned the waterskin to his belt and assumed a non-threatening posture. Offer, careful, desire to help. He reached for the key around Valen’s neck and removed it, bringing it closer to his face for examination. He knew how it worked––he had seen other people lock and unlock shackles before––but he’d never held such a thing himself. Looking up, it took a few moments to spot the keyhole.

“Where are you from, Valen?” Shahar asked as he reached up. He knocked the key against the keyhole twice before realizing it was backwards. Irritation at self. “Why are you here?” It still wasn’t working quite right. Why did both of the pieces have to be so small? This was annoyingly tedious. “Would you like me to free the fox after you?” Idle conversation was not Shahar’s strong suit, but locks and keys were frustrating, and it was as good a time as any to try laying down proof that he intended no harm.

There. Finally. The the key slid into the lock. And the damn thing did nothing. Shahar rapped a knuckle against the metal. Still it did nothing. He took the key and rattled it, as if that might frighten it into working properly, and by sheer luck discovered what made it operate: turning it. After an inordinate amount of time puzzling over it, he unlocked the shackles.

[Tribal]

Valen watched Shahar with a slack jaw, listening to his questions; eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of this or that word, almost as if the other man spoke too quickly for him to keep up. “Slave long time,” he finally spoke, but only in common now, “taken from city when young,” he explained, his voice breaking part way through his sentence.

“Shahar,” he smiled, managing to catch the hunter’s name, “Thank you,” the young sandy haired man watched as Shahar struggled with the key. When one of his hands was freed, he turned it against the other and rubbed his tender wrist where the skin was half raw. Shahar had glanced away at the fox again and Valen rattled the other cuff as if to request that it too be undone so that he might finally be free. “Free!” he demanded, seemingly angered that Shahar was so concerned with the fox’s welfare.

When the fox saw that Valen was being freed it scratched at the walls and floor, turning up the rug under its feet to fight against its chain. Snow took her attention away from the outside world momentarily to watch the fox and communicate her concern and how frightened the struggle made her feel. It didn’t last long as a noise from outside drew her attention once more and she pointed her gaze in the direction of the dogs.

“Free!” Valen insisted and shook his cuffed hand again.

[Colt]

Valen used his freedom of hand to rub at the one that was still chained up. Shahar waited for him to finish and move his hand so that he could get at the other lock, but then Valen did something very odd: he began to grow… angry, at the idea of releasing the fox.

Vague bemusement, Shahar said as Valen shook his remaining shackle, demanding freedom. He wasn’t quite sure he liked this new direction.

The fox, in turn, became even more agitated, digging at the walls and floor in a mad attempt to free itself. Snow heard and became concerned, not that Shahar had much in way of explanation; he simply conveyed bafflement, and then she was occupied by something outside.

His partner’s sudden occupation was enough for him to grow tense. He signalled for Valen to wait, listening, in case Snow was seeing something dangerous. If not, Shahar would return to the man in the shackles and shrug apologetically, moment’s pause.

“Wait, sorry, short moment.” Valen didn’t seem like a native speaker of Pavi at all, so Shahar kept his words slow, short and simple, stepping back and slipping the key into one of the pouches at his belt. “The fox. I fear he will hurt himself. Metal is stronger. I am going to free him before he becomes twisted up and injured, then I will be back. You will not injure yourself?” Humorless jest.

It was only a half-lie; Shahar did indeed want to prevent the fox from wounding itself with its chain––he was a trapper, after all, and knew quite well what a loop around the neck could do. But there was also the curious denial of the fox’s freedom that Valen had made in between his words, something that made Shahar curious. While making sure the fox was alright was something the Drykas was indeed interested in, he was equally, if not more interested in if and how Valen would treat such a thing.

Shahar turned his attention from the man to the fox.

[Tribal]

Valen stood on his toes to look at the fox as Shahar turned his back to tend to the animal. While the hunter approached, the fox stopped wrestling against its bindings, making it easier for the Drykas man to free him, the key to Valen's cuffs, the same fit for the animal’s collar, as it had been the fox's all along.

Snow barked at something outside and even stepped a foot out of the cabin so that she was half in and half out, undecided as to whether or not she should investigate further. If the bark drew Shahar's attention, perhaps he might also feel the cold kiss of steel against his neck and the warmth of a woman's hand close over his mouth, "up," she said in common, "slowly."

The fox cowered in the corner, he hadn’t seen Clive morph, changing the bone structure and build of her hand to escape the second cuff Shahar had left her in, or see the soles of her feet grow soft with rabbit hide, enabling her to pad across the room silently, escaping even Snow's attention. She had managed to collect the dagger from the table and now held it up to Shahar's throat, guiding him backwards across the room slowly so that she might be able to put him in chains.

A bright flash of light saw the fox change into a man, bare and thin, identical to this 'Valen' Shahar had already been introduced to, though this one actually spoke Pavi and with a subtle flick of his hand, he managed to tell Shahar to stay calm. "Hand," Clive hissed against Shahar's ear and closed the iron cuff about the man's right wrist, "key!" She insisted, stepping out in front of him with her palm face up and open, ready to accept the item.

Clive, despite the name, was very much a woman. She had long, lean limbs and the curves of a temptress, with jet black hair and sharp, green eyes. To look her in the eye reminded most people of a snake, though it was her venomous temperament that convinced them of her true nature. "Dog food," she smiled as she accepted the key, unless Shahar wished to be defiant, in which case the point of her dagger would meet his left shoulder where she would take delight in burying it slowly, inch, by painful inch.

Valen, meanwhile, had managed to get his hands on a sword, not that he knew how to use it, and stalked towards the curvaceous tanner, who looked rather attractive for a woman in her mid-thirties, in fact, one might mistake her for being a lot younger. Snow had turned her attention from the outside world as soon as she felt a change in Shahar's emotion and ducked her head, hackles raised and teeth bared as she growled. Clive turned to glance at the dog and smirked, "don't worry; you'll make a fine pelt too, pup. Oh and Valen,” she spoke without looking at the man directly, “put it down or it's lights out for your friend here.”

The slave’s shoulders dropped and he lowered the sword before releasing it. The sound of the discarded blade rang out in the cabin, soon replaced by silence, hindered only by Snow’s low growling. Attack, Snow thought, bite.

[Colt]

The fox stopped its struggling immediately, allowing Shahar to unlock the thing’s collar quite easily––for the key fit the collar as it had the shackles, and now he actually knew how to use the damned contraption. And then Snow barked, and Shahar looked up, and then there was a hand over his mouth and metal at his neck. He hissed and struggled for a mere moment before realizing that it was a blade at his skin, which outlined his situation quite clearly––yet another situation that he had never come across before.

In Common she told him to stand, dragging him up by the edge of the blade, and he followed, simmering. The walls of the cabin were suddenly too tight, the open door too far away; he wanted to get out, get back into the fresh air, but the blade told him not to and he was pulled back to the wall of shackles.

Before him, the freed fox changed. Lights, a flash, and then there was a man. Lights, like Khida, when feathers were traded for skin. Kelvic. And this man was Valen, almost exactly the same, save for a fluency in Pavi when he told Shahar to be calm. As if such a thing was possible. Shahar wasn’t calm, but he wasn’t stupid, either. You were stupid enough to let her catch you. She was a shapeshifter, not like Khida or Valen, but like Cedar and Slither; slow, with magic, a skill and not a trait.

The woman––who else could she be but Clive?––grabbed his hand with a snarl and raised it, locking it into a shackle. Shahar bared his teeth and struggled, but her knife found its way into the flesh of the shoulder. He grunted as it pierced skin, and the venom in her eye demanded obedience unless he wanted it to go deeper. She took the key.

Snow was in the door, barking and snarling as the scene unfolded. Clive turned, and her words made him boil with rage; she would not touch his Snow, not ever. And then she was turning to the man, to Valen, who dropped his sword in exchange for Shahar’s continued life. But Shahar was not going to let himself be chained so easily; she had one hand bound, but his other worked just as well. He was still capable of fighting.

He brought a knee up and kicked, lashing out with his free arm as much as his injury would allow; she was armed with a dagger, which was shorter than his reach. If he could just get her away, he could get at one of his own weapons; javelin or knife, he didn’t care so long as he kept her away.

Snow! He pointed her attention to Valen. Him, help!

[Tribal]

The white dog went to Valen’s aid and the slave made a grab for the blade, that much bolder for Snow’s reinforcement. Clive lunged at the sword wielding man, her dagger having tasted Shahar’s blood, sought more; held in an intimidating reverse grip to plunge downwards at the young Kelvic. A brief struggle saw the two of them collide with the table which tipped over. The still burning candle rolled across the floor, furs and pelts set alight in its wake.

Fear, saw Snow freeze, snaking backwards from the scuffle towards Shahar, of which Valen struggled to take the upper hand, trapped under the woman with the dagger, only just strong enough to hold Clive’s wrist back so that the dagger’s point stopped an inch from his throat. “Help me!” He cried out in Pavi, and Snow’s courage restored, jumped at their feet, pausing to check which belonged to who before she bit down into Clive’s calf.

The tanner screamed and lashed out at Snow with her blade and a clumsy knock to the shoulder saw the dog yelp and spring backwards. She had only been nicked, but it was enough to throw her off, leaving Valen open to another attack. Meanwhile, fire crept across the floor, consuming all in its path and making light work of the animal hides.

[Colt]

Valen was invigorated by Snow’s support and made to grab the sword once more. Clive reversed her grip on the dagger and made to stop him. The two clashed, tangled and rolled to the floor, disturbing the table and knocking the candle onto the ground.

Shahar snarled and tried to join them, but was yanked short by the single shackle on his right wrist. He struggled and pulled then reached for his knife. He stabbed at the wood of the wall, twisting and biting into where the shackle was secured and then throwing his weight against it to see if it would give.

“Help me!” Valen cried.

“The key!” Shahar shouted back as Snow bit into Clive’s leg.

Shahar cursed and took the spine of the knife between his teeth, freeing up his remaining hand to snatch another javelin from the quiver. It wouldn’t be the first time he had thrown left-handed, but it was certainly awkward. It was the only option he had, though, as Clive gained the upper hand by nicking Snow with her dagger. Valen was open, and there was nothing else he could do.

Shahar threw the javelin as best he could, praying to the Gods that the short distance would be able to compensate for his lessened proficiency on the left. There wasn’t much else he could do to help with the shackle still holding him.

The scent of smoke hit his nose, and his stomach dropped as he realized that the floor was burning.

“Fire!” he shouted.

He had to get free. Taking up the knife again, the Drykas set back into the wood, carving up the wall and hauling at the chain with both hands. He threw all of his strength and weight against the restraints, and against the nails securing them. Without the key, it was all he could think of to do.