Flashback Rough Diamonds

[Wikus]

42th – Summer – 500 AV
6th Bell


The woman’s hands surfed thought his bare body, causing occasional shivers to run up his spine. His eyes were closed, letting the female do her work as he instead lost himself deep inside his thoughts. Her hands her cold, which enhanced the sensations of the massage and collided with his own burning flesh, the result proving to be mesmerizing beyond imagination. Meanwhile, the other pair of hands were slowly stroking across his chest, being attacked from two directions to even further null his attempts of resisting the virginal peace felt. The smell of ash finally reached his nose, its strong aroma being welcome as usual. The hands that caressed him from behind now moved on to his shoulders, gently running across the back of his neck and down his trapezius, always in unison with a slow pace. As they braced him around the hips, he felt the pronounced belly of the female behind, which served to both relax him even further but also to gain some consciousness.

“Where’s Rhoya?” He asked in a whisper, to which both pairs of hands halted their motions, staggering for a tick before resuming their courses. But Wikus felt that, and instead of forgetting about it and enjoying the massage and ash bath, he stood up and finally opened his eyes. Before him stood Parna, a short woman with a shaved and scarred head that clearly displayed an expression of fear as he peered up to her owner. She didn’t say anything, instead nodding with her head toward the exit. Wikus’ peace faded as quickly as it came, and shoved her away as he moved to the pavilion’s exit before he had to witness her usual tears. Before stepping out, he’d retrieve the whip that was laced next to the door. Outside, the day had barely began, yet the light was enough to immediately spot Rhoya, the third slave he owned. She was talking to someone, a merchant from the looks of his small but congested cart. They laughed as they talked quietly and peacefully up until the golden-clothed male spotted Wikus, whom instead presented himself stark naked and partially coated in ash. Before the female could realize what happened, Wikus had already taken a hold of the whip’s handle, and with a sideway motion similar to that of a sideway flick, the end of the whip wrapped around the female’s right leg. He pulled from his end, and with that the slave was reduced to the ground and dragged some feet as she struggled to breathe, having fallen plainly on her chest and losing her breath.

The merchant was as surprised as was the female, freezing on the spot, words caught in his mouth as he witnessed the violence. He was next, Wikus’ whip losing its grip on the female’s leg. Taking it by the handle, he’d turn the whip around but did not use it just yet, instead planting himself before the male and jolting his head forth to deliver a headbutt directly onto the male’s nose. Blood poured out immediately as the male began falling back, but before he could fall Wikus’ left hand reached for his shirt and with a tight grip he pulled him towards the opposite direction, instead falling right to Wikus’ feet, now the whip handle being used as a tonfa to smack his face with a sideways motion. Those whom watched gasped, while the two females that were coating Wikus’ body cried from the Pavilion’s entrance. The breathless slave nearby struggled to both breathe and cry, still not having enough air to do both.

Wikus, merciless and out of control, did not hit the male anymore. Now he simply took a hold of his shirt with both hands and brought the bleeding man’s unresponsive upper body closer to the bearded face. “You do not talk to my property, do you understand!?” Yelled Wikus right onto the half unconscious Topaz clan member. The male only wheezed, his eyes wide open yet clearly unfocused. Still not done with him, Wikus would turn the male’s head towards the nearby slave, and dragging both himself and the man in his arms, he’d approach the lying female. Grabbing the male by his long black hairs, he’d bring his face closer to Rhoya’s shaved head which he now controlled with a hand on her jaw. “This brand tells you she’s my property! You have no right to talk to Diamond property, Topaz scum!” The female presented a horrible scar on top of her head, a diamond branded with fire that had left an almost disgusting gash which was very poorly healed he himself had done to mark his ownership over the female. Now that he had presented his argument, as this encampment was a conglomerate of Diamond Clan Pavilions, he took his property by the leg and dragged her towards the Pavilion they belong to.

While he had right to abuse of his property as much as he wished, the damage done to the Topaz Clan member would be ringing from the Ankal’s mouth, whom would surely impose a fairly light punishment due to the need to contact the Topaz Clan’s Pavilion the wounded man belonged to. Wikus’ Ankal was a wimp, yes, but at least he was raised in the same Pavilion and knew the tradition: never dishonor the Diamond. As Wikus dragged the female through the naked soil, she cried and tried to claw herself still to no avail, the soil being compressed and her efforts were useless. Wikus approached the entrance, to which the two other slaves made way for him, fearing they’d be the next ones. They would be in normal circumstances, true, but one of them was already pregnant for two seasons now, and the other one seemed claimed to be pregnant too. But the one he dragged was not despite being here the longest – she got the worst treatment. Back inside, he left the female in the middle of it all as he returned to the stool, the two slaves ignoring the wounded and crying woman and instead focusing on finishing Wikus’ ash coating. Ash coating was mandatory for him, as ash neutralizes any smell and avoids detection by smell. He applied two layers, one directly over slightly moist flesh and the second one over the leather armor he was to be draped in afterwards. He had work to do today, especially as during this moon they shared encampment with fellow Diamond Pavilions.


He had to prove himself to be the best of them all if he wanted to become Ankal one day.

[Azmere]

Azmere had stomped around since the wee bells of the morning. His Ankal had ripped him apart for being late to meeting of his pavilion even though Azmere’s not allowed to have any say. He is expected to be at all pavilion functions and most clan ones as well because his grandfather wants him to take over as Ankal someday. The young teen found this absolutely ridiculous since he was banished from his father’s family because he was fool enough to wander into the Sea of Grass as a child. It was only through the grace of Zulrav that he survived. He didn’t remember many specifics about the incident but walked around with a face full of scars to constantly remind him of his lunacy. It wasn’t that he had to see the disfiguration but the constant reactions from strangers, people in the city and even familiar faces who regard him with pity or loathing that drove the wedge of anger deep into the trunk of his heart. Azmere kicked a rock and watched it tumble over itself and other smaller stones until it rolled up next to a tent.

Azmere knew this conglomerate of pavilions were all from the Diamond clan of which the Stormbloods were kin. He also knew this meant many short fuses and heavy fists. He moved his feet in a way that allowed his boots to rise and fall upon the trampled grass without a sound as he maneuvered about the large encampment. His eyes scanned about for dogs, cattle and striders while weaving in and out of various pavilion tent lines and drying racks. Azmere studied different insignias, knot work and wrappings. Everything told a story in Drykas culture so paying attention to the details could make all of the difference. This went on for many chimes until the sounds of hushed laughter drew his attention. As before, Azmere didn’t make a sound. It was a benefit to being young and in shape…one of many.

The adolescent crept to the edge of a tent and crouched down low while peeking just around the edge. He saw a woman with her shaved head talking to a member of the Topaz clan. The encounter didn’t last long. From the very tent he was hiding behind, a naked man stalked out and without a word, snatched the woman by her heel with a whip that seemed to manifest itself from the bones in his arm. Azmere was shocked by the suddenness of the weapon but wasn’t prepared for the violence to follow. The man without clothes was half covered in ash (an old tradition of Drykas warriors) and upon the man in gaudy dress before either of them could utter any exchange. The blows came with a ferocity that Azmere could draw to memories of watching a night lion shred a spearback that got too close to her cubs. This was different, however. It wasn’t a protective instinct that flared up bringing red mist into the air from the merchant’s face. It was a matter of possession.

“This brand tells you she’s my property! You have no right to talk to Diamond property, Topaz scum!”

Azmere watched as the outsider was dropped in a heap on the earth where some of his blood was already waiting for him. The show wasn’t over yet. In disgust, insatiable curiosity and a tingle of excitement, the teen watched the slave get dragged kicking and screaming back into the tent. He tucked in behind the edge before he was seen and simply waited. Two more wails added into a horrible chord of fear as the master returned to his tent. Azmere’s heart was pounding in his chest as he sat through a few chimes in anticipation of further beatings but none came, at least, not by the hands of the ash-painted man. Azmere recognized the brand on the slaves but couldn’t remember the name. He knew that the symbol was everywhere in Endrykas and the Sea of Grass because the pavilion was either arrogant or that good. Either way, Azmere felt inclined to find a way to make an impression on the older horse lord.

Opportunity knocked when the merchant started to stir. Azmere turned and watched as he struggled to get to his feet. The man was bleeding and seemed to be using his left hand to hold a piece of skin or lip in place while he searched through the cart for something. The young Stormblood watched with growing interest until he saw Syna’s first light flicker off of a blade as it was drawn from the cart’s inner compartment. Azmere reacted without thinking and slipped around to the other side of the tent where he had seen a decent sized stick. It was probably going to be used as an axe handle or maybe just firewood but it was perfect for what the angry young man intended to do. His boots fell to the earth without a sound bringing him to the club then around a smaller tent which was probably used for storage or a servant. Azmere was now flanking the merchant who seemed to be debating how to approach the tent of the man who bludgeoned him.

The teen stooped down and lifted a small rock. He cast it far to the right of the merchant and waited for its impact to draw the man’s attention. As expected, the thump made the jumpy and injured man turn his head away from Azmere’s direction. The boy made several long, quick strides and just before he was within reach, he whistled sharply while cocking back with both hands for a massive swing. The older man turned with wild expression of fear, pain and rage in his eyes which became shock when he sized up the boy. Azmere did not hesitate. His right foot planted and forward came both arms bearing the cub and his momentum. To further increase the force of the strike, Azmere flicked both wrists forward right as his arms reached full extension causing the club to whip from right to left across the exposed face of the Topaz clansmen.

Ccrrraaaaaccckkkk!!!!

The sound caught Azmere off guard as did the impact. He had never hit someone in the face like that and the shockwave reverberated up his arms to his shoulders and into his sternum. The man spun from the blow as he sank to the ground in a heap next to his cart; the sword falling lifelessly beside him. A light trail of blood flecked his face with a few droplets running along his scars. Azmere stood still with his shoulders heaving from the heavy breaths the adrenaline was forcing him to take. He instantly felt bad and knew what he did should not have been done but there was a tiny part of him that wrestled with that notion. Propriety should be respected and challenges should be made face to face.

It's you and me against the world.

[Wikus]

Rhoya, the wailing slave, retreated deep into the pavilion with the excuse of beginning to gather the ingredients for the morning meal. It was a blatant lie, surely going back to her hay stack to lay and cry as she usually did. Her incapacity of getting pregnant was starting to slowly worsen her treat, and she knew that eventually this would mean her place in the pavilion would be lost – surely being sacrificed by the fanatic household she had ended into. The Whitebloods were, after all, the living incarnation of the Diamond Clan. One of the extremists of said clan, the Whitebloods took everything by the ancient traditions of the Clan, even if that meant neglecting the basic human needs any other pavilion would provide. Harsh discipline was incrusted in the young ones by pain whenever they started to walk, forging living weapons that shined like true diamonds if they managed to reach adulthood. Warriors were always pressured to obtain windmarks at all cost, even if it meant rejecting their human needs. This need for recognition was the reason why the Whiteblood pavilion was amongst the best of the Diamond Clan, if not the best. The price for said glory was not cheap – many children often suffered brain damage due to the heavy beatings they received, many members constantly fled to other pavilions, and even those whom still remained usually lacked basic human qualities like the ability of speech. On top of it, the rumors of aggressions towards other Clans, the exile of the genetically imperfect or crippled, and fanatic activities such as eccentric hunts on foot that claimed many lives were one of the reasons the Whitebloods held such weight in the Diamond Clan. Their numbers were very limited, barely surpassing the two dozens, but each of them was elite.

Wikus had survived all that. Obsessed with achieving the respect of his elders, and with the objective of one day being able to claim the pavilion for himself and be its Ankal. If that meant stepping over some slaves, he’d do it without second thoughts. No longer meditating or even sitting, he let the females complete his ashen coating. They hurried, almost being able to taste the blood in their mouths if their master lost his patience again. As soon as they finished, they began bringing his leather armor and the furs that went between flesh and leather. The furs were perhaps too exaggerated for summer, but heat and sweat weren’t something he worried about. Originally wrapping hyenas, their fur now draped Wikus’ body in combination with the leather. His attire’s style was pretty intimidating for him, reason why he had chosen said combination. The spotted fur wasn’t white, which was unacceptable for any Whiteblood, reason why the white ash spread on top served to both isolate Wikus’ scent from his prey and also color him in the color proper of any Diamond Clan member. Around his left forearm he wore an extremely thick piece of leather, which served him as a sort of shield against bites and also as a blunt object if he were to require it. Once his attire was fully coated in ash, it was turn for his hair and beard. As a final touch, his hand dipped into a white pigment to finally lay the final detail – a white hand print on his face, which was his Pavilion’s insignia.

Finally ready in a matter of chimes, he stretched swiftly before sending the women to fetch his hunt’s assistants. Leaving the pavilion way calmer than before, he was surprised by a crowd surrounding the cart of the previously beaten Topaz. Whispers and rumors were spreading amongst the present at an alarming rate, to which Wikus decided to step in, afraid he might have killed said man with a couple of hits. To his surprise, he was right – the man was indeed dead. Shoving his way through the conglomeration of Drykas, he approached the collapsed male as he was partially responsible of his death even if he made sure he was breathing the last time he saw him. The man itself was in a much worse state than he had left him chimes ago – his entire face was broken, the skull being fractured and having been bashed in with an extremely powerful force. Whatever remained of the man’s features was totally lost, the face being a vortex of blood and tissue. One of his eyes had been simply exploded after the hit, the other one widely open staring into the nothingness. It was simply gruesome, to the degree that Wikus’ stomach began to stir.

Looking back towards the faces of the crowd, most of them were Diamonds although not all. This needed to be fixed quickly, so instead of focusing on the dead man or the horrified crowd, Wikus looked around for the culprit.

OOCI wanted to give Azmere a chance to flee if that's what he would do, reason why I didn't meantion him at all in the post.

[Azmere]

In the moments that followed the surprise attack, Azmere lingered and wrestled with what he should do. How would his Ankal want him to handle the situation? That was easy. Asmodeus is an honorable man and would find the nearest authority and figure out what to do next. Azmere acted to defend a member of his clan. There would be some discipline and some recompense expectedly but all would be settled. The other voice was much less complicated. It simply said to run. The decision was complicated by the sight that was before him. It took several chimes for everything to unfold and then soak in to his adolescent brain. The man’s face was torn asunder. Skin hung from bone with sinew exposed. One eyeball was obliterated and the other was hanging by the strands of blood vessels and nerves that connected it to everything inside the skull. Blood discoloured the ground and the skin alike but was most disturbing was the evacuation of the man’s bowels. When mixed in with the smells from the inner workings of a man’s skull, the aroma was nauseating and beginning to make Azmere sick. This would be a memory that would never leave the boy; the sight and smell of this scene would stay with him his entire life. Azmere was shaking and dropped the handle but caught it with his other hand before it hit the ground. He swung it up on his shoulder and spun on his boot heel. In a split second, he was darting through tents and pavilions without making a sound. His eyes were showing all pupil as this was the hour when braziers grew dark and the Syna was starting to rouse thus dimming Leth and his stars.

As he passed an open storage tent, the boy chucked his weapon into it. He paused only to glance at the insignia’s on the woven tapestry that hung over the next tent. It was of the Emerald clan and if he remembered his signs correctly, this was a high ranking family. Now his inner truth was tearing him apart. Things would surely unravel if he didn’t pick up the weapon and tell the truth. Things were getting out of hand and fast. Azmere picked up the stick and walked slowly back to where he had committed the foul deed. He did not run as before but trudged would be an accurate way to describe it. He stepped calmly over tent stakes and sidestepped piles of horse droppings without looking up or at anyone. The trembling in his belly had subsided and the guilt that was making his palms itch was starting to wane as well. Azmere reached up and wiped his face off with his hand and then dusted it against his pants. He could hear the sounds of a small assembly of bodies as he drew nearer and nearer to the crime scene. That’s what it was; a crime. Even though the man had nefarious intentions, Azmere took him by absolute surprise and had killed him. Accident or no, there was no other choice than to own up to his actions. It’s the only way he was going to move past what had happened.

When Azmere received his scars, he had never really found anything deeper in their meaning than a second chance at life. Through careful lecturing, his grandfather had imparted the thought that they are a penance to be worn for arrogance. While the gods value powerful individuals and those who take matters into their own hands, they are quick to strike down those who grow ‘too big for their boots’ to coin a phrase. He had spent a few years learning the true meaning of his disfiguration. The ultimate result is that Azmere learned that he will always have much to learn and he can’t do that with a cluttered brain. Guilt, pride, shame, lust and many other things cloud the mind. They corrupt the reason that a man needs to make sound decisions. Azmere was already starting to feel better about his decision to come back to the place where his wickedness and fear had won over his true judgement. He approached at a slow pace but was now looking ahead. He met eyes with the Whiteblood whom had beaten the merchant before Azmere had laid him to waste. The man was in full armor now and looked a bit more intimidating now that he wasn’t stark naked. Azmere nodded expecting the adult to do the right thing and summon him to receive his punishment. Without word to proceed, Azmere walked quietly and slowly forward still holding the bloody club.

It's you and me against the world.

[Wikus]

A murdered man was not something one could get away with easily, no matter what Clan he belonged to. It just so happened that Wikus was the last one seen spiting the dead man’s face, and so the crowd could only point towards him if they looked for a murderer. The Topaz wouldn’t accept any reasoning if there wasn’t a justified cause for the corpse’s state, and so someone would pay with his own life for their dead clan member. This notion set Wikus in panic. He had never killed a human being, even if he trained to do so ever since he was born. Matching him with this gruesome scene was not only sadistic, but also frustrating as his own words would be in vain. The eyes of everyone that gathered around the scene proved that they too believed it was his doing, even if he just left his pavilion. It wouldn’t be too long before Webbers spotted the body and the crowd, and ultimately reported the crime. Then, all would be lost.

It wasn’t all lost, fortunately for him and unfortunately for the teenager that made his way through the crowd. They saw the club, the splattered blood, the morose rhythm of his feet as he returned to claim responsibility for the death of the man. Wikus felt confident once again as he stared into the scarred features of the youngling, his own expression turning into disgust as he inspected the burn victim’s rough flesh. While the youngling was old enough to take a wife, the motion of his walk was enough to state his immaturity, something the Drykas manifested way too often in his opinion, especially in the most conservative of Clans. The boy didn’t seem hurt at all beside the obvious damage of previous experiences and the mental damage he had surely suffered from his latest stunt. Wikus could almost imagine the boy’s tall body being torn in half as two horses pulled from different directions, arms and legs stretching out until the boy was split just as his features were split between soft and rough skin. His eyes too were split in two, almost as if indecision of nature itself had branded the boy as the freak he had proven he was.

Wikus was about to jump at the boy, apprehend him and shatter his limbs to avoid his escape, to cripple him even further in punishment for his actions – proper reward for a reckless behavior. It was the crowd what forced him to reconsider. They too took justice in their own hands, most of them reaching to find anything to toss towards the killer, be it small rocks, pieces of dirt or berries they snatched from one of the crowd’s gatherers. Drykas were quick judging and condemning a man, as Wikus already knew. His history with those improvised lynching was enough to fuel his forgotten protective sense, his disgust being redirected from the killer to the jury. Even if the boy was disfigured and following a different path than the one he himself had taken, the boy deserved a chance to soar and reach whatever peak he was going for. He could stand up to try to save someone whom needed help, perhaps for nothing. There wouldn’t be any reward for him but trouble with the leadership, but if he could deflect the crowds he would be more than satisfied. As the objects flew against them two, he looked at the dead body and found a way to fix the issue.

Without any idea of which Clan the boy belonged to, without knowing his motive for his action or how he’d react, Wikus stepped in front of the boy to act as a shield from the flying objects as he looked down into the boy’s face. Retrieving a small knife used for gutting pray from his belt, he’d vacillate a moment and would covertly display a Glassland Sign for the boy to see - silence. Regardless if the boy saw it or not, the knife would be raised and would attempt to forcefully puncture the boy’s scarred and rough flesh in order to draw a straight line from his cheek to the jaw, his other hand moving to hold back the boy’s head still as he now loudly stated for the crowds. “Self-defense. Anyone who denies it is a traitor to the Diamond.” The statement was enough to halt the crowd and submerge them in silence, and even if the boy's face was scarred, the addition of a blood source would be enough to numb the crowd's judgement.

[Azmere]

The young teenager walked with his chin up and narrow chest out. Regardless of the shouts, curses and debris being tossed at him, he would not hide. Small stones hurt but so far no one in the mob had decent aim so it simply matter of sending the pain below. A jagged rock slammed into his left shoulder. The sting overpowered the impact of blow and without looking, Azmere knew he was bleeding. He set his jaw and continued onward staring only at the warrior who still lingered near the fallen body of the merchant. Azmere could feel the warm oozing of a single line of blood running down his shoulder. The tacky sensation was offset by the continued rain of projectiles which was becoming more frequent and more accurate. A dried root bounced off of Azmere’s scars causing his footsteps to break from the straight line he had been walking. He quickly corrected only to be stunned by a clump of dried mud that broke across the right side of his face. The chunk dissipated and sent specs of soil into the boy’s nose, mouth and eyes. Azmere had to stop a moment and wipe his face. He started onward once more with a quick glance at his hand to see the dried dirt mixed into a deep crimson with the specs of blood from the victim as well as a brighter red from Azmere’s own vitae.

Azmere had been hit over a dozen times but mostly one his arms and legs and these were things he could move past but he was beginning to feel dizzy from the debris being lobbed at his head. Without realizing it, Azmere was suddenly confronted by the older Drykas, the warrior covered in ash was moving on the lad. Azmere opened his eyes wide, the blue one being bloodshot from the dirt, and his face stained with the deep purple of the berries used as bullets of condemnation by the crowd. It was not fear of the man but a lack of understanding that froze Azmere in his tracks. He had not been frightened by the crowd and would not be frightened of one man but it soon became apparent that he had no need to be wary of the ashen stranger. Obviously a member of the Diamond clan, Azmere started to pay close attention to this warrior and only him. Through the flying fruit and carelessly flung clods of dirt, Azmere saw what he thought was a sign for silence. His silence? Maybe the man intended to speak up for the lad.

After a tick or two, the larger and older Drykas was standing in his armor before the teenage boy. Azmere looked up into his eyes and was trying to read what was going through this man’s head. A sharp pain slipped along his scarred cheek and Azmere resisted the urge to reach his hand to the fresh wound he had been given. He simply watched in awe as the situation along with the crowd’s anger was turned on its side.

“Self-defense. Anyone who denies it is a traitor to the Diamond.”

Azmere was stiff as the leg on a dead horse. His eyes rotated in their sockets as he watched many begin to disperse almost instantly. There seemed to be a lingering group of Topaz clansmen but they were far outnumbered in the area and though they seemed to say this was far from over, they too left. Azmere stared up in disbelief at this man; his savior. He was confused. The man lied. He lied and forged evidence to protect a disfigured boy that he did not know. Azmere was set on telling the truth. He wanted everyone to know why he did it; why he swung on the man but his hart wrenched inside his chest. That would mean slapping this man with the title of liar. Azmere could not fathom the sinking feeling in his stomach as he turned the thought over in his head. Never had telling the truth seemed so wrong before. The itching of his palms and the sweat building on his upper lip further complicated his emotions. Azmere stood stark still while glancing about as the people drew back into their own lives until it was just this young man, Azmere and the blood running down his face and arm. He was sore and suddenly exhausted. He had never experienced anything like that and wondered how many more unforgettable firsts this day held in store for him. After a long silence and stillness between the two Drykas, the younger signed a meager thank you. Azmere owed his life to this person. He had no idea where to go from here or what to say.

It's you and me against the world.

[Wikus]

The crowds may have dispersed, but their anger was still present in their fists. So were Wikus’, which now realized of what his brief lack of judgement had done to him and his already poor reputation. Tossing the knife’s edge on the soil, the free hand would now move to squeeze the youngling’s face even if the wound was in his grasp as well. Lowering his head to stand just right in front of Azmere’s features, his eyes spoke the fury and anger felt towards the boy way louder than the whispered threat he’d share with him. “You make me lie for you again and I’ll hang you.” A few ticks of silence in which Wikus limited himself to stare into the boy’s eyes, before his anger managed to bring a light shake of his head. “Boy… What you have done is far worse then what’s been done to you.” And with that, he’d simply take his hands away from the teenager and return the distance between the two. Shaking his head, he’d glance towards the nearby corpse that still made Wikus’ stomach growl in disgust.

Now that he had said his words, he’d simply assume a stand as he watched the youngling. Wikus’ posture was aggressive and dominant no matter how similar their ages were. His face was harsh and unforgiving, and his attire was proud and somewhat extreme for this time of the year. He couldn’t let this boy wander off and lose his mind again, nor let him believe his action would have no consequence. Consequences existed for every single act, and the burn victim that stood before him should know that more than anyone. It just so happens that it was Wikus’ hand the one who should remind the boy of said consequences. “From now on you work for me.” His words were definitive, yet his mind had doubts. Which Clan did this boy belong to? The Diamonds were the most present in this area, but that didn’t mean a thing. He could always flee like a coward if he was from any other Clan as they usually did. Their word meant nothing in the ears of a White. Nevertheless, even if the boy didn’t belong to the Clan, he was still before him right now. And he couldn’t just escape when Wikus knew the truth.

Looking over his shoulder, he’d call out a short ‘Oi!’ which brought the two slaves that watched from the tent’s entrance. Dismissing one of them with a hand, Rhoya finally arrived and bowed her head to him. Taking her by the arm and pulling her close, he’d whisper in her ear as he kept watch of the boy. The slave nodded and returned inside with a quick pace, and after losing herself inside the pavilion Wikus would finally speak. “Inside the pavilion.” He’d say, turning sideways and pointing toward the pavilion with the same attitude and mannerisms he used on the slaves. Wikus wasn’t one for words as he usually didn’t bother to communicate. He rarely bothered with the vocal Pavi, and whenever he did the gestured part was omitted. He couldn’t count past ten, and his childhood days were skipped. He lacked a foundation upon which a man is usually built, but instead he had stockpiled his effort to support himself throughout the years. That is what this boy lacked. The discipline of reality, of the cruelty one needed to endure to finally peel away the skin and be able to state that he was no longer a boy but a man.

That choice, however, was not his but the boys'. If he listened or not, if he was brave enough or not was something he had to figure out. Without waiting for him, he’d complete his turn and head himself back into his home. The boy was free of eyes that watched him, free from juries that judged him. He could flee if that was what he wished. Wikus didn’t seem to pay it no mind in his fast gait – after all, many come and many go, but only a few survive. He wouldn’t slow down for anyone if he wished to succeed when others failed.

[Azmere]

Azmere went from grateful to irritated. The man who might have saved his life suddenly forgot that he made the action on his own accord. Azmere was a lot of things but he knew of his lineage and also knew the amount of respect that should be paid in such an instance. He had tried to resist and maintained a cool air of calm as he was held by his face. Rather than whine or struggle against the larger man, he simply set his jaw and allowed his eyes to burn holes into the Drykas male. While the teenager was not fully grown, he was still nearly six feet tall but this warrior was about half a foot taller still. Azmere was at that awkward stage where one’s body outgrows its brain and thus, he found himself willing for the man to let him go only so that he may retaliate.

Wish granted.

Azmere shook from the anger caused by the insolent tone of his reluctant ad regretful savior. “Make you? Make you?!” Azmere signed the word for mud and pointed to his brain. It was a common thing some Drykas used when lecturing a subordinate who has done something unintelligent. “I was set on doing what was right. No one asked you open your fat mouth in the first place!” He started pacing back and forth while Wikus hollered at his slaves. When the older man said Azmere worked for him, he stalked forward and shoved the man as hard as he could. Azmere was vastly outmatched but nothing stops the hormonal drive of an adolescent man; especially one in a society that places such a high praise on violent skills. “I don’t work for you. You don’t own me!”

Azmere drew up ready to defend himself. He was shorter, had a smaller reach and was outweighed by about fifty pounds but he was fast and could hit hard if he could land a right cross or elbow. “I’m a descendant of Stormwardens, of Diamond warriors and will not be treated as anyone’s property!” The young lad’s face was turning red beneath the trickles of blood that ran from his cut. He flexed his fingers out and then curled them back in as he began to sidestep trying to gauge what sort of attack this man might attempt. Azmere had learned from fighting with Cassander that having an advantage was seeming that you are at a disadvantage. That part was certainly covered. Now all the boy had to do was find the gap in the bearded man’s armor, so to speak.

Azmere could taste the metallic and warm serum that was his blood. It had found its way along the bumps and valleys of his scarred face to the corner of his mouth. He allowed his tongue to flick out and catch the droplet before it ran away to his jawline. When he pulled it back in, the sweet and salty flavor made him realize just how badly he wanted to fight. Some encouragement might be needed for his opponent. “Don’t turn your back to me!” He watched the man follow his slave back into the pavilion and his chest heaved. His brain fired a synapse that triggered a verbal response. Azmere felt instant remorse after he shouted the phrase and prepared for the beating that was sure to follow.

“You’re no Diamond, coward!”

It's you and me against the world.

[Wikus]

Halting his gait, the Whiteblood looked over his shoulder. The rage was clear within him, being disrespected by the very boy he had just saved from a lynching. Even more, he was probably going to be tied to two individual horses and split in half if it wasn’t for him. Having to hear complaints after saving this boy’s life was insulting, and having to hear the word ‘coward’ after the risk he had taken was simply too much. The moment the word reached his ears, any sympathy he may have felt for the undisciplined boy vanished, and instead Wikus gained the will to simply bend him and break him beyond repair. Shatter his legs, split his arms, and pull out his teeth so that only a hollow burden remained to sit uselessly as life passed by him, as whomever still cared for him eventually didn’t bother to even glance towards him. Spinning on his heels, the antics of the man changed as much as his expression. Empty of anything but the calmness felt under a killer’s eyes.

His hand reached for his belt, in which his loyal whip awaited his master’s hand, and with a decisive pull it came forth beside his commander. Whipping the boy would have been so enjoyable, so fair for the words he wielded, yet at the same time slightly hollow. For a few ticks he considered the idea of whipping him into despair, yet after the small ponder his hand tossed the whip aside. “Coward?" He repeated, as he rose a hand to signal a halt to the slave that was about to come out of the tent. Much like those slaves that were there for their wombs, this boy was here only to be taught what being a Diamond really was. Nobody would say a thing after what the boy had done, and so Wikus would be allowed full control of whatever he wished to do at the culprit. Without any further communication nor intentions to delay the inevitable, Wikus started slowly walking towards the boy.

His hands hadn’t raised to forma combat stance, nor his body had lowered nor curved to properly face the boy. He simply walked straight on towards the male, starting him down with a dead expression, lack of anything but a small curve on his upper lip. One could have sworn he was not going to fight, or that he was about to perform some noble sacrifice as many times the Drykas and their tales told. Instead, what he did is halt just within combat range of the boy and assert: “You and your family are nothing. Don’t ever forget that.” Once he said his part, quickly his body bent onward as well as his knees, lowering his center of gravity as he assumed an aggressive wrestling stance. His foot was forth, which turned the stance into an aggressive one as most wrestlers would know. The stance itself was very exposed and easily reachable if the boy wished to deliver a blow of any kind, having been designed specifically for fighting wrestlers and not apt at all for unarmed combat. If the boy was to throw a hit, it had to be in this precise moment if he didn’t wish to be completely dominated by his opponent. Nevertheless, Wikus didn’t seem to await any kind of reply from the boy’s body and instead jumped onward as swiftly as his equipment allowed him.

Given that the boy was in an unarmed combat stance, Wikus easily went for a traditional tackle, attempting to bury his shoulder onto the boy’s core as his hands attempted to reach out behind the legs and pull in order to bring the boy down on his back. It was a rather simplistic takedown, one of the very basic ones taught to beginners, yet it was very effective if the opponent wasn’t focused. Its execution was nothing otherworldly, being pretty basic yet still carrying some weight from the man’s heavy equipment.

[Azmere]

Azmere held his resolve seeing the older and larger man turn on a dime at having his bravery challenged. This is what his words were intended to do and now they had brought forth fruit though, somewhere deep inside, the young man wasn’t so sure he was hungry. Still, the contrasting eyes locked on to the hateful gaze of his savior turned attacker. He showed no far and no hesitation even though he was only a teen and about to fight a full grown warrior. Azmere was already well-balanced in his stance and tightened his fists for good measure. The comment about the Stormbloods was ignorant since this man didn’t know Azmere’s name or family. It was purely a distraction technique. Azmere had plenty of experience with this type of ridicule thanks to Cassander so it was ineffective.

The bearded warrior was so tall that, even in his crouched stance, he was still nearly as tall as Azmere. The young man was weighing which attack to use because he knew his window of opportunity was soon to close. With a split-tick decision, Azmere threw a stern right cross just as the man was beginning his lunge. The balled up fist was aimed right for the jaw just to the side of the mouth (because punching someone in the teeth hurts). The angle of the shot, should it connect, would likely trail up enough to catch the lower inch of the ashen man’s nose as well. Azmere put enough force behind it that a solid connection might well jar his shoulder. The next move was instinctual and required no thought. As the man’s upper body came in for a tackle, Azmere pushed off of his lean foot which brought his left knee up to try and catch the man in the face, ribs or wherever. The truth of the knee raise was something of a wish since the scarred young man’s weight had already been thrust into the punch. Without his mass to leverage, the knee would only be effective it aught something soft or brittle.

The tackle was unavoidable. Size and momentum were not on Azmere’s side. Still, no one ever said he had to make it easy. Win, lose or draw; this man would remember this fight. As the heavy shoulder padded in leather armor drove into the young man’s gut, the rush of air caused him to buckle in the middle. He felt his shoulders shift and his center of gravity lose itself. It was a whip-like feeling and Azmere knew that landing on the ground was going to hurt. On his way down, he rained blows aimed at the back of the man’s head with his fists and elbows. After only a few ticks (though it felt like bells), Azmere felt the crushing force of the ground and the man squeeze the fight out of him. A solid crack echoed twice from where the armor had made contact and Azmere let out a strangled cry that was silenced as the vice of both man and earth forced all of the air out of his lungs. In a last ditch effort, the young man brought his right elbow down for the top of the man’s skull. This was all the strength he had left as the pain was far too great to try anything else. He did not cry or scream or whine but he didn’t move either. So, this is defeat, he thought.

It's you and me against the world.