Closed Stand Unafraid

[Azmere]

“Drykas, you say?” Ilken interrupted. He snickered to himself and moved away from Azmere’s line of sight as he continued to talk. “I used to be a Drykas…that is, before those knucklehead boys of my sister got us into a stir. Ya see…” The man snorted in through his nose with mucus rattling around, hacked it into his throat and then spit. “Those zibri heads tried to get with some pretty thing from the opal clan and when she refused, they messed her up something awful. Rather than ride it out, my sister and her passive husband took the boys and left. Now I loved my sister and couldn’t help but know that they would all die without me so I came out here to help take care of everyone.” He came back and sat on the grass in front of Azmere. He was holding a rope that lead way off behind the tied watchman. “Sickness took my sister, lions took her husband so it was just me and the boys and said to myself…’self…these boys need some women so we can grow our little family’. So I sent them into Endrykas to snatch some girls and told ‘em that sisters would be easier to manipulate.” He began to pull slowly on the rope and continued to talk. “They did just fine but then you come along and kilt muh boys and here we are. Hey, tell me somethin’, watchman. Ain’t it true that to be a Drykas you have to have a strider?”

Azmere’s face went pale as he watched the rope pile up on the ground. Faintly, he heard the approach of reluctant but steady hoofbeats. He turned his head but couldn’t see just yet though in his heart, he already knew. The smile on Ilken’s face and the tone of his voice all lead to the same trail. As more rope was piled on top of itself, the dusty old snout of Hephiestian came into view. The horse was bound around his neck and his right front leg. Azmere had seen the technique used before to break a stubborn horse. His face burned more than any wound he currently felt and he could feel the water rushing to his tear ducts. Separated shoulder aside, the archer began to rock back and forth in his restraints pulling and tugging in every direction with all of the force he could muster. While he did feel like some progress was being made, Ilken didn’t appeared worried and simply got up and moved towards the majestic animal. “Old boy needs put out to the grass. Don’t ya think, watchman?” Azmere froze as the glint of metal caught his eye. Its reflection started in the hand of Ilken who held a razor up against the steed.

Azmere bellowed a roar of protest which was loud enough to scare a flight of birds from the nearby grass but it wasn’t enough to stop the fiend from slicing the tendons halfway up the hind legs of the old stallion. Hephiestian cried out in anguish and collapsed to the ground out of reach of his rider. The Drykas resumed his attempts to get free with a zeal that took Ilken by surprise. The post that held all of the bindings was rocking back and forth with almost thirty degrees of movement. The bound man didn’t seem to mind at all that he was driving layers of splinters into his skin or peeling the flesh from his wrists. The crafty outcast moved quickly and began carving up the horse with rapid yet deep strokes of his blade. His face lacked the joy he had been deriving from torturing Azmere but he was hoping to create such a mess out of the strider that the sight would overwhelm his captive and return him to the docile state.

The screams of the horse deafened Azmere who forced his eyes open. He forced himself to watch because the mental anguish dulled the physical pain. The blood of Hephiestian was running all over the area staining grass, dirt and objects crimson with his noble blood. Azmere began to flex his legs while he rocked back and forth. He could feel his own blood slickening the lines that held him and tried to use his legs to apply a vertical push either to lift the ropes from the post or remove the whole thing from the ground. Ilken went back to goading Azmere by showing him the carnage and shouting taunts over the sounds of the dying horse. “Didn’t you ever wonder what his insides looked like, Drykas?!” The man hurled a thick piece of hide and fat at Azmere. The blow only served to release the levies on his eyes. Tears streamed unchecked down his face but the man gritted his teeth and tried to rise once more. He felt the wood shift in the soil and that seemed to fuel his rage.

It's you and me against the world.

[Azmere]

Ilken was a master butcher and was becoming enthralled with his work to where he didn’t notice the post shift. He simply continued to hack and slash at the horse who was now on his side, dead but twitching. Azmere rocked and lifted the post over and over as he watched his oldest and dearest friend become nothing more than a pile of viscera, organs and blood. When Ilken got to the heart and started slicing away the arteries and veins, Azmere felt his right hand slip partially through the rope’s grasp. With a mighty roar, the Drykas yanked the hand free leaving most of his skin behind. The offset of balance gave him enough play in the ropes to stand even though his left arm was still bound. Ilken stood and triumphantly presented the heart for Azmere to see. In his madness, he completely overestimated his abilities and didn’t try to stop Azmere from getting free. “Look, little man!!! You’re too late to save your precious horse!”

Azmere used his entire body from his tied left arm, his shredded back and wobbly legs to rip the post from the ground. The huge chunk of wood was still tied to his left arm as the archer charged at Ilken. The man flung the horse heart at Azmere’s head but missed. The two leapt at one another and met like a clap of thunder. As the bloody mess and messy fiend tangled up, they each took advantage of the chaos to leverage their weapon. Ilken plunged his dagger into Azmere’s gut as Azmere smashed the wooden post against Ilken’s face and neck. Both men cried out in pain but there was a different tone to each man. Ilken’s was sour like a dog who’s had his kill taken from him and Azmere’s was shaky like his anger was about to erupt from his body in a flurry or retribution that no one should ever witness. When the bodies hit the ground, there was a brief wrestling match that found the Drykas kneeling on top of Ilken. The wicked man made a single last-ditch effort and stabbed Azmere in his left thigh.

The archer didn’t even notice. The next few ticks were filled with a steady thumping of Azmere driving the end of the post attached to his left arm into the skull of Ilken. Over and over and over again, he beat the man’s entire head neck and shoulders until there was nothing left but muddy red soil. Azmere’s pace slowed but his rage wouldn’t allow him to stop even after he was covered in the blood of his enemy. After a chime of pounding at nothing, for the man’s body had stopped twitching long ago, Azmere collapsed onto his side and tried to catch his breath. He first used his busted hand to remove the rest of his restraints. Then he slowly removed the dagger from his leg with a wince. The tired expression on his face belied the numbness underneath. The next piece of progress involved removing the rod from his gut. This hurt substantially since the wound had scabbed to the metal. “Walaaaaahk! Petch!” Azmere flung the metal far from his body.

Now that he had all of the debris removed from his body that he could reach, he turned slowly still being full of adrenaline and crawled across the nightmarish scene to where the head of Hephiestian lay with dead eyes. He gently closed the eyes and laid his face upon the long skull of the strider then wept. From his place of grief, Azmere saw that his yvas bags, yvas and all of his gear were not too far away. He knew what must be done and forced himself to crawl to where he could get at a blanket or shirt. He had to stop the bleeding from his belly and leg.

It's you and me against the world.

[Azmere]

In the absence of a healer or trained professional, one must improvise to survive. Azmere sifted through his yvas bags as tears ran unchecked down his soiled cheeks. He had never witnessed such depravity or cruelty in his life and hoped to never see the likes of it again. The watchman supposed that terrible things happened all the time but it didn’t mean he had to watch. The Drykas shut his eyes against the painful reminder which lay strewn not ten feet from where he sat. It took many ticks before the man was able to lift his heavy eyelids and continue with his work. His fingers coiled around the thick comfort of his winter blanket and squeezed. As he drew it out, the arrows tucked inside clanked and clacked against themselves and a chill ran up Azmere’s spine causing his flesh to ripple with goosebumps. The archer set the blanket down next to him and opened it. He shoved the arrows aside for the time being and found a corner of the heavy wool fabric. He put it into his mouth and bit down with his canines and tore away with his hand.

The blanket ripped from the edge and all along the tear the wool puffed up. Azmere tore off strips a few inches wide until he had gone through half of the blanket. He took several tied them together to make longer bandages for his leg. The watchman felt like this task was taking bells but had no way of telling the time or day. He continued to arrange his makeshift wraps when a huge wave of nausea hit him. His stomach burned but the archer couldn’t tell if it was from the wounds or if it had been that long since he’d eaten anything of substance. It might’ve even been the sour smell of dried chicken blood that still covered much of his body. The cause didn’t matter to the Drykas. He clenched his teeth and went back to his prioritized task. He took up one of the longer strips and slipped it underneath his leg above the wound. He then wrapped it over and folded it against itself one time. Taking an end in each hand, Azmere pulled out and up with all of his might. The wrap slipped down against his muscle and then dug in creating immense pressure. The man hollered in pain but pulled up until his hands hurt and his biceps ached. While maintaining this force, the watchman slowly folded on end over the other and then pulled it through. Once he had them in place, he yanked his hands out hard enough to snap the knot down against his leg forcing out another call to the nameless god of pain.

The watchman breathed heavily as sweat ran down his body. While the saline cleansed some of the crap and muck from the man’s skin, he gave him more chills which only served to consume his adrenaline. Azmere knew he had to move quickly. He took a second long wrap and duplicated the process of the first but this time it was placed below the wound on his leg. Having successfully isolated the deep gash, Azmere used three more long wraps to firmly cover and seal the gash. He tucked all of the loose ends into the tightly tied top and bottom bands which made for a fairly rigid cast of sorts. Azmere was slightly impressed with his work though he had not tried to stand yet and was apprehensive to do so. He reached across his body forgetting about his shoulder and winced as the strained tendons protested the abuse. “Petch!”

The archer switched and used his left hand to get one of his arrows. He had his own which were relatively flat but had a very nice point but given his intended purpose he wasn’t so sure it was the best choice. He set it down and tossed the shafts back and forth for a tick or three until he found one of the arrows from the pirate assassin. The tips on his arrows were unlike anything Azmere had ever seen before. They had a fine point which twisted into a star-like pattern with five ridges that wound down for several inches before spreading out and hooking slightly. The deadly beauty was the reason Azmere had collected them in the first place. The long, narrow point would serve nicely to fill the Drykas’ need. He looked about on the ground around him and found some very plain-looking dried grass.

Gingerly using his right arm, the archer plucked a fistful from the earth and balled up his fist compressing it into a wad. He then placed the ball of grass up against the hole left from the rod which was still leaking bright red blood. The wound was deep and Azmere knew just covering it would not solve the problem. He made his hands work in tandem, one holding the grass and the left using the arrow to drive the wad into the wound. At first, the sounds that Azmere made were almost like barks. He had to push the grass six times before he couldn’t force it into the wound any farther. He quickly gathered more grass, balled it up and jammed it in behind the first one but his barks started to become more like shouts of rage and pain that twisted up into the night sky. A third bundle of grass was needed to plug the gap and when it was all said and done, Azmere was screaming incoherent things at no one.

The watchman felt cold now and worked his left arm quickly to wrap the bandages around his body. He used his right hand only to hold the gauze while he switched his left hand from his front to back. It probably would look silly to a medical professional or anyone for that matter but Azmere was over the whole ordeal. He could smell the exposed intestines of Hephiestian and he could feel every cut, scratch, bruise and wound in his body. Despite the recklessness of his plan, his resolve was steeled. The beaten and wounded man managed to put on a shirt, strap on his armor and was even eyeing a hand cart to get his gear home when an old half-broken stallion limped across the far edge of the camp. The man’s skin crawled at the thought of riding another horse but he also knew that e couldn’t make it through the grasslands on foot. At the very least, he could use it to feed the glassbeaks while he slipped away. After some coaxing and painful movements, the horse was saddled with the yvas and bearing a very tired and cold rider. He set out east much in the direction that he had first come with tears still stinging his eyes. It was going to be a long journey home.

It's you and me against the world.

[Azmere]

The man rode for hours. Rather, he sat astride a half-busted, twice-used old thing that seemed to struggle under the weight of the man and his gear. Azmere was in pain such as he had never felt before. Every single step of the mixed breed sent a shockwave from multiple wounds into the surrounding tissue. For the most part, the watchman had stopped the loss of blood but he was weak, dizzy and disoriented. It was getting dark and he knew that there was not going to be a lot of time to build a shelter. Simply putting up a tarp was not going to protect him from anything. His eyes floated about the darkening horizon and scanned the grasses for anything of potential. Twice, he had to painfully lift a hand to rub his face. His body was screaming ‘This is madness!’ His mind was too busy to listen.

As if the gods were trying to offer their assistance, a strong wind kicked up and blew the clouds away from the silvery face of Leth. The god of the night sky shone his watery beams of glitter across the plains and revealed a set of strange rocks to the east about two miles. The archer coaxed the old work horse with his right leg and left hand. Anything else was simply too much like reliving the nightmare. “It’s alright, buddy, we’ll be ho-…” Azmere trailed off as stinging tears welled in his lower lids. He blinked them away and felt Zulrav’s cool breath dry them against the sticky blood on his cheeks. For a handful of chimes, he was so distracted that he didn’t realize that they had gone off course by a shadow or two. The experienced rider was quick to correct the diversion but now found himself at odds with the world. Given what lay before the, he would either have to force the creature to backtrack or hop down and wade the water to lead it through.

The small stream didn’t seem like much but Azmere could hear its rushing waters and knew it was moving quickly. The purity of the sound also alluded to it being deeper than a foot. A shallow stream bubbled and made splashing sounds as it tumbled over rocks and sticks on the bottom. Deeper water had a smooth whoosh to it that was peaceful and often contrary to the risks associated with a strong current. The rustling grasses caused the man to lift his face and look around. He slowly reached for his dagger but never got his fingers around the handle. Azmere saw what he needed. The dark snake of a shadow that represented the stream bent to the east but narrowed significantly and would be a suitable place to cross. The Drykas quickly guided his mount to the point that he had seen even though the horse made it very difficult. Twice, the damned thing started back towards the camp. With some swearing and a couple of coordinated and agonizing movements, the archer was able to get the beast to the narrow bend and then over it. He regretted kicking his heels into the animal almost instantly. His leg started to bleed again and the jouncing that followed made him nauseous. Still, progress was progress.

After several more very long chimes, the duo finally reached the rocks. Azmere scanned everything very carefully before moving forward at all. A tall thin chunk that resembled a heavy post was off to the left and several angled planes made somewhat of a corner ten feet to the south. The Drykas knew what he needed to do. He moved the horse into the middle of the cluster and slid from the yvas. He winced as his weight hit the ground and fell onto his hip. A single grunt passed his lips but the archer knew the importance of being quiet. He had no light left aside from the rays of Leth’s face and his strength was failing. He needed rest.

Using his tarp, some rope and his packs as anchors, Azmere was able to stretch and erect a short awning that was big enough for him to lie beneath. He dragged his remaining gear up with him and was able to grasp his bow. He notched an arrow and held it at a light tension on the string. In truth, the archer wasn’t sure how much strength he had left but with his body backed into the corner of the rocks and under the safety of his tarp there was a chance for sleep. As consciousness drifted back and forth like the pendulum on a clock, the sounds of Hephiestian being slaughtered played over and over in his mind. Unchecked tears running down his face rocked him to sleep.

It's you and me against the world.

[Rufio]

　　　
　　
　　
　　

g r a d e s



skills

Running +1
Observation +5
Investigation +3
Animal Husbandry +2
Riding, Horse +3
Land Navigation +1
Pathfinding +1
Tracking +3
Intelligence +4
Bodybuilding +3
Socialization +2
Endurance +5
Wilderness survival +3
Stealth +1
Philosophy +1
Weapon, Long-bow +2
Weapon, Club +2
Weapon, Dagger +1
Leadership +1
Scavenging +1
Brawling +1
Wrestling +1
Medicine +2
Weapon, Wood Bludgeon +1

lores

Navigation: Using Syna's light
Tracking: Kidnappers
The Sea Of Grass: Long grasses hide many dangers
Azmere: A restless night under the stars in pursuit of bandits
Stealth: Making armour non-reflective
Stealth: Moving under the cover of night
Azmere: Believes faith must have integrity and strength of character
Azmere rescues Correena, Altos & Leenzi Lighthoove
Investigation: Keeping quiet and letting another reveal details unwittingly
Azmere endures brutal torture
A dream of elusive tiger's eyes
The butchering of Hephestian
The loss of a strider
Azmere's Revenge: Killing Ilken
Wilderness Survival: Blankets as makeshift bandages
Medicine: Bandaging wounds
Medicine: Making an arm-sling
Medicine: Dry grasses to staunch a bleeding wound
Wilderness Survival: Identifying the depth of a stream by sound
Azmere: Enduring strength like steel

penalties

— 2 Arrows
✛ Scarring to Azmere's chest, face, back of the head, wrists, thigh and abdomen where Azmere endured blows, knife-wounds, lacerations and burn-wounds.
✛ Weakened tendons in Azmere's shoulder from a dislocation which must be trained to regain former strength & may succumb to arthritis in old age.
— Hephestian
✛ Post-Traumatic Stress —flashbacks of the butchering of Hephestian and/or of his own torture, nightmares & nightsweats, insomnia.
✛ Grief
— 1 Blanket

rewards

✛ 2 Chickens, plucked & salted
✛ 2 Blankets
✛ 2 Shirts
✛ 2 Large Knives
✛ Bandages
✛ 1 Mix-Breed Stallion

Absolutely heart-wrenching, thrilling, gritty & brutally-beautifully written thread. If you feel I missed anything shoot me a PM.