First Impressions (Azmere)

by **Pulren Marsh** on July 18th, 2016, 7:44 am

34th of Summer, AV 516

The journey through the Sea of Grass had been long and uneventful. Pulren had never wished so hard for misfortune. The smell of animal shit and the toil of daily caravan life is something he would never wish on another sentient being. He had gained a great deal of respect for the profession, however. After all, this is how things got to other places. This is how anything happened and how the world would continue to grow. Still, it wasn't a life for him. Sitting in the wagon among crates and goods, he fingered at the silvery capped waves that graced the flesh of his forearm with the mark of his Father.

While there was no blissful ocean to meld with, he could tell that they were getting to a point where it was equidistant from his current location. The Sea was both north and south of him, this could only mean one thing: the Suvan was to the north and his adventures could continue. Sweat dripped from nearly everywhere and he was extremely thankful for not having to sit on the back of a horse and to have what shade that the wagon's canvas cover provided. For a Sea of any type, it was about as dry and dusty as the ass of a donkey. He found himself laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Perhaps it was the heat and the never ending scenery of tall grass and blue sky, but soon Pulren nodded off. He was awakened a bit later by one of the teamsters, a bearded, stinky man who prodded at him and shook him. "What the petch? What?", he asked with the urgency of his being shaken awake. The man craned his head off to an unseen point ahead. "The Drykas. They are armed and want to see everything. Come on out and get suited up, sea dog." So get up and suit up the sea dog did, though the heat of the day had hardly calmed with the passage of time. In a chime or two, he was at the back of the wagon, his leathers in place and his shield and trident at the ready.

Not much point to them when he saw the welcoming committee.

A Gossamer Template

by **Azmere** on July 18th, 2016, 9:08 am

Azmere drifted along the lines of djed with another Watchman by the name of Brutus Sandrunner. Despite his name, the man was tiny at only about five feet and three or four inches but there were few who could read the Web as well as he and even fewer who could assess the contents of a wagon; the skinny man had shrewd eyes. The two Ra’athi covered the distance between their fine city and the expected caravan like a hawk honing in on its prey. The glowing lines transported the two shimmering figures in cohesion with their thoughts until they came upon a long line of wagons, beasts of burden and armed men. Azmere and Brutus stopped and gave each other a knowing glance. Azmere signed that he would inspect the warriors. Brutus smirked and signed an acknowledged the archer then returned with a few signs saying he would inspect the goods.

Satisfied with the arrangements, Azmere moved with normal steps up and down the line taking the time to size up each person. It was hard to tell who was a soldier and who was a merchant because caravans often had a large variety of people with mixed skillsets. A tinker who fixes pots and pans might very well have the strongest sword arm while the woman who tends the messenger birds could possess a powerful magic. The Watchman studied them all making note of the count and potential. He paid special attention to the men who were armed on the flanks. From his understanding of walahk tactics, there were several ways to approach defense and these outliers could make a large difference. There were several bowmen but none of them looked to be the type to present a problem. Still, it was not his decision; that’s why the Watch had a hierarchy.

Azmere moved back to the front of the caravan and waited for Brutus who was moving back up the column as well. The two men came back together and exchanged signs that they were finished. Azmere bent down and grasped one of the older djed lines. He noticed it was so dim that it barely shown compared to some of the other ones. The ankal concentrated and pooled djed into his left hand forming a swirling orb of the magical energy. As ticks wore by, the orb grew into a brilliant blue ball of djed that seemed to pulse and hum in its power. Once Azmere was satisfied with the amount, he brought the sphere of djed down to the line in his right hand. He used steady pressure to push the energy into the line watching as the old strand absorbed the new life. Flashes shot through the web as it redistributed the magic and rejuvenated the old line. Brutus came up next to Azmere and nodded with approval of his basic repair. The archer rose and nodded in return signaling that he was ready to return. In a blink, both men were back to their meditating forms and quickly rejoined the waking world.

Azmere reported to his Tavekh the size of the caravan and a general observation of skill based upon gear, stance and an overall impression. He conferred with two other Tavekhs, one of whom had been given Brutus’ report, and they greed the Watch had enough members to conduct a proper welcome. The archer mounted his strider, Skylla and leaned down to whisper some encouraging things in her ear. He patted her neck and gave several long, firm strokes as a reassurance. Their relationship was still new and Azmere took every chance he could to build the mare’s trust in him. With a gentle drop of his boots, he urged her forward. The young strider responded with a fervent rear and nicker then took off at a fast trot. Under the careful direction of the Drykas strong legs and firm grip, Skylla built up speed into a steady gallop along with the rest of the Watch. Over two dozen horses and their bonded riders set up quickly spreading from four groups into a straight line.

One of the Tavekhs released his hawk and the bird flew off well ahead of the horsemen. After nearly twenty chimes of a hard ride, the bird made a single loud call. Two of the Tavekhs broke off from the edges and increased their pace even more while their individual patrols clustered to them and rose wide in an arc. The move was simple; the main group would ride straight at the caravan in a wide line for a display of force. The two smaller groups would go wide and come back in near the middle and back on either side. It’s something they referred to as riding bear and riding wolf. Those riding wolf were soon lost from sight and hidden from sound as the bear force began to whoop and holler when the caravan came into sight. Amidst the noise and dust, the line of Drykas burst forth onto the caravan with weapons drawn but not aimed. They formed a large arc comprised of twenty riders that filled the entire horizon between the taller grasses. These men and women were hardened with scars, sun-kissed skin and cold stares of distrust. However, none acted independently from their leadership and right now, that older man was walking his horse forward towards the driver of the lead cart.

They two men exchanged some words in Common and even some signs in Pavi. After several chimes, the Tavekh called out in a loud clear shout that sounded like a hawk’s cry. Near the rear wagon, four more mounted warriors emerged from the tall grasses on either side of the convoy. Azmere was among them and he instantly went to the back of the column with bow and arrow in hand. His contrasting eyes scoured faces and hands sizing up the guards and traders in person this time. His starbursts fell upon a man with a very strange weapon and he studied the large fork for several ticks when a second hawk’s call came through the air. Ten Drykas dismounted, including Azmere, and put their weapons away. It was their duty to peruse the wagons to ensure the convoy’s honesty. He flipped up canvases here and there seeing various dried fruits, glass, some metal and a few other odds and ends then found himself standing before the man with the big fork.

The Watchmen made direct eye contact for almost half a chime before he spoke in a clear tone that was even. His face remained unmoving though the inclination of his head revealed that his interest was more than just business. He spoke in Common that was a bit slow and awkward for his tongue but the man’s appearance didn’t indicate any familiarity with Pavi. Azmere loomed over the man but wasn’t trying to intimidate him. With his right hand, he balled a fist and put it on his chest. “Azmere. Warrior. Drykas.” His hand went forth and two fingers pointed at Pulren’s chest. “You, warrior? What weapon is that?”

Word Count1181

by **Pulren Marsh** on August 7th, 2016, 5:43 am

Pulren really couldn't do much besides chuckle to himself. It wasn't anything disrespectful. Quite the contrary, actually. He not only respected the sizable force that was thunderous in its hooves as it surrounded the caravan, he just couldn't figure out why such a massive force was needed. It was clear that should these riders choose to have at the caravan it would be very difficult to repel them, at least in their current configuration. Looking around at nothing but long expanses of dust and grasslands, he could only laugh at the futility of the situation. Soon after, he could see that one of their leaders had taken an interest in him. Perhaps it was his demeanor or perhaps, from the looks of the line of his glances, it could be his trident. Probably weren't lots of tridents used out here in the Sea of Grass. Not Pulren's kind of fishing.

The group was in the business of literally and visually checking the contents of the wagon. Feeling little attachment to it, other than in the case that he was given some word to defend, he stepped back and remained calm. He did not look away from these men and their behaviors nor did he challenge them . He simply observed as they went about their business. Soon this same leader was approaching him, standing before him and observing silently. Pulren afforded him the respect he deserved by turning to face him squarely, the base of the trident planted firmly in the grass, the shield hanging loose in his other hand. He was much larger than Pulren, physically fit and marked by some sort of accident. His shoulder, neck and face disfigured by what Pulren guessed to be fire, the man's left eye a strange yellow. He felt bad for him but didn't change the look on his face. He had to look up at him and the pair sort of just stared at each other there for what seemed like an eternity, though it probably wasn't very long.

As it was appearing to be the normalcy in the region, this man, much like the Charodae that Pulren had dealt with earlier, seemed to lack in the use of Common. He had heard them using some other sort of language along with various hand gestures. It was all very interesting. He was Azmere. A warrior of the Drykas. Pulren was glad that there was going to be some kind of introduction and civility. It seemed a little early to fight, but whatever. He grinned and bowed slightly to Azmere , but not so much as to break eye contact. "Pulren Marsh. Warrior. Son of Laviku." He turned the trident swiftly in his hand so that the tines faced downward, stabbing the ground at his feet so that he had a free hand. He traced the shifting waves that graced his left forearm and traced over his angry Reimantic scar on his collarbone. he didn't know if they knew of his Father, but Pulren would let all people know of Him sooner or later.

A Gossamer Template

by **Azmere** on August 21st, 2016, 8:30 pm

Azmere studied the man before him. Cool, calm and steady; he had a seasoned mannerism that many lacked but the archer appreciated. Scarred eyes found scars and took in the tattoo of waves. That brought in a series of questions regarding the instrument the guard held. It was a spear but…better? Certainly there were disadvantages to having such a peculiar weapon. As his kin performed their duties to scour the goods (poisoned artifacts had a way of traveling, ya know), Azmere bowed his head slightly and mouthed the name several times before he repeated it back. He had heard of Laviku before. The pirates had painted it across the bow of one of their ships but that didn’t mean that this warrior was with them.

The Drykas finally finished his observation and took a half step back then extended his hand towards Pulren. “My Common. Not good.” His contrasting gaze shifted to his extended hand then back to the shorter man. “Well met.” Azmere liked meeting people from outside of Endrykas. A lot of the instances ended in violence but that was usually out of his control. Every once in a while, one got the chance to meet a stranger who had qualities that the Watchman would consider admirable. The man hadn’t answered his question yet but the reversal was smooth and by placing the pointy ends in the dirt, it let Azmere know that he wasn’t aggressive.

A loud call split the air and all of the Ra’athi looked up towards the head of the column. Hand signals rolled back down the line and Azmere acknowledged then passed on the information. He drifted his eyes back to Pulren. “We take to Endrykas.” He gave a half smile or rather a crooked one. The scar tissue didn’t permit his left side to bend in symmetrical fashion. A swift pat on the shoulder was left in departure and the archer returned to his horse. He mounted up and steered Skylla in between the wagons so that while they were traveling back to his home with the caravan, he would be able to talke to Pulren. Once everything and everyone was in place, the gold and azure stare locked onto the warrior and the chunky conversation began. Like a child, Azmere was curious of foreign things and he also knew that the more he could glean from this man, the better he would understand the world beyond the Sea of Grass.

With a clear voice and a relaxed posture in his yvas, Azmere would once again question the warrior about his weapon. “What call spear?” The tanned skin of his right hand pointed at the trident. “What army makes it? Is it good at hunting?” The archer knew what a shield was and how it was useful but this new instrument of battle had his mind reeling.

Word Count1656=1181+475

by **Pulren Marsh** on November 13th, 2016, 4:01 am

Pulren watched the eyes and movements of the other man closely for clues. He saw him mouth the word of the Sea Father, a glint of what Pulren hoped to be recognition there. If this man was a leader, he would surely know of Laviku. No one escaped His reach. He could also tell that Azmere's gaze constantly moved back to the trident. He felt as if he might let the Drykas wield the weapon himself when an apparent call of readiness echoed among the ranks. They all used a kind of complex hand signal to pass on information.

As the caravan began moving, Pulren mounted up on the wagon seat with the driver, his shield against his shins and the trident lying across his lap. He soon watched as Azmere positioned himself on his horse in a way so that they were next to each other as everyone moved toward the tent city. The yellow eyed captain continued to gaze at the trident and Pulren felt it a fine time to make a show of trust. He simply took the weapon by the shaft and handed it over to Azmere, the tines pointed down toward the ground. "It is a trident. Weapon for hunting fish. The primary weapon of Laviku and His people. Also good for fighting men." He nodded and grinned. He held his arm up as if holding a spear, throwing it. Then he picked up the shield in his left arm and held the imaginary trident next to it, stabbing out while maneuvering the defensive weapon.

"Catches sword." He put up three fingers on his left hand and then pointed with his right. He brought down the right finger like a sword and then turned his left wrist to describe the motion of pulling a sword from a man's hand. "What weapon do you use?" He pointed to him and made a few gestures. One of swinging a melee weapon, one of pulling back a bow string. He shrugged and smiled, accepting the trident if it was handed back. There was no rush. They were all going to the same place.

A Gossamer Template

by **Azmere** on December 11th, 2016, 9:13 pm

Azmere allowed his strider to move with the pace of the caravan. Horses were smart creatures and striders were the brainchildren of the species. In a line, it was best to let the animal be in control since herd instincts were logical, ordered and easy to predict. This form of riding was much like taking a trip in a boat where one was merely a passenger. Without the main focus being on his course and speed, the watchman was able to hone in on the strange weapon.

The contrasting gaze danced as he studied the polearm. When the man offered it to him, Azmere took it readily. He held it in a firm grip at its center to get a grasp of the weight and balance. Much to his surprise, Azmere was delighted at how little the trident weighed. He could see how it would be an agile and effective tool amidst the unstable rolling of ships. The Drykas had never been on a boat but had heard stories told by those who survived the pirates. The archer took the yvas handle in his left hand and held the trident in his right. His gaze was fixed on Pulren as the fellow demonstrated some of the basic techniques to be used with such a weapon. Despite its exotic nature, the plainsman found himself thrusting and making controlled swipes with the thing. Unbeknownst to him, Azmere began to grin on the right side of his mouth. A warrior by birth and at heart, the act of playing with a new toy filled the watchman with a cathartic energy.

Pulren asked Azmere what weapons he used. The Ra’athi passed back the trident mimicking the way it had been handed to him. Once the mercenary had his preferred tool of the trade back, Azmere patted Vihar as the bow rested across his back. The gaze of azure and wheat zeroed in on Pulren’s inquisitive stare. Serious as a plague but holding a slight smirk, the response was clear and concise. “I am an archer.” Azmere drew a handful of arrows from his quiver then reached down into his yvas bag. After fishing around for half a chime, the Drykas lifted a second quiver and began to sort through his arrows. This process produced three kinds of arrows; a sample of each was handed to Pulren. As he passed the projectiles, Azmere did his best to explain the purpose of the various tips.

“This one broad head. It is common and slice quickly. Travel far.” Azmere had given the man a broad arrow. The things he said were all true and he demonstrated the ‘far’ part by making an arc with his hand. “Game head. It knock out not slice.” The game arrows are dull tips and the weight prevents them from traveling as far. Azmere held one up against his head to show that impact puts small creatures to sleep which he mimed through leaning over and snoring. Finally, the last arrow was a fishing arrow. It had three stabs tied together for a tip and a notch around the shaft near the fletching for tying a string. “Fish arrow. Like small…tri-dent.” The Drykas smiled in an effort to draw a connection between their worlds. The big warrior had purchased the fishing arrows with good intentions but had yet to use them. After the exchange and display of arrows was finished, Azmere would put everything back where he got it.

The scarred man took his club and unlooped it from his belt. The wicked looking weapon was extended to Pulren. The glassbeak horn and talons were fitted against the heavy wooden shaft in a way that almost made it look like a demented hammer. Azmere was very proud of his melee weapon and had been ever since Ercere got creative. The Drykas began to tell Pulren about the club’s tooling. “When I was boy. I was bad listener. Nighttime. Ran away. Glassbeak.” Azmere pointed to the horn and two talons. “I was dinner but the gods, Zulrav.” Azmere pointed to the sky and then traced the scarring on his face and neck. “Lightning save me.” The man’s gaze was far away. “I have scars and claws to remember. Gods never far.”

Word Count2364=1656+708

by **Azmere** on April 28th, 2017, 2:05 am

The caravan rode on for several more bells. The Drykas were not the most hospitable people with which to travel. Their horses don’t like to walk and neither to the riders. Many of the smaller groups rode up and down and all around the caravan just to keep things interesting. Given the well-armed mercenaries of the merchants, the men and women in charge of the Watch’s escort didn’t feel a need to impress an excessive amount of discipline on their subordinates at this time. The walahk had all witnessed the speed, skill and tactical advantages of the horseclans –it was not likely a force they’d wish to engage.

Azmere had a pleasant enough conversation with the mercenary who carried his water pitchfork. The man had called it something but the archer couldn’t remember. He had elected to not race all around since Hephiestian was an older strider. The large stallion had no qualms about keeping the leisurely pace which afforded his rider a chance to practice some of the trickier skills that he had yet to master. To bide his time, the scarred Ra’athi adjusted his body a little lower into the yvas. This gave him the ability to direct his strider using one leg or the other in a lazy sort-of nudge. That didn’t mean the big creature would listen on the first attempt at communication but it was just another level to their dynamic.

Hands free and mind focused, Azmere looked at the palms of his hands and studied the lines and scars which created unique patterns on his skin. There was a set of criss-crossed etches in his right palm that reminded him of his favorite tree. This brought a smile to the right side of his face and he let a few nicer memories play against the back side of his vision. His right hand slowly rolled around on its wrist while the left hand’s fingers extended and flexed repeatedly as if he was trying to stretch away the sore. Within a chime, he had a watery substance stretched between his fingers and smoothed it over his right hand. Several more chimes went by and he continued to coat his skin.

A rise in the terrain forced Azmere to shift his legs about and steer Hephiestian away from the nearest wagon as it careened towards the duo. The stubborn strider seemed more inclined to fight the half-hearted attempt of his rider than place safe distance between himself and danger. Azmere sat up a bit and took hold of the yvas horn. He applied pressure with both legs which reminded the stallion who was in charge and then twisted his body just slightly until the animal beneath adjusted course. The watchman spent the rest of the trip playing the shield he had wrapped around his hand. It was an odd feeling to practice magic so openly. Azmere never considered himself a mage but he certainly wanted to improve his skills. Daleina had saved his life by placing a shield around his entire form. He, too, hoped to one day be so talented. As the journey continued, Azmere reached up with his unshielded hand and touched the wrap that was just a tiny piece of thin fabric.

The scarred man with the contrasting eyes looked far away into the distance and felt a sadness grip his chest. The light breeze replayed the first kiss across his lips but his mind focused on a sad, simple truth; it was her last.

by **Shaqira** on July 22nd, 2017, 11:26 pm

G R A D E

P U L R E N

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A Z M E R E

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N O T E S - The writing of the interaction between these two flowed so well it carried me into the picture & I almost forgot I was meant to be grading, great work!

If you feel I missed anything shoot me a PM.
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