Northern Justice (Rhuryc, Stitch)

[Amondaris]

Spring, Day 47, 511 AV. The two men were making their way back to Avanthal. Getting read to move out had taken surprisingly little time and effort, given that they had just fallen into a frozen lake. Not that they hadn't deserved it, really. I mean, really. Training atop ice? Morwen had probably grown tired of humouring the two warriors, and given the ice a little nod. Time to break, now. They're getting too worked up. Perhaps she had wanted them to cool off. Ha. Ha. He hated puns. So stupid. But where was he? Ah, yes. Ice training. To be fair, if they did this regularly enough, it could very well turn out to be the best form of training for combat to have been developed. After all, if you could fight gracefully and effectively on ice, just imagine how terrifying such a foe would be to face on solid ground. Perhaps he and Rhuryc could set up a school for people to train under them. He could see it now. Amondaris, Sword of the North, teaching his Fanged Blizzard style. Rhuryc, Bastion of the Realm, imparting the Incredibly Cheap Shield style to a new generation of annoying people that wanted to wield great, dirty slabs of metal. The students, to a man, would have to be insane. Perhaps they should make that a prerequisite. Maybe Rhuryc had hit in the head harder that he had originally though... Speaking of the foreigner, it was incredible that the man was still up and about. Apart from the occasional shiver and a pale cast to his tanned features, you would never have guessed he'd only recently been close to freezing to death. These Syliran Knights must be an impressive lot, if this one was a good representative of the typical chivalrous warrior. Maybe the stories about them and their courageous exploits weren't exaggerated. Which was surprising, given how the Vantha loved to flavour their tales with a bit more spice than was strictly believable. Granted, the man lacked the magical, resplendent armour, and his sword didn't talk or look all that fancy. Nor did he go about full of pomp and ceremony, and he was a bit plain looking... Perhaps the stories were exaggerated, after all.. Still. He seemed a reliable sort. Solid, trustworthy, he just gave off a dependable aura. No airs and graces, no arrogance, he was just a normal guy. He wondered how a man could remain so human after doubtless going through more than his share of harrowing experiences. Oh, the battles had left their mark on him, certainly, but Amondaris' wasn't referring to scars. At least, not the physical kind. War, be it between nations, towns or even two people, had a way of changing a man. Rhanor often said that with each man you killed, you were killing alittle piece of the man inside, of your soul, until there was nothing left but something that desired to take life. Rhuryc, though, still seemed to have his humanity largely intact. This, more than anything, impressed the Northerner. No easy feat, holding onto your soul. Even if you managed to keep the shreds of your humanity together, living with what you had done and would doubtless do again could tear it all to pieces. Another man might have commented upon such to the subject of his thoughts, asked him what it was like to kill a man, how many lives he had taken, but Amondaris knew better. A man's demons were easier to deal with if they weren't brought to attention by outside sources. Morwen knows, they could be hard enough to stomach when left alone. But perhaps he was overthinking things. Maybe it wasn't hard at all, to take a life. Watch the blood flow out, shrug and just say it had to be done, then move on. Maybe it differed from person to person. He had no idea. Thought for another day. He had had his fill of combat and near death experiences for today, and he suspected it would be a long way off before he took a life. If he had known what was coming, he would have had a very different train of thought right then. Alas, he did not possess the gift of foresight, and so his thought turned to other, happier things. That was when he spotted the first of them. Tall, though not nearly as tall as the two giants that he was as of yet unaware of, shaved head and carrying a longsword, the man was obviously not a Vantha. Nor was the man walking to his right. Something instinctual gave Amondaris pause, preventing him from calling out, just an inexplicable feeling that something was not quite right. His suspicions were confirmed when he caught traces of their accented Common, borne upon the wind. They seemed to be discussing..Slaves? The prices they were getting for them, something about Kelvics. Amondaris' blood ran cold as this sank in. Slavers, with a fresh haul of Kelvics. Avanthal was thankfully free of slavers, but that did not extend to the wilderness of the Northern Reaches, it seemed. The muscles in his jaw clenched at the thought of such men roaming as they pleased within Taldera. They would not roam for much longer. Glancing over to Rhuryc, his eyes a terribly cold grey, oddly reminiscent of the metal of the swords that hung by his waist, he waved towards the two slavers and raised his eyebrows. Though silent, it was obvious what the meaning of the quiet gesture was. What do we do?

[Rhuryc]

Shlock. That was it. The sound of his boots. Swoosh shlock. Squish. He hated wet boots. Hated. They were uncomfortable. They made strange noises. His feet were cold. His entire body was cold. Since the both of them departed the ice Rhuryc's clothing had since dried out, but the thick, traveling leather showed no such signs of reprieve. So he was left to his misery. One step. Another. All of it was a pox on his existence, the long walk. A historic event. When one man was forced to walk back to a city frozen in ice with uncomfortable shoes. Balls. Twice balls. Was there a point to that exercise? No. Of course not. Forget that he was already schooled in the art of falling into a freezing lake. At least that time he had a tent. And a fire. And his boots were dry. Petching boots. And there was a twinge of jealous. Rhuryc shot his companion the occasional look - at least when he was not focusing the considerable brunt of his willpower on not shaking - to watch the affects of the weather take due. Yet he was fine. No shiver. Not even cold. Damn him. Was there some kind of orientation he missed on his first day? Or maybe the Vantha were just immune to that sort of thing. It occurred to Rhuryc lately that being human sucked. A lot. Nevertheless he soldiered on, his exterior calm and collected as always. The conversation resumed as it was before. Neither spoke. On occasion one would motion to the other, but there was much to learn in silence. Amondaris, for instance, laked the particular gait the blacksmith was accustom to. His cant was different, unique. He moved without much of a sound, stalking the land instead of just using it. Strange. Maybe he was waiting to be attacked. Rhuryc shrugged to himself. Avanthal was still quite a ways off, so for the time being he allowed his mind to wander. Or not. Damn boots! Bah! Instead he occupied himself with the landscape. White. More white. The sky was white. Why was everything so white! Shlock. Really?! He stopped. In his withheld rage he did not notice the two men, but at the motion of his companion Rhuryc turned his gaze about. Men? Armed. He was close enough to make out their speech. Ah, bandits. And worse, slavers. They were too involved in their own company to much notice two estranged travelers, that and the terrain made for a lucky find. Both himself and Amondaris were hidden by a short, downward slope, the incline just high enough to keep them immediate view. Good. They could avoid notice. A simple glance alerted Rhruyc to the feelings of his friend - he shared very much the same ideals - and so without deliberation he placed a hand on the hilt of his blade. Gently, slowly, he pulled the sword from its sheath and eyed Amondaris, taking his time to remove the weapon as if to tell him to follow suit. He reached about once the tip left the leather holding and grabbed his shield as well. Time to teach these fellows the Incredibly Cheap Shield Style. Rhuryc motioned to the unwitting fellows. He mocked bashing one of them on the head with his shield than tilted his head toward the incline. That must have meant something. Sh-lock. Oh good. At least he was quieter about it. The man made an effort to keep his wet, annoying feet from making too much of ruckus. By the time he reached the base of hill, though, the men stopped their conversation. Sod it. Rhuryc charged. With several, furious strides, the man stormed his adversaries. Suitably warned, both bandits withdrew their weapons. The one on the right, Rhuryc's target, brandished his blade and set it against his aggressor. Something akin to a grumble escaped the young man. He removed his hand from the strap of his shield. Strange. Without interrupting his stride Rhuryc flung his arm forward and through the solid slab of metal. The man blinked. He flailed his blade in the way of the unexpected assault and swung his arm about, the action opening enough. Rhuryc threw himself into the man with a reckless abandon, taking him to the ground and beating his head against the ground. He gurgled. The sword followed, the edge forced into the bandits chest and through the light maille that rested beneath. Ah, well armored too. Beneath their frozen wasteland fashioned attire both were well suited to deal with threats. Just not Rhuryc. He lifted his gaze from the lifeless corpse to the engagement beside him. The fact that he was not dead meant that either Amondaris had made swift work of his man, or that his own death was just taking a few moments to recover.

[Amondaris]

Amondaris understood Rhuryc's miming well enough. Hard not to, really. The Knight would use that damnable shield on the slaver on the right, leaving Amondaris to deal with the man on the left whom he had initially spotted. They would have to do this quickly and quietly. These were doubtless rearguard elements left to catch stragglers. A prolonged or noisy combat would alert any men further along the line, no doubt. The plan suited him just fine. It didn't even occur to him that this would mark the first time he would kill a man, at least while in control of his senses. He unsheathed his twin grosse messers from their scabbards, an act he had always likened to rousing beasts from their slumber. Done gently or with great haste, the end result would be much the same. Blood would be spilled. The only difference was how long it took. He did not hesitate as Rhuryc stormed the hill, turning his attention completely from the Syliran to focus upon his prey. With a lope that devoured feet with each lengthy stride, Amondaris flowed up the slope towards the slaver, blades extended to either side. His opponent had already drawn his weapon, thus eliminating any benefits the element of surprise would have granted. Not that the white hunter needed it. Plain steel clashed with the superior cold iron of Amondaris' blade, the metallic clang puncturing the silence of the clearing neatly. It was eerie, after a fashion. While his foe grunted with exertion, and made the noises typical of one embroiled in the heat of combat, the pale warrior fought without a sound. Very peculiar, to say the least. Their battle was a brief affair. The slaver sought to press the assault, striving to get past Amondari's dual swords and land a crucial blow. The large halfblood smashed the attempted lunge aside with his left blade, it's mate flickering out to lick across the man's throat, slitting the flesh open neatly, in a gross parody of a gaping mouth. Blood fountained sluggishly from the wound, spurting weakly as the slaver sank slowly to his knees, sword clattering to the ground as he sought to stem the flow of his precious lifesblood with his hands. His dazed eyes sought out Amondaris', perhaps in an effort to seek mercy. He found none in those terribly cold orbs. The hunter simply stood and watched the man die with a detatched, patient curiosity. Vaguely, he wondered how long it would take for the man to die of bloodloss. He did not have long to wait for his question to be answered as the man collapsed forward, all traces of life fled from the unmoving corpse. Feeling not so much as a twinge of emotion at the passing of the man, Amondaris turned to see how Rhuryc was faring. Ah. Judging from the mess that had been made of the other bandit's skull, his companion had simply smashed his brains out against the ground. Lacking in finesse, perhaps, but just as effective as any other means of killing a man. His white leather marred with a light spray of blood, the hunter gestured up the trail with one of his weapons, pointing at the two felled hunters with it's mate, then mouthing the Common word for more. Doubtless, Rhuryc had also deduced that these were not the main body of the group, but it never hurt to be sure. There were more of these filth to deal with, and then there was the matter of the Kelvics they had mentioned. The work of the two warriors was far from done.

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc grumbled something about blood. He pushed himself up and ripped his blade from the bandit's chest. Slaving bastard. He cleaned the sword with a few passes over the dead man's coat before he began a quick scour of the surroundings. Some broken wagons, discarded weapons. A few armored bodies lay strewn about the snow. A caravan. Or something similar. The corpses were Vanthan in appearance, some of them guardsmen, one or two maybe a resisting civilian. Bah. A glance was all he needed to tell him where the rest of them were. Although true, Rhuryc was not a fan of snow, when it was still fresh the powder held footprints better than mud. Even he could follow what appeared to be dozens of people from the scene. With a wave he motioned Amondaris forward. He was the hunter, perhaps he could find them a route that was not quite so obvious. The tracks were nothing short of easy to follow. Despite their good fortune - or perhaps ill luck - Rhuryc kept his senses alive, alert. On more than one occasion he gave both their flank and behind more than just a cursory glance. Those white cloaks could hide anything on this terrain. So it was that he busied himself with watching the snow for movement, even the most subtle differences in texture or color. Breathing had a strange way of separating the inanimate with ferocious predators that wanted you dead. The plain ahead was riddled with rolling, white covered hills, a terrain unsuitable for travel and one designed to deter the casual stalker. It was only a matter of time before they hit an ambush. Ah. There. Rhuryc leapt into action. From a sizable distance he made out a brief flicker of motion. The duo crossed the foot of a low-lying incline on either side of them - go figure - when a man made his presence known in a sudden, hostile fashion. Arrows. Why always with the damn arrows?! Rhuryc grunted and brought his shield to bear. He stepped forward and hunkered down behind the metal slab, the brunt of it intercepting the projectile meant for Amondaris. The reason for Rhuryc's defense nature became all the more apparent with time. Yet that was something neither of them had. With a ferocious cry, no less than three more of their would-be assassins produced themselves from the higher ground, armed each with an assorted degree of blades. Lovely. "Ah. You take those two and I'll get the fellow with the bow." How delightful.

[Stitch]

Stitch had stumbled across the two men's pathway while he was wandering the wastelands, and had automatically adjusted his path to intersect with the bodies of warmth. That was pretty much the only reason he wanted to interact with them, at this point. It was a fairly normal day in Taldera, which translated into a brisk wind and steady snow. It was always so petching cold here, and it always managed to put the normally happy man in a horrible mood. With that horrible mood came the desire to be completely and utterly alone. Everyone else didn't seem to mind the cold. They would come prancing up to him, happy and warm with their Morwen mark, and he would be the one left shivering and trembling. Darn them. But wait. In this frozen wasteland, if they were warm... then they were a source of heat. And if they were a source of heat, then perhaps he could convince them to maybe... hold him for awhile. Just a little bit. Just enough to warm him up. They wouldn't complain about that, would they? Stitch had pretty much made a beeline for them at that point. To keep up his body heat, he decided to jog. He would just follow the faded footprints in the ground, and the residue Aura that had been left there. It was a recent skill he had discovered, being able to see where people had once walked. It was a faded sight, and he estimated such residue only lasted for about half an hour. So, he had to jog fast. It wasn't long before his breath came hard, his footsteps kicking up clouds of thin snow. His lungs were burning, yet the cold and crisp air also made it feel as if there was ice in his throat. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and one he was not familiar with. He hadn't ever really jogged that much. He had tried doing it some back at Syliras, but he hadn't lasted long. He remembered why now. It was hard to jog like this, at a steady, brisk pace. The soft snow felt like stone to his running feet after only a few minutes, causing great aches to explode upwards through the soles. His pumping legs were filled with just as much fire as his lungs, and the muscle aches and cramps continued up into his stomach. He felt as if he was going to petching lose his lunch. When did you stop wanting to be strong, Stitch? The voice in his head rang clear, and Stitch focused, trying hard to keep his breathing even. Just keep breathing in, and out. That is what a few of the joggers in Syliras had told him. Don't gulp in great breathes of air, just breath like you normally would. Trying to distract himself, Stitch lifted his head to the wind, focusing his blind eyes on the horizon, trying to spot the people he was tracking through the snow. He was lucky that it wasn't snowing that hard, or the footprints would have been long gone. Without them, he wouldn't have made it this far. Soon, two people came into view, laying on the ground. They weren't living and breathing people, though. They were dead. Stitch paused midstep as the sudden smell of blood hit his nose. He stilled completely, gagging, a hand going to his stomach as the smell of death and blood struck at him over and over again. The Auras were still flickering, just a bit. They hadn't completely drained of Djed, not yet. The kills were fresh, as if he couldn't figure that out from the smell. Gagging once more, he took a step toward the two Auras, not really focusing on them. Had they been attacked? He couldn't take his eyes off of the dead bodies staining the white ground, even as he passed by them at his brisk jog. He hated death. He always had, and always would. Burping several times, Stitch attempted to keep his lunch down, continuing on after whoever had done this. Would he find murderers, or people who had simply defended themselves? He spared a quick glance around, noting the dead bodies and the wreckage. It looked like the site of some kind of attack... but Stitch couldn't imagine why there would have been such a battle out here. Forcing more bile down his throat, Stitch hurried on. He didn't want to look upon it any longer. Soon after, Stitch approached the small incline, and several more Auras became apparent to him. The scent of anger and danger flooded his nose, and aggression registered in every Aura he looked upon. It appeared the two down in the Ravine were the ones under attack... and then there were three attacking them. All of them were melee, except for one, who had a bow. That would be difficult to handle, especially from their position. And one of the Auras... Stitch thought he knew. Was it possible? "Rhuryc?!" All at once, attention shifted to the blind man. The archer was the first to react, knowing this man wasn't one of their own. Stitch was heavily wrapped in all sorts of wool, with a dark brown cloak wrapped around him as well, and an accompanying hood drawn up around his head. He stood out like a sore thumb, and the archer was only happy to have a target. He fired at Stitch, just as the blind man dashed to the aid of the two men in the ravine. The arrow flew true, aimed right at the heart of the sudden reinforcements. Stitch saw the arrow coming long before it was fired, realizing that he had pulled eyes to himself. The archer was the one who directed the most attention to Stitch, and soon, that attention directed itself toward Stitch's heart. His Auristics revealed so much. He used this knowledge to steel himself, to dip down into his well of Djed, both to keep his Auristics powered as well as to summon more Djed to his arms. The Flux is what aided him here, another magical discipline that allowed him to manipulate his Djed flow with some ease. He wasn't that good at more advanced and specific applications... but simply borrowing Djed from other parts of his body, and giving them to other large regions of his body... that he could do. The blind man continued to approach, not stupid, just not letting on to the fact that he knew. He would keep the archer distracted as long as possible, and hope the two men would take advantage of the situation. Who knew if they would. The second was a stranger, but the first... He was a protector. The arrow came hurtling toward Stitch, and the blind man steeled himself, focusing his Auristics on the attacking object. At the same time, he took a deep breath, tugging oxygen from the air just as he tugged Djed from his arms, reinforcing his muscles with extra power. He would need to time this perfectly. The arrow finally hit home, and Stitch reacted. Two hands shot out, and he spun back, turning with his left shoulder. The arrow nicked at his wool, and easily began to cut through, slowed but little. Instantly, his hands wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, even as he went spinning down towards the ground, the falling spin making it look like he had been hit. The shaft slid through his palms, burning them. He growled, and put all of his reinforced muscles into his grip, instantly almost stopping the arrow. The steel tip barely pricked at his skin before it stopped, warning him of how close he had been. He had survived. He had been forced to use his Auristics, his Martial Arts skills, and his Flux... but it had stopped. He had caught it. It would be a breathless moment as the man stood, an arrow in the grip of his hands. He slowly ripped the head from the wool it was tangled in, lifting his head to look upon his surroundings once more. Through the hood, they would now be able to get a look at his face. He had bandages around his eyes, the ends of which were out and flapping in the wind. He was blind.

[Amondaris]

The snow was a peculiar thing, really, when it came to tracking. It could make it so it was either impossible to follow even the largest and clumsiest of beasts, or render the slightest trail so painfully obvious that even a blind man could follow it. Not, he imagined, that a blind man had any business attempting to track something, especially out here in the Talderan wilderness. The mere notion was absurd. Ridiculous, even. One did not need to study tracks to discern what had occurred here, however. A convoy of some sort,a group of wagons likely banded together for the mutual protection that the weight of numbers often granted. A tactic employed by every prey animal he had heard of, and one humans were not above utilising, for it was a tried and tested one. Not that it always worked, of course. The wreckage strewn about the snow and the bodies dotting the area were proof enough of that. A merchant with his wares, nobles of high rank or simple travelers, it mattered little to the opportunistic bandits that had set upon the ill-fated caravan. They would have attacked regardless, more than likely. Slavers cared not for your profession or social standing, they could sell you regardless of whether you were a Lord or the village baker, so long as you were fairly able bodied. Such did not sit well with the young hunter, and it never had. He simply could not abide the thought that someone could sell another person for profit, that they could tear them away from their life and their family for a handful of coin. He would make certain that this particular band of slavers could not ruin another life again, very certain indeed. Having been motion forward by the other man, Amondaris set about attempting to set for them a route that would provide them with at least some subtlety and chance of not being seen so horribly easily. Glancing over to the tracks occasionally to make sure that they hadn't lost the trail, his evaluation of their chances at a stealthy approach was bleak, despite his camouflaged attire. Everything was just too open and bare, and they had to keep up a healthy pace if they wanted to actually catch their quarry before the knaves got away. The element of surprised would be very much absent from this encounter, depressingly. On the bright side, their foes shouldn't catch them unawares, either, which wasn't all that much of a silver lining, when he thought about it. It wasn't long before they caught up with those that they hunted, approaching an incline on either side of the two men. Perfect ambush territory, if he ever saw it. Yes, the element of surprise was most definitely gone from this engagement. He kept pace alongside Rhuryc as the man went forward, for once thankful of the large slab of metal the man carried with him. If there was an archer, it would come in us- His thought was abruptly interrupted by an arrow bouncing off the bulwark the Syliran Knight had lifted in time to intercept one that had been heading for the young hunter. He would have to thank him for that later, but he had spied the two men who had so enthusiastically announced their arrival. Why were they always so loud? He responded to Rhuryc's target designation with a curt, "Certainly," and surged forward to meet the two swordsmen, who in turn barelled down the incline to meet Amondaris head-on. ..Or, rather, they would have, had not a new guest to the little party made himself known with all the subtlety of a Dire bear. Rhuryc? A companion of the shieldbearer, then, of some sort. This theory was soon given extra weight when the bowman loosed one of those petching arrows towards the newcomer, who did something Amondaris had never expected to see anyone do. He caught the arrow. Mid-flight. Out of the air. Oh, sure, he had fallen and such, but he had still caught it, and he had moved so fast. It took the white-clad hunter a moment to register the fact that the man wore bandages over his eyes. But he can't be blind. That's ridiculous. A person who can't see can't catch arrows like that. What madness is this? His thoughts whirled about in no small amount of confusion at this new turn of events, but he decided to abandon the matter for later. A soft crunch of snow brought his attention back to a more immediate concern. Ah, yes. I was about to stab some people. How silly of me to forget. Duly chastised, he turned his attention, and his eyes, back to the two bandits who had similarly brought their gazes back to him, and were now charging down to meet him. This could be tricky. He would need to focus in order to come away unscathed, or at all. He cleared his mind of any and all distracting thought, lapsing into the meditative routine he had established for himself when in such a situation. In his mind's eye, he pictured a vast, endless tundra of pure, stark white. It held a bleak sort of beauty to it, with the light snow drifting softly upon the air. I am the sword. Now, a sword materialised, spinning, suspended above the ground with it's point towards the snow-blanketed earth. Long, as long as any bastard sword, yet with a curved tip and formed of dark, lusterless metal, with worn leather wrapped about the grip. A plain weapon, without ornamentation, but it's edge was terribly sharp, and left no question as to it's lethality. The sword is calm. The blade halted immediately, ceasing it's rapid spinning to hang with perfect stillness amidst the gentle flurries of pure white snow that descended from the cloudless, azure sky of this imaginary world. The sword feels nothing. Frost rimed the dark metal of the weapon, the minuscule crystals consuming the sword inch by inch with their pale perfection, swiftly spreading to encompass the entirety of the grosse messer, leaving the weapon sheathed in white. The sword is empty. A thick sheeting of ice followed the frost, completely covering the weapon with it's glistening, crystalline beauty. It looked for all the world as if it had been carved from ice to begin with, more a work of art than a weapon of war, truly stunning to behold. A stream of white mist flowing from the glacial weapon, despite the snow which drifted around it, evident of the extreme cold that the weapon now possessed. All of this, a simple routine, a metaphor for the emotional and mental clarity, the emptiness that Amondaris strove to achieve when fighting. For the most part, it served it's purpose. He felt his anger dying down to a dull roar, as if heard from a great distance, replaced with a state of calm. He was the sword, and he was ready. Little to no time had passed as Amondaris had mentally prepared himself for the oncoming clash, and the man had only just reached where the hooded hunter stood, twin weapons already in hand. He was ready for them. The man on the left, the one with a shortsword, reached him first, a heartbeat or two before his companion. He held his sword high and to one side, clearly intending to bring it down in a powerful swing to end Amondaris' life in one fell swoop. Yet this left him terribly open, as the man had commited himself entirely to his attack, which the hunter took advantage of. Leaning into the man, he brought his left grosse messer forward, the wickedly sharp tip snapping out towards the man's neck, the metal tearing out the side of the man's throat, thick splashes of blood staining the snow. The bandit stumbled once, twice, then went tumbling to land in a sprawled heap a short distance away, his blow never to land as Amondaris' second attacker came within striking distance. This one was more intelligent, keeping his blade close to himself and leaving little in the way of a gap as the weapon snaked out in an attempt to split open Amondaris' chest. Responding reflexively, Amondaris' right sword snapped out to shove the blade off it's intended course, grating along the other man's weapon as the grosse messer arced past the attack and sank deeply into the man's abdomen. With a quick jerk and a tug, Amondaris pulled the blade free, bringing his fist up and forward to smash into the man's face as the slaver pressed his hands to his rent stomach. The dying raider collapsed to the ground, groaning pitifully as the white hunter stared emotionlessly down at the wounded man. He kept his gaze for a few heartbeats more before he leant down slightly and jammed his sword into the man's throat and executing him with a terrible, distant coldness. All of this, he had done in perfect silence, uttering not so much as a grunt as he had fought the two men, his emotions suppressed. A peculiar fellow, to say the least. He straightened and turned to see how Rhuryc had fared with the archer, his blades raising up into a defensive stance, in case the bowman tried to loose a few arrows his way.The stranger, he would come to later. Surviving was paramount, for now, and he would see how the situation played out. He knew Rhuryc, after all, so perhaps the Knight would deal with him first.

[Rhuryc]

The archer looked away. That was a mistake. Rhuryc charged. The sound of his wet boots sloshing against the thick, white powder beneath drew the attention of the armed man guarding the ranged foe, his sole focus suddenly shifted to the charging mass of a warrior. They met in a clash of steel. Blade came across shield in a crash that echoed across the plain. The brunt of the man's weight fell upon the bandit as he pushed his enemy back up the hill, his shoulder ducking low and under the exposed chest. With a solid hold, Rhuryc continued to ascend, the flat of his shield tucked up against his opponent's torso in a forced withdraw, both of them careening toward the top of the hill. Shoulders tensed from the strain. A blade came about and Rhuryc felt the edge sear across the armor on his chest, yet he ignored the impact. Boots dug into snow as they reached the top. The bandit was flung aside and Rhruyc turned to the bowmen. Already another arrow was knocked. Slam! Metal met flesh. The arrow cascaded to the side in short succession after the assault, its owner following in the wake. A step brought Rhuryc over the body where he plummeted the thick of his sword into the archer's chest. Something hit his side. Stumbling, the man felt the cold, wet snow against his face and pressure dug into his back. The world was suddenly a haze. Something hit him? Someone hit him. An arm came about as the warrior flung himself over, pushing against the ground and shoving his antagonist off of his body. Free, Rhuryc rolled over and grabbed at a tuft of hair, raised the foreign head, then shoved it back into the ground. Once. Twice. There was a crack. The body went limp. Guh. Rhuryc grumbled and forced himself up. Petching slavers. He retrieved his blade in a short manner and flicked his gaze over to Amondaris. He was alive? Good. Satisfied, he cleaned the blood of his weapon and took to the mysterious entity whom drew the archer's attention. That voice was familiar. "Stitch?" No. No way. Why not? That blind bastard was in Avanthal? Taldera, anyway. Rhuryc heightened his pace when he saw just who it was that called his name. He was unmistakable. Those bandages, the voice, everything from the clothing to the shoe wear, he could never forget that face, not even had he wanted to. A swift jog brought him up alongside the blind caretaker. Metal scraped against steel as he sheathed his blade and examined his previous companion. Did he catch that arrow? Nothing short of astounding. For a moment Rhuryc stood in stoic silence. Then, as if a changed man, his countenance erupted into a bright, humored grin. He took a step forward and wrapped his arms around the man's torso and laughed allowed, seemingly unconcerned with the death that only just occurred. "Hah! What are you doing here you blind fool? Come looking for more ways to get yourself killed?" For just a moment Stitch was airborne. Rhuryc released him before long and took a step back, overjoyed at the presence of another companion.

[Stitch]

Stitch stood still as Rhuryc approached, looked somewhat surprised. He hadn't known that Rhuryc was such an effective killer, and his companion... well, they were both really talented at what they did. What they did. The blind man doubled over a bit as Rhuryc drew closer, snapping out of his faint shock. The smell of blood was what did it to him, and he blanched, gagging and choking on bile that rose to his throat. He hated the smell of blood, and he hated the sight of death. To him, it was much more detailed than it was to most people. He could see the spray of blood, see the darkness of death, see the flickering of their auras as the Djed drained from them. He knew what their dying emotions were, could see their innermost pain and agony... he could easily see it all. Even as impressed as the two men may have been by Stitch's arrow catch, they would quickly realize that their new companion was even less of a man than they were. In a way. A soft hand clapped up to Stitch's mouth, and he doubled over, gagging and wretching. Even if no bile came up, it was obvious that his stomach was giving it a try. He hated all of this mess. Quickly though, he straightened up, giving Rhuryc a shaky smile. He chuckled a bit at the man's sudden outburst of a greeting, and held his arms wide as Rhuryc approached, obviously quite ready for the hug that was to come. He gasped out as Rhuryc grabbed him and lifted, not ready for such a crushing hug, letting out a loud squeak as he flailed a bit in midair. When Rhuryc released him, he fell in a small pile, limbs flying and flailing in every which way. He landed in the snow with an "oof", and almost immediately blurred to his feet, as if the snow were lava. He was quick to smack it off his body, a sentiment that Rhuryc himself might understand. Sylirians, with their nice sun and gentle winters... they would hate this climate. Stitch was quick to clean himself, and looked up, grinning brightly at Rhuryc. "Hello, milord. This one is just here on personal adventure. You see, this one is having trouble sleeping... so, this one wants a sleeping potion! And, well, for this particularly effective sleeping potion.. this one needs the brain of a frost worm! So, this one figures, this land is frosty... and there are probably worms..." The statement was absurd, but Stitch explained it very quickly and innocently, as if he was just describing how to throw a simple punch. He wasn't making up some grandoise story. That might not be the only reason he was here... but it was one of them. Giving Rhuryc a clap on the shoulder, he rose his other hand, waving at the stranger. "Hello there, milord! This one is named Stitch! You seem quite profiecent with a blade, milord! This one was impressed!" Once again, Stitch spoke with that happy and innocent tone. He seemed quite... young. Turning to Rhuryc, the expression on his face turned a bit more serious. "What happened here, milord? Did these men attack you? And what about the two earlier?"

[Amondaris]

Amondaris simply stood and watched as Rhuryc made short work of his two opponents, content to further his study of the man's style of combat. There was little room for finesse with that shield, and the man was clearly very aware of that fact. An instrument well suited to it's wielder, truly. His frosted orbs tracked Rhuryc as he made his was to what was evidently an old acquaintance of his. Little in the way of emotion touched the hunter's eyes as he watched the reunion nearby, merely standing sentry with his blades hanging loosely at his sides, content to merely observe. It was always a peculiar thing to watch, the reacquaintance of old friends. There were so many memories dredged up from the murky depths of thought, so many familiar emotions given fresh life. The manner in which people greeted their old friends differed as much as did the people themselves. A subdued wave, a slight nod of the head, joyous cries or even open weeping. Rhuryc evidently expressed himself with hugs. Enthusiastic hugs. A strange fellow. Normally fairly subdued and quiet, from what Amondaris could tell, and not prone to grand displays of emotion. The exuberant manner with which he greeted this..Did he call him Stitch? What kind of a name is that? Strange. The manner, at least, was very much at odds with what the mixedblood had assumed of the man. Hidden depths, then, and more human than he had originally thought. Interesting. For his part, the blind man's reaction to the scene before him was that of one ill used to such bloodshed. Undignified, yet Amondaris thought no less of him for the weakness of stomach, or gentleness of spirit. If there were more of such people like this man, made uneasy by war, then perhaps the world would be a gentler place to dwell in. As it was, however...The droplets of blood falling to stain the virgin snow below spoke well enough for it's current state. The man had to be a magician of some sort. Rhuryc had called him blind, and with those bandages over his eyes, Amondaris could well believe it, but..He head caught that arrow, and made his way through the wilderness presumably without falling prey to any great mishap. Could magic let a blind man see? Was such a thing possible? Perhaps the man was blessed by the gods, or possessed some sort of wondrous artifact that allowed him to see while..Well, being blind. Rhuryc did not seem bothered in the slightest by the fact the man could see, so it was reasonably safe to assume this Stitch character didn't sacrifice newborn infants in exchange for his gifts, at any rate. Reasonably. Keeping an ear out for any telltale signs of the other slavers having noticed their fellow's absence, it took Amondaris a moment to register that the blind fellow was addressing him. Blinking, the young half-Vantha turned to regard the newcomer with a faintly quizzical frown, the gesture lost, as ever, beneath the fur of his hood and that which covered the majority of his face. Had the man called him Milord? Did he think he was some sort of noble? The notion brought lustrous flecks of deep gold to life amongst the frosted blue-white of his irises, a faint flicker of amusement brought about by the absurd image of himself being mistaken for some sort of Lord. Ridiculous. The enormous, white-clad man execured a precise, fluid and extremely formal bow that was very much at odds with his feral appearance, twin weapons sweeping out and up to either side as he bent at the waist, knee flexing forward slightly. "Not as skilled as you are with your hands, sir. Words do not do justice, I think. I am called Amondaris. A pleasure." His Common was broken and childish, yes, but his soft, musical baritone was at least pleasing to the ear, if nothing else. Straightening out of his elegant bow, the hunter turned from the two men below out of both a sense of courtesy and to watch for any enemies that may try to sneak up on them unawares. One of them may as well be paying attention, after all.

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc glanced away as the two introduced themselves. He was overjoyed to see Stitch again, but the realization of their encounter did little to set his mind at ease. A sort of paranoia gripped the man. Fear for the lives he know felt responsible for. In no way did he consider the blind warrior helpless, but there were disadvantages to the way he carried himself. The way he fought. Damn it all. He scoured the landscape for any more signs of their prey, eyes flicking from one hillside to the next. That ambush meant they were on the right trail. Did that mean they knew there would be followers? Turning, he sheathed his blade and slung his shield over his shoulder, arms folding up under his chest in a stern concentration. The landscape was too uneven to get a clear view. Balls. They would be traveling blind from here in. At least one of them was used to that. "Slavers." Rhuryc almost spat the word out. "We came upon the two men back at the caravan talking about their catch, Stitch. We managed to trek them up into that ravine before they, well. You saw, I assume." He spoke and turned back toward the duo, his eyes narrow and countenance once more assuming a stoic expression. The subject had a way of sobering the man. "It's not much of our responsibility, but Tyveth be damned if we're not going to do anything about it. There will be more blood." He spoke directly to the Syliran, making his intentions very clear before asking anything more. There was a serious tone about the warrior, something sinister in intent, yet somehow still honest in nature. His body was stiff, muscles tensed. The idea of wanton death did not excite Rhuryc, but the idea of leaving such injustice to the fates was little less than an act of murder. "Come on, I doubt we have much time before the lot of them notice they're missing some scouts." With a wave Rhuryc shifted, the fur cloak at his back bellowing him in a regal fashion as he started back toward the ravine. The tracks had taken them in that direction and so they would persist. He moved with purpose and intent, his back straight with a rigid, somehow violent posture. There was work to be done. Past the narrow a clearing opened up. Surrounded by the vast, snow drifted wastes a series of low lying valleys and treacherous hills dotted the landscape in what was a perfect means of a secretive existence. The ever shifting snows blew over tracks no sooner than they were made. It was almost impossible to follow damn near anyone. Path after path presented itself in a natural labyrinth. Cold, howling winds made themselves a nuisance in the mean time, nipping at the exposed bits of flesh and freezing those who dared to linger too long. None of this gave the man so much as a moment's pause. Despite the lack of direction, Rhuryc stepped out into the maze.