[Flashback] The Eagle and the Serpent (Wrenmae)

by **Razia** on January 16th, 2012, 12:29 am

Timestamp: 18th of Summer, 508 AV

A vast array peaks dotted the land below; a rigid spine winding across the face of the earth. They stretched up toward the sky, reaching and broken, yearning to touch the clouds that hung just above their tips. In the mist of the blanket of covering, an eagle wove its way between ridges, eyes fixed on the land below, gliding effortlessly. Its wings spread to their full width, its magnificent stark white feathers camouflaged it against the clouded sky. Flittering about just below, a falcon taunted the gigantic eagle, flapping to a fro with exceeding excitement.

Although invisible from below, seated atop the eagle’s back was a girl. She was slight of frame, with a fiery red mane barely disturbed by the rustling wind. The sky rushed about her, and her eyes were closed, and a wide grin played across her lips. Her arms were outstretched as if she herself had wings, and her palms open to catch a flood of misty wind that engulfed her. As the mountains raced by below, she leaned forward, opening her eyes to soak in the spectacle. Pressing herself against the midnight feathers of the eagle, she wrapped one arm around its neck, allowing the other to fall downward. She pointed at an approaching valley, twittering in Nari under her breath. The eagle responded with a thunderous caw and began to descend.

As the ground quickly drew near, the girl positioned herself accordingly, tucking her legs beneath her chest and placing her feet on the eagle’s back. She held fast to the eagle’s neck, glowing aqua eyes fixed on the ground. Just before landing, the girl leapt off, catching herself in a rough roll as she hit the ground. The eagle landed harshly a few yards off, shaking out its feathers with a series of chirps and whistles. It shot a glance toward the falcon, which perched in a nearby tree, singing to it smugly. The eagle looked back to its rider, folding its wings at its sides. As the woman stood, brushing herself off, its nestled itself into the grass. “You realize this is no place to camp,” he stated, hissing at the falcon that chirped in response.

The woman gave him a smirk as she approached, then reached up to stroke his feathers. “We’re not camping here,” she muttered, walking to his side and reaching over his back into the pack that was tied down there. “This is the only clear landing for miles. There’s no way we’d be able to see the ruins from above anyway. I’ll have to go on foot.” Her tone was playful, but her expression held a severity that clearly displayed her irritation. She pulled a crumpled paper from the pack, as well as a water skin. Cocking his head to the side, the eagle watched her, “You know you’re not alone here.” He whistled after a moment. Raising a brow, the girl attached the water skin to her belt and slipped the paper into a pouch on her hip. “You’ll be close by,” she muttered, holding up a gloved hand toward the falcon. It launched itself away from the branch, landing gracefully on her outstretched arm. She stood before the eagle, placing her free hand on his beak, “Listen for my signal. I’ll call if I find anything, alright?” She ruffled the feathers on his face, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his beak.

After a short moment, she pulled away, giving him a smile. In response, he spread his wings, giving her a curt nod, and took off, disappearing over the trees. The woman looked to the falcon, “Scout ahead,” she breathed in Nari, petting the falcon before allowing him to depart. Once she was alone, she eyed the sky, and then set off into the forest.

Inspiration :

by **Wrenmae** on January 18th, 2012, 11:37 pm

"No man is born a hero. We find our calling in the desperation that drives all souls to malignancy, a corruption that grows for the right reasons, and takes the wrong means. Inevitably as evil rises, there must be good to push at its roots...its veins. These men and women will rise from the common to grasp the excellence. Briefly we all can taste that sense of legendary, and even briefer our fall to the doldrums that raised us. Few make names for themselves of heroic acts. For every great warrior or mage you hear of, for ever charitable act remembered in the hearts of those who speak them, there are countless others who offer freely and are forgotten. Some even die for their heroism. To be a hero, as a whole, is an aberrational quality. To put ones own survival in peril for the health of another simply reverberates too strongly with suicidal behavior. I'd like to think myself a good man, but once upon a time I sold my sister and brother to disease to save my own life. I cannot be proud of it, but I am beyond the point of feeling guilty. Life goes on. We own our mistakes. I may not have been a hero in that moment, but I'd like to think I merely extended my life for a chance to be selfless. Can any of us be so lucky? So forthright? In the end, it will be the moment that decides it...the do or die second between life and death that a hero must forget about and offer selfless sacrifice for. We know then, in that breath between time, what we are.

What we all really are."

-Excerpt, Wrenmae's Journal Book 2

Three days now. It had been three days. Storms had rolled and passed, the sky was clear now and its wind favored the tired skin on his face. The winding paths of the Unforgiving had allowed his singular passage, but snatched at his skin as he walked. There was a hunger in these craigs, the feeling of encompassing fear, as though one walked on the very jaws of a hungry beast. Any moment the dagger peaks might turn in on him, close above him and swallow him to some sort of unimaginable depth.

Darkness.

But three days was a necessity. The cutthroats had traveled just ahead of him, one easily navigating the dangers while the other two held their prisoner behind. She, the prisoner, was a girl who had caught his eye in a tavern once. She had a smile like the dawn, sudden light in a musty night, and for that and that alone he had followed her kidnappers. Money, slavery, sex, he didn't know the reason they took her. Only twice had he seen them up close, crouched in bushes or hanging slightly off the rocks above them. The three men were gruff, mercenaries who had earned their survival in a price paid by flesh. Scars crossed their faces like hills and valleys, seasoning their grimace with threat to back it up.

Wrenmae had heard little of the conversations, only aware that they were to meet their employer, a Symenestra, in the ruins ahead.

One of the horses injured itself that night, the unfortunate result of a hypnotic suggestion to charge off suddenly at no provocation, and utilizing that pitfall, Wrenmae had pulled ahead.

Sweat dampened his forehead, still cold against the wind as he sat cross legged above the ruins in question. A dense overhang of trees shaded his person from sight, and the storyteller looked down at the cut stone pillars and beaten ground with uneasy trepedation. Here was a place of old death, a poor sort of location to stage a struggle for life. The stones had long since drank their share of life and now they yearned for more. He couldn't say how, or why, but he felt it. The ruins yawned for fresh viscera, color to paint their bleached devastation...that they might rise using the life given.

The sun touched his legs, dappled on his face. It was near midmorning and none had arrived yet. He was alone.

He stared down at his arms, raising two fingers dipped in ink to trace lines and circles across his forearm and palms....the backs of his hands. Glyphing, a process taught to him by Seidaku and now used in ways the teacher would no doubt scorn.

He wasn't as skilled in morphing as he wanted to be, not yet. But these glyphs were made to accelerate the change he wanted, a transformation of his forearm into a weapon of spike and claws. He'd practiced it before, almost every night on his journey over. His right was the dagger, his left the weapon. The dangers of morphing were simple, and if he failed today, it wouldn't matter.

Sighing, he held his arm out to the sun, letting the sun dry the ink into a temporary sheen on his skin. The shapes and whorls, the circles and designs, they meant nothing to him. He simply did as he felt, connecting the waving lines and shooting angles to form the cohesive circle he needed to channel his Djed through.

He was not insane. He was not a monster. He was here wasn't he? He didn't even KNOW the girl, much less had anything invested in her...well...perhaps she bore the resemblance of his sister...a bit, but there was no other reason. This sort of suicidal altruism shouldn't be ignored outright. Wrenmae wanted to believe he was a good person, worth some merit in the overall scheme.

He was a protagonist, not an antagonist, and in the story of life...everyone played their roles.

Always.

Breathing out and in, out and in, Wrenmae sighed the heavy air from his lungs and cleared his mind. He didn't have time to be afraid, to be unsure. He had come this far...he would go father yet.

He would not leave without the girl.

by **Razia** on January 21st, 2012, 4:41 am

The sun had hit its zenith in the sky far too soon for Razia's liking. As midday approached, she hurried her pace, frustration building parallel to exhaustion. After what she assumed to be a few hours of wandering, she leaned against the aged trunk of one of the trees that were far too numerous and forcefully produced the crumpled paper from her pouch. Pressing it against the tree, she spread it out, setting her head against it and tracing over the faint lines with her fingertip. It took a moment for the finger to carefully trace each line and finally tap the spot where she stood. Jumping back, she let out a loud laugh, firmly grasping the map in both hands as she took off in a tangent to her previous path.

Despite her detour, Razia was close to her destination. She heard occasional chirps of confirmation, and twitters warning her of upcoming landmarks. Chattering back in Nari, she followed the sound of her falcon, keeping a close eye on her progress on the map.

Razia always felt bittersweet about traveling on foot. Though she greatly enjoyed exploration of foreign fronts, she felt at a desperate lack of defense. Being on someone else's turf, she would not have the upper hand in a conflict. In the sky, she could out maneuver the majority of Endal, but on the ground, she was close to helpless. This was a concept she was, to put it lightly, uncomfortable with.

However, she never showed it, storming on with confidence in what seemed to be a clearing. The girl hesitated, however, closely examining the map before being interrupted by a caw from above. A familiar call from her falcon sent a jolt through her spine, and she disappeared a moment later behind the crumbling skeleton of a once marvelous structure. Sucking in a breath through her teeth, she fell into a low crouch, slowly folding her map in order to make little noise. Another call from the falcon, and she pressed herself against the wall.

A timid chirp was all she could manage in response, and she listened, catching the sound of fluttering wings, rustling leaves, then silence. Closing her eyes, Razia waited, nervously digging her fingernails into the dirt. And then, across the ruins, another caw. More silence. Razia sucking in another breath in a feeble attempt to steady her racing heart.

Silence.

Whoever was hiding in the ruins was alone.

by **Wrenmae** on January 21st, 2012, 2:18 pm

It was the laugh that caught his attention, a short cry so alien in such a primal wilderness it nearly unsettled him from his seat. Withdrawing his legs from over the ledge quickly, Wrenmae fell back into the shadows. Someone was here in the ruins, or at least they were below him. Looking out at the sprawling decay, he wasn't aware of anything. A hawk ducked and flew through the stones, weaving before vanishing somewhere above him with a cry. Wrenmae ignored it, focusing on the ruins. Had he been too slow? Perhaps the bandits had crept in from another direction.

Djed spun through his arm, warping his flesh to spines and his fingers to claws. The climb down wasn't difficult. The discarded pillars and natural topography of the stones themselves led easy holds for him to access. Keeping his cloak round him, he descended near the far edge, where ruins met the forest and was politely rebuffed, and slunk into the pallid city.

Calling it a city was generous, perhaps. It was more like a small village, carved of stone and shale, only now succumbing to the mountain around it. Another hawk cry, and Wrenmae was on the move. He ducked around ledges and leaning pillars, flattening himself against angled walls and doorless archways. He didn't know what he was looking for, but his blade was out and his left hand clenched and unclenched in dangerous power. Letting out his breath through his nose, Wrenmae was silent, waiting.

Silence.

Only the ghosts of whatever this place once was held vigil here...and perhaps what he'd heard was one of them, some phantom call or haunted echo from days long forgotten.

He couldn't afford to stay here. In the open, like this, he would make easy prey for the bandits and the likely Symenestra. Instead he slunk toward the other side of the ruins, seeking darker holes to conceal himself, places he could watch in vantage.

Perhaps it was fate...more likely ill-timed luck, that he turned the corner where Razia crouched, heart fluttering, breath controlled.

For a moment, the Storyteller could only stare at here, someone so wildly out of place that it was almost surreal. Her red hair was stark contrast to the white stone of the ruins, and the map she had spread where she crouched...she was some fire-haired explorer, alone in the wilderness and somehow in the same ruins he had scoped out for his attack.

First was shock, the moment of incredulity.

Then fear.

She was in danger now as well.

Wrenmae pulled his dagger down near his hip, holding out his left hand as though to calm, dissuade her from screaming or running. Instead he ended up pushing forward his morphed left arm, the spined and clawed thing he had created for combat. He looked at it uncomprehendingly a moment before withdrawing that as well, behind his back and shouting urgent whispers.

"No! no! Who? Wh-? Damn, no time. You need to leave here, now!"

The steps of horses, the uncomfortable snuffling of the mounts as they entered the edge of the ruins.

Wrenmae knelt low, sheathing his dagger and mentioning her to follow him back out the opposite way of the ruins and into the forest. "Slavers," he clarified, nodding his head toward the noise, "Kidnapped one girl already, you're not safe, come with me."

He knelt and slunk backwards, eyes always on the bits of color sometimes flaring through the ruins, the men walking inside, preparing, some likely uneasy with superstition.

What an unexpected complication...his heart fluttered. What excitement.

What a story.

by **Razia** on January 30th, 2012, 12:04 am

The man appeared out of the shadows, seeming to meld with them flawlessly. Her eyes caught the dagger in his right hand, and the strange markings covering his bestial left. Initially, her instinct told her to lash out and take him while he was distracted. However, she hesitated long enough to hear him speak.

His tone was harsh, but not aggressive. After allowing her heart to steady slightly, Razia managed to eye his posture. He was tense, ready, but reluctant to fight. She noticed concern in his voice, and only a hint of malice. Something about his voice was alluring, though the Inarta girl could not place it. However, something deep within her told her to trust him. Reluctantly, she nodded, inching forward and keeping her head low.

Razia popped her leather hood, pulling it close around her chin to cover her fiery hair. She remained silent, ears perked, eyes glued to the mysterious man. Something about him intrigued her; some energy behind his eyes. Though fear enveloped her, she managed to focus on the situation at hand, fresh adrenaline clarifying her vision and mind. Though this complication would certainly slow her progress in her investigation, her curiosity led her to follow.

As they made their way around to the edge of the underbrush, she pressed her back against an overturned slab of stone, peering out into the clearing. As she scanned the clearing, she made out shadows and figures, too far to see in detail. After a moment of stillness, she let out a chirp, blending into the timid life in the trees above. Far off, her falcon dove between trees, calling out in response with loud caws. Two, three, four... For a moment, there was silence. Then a fifth caw, much closer, just to their left. Instinctively, Razia ducked lower, nestling back into the bushes behind her. She held out a hand, fingertips barely brushing her guide's shoulder in order to catch his attention. Simultaneously, she pulled her free hand up to her mouth, pressing her forefinger against her pursed lips, then pointing to where her falcon had cried out.

OOC :

by **Wrenmae** on February 6th, 2012, 8:17 am

Complications had a poetic way of becoming severe, quickly. What had begun as a foolish foray into the woods, some silly sense of justice that motivated his suicidal impulses, had become a sensitive moment in which an innocent was suddenly involved. The boy bit his tongue, colorful curses rising and washing over his mind wave by wave until they threatened to crack the delicate silence. Instead, he pressed his spiny arm to his side, gasping at the sudden pain the spines brought and thus being rapidly returned to his current state of mind.

They were two sparrows, ducking and bobbing, hopping over loose stones and the wreckage of what once was. The restless shades of memory were disturbed between their feet, perhaps even invigorated as danger once more threatened to paint stones drying red. He only had brief moments to see her, to hold her in his vision. She was pretty, the sort of willful youth that lent vitality to every movement she made. Her skin was taut against her frame and color framed her cheeks in sudden russet red. His breath was in tandem with hers, the fluttering of narrow chests as danger passed not meters from their position.

She pointed and his eyes followed, seeing nothing at first and then the black cloak and pale skin of the Symenestra male stepping between the tall stones. He did not walk, no, nothing so primitive. The spiderfolk drifted, his feet barely making a sound as they met stone and left. Confidence was written in his poise, his very presence was almost a tangible force. Although he held no weapon , he walked as though he did not require one, at home in the unfamiliar place.

Wrenmae shrunk against the rock with his guest, pulling her down to face him. They were only inches apart, forced into an almost intimate proximity in the pursuit of silence, of anonymity here.

"Slavers," he said shortly, the s almost harsh against the air, "I came to save the girl, but I don't want to mix you up in this...it's something for me to do on my own. You should stay here, down, out of sight...I'll...I'll try to keep their attention off of you."

There. There. He was a hero again, pushing what could have been an ally away from him in the interest of keeping her alive...keeping them both...well

Keeping her alive.

He wasn't going to get anyone else caught up in this stupid quest for some sort of valor. Technically, the prisoner probably didn't remember him...he was nothing to her.

Nothing but a boy with a past that needed refuting.

He was a hero, damnit, he was a GOOD person.

Or...at least he hoped so.

Crouching down along the stone pillar, fallen, he moved along its length and watched the two parties approach each other, desperately trying to figure out how he was going to fight three confident mercenaries and a Symenestra.

Why this had been a good idea in the first place.

Regrettably, all his mind allowed him was the static of fear.

by **Razia** on February 8th, 2012, 3:26 am

"Wait-" The hiss was met with no response, as the boy had melded once more with the shadows. In an instant, his rigid frame dissolved, and the Inarta was once again alone, pressed against the cold grasp of worn stone, counting each shuddering breath in hopes that it would not be her last.

The flittering of wings above her caused her to jump, and eyes peered out of the overgrowth. Her falcon sat low, wings still spread slightly, whistling softly a tune of eagerness. As Razia caught his eye, her heartbeat came to a clattering climax, and she pressed her lips shut, biting down with a clenched jaw. She could sense the electricity in the air, the awareness of a coming conflict. The forest quieted in hushed anticipation, and all but the steady chirping of the falcon died away.

Footsteps. Harsh, uneven breaths. A faint, impatient chatter. The slavers were unaware of their presence thus far. Razia tilted her head back, resting it against the sandstone surface, and listened. She listened to voices slicing the air in violent staccato, leaves crushed underfoot, and the building energy that hung about the ruins in a heavy fog. When it became unbearable to stay stilled any longer, she turned, eyes fixed on the golden gaze of her feathered companion. An unspoken understanding passed between them, a language of tense and static silence.

The two moved simultaneously, Razia lunging forward and the falcon launching itself into the air. The Inarta circled to her left, staying low and placing each footstep with caution. She made her way along the exterior wall of the ruin, left fingers brushing against its surface to steady her precarious gait. She’d been in battle before. Conflict was no stranger to her past, though this seemed different. Without warning, an ally had presented himself to her, and she’d stumbled stupidly into a situation that she could have easily avoided.
Hesitating mid-step, she observed an open pathway to her right. It occurred to her that leaving was a viable option. Certainly less perilous and more compelling than a fight with an unknown enemy. The boy seemed strong… But against five men? The possibility of him winning, or even surviving, was less than she would have liked to admit. But what did he matter?

Shaking the thought from her mind, Razia set her eyes forward once more. No. Nothing about this situation excused her to depart. It was her duty to defend against these sort of men. She was a winged warrior, a protector. She had no right to leave now. Taking another careful step, Razia examined the distorted spine of ruin before her.

Within only a few steps, she was able to find a surface to climb. Agile as she was, it took a moment to find the proper footing, but eventually she made her way toward the overgrown treetops. Fingers curling around another surface, she leaned back on her haunches before leaping upward, rolling atop the decrepit building and crouching low as she neared the edge. Peering downward, she spotted the group of slavers just below, dwindling here and there, babbling among themselves like a band of wild beasts. She lowered herself, leaning back slightly and pulling her hood close around her chin. For the moment, her adrenaline had calmed her racing heart. For the moment, she was safe, a spectator, waiting for an exhibition.

An eagle ready to take a dive.

by **Wrenmae** on February 18th, 2012, 11:54 pm

They stood a wary distance from each other, flanked by ruins either side. The bandits were championed by the tracker, a bear-clad man with twisted hairs tangling his facial features. He lacked the grace of his employer, standing like a misshapen statue, abandoned in the process. His body told the tales of conquest and struggle, a leylined lattice of scars that led to uncommon ends.

Opposite, the Symenestra was unmarred by such casual marks. Perfection seemed to reign upon his brow, even the wind daring only to lift an errant hair or two before dying away completely. He was dressed in armor, but the oiled surface of the leather gleamed black. Unlike his hired brutes, the Symenestra had taken great care to prepare himself for the meeting. A nimble sword, thin and sharp, was clad to his waist and both arms crossed gently over his chest, red eyes an open question.

"We 'ave 'er, jist like ye wanted," He growled, thrusting a hand back at the girl, presenting her pitiful form almost proudly, "Now ah think we worked ou' a bi' o' paymen'?"

"Yes," his voice was such a startling shade of refined it almost made the bandit a growling beast in stark comparison, "I promised you gold in fair transaction, and gold I have brought." The Symenestra pulled a small handful of coins from his pocket, dropping six of them, one after another, to the ruins ground. The leader followed the progress of the coins, his face grim with mounting confusion. When the last coin had fallen, silent now upon the stone, he looked up at the Symenestra, hand straying toward the axe on a cord off his belt. "This ain' a fair price..."

"I find it common practice to honor Dira in payment," The Symenestra answered, holding his hands out, palm up, "Some insist on coppers, but you have all done my a service, so I pay your passage to Lhex in gold."

The way his hands moved, how they cupped as though pooling some hidden water. Wrenmae focused on them now, trying to see what it was the Symenestra was cupping. His eyes hurt, the narrowed gaze he afforded them made them ache in complaint. Perhaps it was too dark, the crevaces where the hand held whatever it held, and so Wrenmae forced Djed into his eyes, meaning to shape them to a cat's, at least to clarify. But before he could morph them, a startling spectrum of light revealed golden energy, almost a liquid, flowing out from the Symenestra's hands and onto the ground. It flowed and pooled beneath the bandits' feet, a neat circle that held them all in shifting anxiousness. Surprised, Wrenmae blinked the magic away...but there was...something about it.

He could see Djed.

But at the time, he lacked the training to figure out what that meant.

"What..." The bandit leader had been saying, pulling the axe from his belt hesitantly, "I aint ta be cheated."

"No, no, my dear friend, no." The Symenestra answered, twisting his fingers together suddenly and raising his hands, "I assure you, my price is more than fair."

Sudden columns of fire rose from the spots where each bandit stood, concealing them for a moment in malevolent luminescene. Wrenmae choked back a gasp, the screams so sudden and shocked they melded with the crackling of flames. The lead bandit took a step from the blaze, his body an effigy, but only managed the step before falling on his face, blackened and charred.

The girl screamed into her gag, desperately shaking in her confines.

This...this was unnatural power. This was magic, and this was absolutely terrifying.

Wrenmae felt his own abilities pale in comparison...just through observation.

When the last bandit had fallen, each identical in shape and form now, the Symenestra sighed and flexed his fingers, striding toward the girl as though strolling through ones home. He stepped on the lead bandit's head, crushing it to smoldering ash beneath his foot and continued on.

"Finally, my dear," the spiderfolk said, smiling, "We are alone at last."

by **Razia** on March 29th, 2012, 4:07 am

Panic flooded Razia’s senses, heaving deep in her chest. Her heart lurched, and anxiety welled up into her throat, fighting to burst out in a scream. It took all of her might to suppress it, clasping a hand firmly over her mouth and steadying herself with the other. The pillars of flame sent out a blast of energy, rustling the trees around her and silencing the already timid life of the forest. The air was suddenly rancid, overwhelmed by the stench of burnt flesh. The Inarta woman chocked back her convulsion and blinked the stinging sensation from her eyes. She turned away. It was too much to bear.

The fear was familiar. That racing heartbeat, broadcasting her location to the known world. Ragged breath. Trembling. It was a dream, too unbelievably atrocious to be real. Her limbs became an crushing weight, and she sank back against the stone, watching in astonishment the Symenestra’s fluid movement; such an elegant stride, gracefully floating in the midst of devastation, unaffected. It made Razia’s stomach churn.

This was not her fight.

Everything within her begged her to flee. To escape. She knew the boy would die. The girl, too. They stood no chance. Heroics couldn’t save them.

Razia’s eyes wandered downward, glazing over the clearing and scrutinizing the jagged edges of overgrown ruin. She scanned the trees that clung to scattered bits of granite. It was all miserably broken. A lifeless place that knew nothing but the rotten taste of abandonment. She would not be the first to overlook the blood that soaked into its soil. If she just snuck away now…

But a flicker of movement caught her eye, and she peered into the shadows. Though she could not make out the figure, she sensed it was the boy. Waiting. Watching. Just as horrified, to be sure, yet still there. Faithful to whoever this victim was. Perhaps a sister or someone he loved. Did it matter? He was ready to give his life for her. Razia tried to deliberate ill thoughts of him, imagining him to be some villain lurking for the same destruction as the spiderfolk at center stage. But she knew the look he had. He was a fighter, determined to right some wrong. He believed that his death could benefit someone or something. He was perilously honorable, and she couldn’t stand it.

It was not sympathy that made her lower her hand and force herself to look back toward the Symenestra. It wasn’t courage or duty, or a sudden compellation to do right. It was a deep seeded envy for this boy’s fervor. An abhorrence of him because he reminded her so much of herself only a year ago, brimming with duty that would drive her to the ends of the earth. What was she now? A hollow shell of something once valiant and resilient. A fighter. Just like her father had trained her to be.

He would be ashamed to see her now. A coward.

Biting her bottom lip, Razia squinted at the Symenestra. He was advancing on the woman, his robust posture poised and predatory. Fresh adrenaline cleared her mind, and she turned away, probing the smooth surface for… She didn’t know.

Her gaze fell on a rough patch in the rooftop, where a tree had fallen and freed morsels of stone. Scuffling forward, she reached down, placing both hands firmly on a loose section of the stone, and wretched it from its place. In one fluid movement, she spun onto her feet, wheeling back and fastening her gaze on the Symenestra. She drew a deliberate breath, statuesque only an instant before lurching forward and pitching the stone directly at him.

The reality of her action only hit her a split second later, and alarm struck her again. She hastily fell against the stone, listening. Her eyes once more found themselves drifting to the smashed corner of the rooftop, and she crept to it, working another bit of stone free from its place… Just in case.

by **Wrenmae** on April 5th, 2012, 8:27 am

The Symenestra wielded, the stone striking him on the shoulder and bouncing off. Hissing, the mage drew up his hands. Wrenmae paused in the shadows, his eyes and heart moving at almost the same pace. He'd gotten the girl mixed up in all of this...now two people were on his conscience. Biting his lip, introducing sudden agony to get him moving again, he crouched behind a stone and held the dagger tightly in his hand. The Symenestra strode toward where Razia hid, strange magic pooling in his hands as he stalked his prey.

Wrenmae could wait, could let her be the distraction he needed...but there simply wasn't any of that cowardice in him, none of that opportunistic jargon. He'd had as much contact with Razia as he had the girl kidnapped...he could not trade one for the other, especially not one that so kindly strode to his rescue!

Taking a deep breath, Wrenmae yelled out, charging from the ruins he crouched in waving his dagger. The noise and movement drew the Symenestra's attention from Razia, but only for the moment it took him to bring up his hand and launch a concussion of air that blew the boy off his feet, smashing him into a low hanging roof.

The pain was immediate and paralyzing, dropping him face down on the stones.

"What have we here?" The spiderfolk murmured, passing a hand over himself as the air shimmered suddenly, "A child? What are you doing so far from home?" Striding toward the downed hypnotist, Wrenmae found himself lifted up suddenly by an overwhelming force, as though a hand had gripped the front of his tunic...but there was nothing there.

"Too well dressed and prepared to be a bandit," he mused, running a black claw along the glyphs on his arm, "And some rudimentary magic...curious creature indeed." He cast an eye to the ruins where the rock had come from. "And with friends I assume? Well now...aren't we the little heroes."

Wrenmae was hurled across the ruins again, rolling along the ground. The rocks bit at his skin, bruised him, threatened to crack his bones. He tasted blood.

The wizard had turned his attention on the rocks again. "Don't make me smoke you out, little mouse, I have more than enough remaining power."