62nd of Spring 516 AV
11th Bell
11th Bell
Azmere trotted along the Diamond spoke. He was getting used to his new mount and took it easy in town because of this. When a man was used to a certain pattern, there was a danger to assuming that pattern would be easily assimilated by a different animal. The watchman had been there several days go when the small band returned from the search for answers. He had been there to see the disheveled and exhausted faces staring in awe at the many tents. Azmere heard the mumbled whispers and the frightened gasps as the abused and thin bodies made their way amidst the herds and many animals of the horse clans. The ankals had met several times to discuss everything that was in contention and the future of the Drykas with these new arrivals. The Conclave was in session almost constantly but it was the Watch who had taken the initiative.
Gently, the rider steered his mount towards the Sapphire spoke once he had reached the edge of town. Out here, stretched against the fringes of the Sea of Grass and its dangers lied the Bluethistle Caravansary. Normally, it was home to traveling merchants and Drykas who were away from their pavilion on business but for the last few days, it had been stuffed with those who were fortunate enough to escape the mess that had befallen the greedy Kenashians. There were several Watch patrols making deep routes to monitor and observe the strangers. There was also a group of ankals from various clans who were doing the same thing but they weren’t in it for the service or protection of the city. No, these men were gauging the worth of the ‘guests’. Drykas was a fluid culture built within a very firm design. A stranger with the right set of skills could easily end up on the end of an arranged marriage which could be a great thing…or a horrid one.
Azmere tried to ignore these things for now. His mission was one of self-imposed curiosity. The outside world had been cruel to his people in recent years. The archer simply wanted to make sure that his kind was not returning the favor. Despite the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, many of the freed folk seemed happier than when they had first emerged from the dense grasses. The absence of a master’s whip would certainly make for a more cheerful morning but also a bit of privacy which the tents offered seemed to bolster their spirits. Azmere, like many, had donated some food to be rationed among these people. The restless memory of his family would demand no less and there was even a tinge of guilt for not contributing more. Slowly, he walked his mare along the outskirts of the living quarters and tried to put on a pleasant face for any he came across. The big man with scars and weapons aplenty was often received with fearful glances and downcast eyes.
Sadly, Azmere knew exactly why. He stopped his horse and locked eyes with a man. This one was different. He was big and powerful and his frame suggested he wanted for nothing. The watchman narrowed his gaze at the out of place stranger. Not blinking nor breaking the stare, Azmere dismounted and sized the man up from his loin cloth to his tattoos. He also noted the strange cloak and the length of chain that was born upon broad shoulders. For several ticks, even a chime or two, Azmere just stood and stared at the man. He was absolutely perplexed as to who he was or how he ended up among these poor, beaten souls. The Drykas lulled his head to one side and then pushed with his neck muscles creating a ‘pop’ of the vertebrae. Slowly, he moved his head to the opposite side and forced a second pop. He brought his palms together in front of his chest and pushed them against one another with all his might. This caused the muscles in his arms, shoulders and chest to come to life as blood poured through them bringing oxygen to encourage their effort. Veins rose to the surface as muscles bulged and rose to match the exertion. Never relinquishing any strength Azmere breathed through this exercise allowing the fresh air in his lungs to full his isometric display all the while keeping his eyes trained on the bulky fellow with the strange tattoos and diaper.
Scars are just stories that we wear. - Asmodeus
Textbox by Firenze
Textbox by Firenze
