Building Bridges

by **Ixzo** on December 6th, 2016, 1:09 am

12th of Winter, 516AV

She hadn't known the Myrian long, but she found him to be quiet and solitary, a common trait among Myrian men. Better to be quiet than to get your ear bitten off in a fight. It only made the lion all that more comfortable around him, as she was used to this behavior in men rather than the egotistically know-it-alls who paraded around Pavi. Of course Quzon was no pushover, he was Myrian. Perhaps some of his Isur father had a hand in whatever boiled beneath, but Ixzo knew there was a steady patience. Something that lurked just below what she and other strangers saw. Some wild side she had not yet seen in their brief encounters which encouraged her not to push her dominance too far, she liked his company. The Kelvic didn't need him going berserk on her, as she had no doubt he could. She liked being able to speak her mother's tongue again, and actually having the other person understand her was almost addicting after nearly a year of misunderstood words in a strange language. Of course her attachment to him was only enhanced, because like him, she had been an outsider at home too. Now they stuck out further, and she craved the familiarity of someone who actually understood, especially one to seemed to stick out just a little more than herself. Her dwelling had all happened on the walk to his tent. It hadn't been hard to get directions to the blue man in the new configuration of the city, so she didn't take many detours.

"Hey!" Ixzo caught sight of the blue tinted Myrian near his camp. She was heading back from the Spitfire after her pitiful kill of two armadillos. She was one of their best hunters, but the almost desert-like conditions of the plains in the south were hard to hunt by. Especially when she couldn't manage to find reasonable sized prey, or even enough of the smaller prey to make up for it. She was only one lion after all, which was precisely why she was approaching Quzon today. She had caught the scent of a rather large hog, possibly more. Not an animal she was willing to hunt on her own, but something that her Myrian kin may be familiar with. The ones in Cyphrus were much larger than the hogs back home, but familiar enough.

"Long time no talk, brother." She rubbed her neck, hearing the scratch in her voice that the flu left the season before, and wondered if he could as well. "What're you doing today?" She glanced at his hands, just remembering to see if she was actually interrupting his day or otherwise. She could ask him for the hunt in just a few moments, but more importantly she wanted to show him her kittens, to see what he would think. At least a Myrian could appreciate a good hunting cat like no Drykas could whether animal husbandry interested him or not, and she wanted to show him her Pavilion as well. "I want to show you something."

She didn't give the Myrian much time to decide. She had always been a bit oblivious to human interaction, and turned on her heels to stalk off, slow until she heard him next to her. Then at a normal pace so she could lead him to the Stormbloods, which wasn't terribly far.

Myrian | Pavi "Speech" Sign | Common | PC/NPC "Speech" Sign

by **Quzon** on December 23rd, 2016, 2:43 pm

Weightlifting was something that Quzon took far too seriously. He carried weights walking to work, he lifted while relaxing in his free time, and during his rest he packed them away in his wagon only to sleeping along side the weighted chains he'd take to work the next day. As such was his lifestyle, it wasn't difficult to find him working out at that exact moment.

He stood in front of his wagon clutching a long metal bar with two fifty pound metal disks slid onto each end. His knees were slightly bent as his feet were planted firmly to the ground a shoulders width apart. It was also the same width that grasped near the center of the barbell. He did not lift the bar or curl it, only lifting his shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug toward his ears.

The trapezius muscles from the base of his neck down along the contour of his spine to his mid-back flexed, causing his back to feel hot from the sudden force he exerted on them. The total hight of the lift was relatively small, but he raised it without bending his elbows as high as he could to build the strength in his back. After the first rep he slowly lowering the bar down to its starting position, letting his thumbs brush against his thighs. It was the first of thirteen reps, so continued to raise his shoulders despite his guests arrival.

“Well met, sister.” He replied quickly in between focused breaths, exhaling as he lifted his shoulder again. He used the exhale as a way to contract his back muscles, holding this shoulders high there for a second to feel the satisfying quiver of worked muscles before dropping them again. “Long time no talk? You should know that you are always welcomed to my home, minimal as it is. Simply give voice to brake silence and I shall listen with bated breath until the day trust is broken.” He spoke in Myrian while never missing a rep, driven to finish the set.

Quzon campsite was minimalistic. He had set up his tent outside of the covered wagon, using it as a place to sleep since he stored all of his weights, various bars, and chains in the wagon as storage. Zokoztli, his seme horse stallion, remained stationed to the front of the wagon by a yoke ready to pull it as it grazed.

“I've no plans other than to carve out a strong back to support the weight of my future.”

When Ixzo began to walk away, Quzon gave no chase because he still had two more reps to do. He literally shrugged off the last two, then set the barbell down on the ground. After removing the weights and placing them and the bar into his wagon, Quzon caught up with Ixzo while wearing a heavy chain around his shoulders, and hand axe tucked into the belt he wore. And like always, he wore a loincloth.

The mixed-blood followed her willingly, but spoke again with the casual voice of a man tired of having tricks being pulled on him at some point in the past. "I've also no imagination for surprises." His body language clearly showing that he was ready to seize his weapon from its resting place.

by **Azmere** on January 1st, 2017, 5:22 am

Azmere had a mouth full of feathers and an arrow in his hand. He carefully drew one of the thick points between his thumb and index finger then pressed it into the slit along the base of the shaft. He studied the lie of the fletching then rotated the arrow to reveal the second slit. Another feather was taken from his mouth and forced into submission. The smooth pressure of his fingers took a great deal of patience and it’s something that Azmere didn’t do often anymore. With a deep breath, he fit a third into the arrow and then took a few ticks to spin it around and study the way the feathers moved when pressed against the air. Some trimming was in order but the core of the job seemed to be sufficient.

Azmere spit the feathers into his free hand and set them on the table in front of him. He gathered the other arrows he had been working on and headed towards the entrance to his pavilion. He paused just long enough to grab Vihar and drop it over his head and shoulder so the bowstring cut across his chest. As the archer stepped through the canvas and into the sun, he felt a twinge of pain in his left leg centered around his old wound. The man rubbed it for a moment then resumed his walk. With each step, the watchman extended his stride a bit and dropped down on one knee momentarily. He popped back up upon contact allowing the muscles in his legs to burn from the workout. One step, one dip and one rise. Each one became slightly more painful in terms of fatigue and strain but the dull ache from his scar was replaced by a sensation that Azmere could accept.

It probably appeared strange to anyone who witnessed this event but the ankal repeated this exercise until he had come to the edge of his camp. Skylla and some goats were feasting upon a thicket of berries and tiny flowers to his right but the watchman stared ahead with his contrasting gaze at his target. The land dropped off suddenly into a shallow valley with a dense clay bed on the other side some forty feet away.

The archer dropped the arrows into his hip quiver and slipped the longbow into his hand. The weapon’s grip was smooth from years of faithful service to the Stormbloods and Azmere felt his confidence grow just from the touch. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes then lifted his face to the heavens along with his hands and shouted a prayer in a fervent song.

“I want to live like I’m not scared
Give when it’s not fair
Live life for another
Take time for a brother
Fight for the weak ones
Speak out for freedom
Find faith in the battle
Stand tall but above it all
Fix my eyes on you”

A stern breeze blew along the tops of the tents and whistled through the ropes. It spun along until it hit the back of the archer who swelled with the perceived approval of his gods. He slowly sank into an even stance that favored his left side towards the gully with his hands at his side. Azmere opened his contrasting gaze to a point in the far mud that was lighter than the rest and about the size of a soup bowl. He inhaled a breath then grabbed an arrow, nocked it and drew the string back near his cheek. His arms were straight and strong; the muscles easily holding the position for a few ticks while the gold and sapphire eyes followed the shaft to their intended point of focus. Azmere exhaled and released the string then watched the arrow fly.

The ankal was far from an expert at fletching and he noticed right away that the arrow spun in a weird pattern which eventually caused the shaft to list with the tip up and he missed his target by several feet. He frowned. It had been quite some time since he had attempted to make his own arrows but this wasn’t looking very hopeful. He lowered Vihar and took another arrow. He studied the feathers closely then noticed a consistency issue. Azmere bit off a tiny bit of the outer edge from two of the feathers then lifted his bow and nocked the arrow.

The archer drew in his breath and drew back the string while lining up on the center of the lighter clay. Once more, he exhaled and shot. While not perfect, the arrow actually within a foot of his goal. The starbursts heard the goats stirring and turned to see Ixzo approaching with a man who bore a curious skin color. Azmere lifted his chin in acknowledgment but nothing more as they were still a ways off. He grabbed a third arrow and went back to examining the feathers.

by **Quzon** on March 1st, 2017, 1:18 am

In life, peoples actions and their paths were their own, but they would not be permitted to seed dissent amidst any others. Quzon had told the Kelvic that he would not respond well to surprises. He spoke every word of warning with careful clarity. In hindsight, the Myrian knew he let his guard down for a moment simply because he felt kinship with Ixzo. It was an amateur mistake that he quickly fixed by guarding his heart once he recognized that the Kelvic woman had abandoned.

His gaze quickly fell to the ground, finding the crunched grasses that marked freshly made footfalls. He knew her direction, but there was no 'great' epiphany or motivation which caused him to go searching after her. She brought him to the man he knew to be Azmere, one of the people who he joined last season to hunt Zith. The half-isur had not spoken to the archer socially ever since, so remained willing to entertain the machinations that lead him here.

As a man of very few habits, mainly because he only had one, fell into it when he needed to make himself feel better. The half isur had many different sets of chains to work with back in his wagon, some of them were very thick or very thin, cut to various lengths. But the he constantly treated the four foot long, one he wore now like a traveling companion. His shoulders bore the constant demands of carrying what equaled to fifty five pounds of gear.

He knelt down into a low crouch, placing both of his palms down on the ground to each of his sides. Then in one smooth motion, jumped so his legs moved backward to set his body into a prone, upright, push-up position. It forced his arms to bare the full weight of his bulky frame and added heft of the chain. In what must have looked like a random action, Quzon's legs jumped forward again to enter into a low crouch again. He only remained in the crouch for a single tick before pressing his heels into the ground, pushing up against the resistance of the chains to force himself into a standing position.

As he was in the process of standing up, he used that upward momentum to jump off of the ground as high as he could. Once his feet hit the ground, his lowered back into the crouch to do the entire thing all over again. It was a labor intensive action that forced his entire body to commit to the act of lifting itself. An act that his body made painfully aware that it would dislike preforming for an extended period of time after the twelfth jump that followed his last squat thrust.

His legs quivered in the delighted pain of hard work once he landed. It succeeded in making him forget all about the negative emotions he felt moments ago. And also the fact that he was literally a few yards away from Azmere. The only thoughts in his head were focused on what exercises he wanted to do next.

In a very noble act of anti-social behavior, he didn't go speak directly to Azmere, but returned the acknowledging gesture of a head nod.

by **Azmere** on March 24th, 2017, 4:36 pm

The archer focused his contrasting stare at the soft feathers that extended from the arrow’s shaft. They seemed to be of the same bird as well as the same rough thickness. Silky and sleek, the individual strands of brown and white were fun to look at in close detail because the naturally occurring patterns in nature sometimes made funny shapes. The right side of Azmere’s face curled in a smile as he found what looked to be a dog being chased by a rabbit. The watchman shook his head and went back to examining the fletchings for any signs that would tip him off as to whether they would be effective or not.

The gold and navy gaze was focused so intently that a small amount of djed began to build up on the fletchings and the back end of the shaft. This went on for several chimes and the Drykas paid little mind to the Ixzo and her guest. The Kelvic was direct and not one to be made to wait but she was also peculiar. Azmere had learned on their first encounter that the woman did things in her own way and her own time. Despite being the ankal, the scarred man realized that some battles weren’t worth fighting. The watchman went back to molding the shifting shield as it was pulled towards the arrowhead by gravity and the will of the Drykas to extend the magical coating. This took quite a bit more effort than Azmere would have guessed but he forged onward until the entire arrow was slicked with the sleeve of djed that only he could see. The ankal turned the arrow around in his hands to look at it from multiple angles and sides. Once he was satisfied with the coverage, Azmere spent the next chime devoting his thoughts to swaying the djed to his will. He wanted to protect it from magic.

Azmere ran his fingers along the shaft to the point of the iron head and felt the sharpness of it. He had coated sharp objects in a shield before but had always assigned it to protect from physical harm. This was something different. Skylla was standing nearby and she stamped the ground twice out of irritation. The ankal looked up to her and smiled his half smile- the left side of his face frozen by scar tissue. He stood, still holding the arrow and moved so that he could put his free hand up to her neck and scratch at the soft coat. The young mare responded by leaning into the affection which pushed Azmere to the side slightly. He compensated by arching his back and planting his feet shoulder width apart then continued to pat and rub down the strider’s long neck and silky mane.

It was at this point when the noise of jangling chains became very apparent and Azmere turned to watch what the strange man was doing. He soon realized that Ixzo had gone and left this stranger standing at the front lawn of their camp. The ankal made a mental note to have a conversation with the strange woman about this matter the next time he had the chance. The Drykas kissed his horse on the jaw and walked with purposeful steps that gave him a languid gait but it was all to reduce the appearance of his limp. Azmere did not get in the man with blue skin’s way but rather came to stand beside him. The archer set his arrow aside still keenly aware of its magical enhancement.

For two rotations of the exercise, Azmere watched. On the third, he joined in. The scarred man dropped into the squat then kicked his feet out behind him. He ripped off the push-up with no issues, his arms flexing and his chest coiling. The man had done many push-ups over the years. He kicked his feet back underneath his body so that his boots landed in between his hands. Azmere felt a smile curl the right side of his face again. He could instantly feel the charged power that begged to be released as it burned in his thighs. The watchman was a tick or two behind the timing of his visitor but he leapt into the air nonetheless. He extended his arms up into the air, the contrasting gaze still watching his impromptu teacher for what to do next. The workout was simple and despite the dull pain that show through his leg every time he landed, Azmere continued to mimic this walahk’s actions. After three cycles of the exercise, Azmere felt his whole body burning since it used muscles that normally didn’t get engaged in this manner. He loved the feeling and had even quickened his pace to make up for the lag. He was now in sync with the stranger and watched him for his queues.

by **Rufio** on October 12th, 2017, 7:04 am

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