First of Summer, 518 AV
The scarred man was running. He was running towards the sounds of screams that seemed to be coming from all directions. Underground, there are many objects that the waves of noise can use to bounce, redirect and echo. The arms and legs of the man with no memories churned and pumped like there was no other way for them to move. He run along the dark and damp walls with his left hand’s fingers trailing to keep himself aware. In his right, he held the angled blade of the kukri -a weapon that he had only recently acquired but one that he felt comfortable holding. He had a bow with him when he fell but the fall itself broke the thing. Only because of its stout construction did he keep it. He was certain that one day it would remind him of something.
The shouting and screams changed directions again. The panic shot through the scarred warrior and he skidded to a stop. He looked around and lifted his nose to try and smell his companions but the mustiness of the tunnels overpowered everything. The broken man was now alone and listening to the sounds of his group be torn apart by gods only knew. Suddenly, a clanging like the sound of a sword hitting the stone floor rang out. It’s unsteady repetitiveness transferred all from the same location and a huff of relief passed through the warrior’s lips. He took off running again, his lung burning worse than the muscles in his legs or the soles of his feet. He ran until he came to a place where orange light flickered around a corner and slowed upon his approach. He had no idea what to expect.
“Get back!” Someone shouted in Pavi.
There was growling and snarling on the other end of that command.
“Where’s Rat?” Another voice called out.
The broken man knew he had to do something but lacked the capacity for it. He took the knife in both hands and leaned his back against the cool of the tunnel wall. There was a peace that settled over him as he felt his own heartbeat. Another snarl echoed through the walls and the eyes filled with shards of colors popped open; a deep resolve settled into his face. The warrior turned the corner and charged ahead with a triumphant cry on his lips. Instead, he slipped on the slick rocks and fell, the kukri skittering across the cave floor. The eyes looked down his body to his traitorous feet to see what had caused the confusion. Lo and behold, there was a boot with a leg still attached to it resting half buried in the silt.
The first reaction was fear. It was not fear for his safety but fear that one of the people he knew had fallen. That was quickly ascertained as not being the case. The clothing was old and rotten, moldy and deteriorated. Bones could be seen, greyed and slimy from the constant moisture in this place but nothing stood out so much as the long sheath with a slight curl at the end which lay across the skeleton’s chest. The body clung on to the weapon as if it would not be parted -even in death. The hilt was made for a single hand, had a bar across the knuckles and a point on the bottom for some purpose. The sheath and hilt were unremarkable; aged, worn and dull. Yet something drew the man to reach out and take the weapon. He hoisted sheath and blade together and got back up to his feet. He marched with a fierce determination towards the sound of battle and did not hesitate this time.
The scarred man charged around the corner to the neighboring chamber with a bitter cry of anger and frustration. What he saw were four of his friends back into a corner by two nightlions; a male and a female. The beasts turned to protect their flank and gave him a very unsettling stare. The male lowered his head then opened his mouth and arched his back in a massive roar that could actually be felt.
Petch it. The broken warrior thought. The Underwatch was made up of dishonored men and women who are sent into the caverns to fight and die for the lives of those above; a way to atone for failures. The man with scars and multicolored eyes flexed his arms and legs into a slight squat and sucked in a huge breath. He took the sheath to his new blade and drew the weapon with the soft grating of leather against metal and let out a roar of his own. His was not the same as the lion’s but it was something to marvel at as well though not as much as what happened next. When he elected to charge the lions out of some foolhardy notion of valor, the blade of his sabre began to glow brightly in a myriad of colors. They danced and swirled and lit up the cave in a display of reds, golds, oranges and silver. The warrior brandished the weapon with all the experience of a child but that seemed to increase the effect in the isolated space. The wet patches of stone reflected the lights even more which ultimately led to one incredible thing…
The nightlions were confused by the stranger’s noise -it was as if he was just broken enough to not sound human which gave the predators pause. When the lights started flashing from the sword and swirling about the blade, the beasts decided it best to not deal with this odd magic and turned quickly to disappear into the shadows. It was chimes before the men, including the man with the illuminated sword, stopped shouting and waving their tools of death and destruction. The scarred man looked down at his blade in wonder and slowly sheathed it before looking to his comrades. A cheer twice as loud as the lion’s roar echoed through the caves and tunnels. They had survived another day but this time they had a story to tell.
The scarred man was running. He was running towards the sounds of screams that seemed to be coming from all directions. Underground, there are many objects that the waves of noise can use to bounce, redirect and echo. The arms and legs of the man with no memories churned and pumped like there was no other way for them to move. He run along the dark and damp walls with his left hand’s fingers trailing to keep himself aware. In his right, he held the angled blade of the kukri -a weapon that he had only recently acquired but one that he felt comfortable holding. He had a bow with him when he fell but the fall itself broke the thing. Only because of its stout construction did he keep it. He was certain that one day it would remind him of something.
The shouting and screams changed directions again. The panic shot through the scarred warrior and he skidded to a stop. He looked around and lifted his nose to try and smell his companions but the mustiness of the tunnels overpowered everything. The broken man was now alone and listening to the sounds of his group be torn apart by gods only knew. Suddenly, a clanging like the sound of a sword hitting the stone floor rang out. It’s unsteady repetitiveness transferred all from the same location and a huff of relief passed through the warrior’s lips. He took off running again, his lung burning worse than the muscles in his legs or the soles of his feet. He ran until he came to a place where orange light flickered around a corner and slowed upon his approach. He had no idea what to expect.
“Get back!” Someone shouted in Pavi.
There was growling and snarling on the other end of that command.
“Where’s Rat?” Another voice called out.
The broken man knew he had to do something but lacked the capacity for it. He took the knife in both hands and leaned his back against the cool of the tunnel wall. There was a peace that settled over him as he felt his own heartbeat. Another snarl echoed through the walls and the eyes filled with shards of colors popped open; a deep resolve settled into his face. The warrior turned the corner and charged ahead with a triumphant cry on his lips. Instead, he slipped on the slick rocks and fell, the kukri skittering across the cave floor. The eyes looked down his body to his traitorous feet to see what had caused the confusion. Lo and behold, there was a boot with a leg still attached to it resting half buried in the silt.
The first reaction was fear. It was not fear for his safety but fear that one of the people he knew had fallen. That was quickly ascertained as not being the case. The clothing was old and rotten, moldy and deteriorated. Bones could be seen, greyed and slimy from the constant moisture in this place but nothing stood out so much as the long sheath with a slight curl at the end which lay across the skeleton’s chest. The body clung on to the weapon as if it would not be parted -even in death. The hilt was made for a single hand, had a bar across the knuckles and a point on the bottom for some purpose. The sheath and hilt were unremarkable; aged, worn and dull. Yet something drew the man to reach out and take the weapon. He hoisted sheath and blade together and got back up to his feet. He marched with a fierce determination towards the sound of battle and did not hesitate this time.
The scarred man charged around the corner to the neighboring chamber with a bitter cry of anger and frustration. What he saw were four of his friends back into a corner by two nightlions; a male and a female. The beasts turned to protect their flank and gave him a very unsettling stare. The male lowered his head then opened his mouth and arched his back in a massive roar that could actually be felt.
Petch it. The broken warrior thought. The Underwatch was made up of dishonored men and women who are sent into the caverns to fight and die for the lives of those above; a way to atone for failures. The man with scars and multicolored eyes flexed his arms and legs into a slight squat and sucked in a huge breath. He took the sheath to his new blade and drew the weapon with the soft grating of leather against metal and let out a roar of his own. His was not the same as the lion’s but it was something to marvel at as well though not as much as what happened next. When he elected to charge the lions out of some foolhardy notion of valor, the blade of his sabre began to glow brightly in a myriad of colors. They danced and swirled and lit up the cave in a display of reds, golds, oranges and silver. The warrior brandished the weapon with all the experience of a child but that seemed to increase the effect in the isolated space. The wet patches of stone reflected the lights even more which ultimately led to one incredible thing…
The nightlions were confused by the stranger’s noise -it was as if he was just broken enough to not sound human which gave the predators pause. When the lights started flashing from the sword and swirling about the blade, the beasts decided it best to not deal with this odd magic and turned quickly to disappear into the shadows. It was chimes before the men, including the man with the illuminated sword, stopped shouting and waving their tools of death and destruction. The scarred man looked down at his blade in wonder and slowly sheathed it before looking to his comrades. A cheer twice as loud as the lion’s roar echoed through the caves and tunnels. They had survived another day but this time they had a story to tell.
