Original Submissions by Cogato
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An Artist's Precision
Added on Sep 7, 2006A northern professional of the art of assassination performs an act in Allanak.
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly secured in the back lining of his pouched belt. As his hands worked his mind was elsewhere, going over the scenario that he had already spent the past three weeks planning to the most miniscule detail. But, with the planning now complete and the dark of night fast approaching the time for preparation was upon him. He liked these moments most of all, like the quiet rehearsal of a bard before singing for his Lord.
The nervousness always knotted up his stomach and the anticipation he fought down to keep his calm composure as well as his state of mind brought a smile to his face. Even after all of these years it made him feel like a child again, huddled under a cart after nabbing a piece of fruit from Old Hop’s stand in the market and just waiting for the peg-legged codger to finally catch him one day.
That thought brought him out of his memories for a moment to peer down towards the nub where his right pinky finger used to be. After snatching up a ripe purple belshun fruit from Hop’s stand as a boy he darted into the crowd with his loot in hand as he always did. Watching over a shoulder to see the old haggard gimp fading in the distance and screaming in rage, as a carefree boy he just smiled with abandon. An expression which quickly faded as he suddenly found himself on his rump after thumping heavily right into an oncoming solider of the city. Before he could find his feet to flee from this new threat he was snatched up by his hair and he knew without a doubt there was no breaking free from the hard-faced soldier’s stone grip. As disgruntled as ever Old Hop finally caught up to him and after much debate the wiry old merchant convinced the soldier that a finger and not a whole hand would do for this petty crime, IF the boy would swear to never come near his stand again. Of course he swore with as much sincerity as a young terrified boy could muster, and when his finger was removed with a swift swipe of the soldier’s blade he was truly thankful to the old peg-legged merchant and he never stole from Hop again. It was likely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
The granite came down the length of the small blade once more and after checking that its throwing-balance still held true it was tucked into the back lining of his belt with the others. He leaned down towards a sandcloth sack between his feet and came back up with a bundle of beige linen and a small clay bottle. After spreading the cloak out on the stone floor in front of himself he uncorked the bottle and brought it to his nose. The strong sweet smell of ginka wine filled his senses and he had to admit the fellow had good taste. With a tilt of his wrist he poured the wine in equal amounts over as much of the cloak on the floor as it would cover then bundled it up once more and stuck it back into the sack along with the empty bottle. Now from the sack he produced a coil of light-colored hemp rope and a small off-yellow spiraling spike of bone. Sitting these two items aside he produced a small square packet of rough paper and reached for a large clay bowl on the table next him and a soapstone jug. Slowly he sprinkled the contents of the packet into the bowl, a fine black powder, then poured the water from the soapstone jug in as well. With his right hand he mixed the contents until the water in the bowl had taken the color of the powder and into this now black water he dropped the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He would let that sit for a while to make sure the dark stain held on the items.
With night still a few hours off he was anxious and busied himself with checking that his personal tools were all in order for the third time in the past hour. A pair of obsidian daggers, one on each hip and each sporting a barbed tip that held a rather nasty bite lent to him by a red-spotted leaf he favored as his taint of choice. A small pouch hanging from his belt held the tiny glass vial he had waited weeks to attain from a contact that took even longer to find. It would prove crucial to his plan and he held it up to the light to check its contents yet again before tucking it away. A pair of gloves adorned with the hooked claws of an anakore for climbing were in a pocket on his dark-colored cloak along with a tiny loreshi whistle and a couple of blue wax candles. A strap-sheathe on his right ankle held a bone blade with a more potent poison which could induce severe vomiting and certain painful death almost instantly. He always carried this tool just incase things went wrong and for this reason he hoped he would never need it.
He leaned over and reached into the black water in the bowl to produce the now darkly stained coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. He tucked the coil of still damp rope into the pocket on his cloak and then held up the spike to examine it. It was crafted well if he did say so himself and with the eye in its blunt end it resembled a thick twisted needle. He tucked it into the pouch on his hip along with the vial then turned towards the door, taking the sack on the floor and jerking up his hood before exiting.
Closing the door at his back the Gaj tavern was already full of folk and it was still an hour or so until night fall. He smirked, leave it to the southern folk to find any time suitable for drinking rather than working. He made his way out from behind the bar with a single nod of appreciation from within his hood towards the bartender for the use of the back room. The greasy pot-bellied man didn’t seem to notice the gesture as he wiped out a stone mug with a grimy cloth. With his head held low he made his way past a scantly-clad woman offering her “wares” to a brown-clad mercenary at the bar and moved steadily towards the doorway and the street beyond.
Exiting the tavern he found a street just as crowded as the tavern its self. All about him traders moved down the path pushing worn carts or pulling along kanks loaded down with obsidian slag. A small unit of soldiers moved further away from him down the path towards the gates to the west and a flat-bed wagon was being pulled past them by an inix that was in turn being led by a spindly woman. Dust filled the air with all of the foot traffic and he quickly moved from the entrance to the tavern to be on his way. It didn’t take him long to find himself outside of the three-story mud-brick building where he would be performing tonight. His stage was on the third floor and he had already been up to inspect it earlier in the week while he was preparing for his act.
Moving into the narrow alley at the side of the building he made his way from the busy street into the more shaded corridor. In the north when the wind was right you might catch a cool breeze coming off of the forest trees, in the south the wind was hot no matter where it came from, he hated performing in Allanak. Making his way through the narrow passage he then found himself at the back of the building in a wider more spacious cross-section where three of the alleys came together. With night approaching quickly no one spent anymore time in these alleys than they had to as they could be a little less than safe depending on who you happened to bump into.
After peering down the corridors once more to make sure they were empty he reached into the pocket in his cloak and pulled on his anakore-claw gloves quickly. They were ideal for gripping the crevices in mud-brick walls. Just as he had earlier in the week he easily slipped up the wall towards a small window on the third floor and slipped inside. He stuck his head out once more to make sure he hadn’t been watched in the moment it had taken him to scale the wall, satisfied he turned to look at his stage.
It was a two room apartment, the room he now stood in being the larger of the two. A baobab bed sat in the corner with a soft mattress laden in escru wool, a testament to the wealth of the occupant. Further displaying their wealth were a pair of dark-leather couches centered around a glass-topped green-marble table in the middle of the room. What concerned him most of all though was a small wooden chest of drawers next to the bed. He moved across the room and knelt down to open the bottom drawer where he found a large clay bottle. He uncorked the bottle and out drifted the familiar aroma of ginka wine. Reaching into the pouch on his hip he delicately pulled out the small glass vial and removed its wax stopper before carefully pouring the grayish liquid into the bottle of wine. He shook it roughly a few times after re-corking it before returning it to the drawer.
Hastily he then turned towards the door that led to the smaller chamber and opened it sticking his head out to peer around the scantly furnished guard quarters. The small room had one cot against the wall and a footlocker next to it. With all of his wealth the man he was performing for only provided his trusted companion with this. A frown came to his calm face as he quietly closed the door and took a knee reaching into the pocket on the inside of his cloak to take out the coil of rope and the small spiraling spike of bone. The door to the room opened inwards and he had made note of this when he was here earlier in the week. He decided then that this trick would be his best course of action. Two inches from the floor he slowly began to screw the spiraling spike of bone into the wall on the left side of the door. Once screwed all the way in so that only the eye of the dark spike protruded from the wall he unrolled the coil of hemp rope a bit and ran the free end through the eye. With a simple bone tack he nailed this end of the rope at about knee height on the inside face of the door.
Night was fast approaching and he knew from watching his charge constantly for the past week that every Ocandra and Detal he got staggering drunk at the Bard’s Barrel and would soon be falling up the stairs with the aid of his guard-woman. He backed up from the door and moved down the wall towards the bed as he quickly uncoiled the rope step by step, being careful so that the black cord lay perfectly flush with the wall and the floor. He left the end of the rope on the floor about six feet, about the height of the guard, from the doorway then moved to two sconces that held candles on the wall at about chest height. One was next to the doorway and one was by the window he had entered through. The maid-servant had already been in earlier in the day and replaced the spent candles so the occupants of the room would have light for the night. He took the pale ivory-wax candles from the sconces and quickly replaced them with the dark blue candles he had in his cloak.
He took a long moment to peer around the room and double checked the drawer that held the wine, all of his tools, the rope, and door then moved to slide beneath the low bed.
Darkness soon fell outside and the room grew dark, shadows spilled into the room and further concealed him beneath the bed. It wasn’t very long before he heard the familiar sound of drunken laughter coming up the stairwell. That feeling was back in his stomach and a faint smile came to his features which he quickly covered with the stoic expression of a professional. He heard the door to the outer chamber from the stairs of the complex open then close and the laughter and talking subsided a bit. A moment later the door to the room he was in opened, the black rope secured to the bottom of the door stayed low to the floor in the darkness and drug along as the door opened and then closed. The man didn’t seem to notice it in the shadows. In his drunken state the man took a while to strike the blue-wax candle in the sconce and he cursed the maid-servant noisily as he noticed that the hazy light the blue candle gave off kept the room more dark than lit. Under the bed the artist smiled to himself again. With the flickering of the dim candle he could see the drunken man make his way across the room towards the bed, or he could see his feet rather.
After sitting on the bed the man leaned over, as the artist knew he would, and opened the bottom drawer of the small wooden chest. He took out the clay bottle and beneath the bed the artist heard the cork pop free of the container. A moment later he was easing out from under the bed and coming to stand next to the drunken fellow that now lay on the bed next to him. He leaned down over the man to peer into his open eyes and he smiled at the calm breathing he heard, sufficiently paralyzed. The smile faded from his features as he remembered that he would only have the drunk in this state for a short period of time before the poison would wear off. He reached into his pocket and took out the small loreshi whistle as he moved towards the rope on the floor. He held the whistle in one hand and pulled his dagger from his hip before resting on a knee at the wall near the doorway.
A sharp piercing sound cut through the air for a moment then he hastily tucked the whistle away. He took up the free end of the rope in his other hand then leaned into the wall on his shoulder, still on a knee. In just a few seconds the door burst open and a hand wielding a sword entered the room ahead of the guard-woman. She didn’t get far though as she started to charge in while opening the door the other end of the rope was held taught in the artist’s hand this time and an effective trip wire was created in the opening. The guard-woman fell forwards over the dark cord at her knees and he moved to catch her on the tip of his dagger, his other hand now free of the rope he also covered her mouth to cover a scream that would never escape her dieing form. He lowered her gently to the floor and slowly closed the door once more before tucking his dagger back into the sheath on his hip. He smiled to himself as he mused that she would have probably died happier if she knew she had been part of a true artist’s piece of work. Then again, she was just a southern and probably couldn’t appreciate the beauty of it. He shrugged away the thought and moved to the bed where his stiff friend awaited him.
Quickly he removed the man’s beige linen cloak and produced one the same color and cut from the sack that hung from his beltline. It still smelled strongly of the wine he had poured over it earlier in the day and he nodded approvingly. He sat the stiff form of the man up on the bed and quickly wrapped the alcohol scented cloak around his shoulders and brought the hood over his head. He let the man fall gently back on the bed as he quickly moved away to enter the smaller guard quarters. He looked around for a moment and soon found what he was searching for folded up in the footlocker, the guard-woman’s cloak. He took off his own cloak then and left it on the floor, he wouldn’t need it further. Draping the guard-woman’s cloak about himself and raising the hood he moved back into the larger chamber and came to sit next to the man still laying rigidly where he had left him. He reached to lift the man up a bit then draped the paralyzed fellow’s arm over his own shoulder, holding his wrist in his opposite hand. Together they stood, the artist holding him about the waist with his free hand beneath their cloaks then together they moved from the apartment.
The stairs were a bit of a hassle to get down with the full weight of the man to encumber him, but he made it with no less difficulty than if the man was simply too drunk to walk on his own. When the pair moved past the attendant at the front desk the well-groomed man only saw the usual. The Borsail aide was too drunk to walk again, this apparent by the overwhelming smell he wafted, and his guard-woman was helping him out likely to go get more booze.
The street was dark now and the traffic had lessened considerably from what it had been earlier in the day. In a moment a canvas covered wagon came ambling down the path being pulled by a large silvery inix. When the wagon stopped in front of him the artist took a few steps with the aide in tow around to the back of the wagon where a pair of thickly-muscled men were waiting within the canvas. They quickly hoisted the paralyzed man up into the wagon and a large pouch was tossed down to the artist.
One of the men whispered gruffly “Good work, tha’ guard bitch is dead?”. The man standing behind the wagon nodded from within the confines of his cloak. The thickly-muscled man then said in a lower voice “Tha’
The small room with its blank stone walls seemed a comfort as he sat there quietly on the wooden stool. In his right hand a small obsidian blade was being slowly sharpened by a square piece of dull-grey granite in his left. Soon it would join the other four already snugly...
Continue Reading...Nomad
CHAPTER 2 - Surviving the Wastes, The
Added on Feb 9, 2006Further adventures of the nomad as he survives the waste.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two tandu-leather skins of water in the pack on his back. Of course he knew that his legs would tire more quickly with the heavy pack laden with the water. He also knew that if the Pah was dry when he reached it he would die without the water he carried now. He decided it was worth the burden.
Suk-Krath, the horrible burning ball of crimson light that was the Zalanthan sun rained down its heat upon the desert this day just as fiercely as it had ever other day in the eons past. Though the origin of its name had been lost long ago with writing being outlawed to the common man by the Highlords of the city states, it was worshiped as the giver and the taker by more than one tribal culture. Every man, woman, and child knew that the great ball of light could steal your life away just as swiftly the sharp tip of a blade. Many was the caravan that came to ruin, entire parties of travelers dehydrated and dead in the wastes due to underestimating the power that the sun dictated. Elios had lived his entire thirty three and some odd years in the wastes though, and if any man stood a chance of surviving the days of travel ahead this half-elf surely did.
By the time late afternoon fell upon the traveler Elios had put many miles between himself and the ravine where the braxat and Arrow lay dead. The sandstorm had relented a bit by now and he was not leaning all of his weight against the blowing wind when he walked to keep from being blow over now. Though travel had become a bit less taxing on his spindly legs Elios did not intend to spend a night out on the open desert in the blinding sandstorm, it would hide any beasts that came upon him in the darkness. He knew of an outcropping of stone just a few more miles ahead that would shield him from the brunt of the storm and offer him at least some crude walls for protection in the night. Elios trudged on and just as the last rays of the descending sun were leaving the western horizon he stood before the rock outcropping.
This outcropping was really more of a series of boulders that happened to rest in a rough semi-circle to give the appearance at a distant of a low wall. Most of them were made of brittle red and yellow sandstone that the ferocious wind was constantly reshaping but a few were solid granite. They were head high and leaned together in a fashion that would allow Elios to squeeze in beneath the break at their base where they did not touch. Elios moved up to the tiny cave and peered inside it making sure that no other creatures had decided to call this den, rare in this area home for the night. In a few seconds Elios was sliding into the narrow cubby formed by the leaning and piled boulders feet first. The den was just deep enough to accommodate his full lanky height and he bent his knees up just slightly so his hair did not stick out of the holes opening. Luckily Elios was not bothered by closed in spaces otherwise he could not have managed this refuge for the night. It was just wide and broad enough to keep from rubbing the tip of his angular nose and the sides of his shoulders. For a long while Elios lay silent within the den, even after the last rays of Suk-Krath had departed leaving him in darkness. Only the grating sound of the wind outside of his hole could be heard and eventually, feeling safe that he wasn't being tracked, the weary traveler drifted off to sleep.
Elios was awake long before dawn came. Dreams of Arrow falling over the cliffs edge and tumbling down toward him, its many eyes pleading with him for help in despair had plagued his night. He had awoken in a cold sweat if there was such a thing in the desert and had not slept the last few hours of darkness before the sun rise. He cursed himself once and again silently as he lay there in the dark den awake. He surely did lament his fallen friend but he also knew that he was lucky to have survived the encounter that came about due to his own carelessness. He should have never left arrow behind for the small gains that the durrit would have offered even if he had caught up to and killed it. The pelt and claws could not even be sold to replace the value of his mount, much less the deep friendship he held with Arrow. Elios had fell victim to the 'Wall Dweller Greed' as his people, The Followers of Vrianne, called it. He had let the gain of coin cloud his good judgment and for this act of selfish greed Vrianne had taken back the friend she had given him.
When the rays of the crimson sun did break the horizon the sandstorm that had plagued the land for the past week had finally died down to a strong breeze. The hot northern wind blew Elios's long yellow hair out behind him as he trotted along. He tried to go in a straight line as much as he could but ever so often he would have to go as far as two or three miles out of his way to circumvent a gorge or mesa. The farther north he traveled the more the land began to rise and fall into great spires of red sandstone. Mesas of yellow and red stone jutted up out of the sandy earth with un-scaleable cliff faces that spanned for miles in all directions. The going here was slow and tedious as Elios had to climb up and down more than one canyon or cliff wall that he simply could not take the time go around. By mid day he had barely made a few miles of progress from where he had slept the night before. With the difficult terrain and heat to drain his strength Elios found himself drinking half of one of his two leather water skins while he stood atop one low mesa. He peered off toward the distant northern horizon and without the usual constant sandstorms Elios could see and marked in his mind the faint grayish haze of the Shield Wall in the distance.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
Elios climbed down the opposite side of the mesa and continued northward. He had picked out the clearest path he could discern to get to the Shield Wall and beyond that to the Pah which still was a day and a half away if his trip went uneventful. By early afternoon Elios smiled faintly to himself as he moved along, weaving past the mesas he had marked in his mind that would guide him on his mental path. He decided it was worth the extra effort to climb the mesa and pick his path when late afternoon came around and he had covered twice the ground he had in the first half of the day. He hadn't eaten in a few days and his stomach soon reminded him of that fact. He stopped at the base of a large grey pillar of stone protruding up through the sand and sat in the scant amount of shade offered by the pillar to eat a few bits of dried meat from his belt pouch. Within a few moments of chewing and breathing heavily Elios stood and wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of a sandcloth sleeve before starting off at his swift pace once more.
By nightfall Elios could easily make out the defining peaks of the Shield Wall in the distance. The growing clarity of that mountain range spurred Elios to move onward even in the darkness. He normally wouldn't have risked traveling in the dark even with the absence of the storms, but Lirathu the white moon and Jihae the red moon graced the night with their light and he could see well enough he decided. By the come of dawn the weary traveler stood with the arm of the Shield Wall to his east instead of to his north. Sweat beaded down his face as he stood atop a short dune, peering down toward a green dot in the distance marking the Pah'.
The Abi'li Pah as it was known by the many tribal elves that called the surrounding desert home was a rare and beautiful sight for any Zalanthan to behold, it was an oasis. The dense growth of stout trees surrounding the shallow pool of muddy water offered valuable shade to any passing traveler. Though often enough the pool was dry and only damp soil marked where the pool sometimes was. Today was no exception to the rule fore as Elios came out on the other side of the dense trees he saw what he had feared, the pool was in fact going through a dry time. Elios squatted down for a moment and cursed his luck as he ran a hand through the still damp soil in the very bottom of the shallow hole. He had been depending on refilling his water supply here and being on his way, but now he knew he would be sorely pressed to make the rest of the journey to Luir's Outpost on the water he had. Just as Elios started to stand some movement at the nearby tree line to his right caught his eye and he spun about, his hands reaching for the hilts protruding from his beltline.
A pair of slanted light-grey eyes peered out toward Elios as a tall lanky hooded figure made its way into view from the foliage. Elios was a bit startled at first but seeing the desert elf in full view now he decided it best to try and get clear without a fight, he was on the tribal elf's self-proclaimed land after all. Tribal elves were known to be volatile at best especially when dealing with anyone that wasn't an elf. That went double if you were on their land standing in one of their water holes. The elf and Elios stood quietly peering toward one another for many uncomfortable moments though both of them appeared relaxed with their arms at their sides. Finally the elf spoke, 'You are a long way from home, mud blood'. Elios did not reply, he spoke the elf's language allundean well enough but an idea occurred to him before he spoke and he just stood watching the elf blankly. The elf frowned visibly toward Elios for many long moments then said something in a language Elios did not understand. Still, Elios stood silently at the bottom of the hole. The elf eyed Elios up and down for several moments, then scowled and turned on a heel in the sand, starting off at a swift sprint. All elves were natural runners, but desert elves were known for it even more so than for their bad tempers. By the time Elios had walked slowly to the upper lip of the empty pool the elf was already a dot several hundred yards off and moving north with all speed. Elios knew that the rest of his trip had best be a quick one fore desert elves shared everything with their tribe mates, even the joy of a kill.
Elios began to hastily make his way east from the oasis. He had intended to go north to the Dol Takar road then head east to the North road before he headed to Luirs. That wasn't happening this day since the tribal elf had went off in that direction and surely would be coming back this way soon with his kin in tow. Elios did not fancy the thought of meeting on the path with the fearsomely territorial folk. He had no choice but to follow the arm of the Shield Wall to his south until he reached the point where it met up with the main run of the mountain range. From there he would have to climb the sheer rock face, travel across its top and move down its other side where the North Road would be waiting. This was a more direct path for sure and would be much faster. But for anyone who ever laid eyes on the sheer rock face of the Shield Wall, brittle and always being shaped by the wind, the idea of climbing the barrier was daunting at the least.
Elios ran on sweat beading down his face and from his body to drench his sandcloth garb with moisture. Ever so often Elios peered back over his shoulder expecting to see tall tribal folk closing the gap on him fast. But when Elios reached rock face of the main range of the Shield Wall, looming overhead and into the sky for hundreds of yards, he had seen no sign of the desert elves. Dark green eyes stared up at the rock face, wisps of sand being blown from it's crags by the wind. This would be a difficult climb indeed and Elios saw no ledge to afford his already weary body a rest once he got on the wall. He could not rest here at its base with a tribe of tribal elves no doubt closing on him quickly though and so he moved to the wall, reaching up toward the first handhold he saw available. As he began to pull himself up the sandstone crumbled away in his grasp. This would be a difficult climb indeed.
A few hours later Elios was over halfway up the rock face being a skilled climber but his arms were shaking with the strain of supporting his weight. He glanced down toward the ground a couple hundred yards below and he groaned lightly, knowing there was only one way to go now and that was up. Before he brought his gaze back up to the wall above him he spotted three dots on the western horizon moving quickly toward him. He did not take time to consider if the elves would come up the wall after him he just hoped they did not carry longbows. Elios climbed another ten feet then peered back to take in the progress of his pursuers and they were no longer dots on the horizon, the agile and swift runners were already in clear sight and one of them was pulling a bow from his shoulder as he ran. Elios grunted and began to pull himself up the wall as fast as his worn out arms and legs would propel him. Another fifteen feet up the wall and Elios heard the faint sounds of a voice below but he could not make out what was being said at this distance and with the wind whipping about his body as it was. What was being said did not matter to Elios at the time though he just wanted to get to the top the lip of the wall a hundred feet above and he wanted to get there fast. He peered down again and he noticed the form of a tall hooded figured with a bow drawn taught.
The pain of the arrow striking Elios in the back seemed faint to him and he continued to pull himself up the rock face, adrenaline coursing his veins and pushing him forward. Another arrow was loosed but it came in short and skipped audibly off the stone a few feet below where Elios now clung to the side of the cliff. Elios never took his gaze off of his destination the lip of the wall was just a few more yards above him. He reached for his next handhold and an arrow grazed the side of his face before striking the wall just over his head, chipping away some of the sandstone wall so that dust fell painfully into his eyes. He continued forward anyways and a couple yards later he was pulling himself up over the lip of the wall. He rolled onto his side panting heavily but was more than elated that he had escaped the clutches of the elves. Even if they started climbing now he would be half way to Luir's Outpost by the time they reached the top of the wall and far out of their reach. He kept rolling on his side to lay on his back and fires ignited in his senses when the pain of the arrowhead digging a bit deeper into his shoulder blade got a hold of him. He sat up slowly and winced as he pulled off is pack only to notice two more arrows lodged securely into the pack its self. He reached over his shoulder with a single hand to assess the damage and found that the entire arrowhead hadn't even made its way into his flesh. Luckily, desert elves aren't known so much for their brawn and their spindly arms keep them from being able to pull the more powerful longbows that would have put Elios well within lethal range even as high up as he was. He pulled the two arrows from the outside of his pack and picked up the slightly bloody one, noted that they were fine quality and slid them into the quiver over his shoulder. Elios drank the last half of his final waterskin then and rose to his feet, pulling his pack onto his back once more as he stood. It was less than a day's travel to Luir's Outpost and he did not intend to have any more mishaps on this less than fortunate trip.
Luck was with the traveler for the first time in many days and he had no falls while descending other side of the Shield Wall. He came onto the North Road weary and exhausted and he wished he had saved some of the water he had finished off back atop the wall. Luir's Outpost was less than half a day's travel to the south though and the going on the reasonably well maintained road was easy in comparison to the dunes. The horrible burning sun still beat down upon him and the pain in his shoulder didn't relent as he traveled with his pack on his back, but he was a seasoned traveler had seen worse situations in his past. As he walked he put his mind off of his horribly biting thirst and instead spent his time recalling the many travels he had undertaken in the name of his deity Vrianne atop his recently fallen friend Arrow. He recalled the countless weeks that would have been spent in solitude if not for the silent company of his mount while out living in the wastes. Elios was a half-elf and as with most half-elves he was not accepted by the vast majority of the 'civilized world'. He was an abomination in the eyes of most people who lived within the walls and so instead of taking their scorn and misdirected hatred Elios preferred to spend his life in the solitude of the desert. But, since he had come across Arrow he had not been entirely alone anymore. A wild and young kank when they first met on the grasslands south of Tuluk Arrow did not take to Elios' form of taming at first. Elios ended up on the sand and almost trampled more than once while trying to turn the wild bug into a decent beast for riding. In time Arrow become more accustom to having the nomad on his back and even more accustom the blue fruits the rider fed it from time to time. In a matter of a couple of months Elios was sleeping curled up on the grassy earth of the northern plains against the bug and Arrow came to take comfort in having the rider near. The silent love and friendship that Elios and Arrow had for one another could not be tested or broken, both were alone without the other and both had nowhere else to go.
Now Elios was alone again for the first time in years and he searched his thoughts for exactly how he was going to come about another mount. He needed one to continue to make supply runs for the Kuraci but at the same time he was never very keen on riding a wall bred bug. He found that wall bred mounts, even inix and sunback weren't as hardy or dependable as one tamed from the wild. He decided after a few hours on the path walking in the heat though that at this point any beast would do if it didn't throw him every couple of feet. He would pick the best of the mounts he could afford in Luir's Outpost when he reached it and be on his way to the village of Redstorm East to pick up his spice haul and get it back to the Kuraci. The trip would take several weeks and would put him through gith lands, the southern wastes, and near the perilous Sea of Silt. He did not look forward to the trip but he made most of his coins off of runs this way for the different merchant Houses of the cities and he had not made one in some time. By the time the crimson sun was setting in the west Elios was making his way up an incline in the white stone road toward a pair of tall gates. The walls of the outpost had several towers rising up from their tops and paths beyond and a few dun-clad guards stood watching the steady flow of traffic through the gates. Elios pulled his hood up around his features and quietly moved through the throng of patrons into the post.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two...
Continue Reading...Nomad
CHAPTER 1 - The Braxat, The
Added on Oct 13, 2005A nomad battles a fearsome braxat.
Desolate, this one word summed up the only way to describe the world that was his. Beasts that could tear the life from the most battle hardy warrior called this place of his home. Bands of evil men who sought to destroy, rape, and pillage were his only neighbors. In its vast scorching sands that spanned the horizon in all directions, there could be found only death and despair for most. But he was not most, he was what most would call a wild man. A renegade that bent knee to no other man, who's path was decided by little more than the wind. He was a nomad.
Though the sand blew with a ferocity that would cause most to take shelter, the nomad would not be found curled up in a hole this day. He slid to the side of his kank, a massive ant-like insect who's hardy nature made it his preferred beast of burden. The fall from the creature's back was considerable, but he landed on slightly bent legs with a stealthy silence that would make the most light-footed street urchin applaud. Silence was of the greatest importance in the barren land that he called home, there were no barriers to keep noise from reaching the keen senses of any that might lurk in the distant dunes. As the nomad knew, there was always some vile beast waiting just beyond his line of vision, poised to strike. If this paranoia was simply due to his own unnecessary fear, or a dire survival tactic was not of importance. In the deep desert, only survival matters after all. The nomad did not make it so many years by taking any chances.
With swift short steps the nomad made his way up to the edge of the ravine, crouching just as he reached its sandstone drop off. For a long moment he stayed just where he was, straight backed and on a single right knee. His deep green eyes took in all that he could through the blowing sand about him. All the while his keen, slightly pointed ears listening for anything he might find alerting. He saw and heard nothing at all accept for the constant grating sound of the blowing sand, in the nomad's home, this was always a good thing. He peered up toward the distant ball of crimson light, checking once more that he was heading in the direction that the trail was going before the sandstorm came to erase all evidence of his prey. Then, laying down on his stomach slowly, he peered over the edge of the ravine.
The canyon below was not large in comparison to most of the massive gouges that dotted many areas of the known world. It only dug into the sandy earth to create a fifty or so foot drop, but its walls were steep, and it ran from east to west for many miles. The nomad didn't take a moment to consider anything more, his prey had went this way, that was all that mattered. After scanning the floor of the canyon once more from his high perch and being satisfied that he saw nothing of consequence, the nomad pushed up to his feet. Turning on a single heel he moved back to the side of his kank and hastily began unlashing his saddle bags from the creature's side. After removing the medium sized leather satchel from the insect's sandy-yellow carapace he dropped to a knee once more and began searching through its contents. In a moment he had his woven leather rope out and was hastily working one end into a loop. He slung the loop around a piece of jagged stone jutting out from the lip of the ravine and then rolled over the side of the cliff, slowly descending.
The nomad held the half-inch thick leather rope tightly in both hands before him, the toes of his rough leather boots finding a small but seemingly secure lip of stone to support his weight. With short hops the nomad carefully picked his way down the side of the cliff face. The face of the sandstone cliff appeared easily scaleable at first with many visible hand and foot holds mottling its surface. But it soon became apparent to the nomad that the coarse stone was brittle, and he scrambled for a purchase more than once when a foothold would break before he finally reached the floor of the ravine.
Down here where the walls of stone rose up around him on two sides, the stinging sands ceased to pelt the nomad. He began surveying the sandy earth at his feet for the trail he had lost earlier in the day due to the storm. It wasn't long before he came up on the clawed tracks that marked his prey's passing. The faint imprint of three toes in the sand, each having a four inch dig mark where the beast's claws protruded into the soil when it moved. The nomad was pleased that he had guessed correctly about the durrit moving in a relatively straight path even in the storm. He set out moving through the canyon on the creatures trail. He hadn't got out of sight of where he first descended into the ravine before he came up on his prey. The durrit was already dead.
The nomad quickly dropped into a crouch his gloved hands instinctively moving to the bone hilts that protruded from his belt line. His eyes first darted up to inspect the higher ground, only the constant roar of the howling wind graced the ravine on both of its upper sides. Then without a conscious thought he moved to the wall of stone nearest him and placed his back to it, taking comfort in the solidity of this one defended side. After many long moments of watching the upper crests of the two canyon walls and growing confident that if an ambush was to come it was not from above, he moved closer to the dead durrit.
One hand still held firmly to the bone hilt of his obsidian sword as he approached the site of the massacre, fore that's what it was. The corpse of the biped beast that would normally stand head high was now on its side in the dust, a massive section of flesh ripped from its narrow chest. One of its legs was almost completely severed from the body at the hip. An arm lay a few feet from the corpse, seemingly ripped straight out at the shoulder socket. After surveying the area for a single instant and the shredded corpse the nomad saw what he had feared to see, a single set of tracks that spelled dread.
Fifty feet above back where a slender rope dangled over the edge of a cliff and a single yellow kank stood skittering slowly about, there loomed the beast that would strike fear into any traveler. A braxat it was called, a hulking beast that stood at a towering twelve feet on its back legs. Though it often moved at tremendous speeds with the aid of its large muscular arms. Both of its five fingered hands ended in large razor sharp claws that could tear straight through a wooden shield, or crush any being unfortunate enough to get caught in its grasp.
Despite looking crude and barbaric at first glance with its bone spiked leathery flesh, the braxat was not a stupid beast, simply cruel and savage. Above all else a braxat loved to bring torment to the humanoid races of the world. They loved the sound of a screaming elf or human as their limbs were ripped from their bodies or their flesh severed with large raking claws.
It had seen the single half-elf traveler earlier in the day a few miles back from where it was now, and decided then that this one and his mount would make a fine meal. It reasoned that the tiny humanoid was tracking the durrit that had strode through earlier in the day and rushed ahead quickly, wanting to reach the durrit and put its ambush into motion. After catching the durrit at the bottom of the canyon it now stood next to, the braxat made short work of the beast and left it far below to lure the single half-elf away from his mount. The beast's plan was sound, kill the traveler's swift mount and strand him. Then the hulking monster could slowly hunt him into exhaustion where the braxat could then enjoy his slow death.
The braxat used the harsh weather to its advantage, its double lidded eyes able to see much farther in the blowing sandstorm than those of its prey. Ducked behind a stone outcropping a hundred feet away the creature watched as the half-elf slid down his rope into the ravine, and its trap.
The giant ant like creature that now stood next to the ravine alone seemed skittish, probably somehow sensing that the braxat lurked nearby. But Arrow would not flee from the point where its trusted master had left it, it would remain there facing whatever peril befell it until Elios returned to fetch it.
Breaking the revered silence for an instant the nomad said in a low whisper the only word that came to mind. "A braxat".
As if to answer the words and substantiate what the nomad already knew, a distant roaring thundered throughout the canyon from somewhere above. It was immediately followed by the screeching sound of some distressed beast. The nomad turned quickly pulling his short foot-long obsidian dagger. The nomad knew what the sound was, knew that he had fallen for the ambush that was not intended for him. He had faltered, and he knew that if he did not make haste, Arrow, his only trusted companion would soon pay the price for his mistake.
In an instant the nomad was in a dead sprint back toward the rope he knew he could not possibly reach and climb in time to save his mount. In a matter of just a few seconds the nomad had sprinted the full ninety or so feet back across the rocky canyon floor to the rope still dangling from the cliffs edge. Taking his obsidian dagger in his clenched teeth he quickly took up the rope in both hands and placed his feet in the first secure holds in the sandstone wall preparing to climb. Another high pitched squeal echoed down into the canyon. The nomad's sinewy slender arms pulled against themselves then on the verge of snapping, propelling him straight up the rope without the slightest bit of aid from his boot clad feet. In just a moment the nomad was half way up the rock wall when his look of fear quickly turned to one of terror.
Twenty five feet above the large form of a kank slipped over the edge of the ravine, letting out a gurgled screech as it started to topple straight down toward the nomad.
Boot clad toes quickly scraped across the sandstone cliff face and the nomad swung out from the wall and to his right. His eyes never left the rapidly descending creature as his feet went into motion trying vainly to propel him out of the kank's path. Just as the kank was reaching him he knew he could not completely get out of the way. Then, as if knowing its masters peril even though it could not, a spasm in the throes of death caused the kank to turn slightly in fall. Its thorax struck the wall turning it completely over onto its back as it descended. The nomad did not miss his chance and he quickly fell flat against the wall, bruising his right cheek and chest in the process. The desperate maneuver saved his life then though as the kank's corpse barely missed him in its head long roll.
It took the nomad a moment to reorient himself after striking the wall. By the time he had re-set his feet against the wall to push himself out to arms length, the corpse struck the canyon floor with a sickening crack of chitin. The nomad peered down toward his fallen comrade, his only trusted friend. He knew he could do nothing for the now dead beast. Suddenly a shadow cast down on him from above and he looked up just in time to see the huge form of the braxat leaping out from the edge of the ravine, following its latest victim down.
Massive leg muscles flexed and supported the braxat as it hit the canyon floor next to its newest kill. It knew the creature was dead but in its blood lust it did not care, it needed more. It tore into the corpse ripping at it with its viscous claws and tearing out huge hunks from the corpse's exposed flesh with its sharp teeth. When at last the braxat's animalistic rage had come to an end, it peered around looking for its soon to be victim. The half-elf should be close by, it had just saw him in the bottom of this canyon. But its prey was not where it should be, its prey was not falling into its plan.
The nomad climbed the rope quickly once more, but his movements were not driven by fear as one would suspect. The nomad's movements were now driven by an anger and a hate. An anger at himself for leading his companion to its death and a hate for the creature that had deceived him. The nomad scaled the edge of the ravine and rolled on his side before coming to his feet. He spotted what he had hoped to find, his saddle bags still laid on the sandy earth where he had left them. The nomad ripped the satchel open sending the button clasp flying off into the sand and he quickly produced a small leather quiver of arrows. Next he reached over his shoulder toward the horn longbow that was secured to the side of his backpack with a leather tie. Pulling at a single protruding length of the tie the bow fell free into the nomad's waiting bronzed hand.
The bow was fabulously crafted from a length of curling horn. The horn came from a large antelope like creature that grazed on the distant dry grasses of the northern plains, rightfully named a duskhorn due to the dark hue of the curling horns that were its namesake. The bow was not adorned with intricate carvings as most bows and was not even sanded to complete smoothness. Too many years in the hands of its current owner in the deep desert had turned it into a rough, rugged, practical bow. But, its slight re-curve fashion made it very powerful and its slender frame made it an easy pull for the slender arms of the half-elf that now held it.
The nomad stood slowly, his frame seeming to shake slightly with the tenseness that now was apparent in his whole body. A tan leather quiver in his left hand and a duskhorn bow in his right the nomad stalked up to the edge of the ravine, peering down toward the vile beast that had just slain his only friend.
The braxat turned its large head to see the rope still dangling from the wall, but the half-elf couldn't possibly have climbed out of the canyon in the short amount of time it had taken to kill the mount. Why would a puny being like that even want to climb up to the waiting claws of a braxat, especially for a mere kank? The braxat peered up toward the crest of the ravine anyways, despite the logic. There he saw only the blowing sand of the storm that always plagued these badlands. The braxat decided that the half-elf must have fled further down the canyon looking for some escape from his certain doom.
Just as the braxat took a long step forward his reasoning quickly changed. He had no choice but to see a different point of view, looking down to witness the grey-fletched arrow now protruding from his upper thigh. Though the projectile was relatively puny compared to the braxat's bulk, its sting rang clear enough in the creature's nervous system. The braxat quickly turned its gaze up toward the lip of the ravine, ready to face this new rival that had stupidly stood to face it.
If a braxat's rough facial features could display total shock, then the nomad certainly would have been the first to witness the spectacle. He stood there defiantly, his deeply tanned face staring back at the beast now peering up at him. His long golden-blonde hair blowing about wildly in the wind the nomad reached into the quiver now slung over his left shoulder. Another arrow was notched into his bow and the nomad quickly lifted it once more, pulling back on the plant fiber string firmly as he took aim. The nomad released as the braxat took a step forward toward the sandstone wall and the arrow missed its mark, skipping of a large stone where the braxat had just stood.
The nomad cursed himself silently for not buying more arrows back in Luir's Outpost. Though he could not have known he would be doing battle with anything more than a durrit this day. He pulled his bow once more and released another arrow straight down just as the braxat reached the wall. The crude projectile of stone, wood, and feather struck true this time though, digging six inches into the braxat's right shoulder. If the beast even noticed it didn't give any outward sign. Still full of anger, his fallen friend in his line of vision, the nomad pulled and released once, and then again, and then a third time.
The creature was still coming up the wall at him, he had two arrows left.
As the viscous bite of three more arrows rained down upon it, the braxat only grew in its anger, and thus its rage. It could see the new stems of fletched wood clearly. Their sting drew its eyes down to see them, two protruding from its upper left shoulder and the other from the right side of its bulky neck. It knew that it was not seriously injured, and even if it had been its boiling hate for its new enemy would not have let it flee. The coarse stone of the wall was brittle though, and even with the aid of its large claws the climbing was difficult for the braxat. Mostly because in its thrashing climb it tore its handholds straight from the wall, the stone falling the twenty five feet below to shatter on canyon floor. A simple wall would not keep the beast from the pathetic being that dared to stand against it though. It turned handfuls of sandstone into gravel as it progressed up the wall, pulling its self closer to the one that had caused it pain.
From ten feet above another arrow found its mark. At the close range of the shot the braxat keenly felt this arrow sink deeply into the left side of its chest. Pausing for an instant to let out a roar filled with what could be determined as pain or rage, the braxat sprang forward with a single pull of its massive arms. It sailed the remaining ten feet straight up the wall, it was now in striking distance of its intended prey. One clawed hand dug into the lip of the wall, its other bulky arm reached back preparing to unleash the fury of its anger. In a single mortal swipe that the half-elf could not hope to dodge or survive, the braxat would find its ecstasy in the demise of the one that had dared to rise up against it.
The nomad, his bow drawn taught and his eyes narrowed on the hulking beast that now loomed before him did not budge. He knew the horrible claws of the braxat would steal the life from his body in a single blow, but still he held firm. This was the creature that had stolen his only companion from him, the beast he would not flee from or let escape. As the massive claws came forth, the nomad held firm.
Nimble fingers held the bow string taught, the bite of the plant fiber cord painfully digging into the calloused flesh. At the last instant the fingers unfurled, releasing the plant fiber string and sending the stone tipped projectile forth. It was only a couple of yards between the nomad and the braxat, and the arrow had been shot from a bow that was pulled to the point of snapping in on it's self. The sharp tip found its mark then and the right eye of the braxat exploded back into the beast's skull, three quarters of the shaft looming grotesquely out of the creature's head. The impact caused the massive beast to wail and thrash and it's razor sharp claws flew harmlessly high above the now crouched half-elf's head.
An arrow protruding grotesquely from its now empty ocular socket and gore streaming down the side of its face, the braxat still managed to somehow hold firm to the lip of the ravine with its other hand. The nomad saw his chance.
Dropping his bow in the dust beside him the nomad lunged forth. He knew that if the beast regained its senses before he could dislodge it from the edge of the ravine, he would be sorely pressed to even survive the impending battle. The distance was short and the nomad slammed his shoulder heavily into the elbow joint of the braxat's anchored claw. Though his movements were fueled with anger and desperation, he made a serious mistake in estimating the hulking braxat's sheer strength, fore the joint did not budge. Then, almost as an afterthought, the nomad released the bite of his tightly clenched teeth and his foot long obsidian dagger fell down into his right waiting hand.
The nomad dropped both knees onto the digits that were dug into the sandstone at his feet then and drove the point of his wickedly sharp blade into the top of the hand they were connected to. The braxat let out a thundering roar and immediately loosed its grip, it toppled backwards and at that moment it realized its mistake, but it was too late. The large beast fell the full fifty feet backwards into the canyon, landing just next to the corpse of the kank it had slain. The nomad peered over the edge of the ravine to witness the unmoving humanoid form, the fletching of his arrow still securely sticking out of the creatures head. Turning on a heel then the nomad moved purposefully away from the edge of the ravine, bending over to retrieve his bow and satchel before moving on.
The nomad would not lament his fallen comrade, the one who had saved him time and again from the cruel world that was his, and kept him company in his many months of solitary travel. In the deep desert, one could not afford to waste the precious water of tears.
Desolate, this one word summed up the only way to describe the world that was his. Beasts that could tear the life from the most battle hardy warrior called this place of his home. Bands of evil men who sought to destroy, rape, and pillage were his only neighbors. In its vast scorching sands...
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