[Flashback] Innocence Lost [Solo]

[Rorugir]

Timestamp: 69th Summer 511 A.V. They talked about him, and Rorugir knew it. The isur that had come with them from Sultros. The one hiding in the last carriage. Rumors had run thick and heavy among the traders, each one wilder and more unlikely than the last. Rorugir had only talked to a couple since his departure, mainly to whatever unlucky human was conscripted into bringing him his meals, and he was deprived of any sort of company. So when the curious young man came calling about a week after they had left Sultros, Rorugir was more than willing to converse. “Hello?” The man said uncertainly, lifting up the carriage covering to peek in. He was human, a race Rorugir had become well acquainted with since his joining up with the traders. They were a wildly unique race, each one with different appearances and temperaments. This man was no different - or, in a way he was, as he too was quite different from the humans Rorugir had met up until now. Dark, unstyled curls fell down into his round face, and a touch of stubble lay on his lip, carefully cultivated into something approaching a beard. However, for the most part, youth still had a grip on the man, which was evident in the baby fat of his cheeks and the air of self-consciousness that surrounded him. “Is anyone in here?” he called out, trying to gaze into the darkness of the caravan. Rorugir, who had been resting, sat up on his bunk. “Yes.” The isur replied calmly, moving into the light so the young man could see him. The young man seemed surprised to see a haggard and browned face look out at him, but he quickly contained it. “Ah, yes, I was hoping…you were in here.” The man said, attempting a weak smile. “Hoping to see the isur, you mean?” Rorugir said coldly, and the man glanced away, making the isur regret what he said. “What is it you want, lad?” Rorugir said, more gentle this time. “I, um, just wanted to talk,” he replied breathlessly. “About what’s going on. The carriages have stopped, you know,” the man added. Rorugir nodded slightly, and then a frown touched his face. He had noticed the carriage stopping a while ago, and it had piqued his interest. “And why are they stopped?” he asked. The man shrugged. “Something about a broken axle on one of the carriages ahead. I didn’t really ask much, because I was pretty relieved we had the chance to rest.” He confessed. “I ride one of the horses alongside, running patrol.” “I see.” In truth, this was Rorugir’s first hearing of such a patrol. The Unforgiving were a hard place, and Rorugir should have known there would be some sort of bodyguard riding with the traders. But the lead trader hadn’t really given the isur many details when they had met (including his name), and many of the day-to-day activities of the traders were unknown to him. “So we’re stuck here until it’s fixed?” “For a couple of hours, yeah. It shouldn’t take too long too long to fix. Make the most of every occasion, though, right?” the man tried to grin, scratching the back of his head gawkily. “Um…I’m Samuel, by the way.” “I’m Rorugir. Pleased to meet you, Samuel.” “And – and you.” A silence fell between them. The isur seemed lost in thought, but then he suddenly spoke, “Why don’t you show me the rest of the caravans, Samuel?” Samuel, who had been waiting for such an excuse, nodded eagerly. “Sure, let’s do that. Nearly everyone’s camped out front.” “Good. We’ll go there, then. So - shall we?”

[Rorugir]

The light nearly blinded Rorugir as he exited the carriage. “Bright” was not a common word for one raised inside a mountain, and the feeling of direct sunlight was new to Rorugir. Beyond irritation at the near-blindness it afflicted on his eyes, he couldn’t say whether he liked it or not. When his eyes finally adapted to the brightness, Rorugir could pick out the details of his surroundings. He was surrounded by greenery, harsh and beautiful at the same time. Trees speared up into the stormy skies with a vengeance, an early-morning mist filling in the spaces between them. The land was rugged and mountainous, which accounted for the bumpiness of the travel. The road along which the traders traveled was overgrown with moss, but the ruts in the dirt showed it to be well-traveled, and the Samuel did indeed move with a purpose, as if he knew the land well. Samuel led Rorugir along round the caravan, into the thick of the campsite, where several of the caravans lay waiting. Men and women of all sizes, some on foot and some on horseback, moved freely through this makeshift camp. Many of them stopped to watch the isur walk by, but Rorugir paid them no heed. “So, um, you came from Sultros, did you?” the young man asked diffidently. “You weren’t with us when we left Wind Reach.” “Yes.” Rorugir said, rather unwillingly. “I…did indeed join up with your group at Sultros. Is- is that a fallen bag, Samuel?” “Oh! Yes, it is…” His attention diverted, Samuel went off to reclaim the fallen item. Rorugir had little time to be alone before he was once again accosted. “So you’re the isur, eh?”

[Rorugir]

The isur in question turned just in time to see a spare, pale-faced man approach. He seemed to come from nowhere, appearing out of the shadows. He was thin and harrowed, with a toned body that bespoke of a hard life and even harder discipline. A scar jutting down his throat had even more to tell, this one speaking of the countless battles the man had been in. This was backed up by the armanents he carried: a dagger lay hidden under the sleeve of his russet tunic, concealed snugly beneath the man’s right armpit, and a wickedly sharp mace hung from the man’s left hip. Astonishingly light blue eyes, almost devoid of all color, watched Rorugir intently, and made him choose his words carefully. “Yes, I am. And you are…?” The man waved away the question. “Names do not matter. All you need to know, Rorugir of the clan Pitrius, is that I am keeping an eye on you, and that you better not do anything rash.” “What…how do you know my name?” “It’s my business to know, isur. I’m the head of security for this little business venture.” The man moved his head to the side, and for a second, Rorugir had a glimpse of a tattoo on the back of the man’s neck, outlining a blue flame. The man noticed his interest; “That’s my Gnosis mark from the god Wysar, my lad. It allows me to – how shall we say? – anticipate what’s going to happen. So let’s hope nothing bad happens, yeah?” The man gave Rorugir one last look, and then walked away. He passed Samuel, who was just coming back, and the boy frowned. Returning to Rorugir, the young man murmured, “What did old Eldred want with you?” “He was just…giving me a warning.” Rorugir said. Samuel shook his head. “That man!” he remarked. “He thinks every shadow is a bandit, every snapped branch is a wolf pack. Don’t take his threats personally. Eldred’s just paranoid.” “Well, this place is called the Unforgiving for a reason.” Rorugir pointed out. “…True.” Samuel admitted. “But, anyways. Several of the others have set up a fire. Let’s go and join them.” Rorugir bowed his head, acquiesced. “As you wish.” But his mind was elsewhere, pondering Eldred’s warning, Let’s hope nothing bad happens…

[Rorugir]

The fire was weak and meager, but Rorugir reveled in the feeling of warmth as they drew near. Samuel had led Rorugir on a twisting path past a couple of the carriages, and he was starting to doubt Samuel's sense of direction when he heard the voices. There were several of them, both male and female, coming just around the corner. The loud and boisterous quality spoke of plenty of alcohol, and Ror knew this was the place he was going. Three forms huddled against the back of a carriage, facing a small fire composed of twigs and leaves. Two were male, the other female. The female, a dour, heavy-set individual, and the younger man, a red-faced and blond-haired lad, were clearly deep in the throes of drink by the way they spoke. The third man, an older human with graying hair, was not as inebriated. Though, he did sip at a beer every now and again. The blond-haired man was the first to see them approach. "Hail, Samuel!" He called out. "And, hail - well, who is this? Could this possibly be our elusive new companion?" "The isur." The female confirmed, her eyes slitted. "Indeed. We've been wondering what you were doing in that carriage, isur!" The man laughed. "Good to see you up and about." "Thank you." Rorugir replied slowly. The woman grunted. "Doesn't say much, does he?" she said, dissatisfied. "Oh, shut your yap, Fralia." the older man spoke for the first time, the woman turning away with a sniff. "You there, isur." he continued, addressing Rorugir. "You are of the Pitrius clan, are you not? I can tell by that arm of yours." "...Yes, I am." Rorugir gritted his teeth. "I am indeed a part of the Pitrius clan." The man nodded sagely. "Well, my dear Pitrius, take a seat and enjoy the beer." Samuel and Rorugir sat, and several beers were passed to them. Samuel began drinking his with relish. The isur didn't touch his. After a moment of silent drinking among the humans, the attention once again turned back to Rorugir. "So, you're a part of the Pitrius clan, like Cassian said?" The woman sneered. "Why are you here, then? Shouldn't you be back in your citadel with the rest of your magic-loving brothers?" "Fralia..." the red-faced man objected weakly. "No! I have a right to know, Emden!" Fralia demanded. "What if he's here to sabotage our operation?" "Wait a minute, that's unjustified-" "I'm plently justified! You can't trust an isur, never can!" "Calm yourself down!" Cassian thundered, and clearly the older man's word carried wait with the woman. She quieted immediately. "I'm sure our friend here has a perfectly good reason for being here." The man glanced at Rorugir, who had remained silent during the entire episode. Now, though, the isur began to speak; "I left Sultros because I did not agree with it. I wanted to leave and see the world for myself. The master of the caravans provided me with transport. That is all. I don't know anything else about your operation, or what's going on here." Emden nodded. "I supposed Amenius hasn't told you much, huh? Judging from your reaction, he hadn't even told you his name! Amenius does tend to be a bit secretive. Well, our caravans are on a round trip around Kalea, selling our goods. We're on our way to Wind Reach now," here the man paused to direct a look at Fralia- "As everyone knows." "Wind Reach?" Rorugir asked. "Gods, boy, you haven't heard of Wind Reach?" Cassian's eyebrows came together. "The city on the mountain, where the natives fly on the backs of eagles?" "Obviously he has not." Fralia sniffed. Rorugir sat back and pondered. Riding on eagles! What strangeness was this? That was beyond what he had even considered he'd find in this world! What other things were waiting for him out there? The clicking of hooves brought Rorugir back to the present. He looked up, just in time to see a man on a horse, approaching the fire. "Hail," Cassian called out. "What is Arenius going to do?" The man sighed, and dark circles surrounded his eyes. "The break is more serious than we thought. We're going to have to stay til morning." "Til morning!" Fralia hissed. "We'll be completely undefended here at night!" The man shrugged. "There's nothing else we can do. All we can do is put a sword by our bedroll and pray Priskil carries us through the night. Well, I'm off to tell the rest. You should probably get inside the carriages soon. Dusk is almost here." And with that, he rode off. He left behind five silent watchers, the only sound that of the horse's hooves fading away. "Til morning..." Emden murmured. Fralia muttered, "We'll all be dead by then..." "You heard the man." Cassian's voice was hard and decisive. "Return to your carriage and get to bed. That goes for you too, isur." Rorugir nodded and stood up. "Thank you for the warmth of your fire tonight." he said. Samuel looked up. "Do you want me to guide you back?" Rorugir shook his head. "No. I know the way." As he was walking back, the grim voice of Fralia washed over his ears..."Dead by then, we'll all be dead..."

[Rorugir]

It was nearly midnight, and the isur sat awake. As much as he tried, Rorugir could not get the woman's voice out of his hand. Rebound back and forth in his mind, it took on the sound of a judge, laying down an absolute and final decision. We'll all be dead by morning. Rorugir shivered and moved onto his side. The bunk he lay in was one of six packed into the back of the caravan, and was neither spacious nor warm. Also, the man who slept in the bunk above him smelled like a pig. But, under the circumstances, he supposed it would do. A sound outside made him sit up straight, nearly knocking his head on the wood bottom of the upper bunk. Tilting his head ever so slightly, he made to listen. And then the sound of something being lit on fire filled his ears. It started soft, but it was unmistakable. Whoosh! The sound grew in intensity, and with it came the odor of burning wood. Both were sufficient enough to wake the other five companions of the carriage; behind him, one muttered sleepily, "Wuz goin on?" Rorugir coughed, the smoke coming out of nowhere to blacken his lungs. He hastily stood up and, trying to cough the rest of the smoke out, shouted, "We have to get out of here! Move!" The fire had made it through the outer shell of wood and was starting to lick at the carriage door. Some of the traders were slow to response, their senses deadened by sleep - those of that number were quickly woken by a slap to the face. "Get out!" He shouted hoarsely in their ear. "Fire! Get moving!" The men tumbled out of the carriage, pushing their way past the burning cloth of the carriage door in little more than underclothes. Rorugir was the last to leave, he stood at the doorway, then turning back, looking into the hellish disaster that was behind him. A quick snag of his backpack and battleaxe saved them from the burning timbers, and he was out. Rorugir stumbled out into a scene of death. All around him was fire, hellishly gnawing on all that he saw. Men, dressed in furs and on the backs of black horses, circled around the carriages. Their crazed eyes glowed in the flames of the torches they carried, every once in a while thrusting the torches into the carriages to make sure they were properly burning. Several more were on foot, naked swords in their hands. Bodies lay around their feet. Abhorrence twisted Rorugir's face, and he felt a strange feeling fill the pit of his belly. Or rather, he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. All emotion had drained away from his body, the frenetic energy that had filled him in the carriage disappearing. Now, a strange languor filled his limbs. It was hard for him to move, to think - to do anything at all, in fact. The only thing he could do was watch in silent horror as his world burned.

[Rorugir]

The thump of sinew and bone hitting ground broke through his inertia, made his head twist to the side. It allowed him see the trader who had proceeded him out of the burning carriage hit the ground, a slash of red across his belly. It also allowed him to see the black-haired man dressed in hairs approach, blade stained with blood arcing for Rorugir's head- The isur managed to bring his battleaxe up in time to deflect off the blow, but it was a weak defense. The sharp recoil of the sword hitting his axe sent Rorugir down to his knees, and the next blow nearly wrenched the axe out of his hands. In desperation, he lashed out, wildly swinging the axe in the direction of the bandit. His opponent made the mistake of backing away from the blow instead of pushing his victory, allowing Rorugir time to recover. The isur got back to his feet, blood pounding in his head. A voice raised in a guttural cry filled the air, and it was a second before Rorugir realized it was his own. He lunged forward, swinging the axe down. The man managed to deflect it, but he now found the tables reversed on him. Rorugir fought with the savage mindlessness of a wild animal trapped, relentlessly coming at the man, giving no quarter. The man hastily began to step away, trying to get away from the barrage of blows, and his foot came down on a rut in the road. He fell, the sword torn out of his grasp. Rorugir's blade came down, connecting with a meaty thwack. He pulled his axe from the man's body, and swung down again. And again. And again. He fell into a frenzied rhythm of slicing the body up, which was only broken by his exhaustion. Weakness suddenly waxed over him, and he collapsed to his knees besides the mutilated body of his attacker. When he finally recovered from the weakness of his limbs, Rorugir looked around. While he had managed to take down one of the men, his fellows hadn't fared so well. Many laid dead in the street, blood pooling around their bodies. The ones that had managed to arm themselves, mainly the guards under Eldred's command, were outnumbered and outmatched. They fell too. But their leader was not so easily felled. In the briefest instance, Rorugir managed to see the grizzled old man himself, teeth bared in a horrifying grin. The mace swung to and fro, catching fur-clothed men in their midriffs, legs, heads, any place that was exposed. He moved with a wild grace that outstripped all that were foolhardy enough to approach. He was engaged in a dance of death, one that was accompanied by the depraved melody of squirting, splashing, blood. When he saw him, Rorugir staggered to his feet and tried to reach him. He passed by the remnants of his burning carriage, the occupants of which mainly lay dead around his feet. Rorugir had all but been forgotten. Most of the attackers were now pursuing the one man who still gave them trouble: Eldred. They gathered in a loose circle around him, each jostling for position as they tried to find the right place to stab and kill the man. But if Eldred had a weak spot, they had not found it yet; the men just keep coming and falling. Dozens must have fallen by the follower of Wysar's blade. But the tide of men seemed endless. And then, Rorugir's world seemed to fall apart again. A blade waved in his face made Eldred fall back, stepped away. His foot came down in a wet pool of blood, and he slipped. Rorugir strove forward, trying to reach the man, but it was no use. He was too far away. Swords plunged, axes descended, and Eldred died. A low moan of horror pierced Rorugir's lips, and the men heard it. They turned, saw him. Exclamations of a bestial joy filled the air as they began to charge, pouncing on their newest victim. The isur's mind screamed at him to run, but his heart knew it would be no use. He would die either way. So Rorugir stood still, body tensed, face unwavering. If he had to go down, he would go down swinging; he raised his battleaxe, one last time. He was ready. Ready for his fate. But his fate never came. Before the men could reach him, Rorugir heard the twang of an bow. One of the men in the lead fell to the ground with a gurgle, dying hands clutching at the arrow that lay entangled within his neck. More twangs were heard, and more men fell. Confusion came over the men as death rained down on them, their wild eyes roving for their unknown killers. But they could not find any. Howling, they retreated, every one of them. They retreated back further into the burning wreckage of the carriages, disappearing among flame and blackened wood. Finally giving into the exhaustion of his limbs, Rorugir collapsed. He felt deadened, as though his senses were not properly working. However, faintly, he heard the gallop of approaching horses, drawing closer. But he did not care. He was too tired for that. Rorugir struggled to draw a breath, and then gave up. A second later, he succumbed to the darkness of unconsciousness.

[Rorugir]

The next time Rorugir woke up felt like only a moment or too later, though he had no true way of knowing. His head was pounding and their was an strange, oscillating motion beneath him. Up and down, up and down. It took a second for Rorugir to realize he was on the back of a horse, lying face-down. He began to struggle and the motion abruptly stopped. "Easy," a voice said from in front of him. "Easy now. You've been unconscious for the last ten minutes." There was the soft sound of someone turning around in a saddle. Hands, strong but not unduly rough, picked Rorugir up and maneuvered him into a sitting position on the grey mare's back. From this new position, Rorugir could see who he was riding the horse with, a dull shock coming to his mind when he recognized the horseback rider he had seen only the night before. "Where...where are we?" Rorugir struggled to say, feeling as though his throat was dry. He took a surreptitious look around, and saw naught but trees and rocks. No burning carriages, no cloaked men. "Are we near the caravans?" The man's face twisted into a ugly grimace as he turned around to face forward on the horse. "Yes. The rest of us - the ones who made us out - we're going to meet on a hill, not too far away from here, and discuss what to do." "What happened? Who were those men?" The man swore. "Petching bandits, that's who. This particular group of lowlifes that like to burn down carriages in the middle of the night, with their occupants still inside. I had heard about them before, but I never encountered them until now." "Were you the ones shooting the arrows, then?" "Yes. Most of us had managed to escape from the front bunch of carriages, and we came around to the back. We hoped to rescue the ones in the back, like you - you guys were the worst ones hit by those fuckers. Unfortunately, you were the only one we found alive." The man said. "In fact, we didn't even think you were alive, at first." He added. "The rest had ridden off, and I was about to follow when you groaned and turned on your side." "Oh...well then, thank you." "Don't mention it. I just hope Amenius decides to go back in and finish those scum off!" The rest of the ride proceeded in silence. Rorugir was too tired to talk, and his companion seemed fine mulling over what he would do to the bandits if he caught one of them. It wasn't until the sounds of men and horses were heard that Rorugir's attention returned. They made their way to the top of a hill, where grim-faced men carrying torches stood among the silent trees. Several more stood clustered around a figure, and as they grew near, Rorugir recognized the round face of Amenius. Beyond the caravan master and the horse rider, however, there wasn't a face he knew. Samuel, Cassian, Fralia, Emden - none were present. "We have to move on." The grim proclamation spread over the group like a plague, its origin the caravan master. The man was harried, his clothes torn; but his voice was as strong and hard as rock. "We can't waste any resources going back in." Instantly voices rung out in protest, "But there might still be survivors!" "My brother! Emden, he was in the third-to-last carriage, we can't just abandon him!" "No." The deep voice silenced all. It seemed to be the voice of authority speaking, and all complaints died away as they turned to hear the speaker continue. Rorugir swept off the back of the horse, ignoring the shocked look his companion gave him. "No." He repeated. "We can't go back in. There's too many, more than you can count. We'd just be wasting men." "And how would you know?" One of the protested demanded. His eyes became slits as he examined the isur. "Wait a second...who are you?" "My name is Rorugir Steelrune." Rorugir spoke softly, feeling pain start to lace its way through his body. But he kept his voice and face emotionless. "I was riding in the last carriage. I saw all their numbers. There is no way we can stand against them...We have to move on." There was more argument, more discussion, but in truth Rorugir heard none of it. All that he heard was Samuel's cheery voice, now raised in a imagined shout of agony. The hard, emotionless mask on Rorugir's face cracked, just for a moment showing the torment and turmoil he felt at the moment. But it had disappeared in a second, and he was expressionless once more. "It's settled. We shall move on." Amenius's strong voice swept over him and brought him back to the conversation. There was a mutter of dissent, but the men moved away, straddled their horses. "And isur..." Amenius said, turning to Rorugir for the first time. "...Thank you for backing me up." Rorugir looked at him in a silent revulsion. "Don't thank me," he whispered, "Not for something like this." --- The remnants of the trade caravan moved on, with what little horses and people they had left. More than half of the remaining traders proceeded on foot, though most opted to ride alongside with someone. They were a doleful and spasmodic group, jumping out at whatever shadow crossed their forest path. But they had good reason to be jumpy. Rorugir, probably by Amenius's goodwill towards him, managed to obtain a horse to himself. He gave it to the first trader he saw, instead choosing to walk a little behind the group. He didn't want to hear their mutters, to see the pointed looks they gave him. But there was no escaping the screams in his mind, the voices of Samuel, Cassian, Fralia, Emden, and countless others clamoring in the dark. FIN

[Gossamer]

. Character: Rorugir Experience: 5 XP Observation, 2 XP Planning, 5XP Socialization Lore: Being the odd race out, Getting used to Sunlight for the first time, witnessing first hand a bandit raid, Narrowly escaping death, Moving past conflict/violence, Freezing during a critical moment of a battle. Additional Note: This was a very interesting and unique take on being part of a raid. Normally people fight, end up killed or halfway there, but Rorugir simply seemed to be all but a bistandard in his own life at this point – still in shock from leaving Sultros. I love how this was conveyed and thought you did a very good job. I couldn’t give much XP, but if you noticed or wanted something I failed to give, let me know. .