Solo The Nature of The Game

[Razkar]

10th Day of Winter, 512AV

"Back again to our little slice of paradise, eh?"

The Tattooed Man's face split open as he saw Razkar approaching Rattling Chains. His little knot of comrades were with him, two on either side of the trail, looking down on this beige savage with a mixture of fear and amusement. Razkar just smiled thinly and wondered how much of his time they would waste.

"Looks so."

"Well, I think you're in luck," the man said, leaning on his spear, "We've been hearing stories. Rumors. Could be bad. Or good, dependin' on your poison."

"But you smile?"

The Tattooed Man shrugged. "Sellswords, mate. We don' often die in our beds, do we? Hazard of the job an' all that. But what I've been hearing?" He smiled again, wry and mocking and fatalistic all at once. "Could be a good 'un."

He stepped aside from the trail, leaving the way open for the rest of Razkar's journey. Rattling Chains lay at the center of a twisted copse of trees and shrubbery that squatted across the horizon north of Riverfall. Half an hour on the road, take a left at the shackle-strewn tree at the fork in the road, and keep following the trail...

Razkar did. Mrrko cantered slowly, placid as always. More shadows and shapes moved in the shrubbery. Probably the same guards as the Tattooed Man and his ilk. When the dead trees finally parted, Rattling Chains was revealed in all its... "glory".

Mercenaries were cleaning weapons, gossiping, napping, eating. A few were even sparring. Razkar headed straght for the mine entrance. The older faces, some of whom he had fought with in the Sea of Grass, gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment.

The Burned Man, face as dour and scorched as ever, looked up as he passed and raised a hand of greeting. The Myrian returned the nonchalant salute and, business concluded, the Burned Man went back to sharpening his sword like a good soldier.

It had been like this two weeks before. Or the two weeks before that. Or... well, you get the general idea. As ordered, Razkar had returned to Provedan's camp two weeks after their return from the Sea of Grass. But there had been nothing planned. No assaults, or ambushes, or raids... nothing befitting or requiring a man like Razkar. He had left, then returned... but still the same.

Razkar had begun to lose faith in Provedan, his hopes that he had secured a steady supply of war and slaughter. A month went by, then Fall turned to Winter, and yet, where else had he to go? So he had mounted Mrrko and breathed a fervent prayer to Myri.

There were more around the mine entrance, but these were Haev's personal enforcers. A woolly, helmeted head turned at the sound of hooves and Razkar recognized him. Hair braided and beard down to his stomach, the Bearded Man was apparently Haev's third-in-command, after the Drykas Caracatas. He wore well-maintained armor and when he walked, there was no discomfort in his stride. This was a man used to the feel of war, and surviving it.

"He thought you'd come back." When there was not reply from the Myrian, he continued. "We'll need your sword."

"Why?"

The Bearded Man nodded towards the forest to the east, and the unseen Sea of Grass beyond it. "Some work out there. Maybe."

Razkar felt his frustration rise in him again. Maybe? Possibly? Likely? He had grown to hate those words. Grown to hate the "civilized" nature of Riverfall, populated by proud warriors who never made war. Even here, in Rattling Chains, a place beyond the laws of the shining city, there was little blood to be truly found. He opened his mouth to speak on that-

Two figures emerged from the mine. One a male, hairless and radiating with sheer, cold indifference. The other a female, shorter, thinner, composed in an... unreal sort of way.

Haev Provedan and Caracatas. Lord and Lady (in a manner of speaking) or Rattling Chains.

[Razkar]

The slaver king and his lieutenant swept the men in front of them with a gaze, but gave no particular attention to any. Provedan had his hands clasped behind his back, a physical tic Razkar was growing accustomed to. Caracatas nonchalantly went down to her knees, bending down a little more to touch her palms to the ground...

Razkar cocked his head to one side. He knew what was coming, but had never seen it before.

"Webbing?"

The Bearded Man nodded next to the Myrian, watching with the same curiosity. He'd seen it countless times over the years but it never ceased to fascinate him. They couldn't see the thread that the slight Drykas woman wove and caressed with her glowing hands, but they knew it was there. Razkar shook his head in wonder.

Such things I had never thought of in the jungle, he thought, pulling his cloak tighter around him against the cold, and now? They are right before my eyes...

There's more noise around them as Caracatas works her craft, more figures and shadows coming closer. Provedan's very presence seems to draw them, a semi-circle of sellswords that stand stoic and silent until commanded. Razkar was one of them, Mrrko snuffling politely next to him.

"What is job?"

The Bearded Man opened his mouth again but Haev Provedan's eyes darted his way like a snake's tongue, and Razkar actually heard the big man's teeth click as it snapped shut again. Ah. So that's how it would be...

"He'll tell you."

"Yes, I guess that."

So they waited. Caracatas worked and weaved and spun and finally her eyes snapped back open into this plane and Provedan knelt down beside her. Whispers passed between them. Questions from him, nods or shakes of the head and short, terse answers from her. Finally, Provedan nodded and stood. A moment or two later, Caracatas did the same.

The slaver king beckoned the Bearded Man over and his third-in-command went like a loyal dog. Razkar stayed put: the demanding hand was not directed at him. More words were exchanged... and finally, the Bearded Man returned, and Provedan spoke to the group at large.

"You will accompany Tortuga-" he said, gesturing to the Bearded Man (ah, Razkar thought, so he does have a name...), "-into the Sea. You will meet with a company and raid to the east. We have word of a... profitable caravan coming through the main road. Tortuga will have the directions. You will follow his every command. Any questions?"

There were none. Razkar listened with the same impassive face as before, but secretly his soul danced inside his breast. Finally! Combat, ambush, blood, death and scalps to be claimed! Too long had he been without all five, and now his patience had been rewarded.

"Ten chimes to get ready." Provedan said, already turning to return to his underground lair. "No horses, nothing you can't carry. You will travel light."

Razkar had heard the same words a season before, prior to the last raid he'd been on. The half-circle broke apart and men walked away swiftly to gather their travelling bags. Razkar already had his. He tied up Mrrko, knowing he would be safe here for a few days, and sat down on a stone.

The Myrian waited, and aside from his breathing, the only sounds that issued from the stone was the grating hiss of a whetstone over sharpened metal...

[Razkar]

12th Day of Winter, 512AV

Manfred had been their leader on the last raid. He'd been much like Tortuga, who led them now. His beard had been shorter and he had a few more pounds on his frame, but they were similar.

But Tortuga had a coldness to him Manfred did not. And he was third to Provedan, not a middle-ranker.

So why, Razkar had asked himself as they marched into the Sea of Grass over the next two days, was he leading this raid in person? It seemed a copy of the last one: come in hard, wipe out the guards, take the slaves and booty. A simple enough expedition.

So why was Tortuga here? And why were the meeting the other half of their force out in the grass and not at Rattling Chains? There were two-dozen sellswords marching with him, following the snaking route Caracatas had written for them, and he felt like they were just striding towards darkness...

"Stop worryin' about it."

The words made his head jerk around and he saw the hideous visage of the Burned Man walking next to him, eyes fixed ahead. One of them - milky-white and unfocused after his grievous injury - flickered his way.

"You've been worryin for two nights." The Burned Man said simply, and Razkar chided himself for not asking his name. "Stop it. Not gonna help."

Razkar knew enough sellswords to know that one did not take their trust easily: their steel was paid for and so was everything else. But they were equal in this regard, both mercenaries, and he was tired of his thoughts racing solely around his skull with no other release.

"Is strange." He said, words low so it only carried between the two of them. The rest of the column marched ahead and behind them, Tortuga leading the way, courtesy of Caracatas' written instructions. "We meet rest of sellswords first, then raid? Why not all meet at Rattling Chains? Why Bearded... I mean, Tortuga lead, not Manfred? Strange..."

The Burned Man shrugged noticeably, not an easy thing to do when the sun's setting and you're marching through high grass.

"I guess the boss is just playing it safe, what with that rival he's got."

Razkar nodded slowly. Yes, he'd worked that out for himself. The last raid major raid Provedan had ordered was against a slaver caravan, apparently protected and arranged by a rich Akalak was was seeking to break into the slave market of Riverfall. Provedan objected and, through slaughter, torture, kidnapping, mutilation and bribery, had made his objections very, very clear.

Razkar knew. He'd been there.

"Would think rival would stay away. Like message said."

The Burned Man grunted in amusement. The message. A very dry way to describe three words carved into a man's chest and having him sent back, alive and mentally-broken, to deliver it. But the savage had a point... but so did he.

"Some men don't know when to give up. He might have been shocked, or horrified... but he might come back at the boss a different way. Y'never know."

"Who are men we are meeting?"

"Could be a few people. The boss knows a bunch of bands in the grass. Rogue Drykas. Other slavers. Sellswords. Outlaws. If they survive alone on the Sea, you know they can be relied on to be tough bastards."

"Why Provedan use them?"

"Probably because they cost less."

A long, thoughtful silence.

"Not trust them?"

"Not trust anyone, Myrian." The Burned Man said, and hawked a long, brown stream of tobacco juice into the grass. "Life teaches you that."

"What is name?"

The man looked over fully at him and regarded him for a moment. Then he turned back away, a rare and oddly radiant smile on his face.

"Burned Man."

The column marched on into the waning light and tall grass, silent save for shifting grass and stamping feet... and the laughing of a lone Myrian.

[Razkar]

13th Day of Winter, 512AV

"They're late."

"Calm down."

"I am calm. I'm calm and I'm calmly saying they're late."

Veros finished whittling the stick down to a toothpick in his hand and popped it between uneven teeth. "It's the Sea of Grass, not a petching cobblestone street. Of course they're late."

Rothgar grumbled behind his beard and glared again at the sun rising from the east. He and his boys were standing or crouching in a clearing in what was basically the middle of nowhere. The Sea was littered with then, but they never lasted long. Drykas camping grounds, mostly, or glassbeak nests, they were areas of trampled grass that were usually overgrown again within days. But, provided you had the men, fire and supplies to last, you could carve out a little bit of flat land in the endless vegetation.

Not that Rothgar and his men intended to be there long.

"You sure she'll be with them?"

"He said she would be."

"She has to be."

Varos sighed but didn't let it become anything more than a sound. There were over a dozen sellswords very clearly not watching them right now, and he didn't want them thinking Roth was a whiner, or a weakling. Roth was the leader; he was the second. He liked it that way: it meant he could actually run the crew and if anything went too bad, Roth was there to swing for it.

"They'll be here soon. Then we'll see."

"What if she isn't?"

"Then we'll-"

Movement from beyond the edge of the clearing. Feet. Many feet. Even from here they could see the tall stalks quivering and parting from a hundred feet away, like some massive beast was slithering its way through the foliage. All around them, their men got to their feet and pulled weapons, flexing muscles in readiness.

A massive beast. In the Sea of Grass, that could easily be the case...

"Sorry we're late."

But it was not. One by one, Provedan's mercenaries appeared from the grass, well-rested and still grim-faced from the trek through the Sea. Tortuga had bags under his eyes visible even through his beard. He hated following those directions from Caracatas. Left for a day, right at noon, forward for three hours... it would be much easier for her to just lead them.

But he knew this could not be the case. Not this time.

"Yeah, well don't make a habit of it."

The older man, Rothgar, peered over Tortuga's shoulder and watched his little army emerge, being by being, until the grass stopped spewing forth stoic sellswords. Humans, Drykas, an Akalak or two, and even a Myrian... but...

"Where's the Drykas?"

Tortuga cocked his head to one side at the bandit leader's tone. He'd never heard it before. Well, he had but it hadn't been so... urgent. Almost strangled. Varos, a tall, thin young man whom he'd always known had more brains than his erstwhile "master", sauntered behing Roth, arms habitually folded over his chest. Their ragged men backed them up.

Filthy and ill-armored, the lot of them. Strewn with trophies and daggers, tattoos and brands from prisons and constables across Mizahar.

Razkar and the Burned Man were arrayed behind their leader this day, half-blinded by the rising sun in the east. They had emerged from the western side of the clearing; Roth and Varos and their band were on the eastern side. Across the bare middle, Tortuga and the leaders treated. The men, the sword fodder, just waited and stared at each other...

Or would have. If the other men were making eye contact.

"You see eyes?"

The Burned Man nodded but said nothing. Most of Roth's little clan of scum-for-hire were glancing at each other, eyes constantly moving, side to side, man to man, feet restless... expectant... but for what?

Tortuga noticed it, too. But he a question to answer.

"She had other business. I was sent instead. Why do you care?"

"We were told that our business would be with Caracatas. Not you."

"Well, plans changed. Now I'm here. Goal's the same, Roth. Hit the caravan, we get the slaves, you get the booty, and we part ways. A good arrangement, right?"

Silence. One long and deep enough to tell the veteran sellsword a lot. Roth looked about ready to burst and Varos was trying way too hard to remain impassive. The air crackled with something unseen, as if some great plan had been spoiled.

That's when he realized there should have been more men. Many more.

"Well," Roth said, scratching the back of his head slowly, "I guess you'll have to do."

Razkar heard that, and something moved behind the brigands. The grass beyond the clearing, to the east, under the sun, was swaying slightly, despite the still air. He frowned even deeper, raised a hand to block out the sun-

-saw the gleaming tip of an arrow being aimed. A single spot of metallic sheen... then joined by a dozen others.

"AMBUSH!"

He screamed a broken moment before the volley was loosed, flung himself sideways, and the ambush began.

Continued here

[Jackalope]

Razkar

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Observation	+3	Waiting for Work
		Provedan Doesn't Like Rivals
		Spotting the Gleam of an Arrow

Witty Remark Here

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