Flashback Blood And Tears

"It is well that war is so terrible, lest we become too fond of it."

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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 15th, 2013, 3:53 am

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42nd of Summer, 508AV
The Village of the Shorn Skulls


Days of disaster rarely if ever begin with portents or omens of doom. It's what makes them all the more terrible: because they come like a rain of fire from a clear blue sky. The world wakes, then proceeds at a pace that is not deceptive, nor foreboding. Time passes. Events unfold.

And then, without any hint or preview, Fortuna gouges a scar through your soul.

Such it began that day, just before Syna was at her highest, and the village of the Shorn Skulls was busying itself with its usual chores. Two hundred or so Myrians of all ages, male and female, worked industriously around in and around the collection of long houses. So much had to be done. Fishing nets repaired, clothes made, weapons forged and sharpened, food prepared, lessons taught to the children and the Jungle scoured for herbs and food and materials.

Every day it had to be done... and every day, Razkar found himself longing a little more for his time there to end. Especially when it was his turn to maintain the clan's weapons.

"You won't maintain a weapon with your eyes, boy."

Yurta noticed the sound of stone and cloth on iron had ceased. She'd turned around from the weapons rack and found her son just staring at the battle ax in his hands. Her words were harsh, delivered in her customary growl, but there was a smile hiding behind it.

She knew that look. Reverence mixed with longing. That fierce, fledgling desire to serve and slay for the Goddess-Queen, to truly be worthy of the Myrian race.

Yurta remembered how she had looked at her mother's gladius, now sheathed at her waist.

"I want to go early, mother."

She cocked a dark eyebrow, impressed at his easy, direct manner of speech. Few among the Shorn Skulls were given to flattery or double-talk. It had been bred and beaten out of them over generations, as it had been for most of Myri's children. Their race was a matriarchy, true, but a meritocracy as well. Plain speaking of facts, thoughts and reality was not the social risk it was in the barbarian lands: it was expected.

"You know you cannot, Raz." She said gently, racking yet another sword after her whetstone had done all she could for it. "Twenty three years will you have walked the Jungle. Then you may go. That has always been the way of the Shorn Skulls."

"Mother, you know I am-"

"-an obedient son who does not needlessly argue with his mother?"


Razkar's jaw tightened but he was careful not to let his simmering anger bubble over into his eyes. Yurta's stare was hard as the blades at waist now, flinty and unforgiving, even to her own child. It was how she had tempered herself into the War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls, its most able and revered warrior. It was how she had raised her children.

So he sighed and picked up his whetstone, resigning himself to another year of tedium. Yurta's gaze softened slightly and he heard her walk over to him, silently fuming, until her hand, darker than his, reached over and closed around his own.

"Slower, son. Not so hasty. Your stone will not burnish all of the blade, and it will be uneven."

In her warm grip, Razkar allowed the stone to be bought back to the bottom of the ax head, then slide up against it with a scrape, to the very top, in a smooth and careful sharpening.

"Slow... smooth... and thorough." Her words had more texture to them than just that of an armoror's lesson, and even young and restless, Razkar could hear what lay under them. "Only with time, patience and practice will a weapon be prepared for use. Such is the way for most things..."

"But not all."


Yurta crushed the smile that threatened to alight her face. Ah, the quick one, was her son. Always looking for openings in an argument like chinks in an enemy's armor. But she just shrugged and moved back to the forge. Five blades needed to be re-fashioned, and she'd best start now.

"There are always exceptions, Raz. But-"

The scream shattered the moment and bought both their heads snapping round. instantly both old female and young male knew it came from beyond the treeline, to the north, and already there were shouts and raised voices as others in the Shorn Skulls reacted to it.

But not just to the sound. To the throat that had made it.

For it was Myrian.
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Last edited by Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 6:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 16th, 2013, 7:24 pm

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Myrians were among the most resolute races in all Mizahar, and Razkar had been relentlessly taught this. They had been spawned in a jungle vast and varied in its dangers, from its plants to its weather to the dozens of predators that roamed it. But had they perished? No. They had survived, tamed and, indeed, thrived. Forged in a place of death and desperation, they had become a race feared and revered as the world's foremost warriors.

Razkar never thought he would see a broken Myrian. But when the female crashed through the trees and collapsed outside the longhouse, that was exactly what he saw.

"Goddess!"

The young male flinched back from the figure that fell onto the ground before him as if she were some dangerous or leprous monster. Dirt and blood stained dark skin, visible wherever what had once been clothes were now tattered fabric and leather. She twitched and spasmed, sweat gleaming with blood.

But her eyes were what frightened him.

They were nearly deranged with terror. All Myrians were warriors; all knew to fight, to kill and most had been tested in battle and tasted the blood and flesh of enemies. This female was not much younger than his mother, so she would have done the same. But all of that pride and power had been stripped and violated away from her being, and now a terrified animal stared back at him with eyes nearly bursting from her head.

"Run..."

She breathed the word almost as a prayer, then staggered to her feet. Running figures came closer, all carrying weapons, Razkar's father and uncles with them, as he heard his mother approach behind him.

"Run... all of you!" Now the woman finally got up, hunched over and screamed with shaking lips. "RUN BEFORE THEY-"

Yurta's hand whipped around in a blur and cracked across the female's face without warning. The sound of bone smacking into flesh made Razkar flinch, beaking the spell he was under. The ragged figure spun down, gasping in pain, breathing hard and heavy on all fours.

Yurta did not relent. She circled the crouching woman and knelt down next to her, grabbing a handful of hair and jerking her face up. Eyes like polished stones stared into those of fear and anguish, and they did not blink.

"Who are you?" She said, keeping her words clear and slow, for obviously this poor female was not herself. "What happened to you? Of whom to you speak?"

For a long chime, Razkar and the rest of his clan watched as the woman struggled to fight her way back to reality. Her eyes flickered and darted around as she seemed to understand she was out of the Jungle, away from the terror that had driven sanity from her head. She took more shuddering breaths, closed her eyes to clam herself-

-and made a sound like a dying animal, clutching her head.

"They... They came from the earth..." Each word seemed dredged and dragged from her mind, as if she was unwilling to share them. But under Yurta's unflinching stare, she did. "They howled, and... and shrieked. We didn't know... know they were out there, until... until... until..."

Her voice cracked and she doubled over again, or tried to, but Yurta's grip held strong and did not allow her head to bow. Yurta's mother shook the ragged figure, forcing her back to the present. By now the Elders had arrived, bent but still vital females sternly watching what was passing.

"Until what?"

"They slaughtered us."
Her words were a ghostly whisper and Razkar's heart leapt to her unbidden, for her grief he knew would never end. To survive when all your kin and perished... he could not even imagine it. "It was... just after dawn. The village was still waking, and... and they were among us... screaming and hammering... before we could muster a response-"

"Where?"
Yurta pressed on, urgency in every syllable. "What clan are you? How far was your-"

Her words cut off and her eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in slow, horrified recognition.

"You are... of the Shining Scales, are you not?"

The female nodded, as if remembering the answer to a long-forgotten questions.

"Y... Yes... That is... That was my clan..." Her eyes clouded again with grief, and Yurta allowed her grip to lessen and her head bowed. "I am Martya of the Shining Scales, and..." A sudden desperate strength bought her head back up, thought it only served to last but moments. "And the earth monsters destroyed my village. They... They are coming."

Yurta rose and whirled in one fast, fierce movement, turning to face the Elders and the rest of the clan, confused and mute before her. Razkar's eyes followed her, too, eager for some kind of order and plan in light of this.

"As War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls," she said loudly, voice filled with the authority of her rank, "I order all those of able body to assemble in the square and arm themselves immediately! Once we are assembled, order or battle and defense will be decided! Go!"

At once the assembly broke, the Elders not refuting Yurta's word. Dozens of Myrians rushed away, some to the square as ordered, others to gather their weapons. A couple dashed into the Jungle to retrieve the hunters that Razkar knew were out there, and so much was said and done that they did not see Martya's face gloss over with pain and reach to the small of her back...

But he did. He saw her reach, and her hand come up with a short dagger. Saw her raise the dagger to her throat as Yurta turned to face her, mouth half-open.

"NO!"

Saw her plunge the blade into herself, ripping it to one side. Yurta jerked forwards but it was too late, Martya falling backwards as blood arced into the air, thick and crimson and final. Razkar rushed forward, trembling, terrified, but wanting so desperately to help, hands reaching for something to stem the flow...

But all that happened was his hands became drenched in the weeping woman's blood.

"Sister," Yurta said softly, hand on the woman's bloody brow, voice broken, "Why...?"

Every breath drew fresh blood, bubbling and oozing from the woman's torn throat. But she had strength and breath left in her to turn to Yurta, eyes brimming with loss and shame.

"My clan... my kin... my children," she rasped, and Razkar could barely hear the words, "I will... I join them... again..."

Her eyes glazed over, and Razkar would remember how the light left them as if a candle had been blown out. One moment, a living, breathing vital Child of Myri, and the next... still, fresh meat, laying in its own blood on the dirt.

Yurta bowed her head and reached up to Martya's face, closing her eyelids as she whispered, "Go to the Goddess, my sister, and may you return to a better life, and find your peace..."

What few Shorn Skulls that were left watched what had transpired with mute, disbelieving horror. Myrians had always had a particular abhorrence of suicide in general. The world they lived in brimmed with dangers and threats; did they need to make their own hands traitors of them unto Dira's embrace? Few incidents or circumstances would goad a Myrian into taking his or her life.

And now Razkar had seen one do so. Without hesitation or remorse, and he crouched there trembling, uncertain and frightened...

Yurta stood, and as if silently willed by her, he followed suit. She was strength and purpose in the chaos, mouth closed into a firm, white line. Her eyes burned and blazed with barely-controlled anger, and only Razkar heard the muttered words she spoke next.

"This shall not come to pass for my clan. I will not allow it."

Her head turned to her son, and he felt himself swell, terror and fear battened down as a quick wind bustled through the clan and reminded him that Razkar of the Shorn Skulls still lived, and still could fight the coming horror.

"Arm yourself, my son. We march in moments."
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Last edited by Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 6:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
Posts: 1795
Words: 2242619
Joined roleplay: October 8th, 2012, 12:04 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Myrian
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 17th, 2013, 8:29 pm

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The Shorn Skulls moved with purpose and speed, but that was not all Razkar saw in them. As more and more crowded into the square, arrayed in ranks and strangely silent, he saw a cold fury in their eyes. He felt the embers of it raging inside him, too.

A village of Myri's Children had been destroyed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of his people had died today, overwhelmed by an enemy so... so...

Loathsome. That was the only word he could use to describe the Yukmen when his mother took center stage, armored and armed, and began to address the assembled warriors.

"The monsters we fight are abominations born of the earth," she said, every Myrian hearing her, though some knew what they faced anyway. Many did not. "They are twisted and hateful copies of the children of the Goddess-Queen. They resemble us, at a distance, but when closer, they are stunted, hairless, the color of dirt and stone and without the light of any intelligence in their eyes."

Her voice turned hard and hateful in a blink, eyes flaming and lips curled back in disgust.

"They exist only to destroy, sisters and brothers. Rage and destruction are all they live for. They are strong, able to kill with bare hands and weapons. They do not learn anything, but when they see a sword swung or an arrow loosed, they mimic these actions for use in combat. They are a plague, my kin. Demons from the blackest pit that have plagued Myri, Caiyha and the world at large for centuries."

She drew one of the two gladii at her waist, raising it high over her head, words becoming a bellowing warcry.

"We march today not only for our own defense! Not only to revenge the deaths of our brothers and sisters of the Shining Scale! We march in the name of the Goddess-Queen! We will bring Myri's wrath to these creatures... and we shall destroy them all!"

Over a hundred screaming Myrians answered her, all manner of weapons raised and shaken in the air. Razkar felt the wave of bloodlust and pride sweep through him and screamed until his throat hurt, hand ax and gladius waving over his head as he did. Then Yurta lowered her weapons and pointed with her gladius to the group.

"Proven warriors and hunters will march with me! The young and the elderly will stay, but until we return, all are to assume that this is a village under siege. Pickets and scouts will be put into place to the south and west. These monsters have no grasp of tactics or strategy. They come only as a horde, without mind or subtlety. If they do come, you shall have warning."

Razkar felt a trace of unease in her voice, the barest hint, but nothing more. Yurta was going about this in a proper sense, taking the best with her to face this threat before it besmirched their lands and leaving a sizable force to defend it if they could not find their enemy. But for all the propriety of her actions, he could see she was unsure. But what else could she do?

"We march at once, for there is no time to lose. All those who have served with Taloba, step forward." Several dozen Myrians did so. "Hunters and those marked by the Goddess-Queen, step forward." More did so, and now there were around fifty Myrians separated from the group. Yurta rapped off a dozen more names, females of note in sparring sessions and males who had proven themselves in the hunt. But Razkar did not hear his name in her words. "We will march now. The rest of you... you have your orders."

Her words again stirred frantic motion, but Razkar was the still, confused calm in the storm. He was to stay?! Not to march with his clan, his siblings, his mother?! He shook his head and stepped to her, head held high and his desire to prove himself squashed any fear of his mother now.

"Mother, I want to-"

"Razkar, we face a dangerous enemy today,"
Yurta said, already walking and not slowing, forcing him to nearly jog to keep up, "You have not yet been fully tested, and it is best if-"

"Not fully tested?!"


The sheer outrage in the male's voice stalled her, and behind her dozens of armed Myrians did the same, almost running into one another. Yurta's hard gaze fell upon him, but he did not flinch beneath it. This was not the day to fear her; too much was at stake.

And, he told himself with a tinge of pride, in this, at least, she is wrong.

"I slew Elanosa, mother," he said, voice low and resolved, "Who was a worthier warrior than any of these... creatures could ever hope to be. I have marched with our clan on patrols into the southern lands. I survived a tiger attack that claimed three others from our clan. I am strong, and capable, and I know the ways of war and the mark of our Jungle as well as those who march at your back this day."

Razkar straightened his back and Yurta's eyebrows raised ever so lightly, as if seeing her son anew. Confidence... that was what she saw in him, and that desire to prove himself that drove every Myrian of his age. She saw much of herself in him. Three of her daughters were behind her, regarding Razkar with that weary eye-rolling that older siblings the multiverse over did. But the decision was with her...

"I am ready, mother. To fight by your side."

Slowly, as if being forced to, Yurta nodded. Then she jerked her head back towards the column of Myrians behind her.

"Then get into line with the rest, and know that you are as under my command as the rest of them. When orders are given, they are to be obeyed without question. Understood?"

"Yes, mo-"

"War Mistress,"
Yurta said sharply, and then resumed her march, "As of now, I am not your mother. I am your leader."

Feet light and heart racing, Razkar rushed into the mass of Myrians following his mother and took his place. He saw friends and family, siblings and cousins among them. All were heavily armed, some wearing leather armor, even helmets. Half-a-dozen broke off, trotting and jogging, ranging ahead to act as Yurta's eyes in the Jungle before them.

He looked back only once, seeing those younger than him clasping their spears and swords, wishing he was among them. He felt that swell of pride as he realized he was apart now, that-

A heavy clamp fell on his shoulder and his head snapped around to see his father looking down on him sternly.

"Don't let it go to your head, boy," Zek said, ax over his shoulder, "This is jut the march. The battle... is something else."

They marched into the Jungle without fear, and Razkar was finally with them.
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Last edited by Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 6:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
User avatar
Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
Posts: 1795
Words: 2242619
Joined roleplay: October 8th, 2012, 12:04 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Myrian
Character sheet
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Plotnotes
Medals: 9
Featured Character (1) Featured Thread (2)
Trailblazer (1) Overlored (1)
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 12:20 am

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They did not have to march far: the Yukmen were on the move.

"They're always moving," Zek had told him when the scouts ran from ahead of them, shouting of their approach and with one raised hand, Yurta had halted the column. "Never stay in one place. Once they've killed or eaten or smashed everything they can, they move on." His father had shaken his head in disgust. "Monsters. Nothing more. No reason, no mind, not even a soul to speak out. Fit only to be destroyed."

"FORM UP!"


Yurta's words had the whole war party moving as one, fifty or so Myrian warriors spreading out across the uneven and foliage-choked Jungle floor. She barked orders from in front of them, gesticulating with the gladii in her hands. Razkar soon found himself in roughly the middle of a long line maybe thirty yards long, but... yes... he could see the flanks were two ranks deep, instead of one. Why?

"When they come," Yurta shouted, making sure everyone could hear and answering his question, "It will be one ragged horde! They will not flank, or maneuver! They will charge, and fight, and die. And we shall slaughter them all so none may return to our village!"

She spread her arms as a ragged cheer rose from them, pointing to either end of the line.

"Those in the second rank, on the flanks?! Once battle is joined, you will press the horde from the sides, squash them into the middle! None will escape today! But wait until the main body of them has engaged! We spring our trap too early, and our own flanks will be overwhelmed. Clear?!"

There were no questions or contestations, just grunts and nodding heads. Everyone was eager for it, Razkar could feel the sensation crackle through the air. Younger warriors like him, eyes shining with anticipation. Older veterans, eyes hardened with grim purpose. Not a thrill of fear was to be found anywhere... except within him.

His father felt it, too. He turned his son around and that hard, craggy, harshly-handsome face looked at his son. He squeezed his shoulder, looking at him like an equal before hefting a heavy-headed ax in his free hand.

"Good hunting, boy." Then they heard it, and Zek turned away. "Prepare yourself..."

It started as an echo of an echo. Shrill. Distant. Unusual even for the massive myriad of sound that filled the Jungle, it seemed... alien. Unnatural. Demonic. Razkar strained to hear it, but soon he did. A hooting, almost like an owl but deeper, fiercer... answered by high-pitched shrieks and howls. And then as it got closer, he heard a new sound.

Yuk-yuk-yuk...

Yuk-yuk-yuk...

"Noise!" Yurta shouted. "Attract the beasts and draw them close!"

Dozens of Myrians howled and screamed and swore and slammed metal into wood or onto metal and soon Razkar was nearly deafened by the sheer cacaphony around him, but beat his gladius and ax together anyway.

Then the sounds of their enemy grew louder, and the Jungle seemed to come alive. He gazed in horror as the lower plants and trees shook and trembled, some even knocked down in the distance. It started in spurts, sections, and then it seemed an entire line of vegetation was coming alive, moving by itself.

The line was getting closer.

Yurta raised her swords in the air. Razkar tore his gaze from the yuk-ing, shaking trees, from the faintly trembling ground, and saw his strength in her figure. She showed no fear, just disgust and anger writ large upon her noble face. The wind blew hard, as if spurring their enemy onto their blades, and her long raven hair flew around her face, framing it majestically.

Figures burst from the undergrowth. Shorter than them by almost a foot, hunched over as if new to the idea of upright movement. For a brief second Razkar thought it was survivors from the Shining Scales, seeing a familiarity with their skin tone and...

"... Goddess..."

Utterly black orbs that served as eyes glared at them. Stones and rocks glittered in the weak sun, embedded in dirty, cracked flesh that looked like mud in the hot sun. One of the creatures had a rusted sword in its hand, and when it opened its mouth, a shriek the likes no Myrian could ever create washed over their line like a tide.

More came. Dozens more. Loping and running and jumping towards them. Razkar felt his hands shake and saw a shadow to his left as his father raised his battle ax, thunderous roar bellowing from his throat.

"FOR MYRI!"

Yurta's arm chopped down from vertical to horizontal, leveled at the approaching filthy mass of Yukmen.

"CHAAAAAAAAAAARGE!"

Their roar drowned out the endless "yuk-yuk-yuk" chant from the abominations, and Razkar squashed his fear as he pelted along with them. They covered fifty yards between them, the shambling monsters and the sprinting Myrians, then hammered into one another.
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Last edited by Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 6:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
User avatar
Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
Posts: 1795
Words: 2242619
Joined roleplay: October 8th, 2012, 12:04 am
Location: Sunberth
Race: Myrian
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Journal
Plotnotes
Medals: 9
Featured Character (1) Featured Thread (2)
Trailblazer (1) Overlored (1)
Donor (1) One Thousand Posts! (1)
One Million Words! (1) 2013 Mizahar NaNo Winner (1)

Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 8:29 am

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Razkar had read that the barbarian armies of the world beyond the Jungle marched in battle in rigid lines, all of them covered in metal armor. They marched with lockstep precision, a steel wall bristling with pikes and spears and swords. Enemies crashed against them like waves on rock, and met with as much success. He supposed that those barbarian generals would find the wild charge of the Myrians that day to be undisciplined and foolish.

He also knew that by doing so, they would show their ignorance of his people. Not the antiseptic order of battle for the Myrians, not in their turgid and chaotic Jungle where such formations would fall apart within fifty paces. Not the featureless, faceless meat grinder of ordered combat. Battle for Myrians as more than a profession or a calling; it was worship. Offering. A chance for every individual on the field to show his quality to their bloody-lipped Goddess-Queen, watching from her throne.

The charge into the Yukmen was a textbook example, and still, it terrified Razkar.

But he ran, howling with his kin, the horde of shrieking, hooting monstrosities getting closer. He could see now that many of them carried weapons, Myrian weapons, and knew that they had looted them from the Shining Scales. His heart swelled with fresh rage, that the weapons of those poor souls would now be turned against them.

Extermination. That was what Razakr silently decided that day.

With a horrendous clash of steel on steel and flesh and bone, the two groups thundered into one another. Yurta did not slow in the slightest, gladii flashing like extensions of her arms, hacking apart one then two Yukmen within the first moments of the battle.

Razkar heard a roar from his side and saw his father, eyes wide, face fixed in utter loathing, swing his massive ax around and cut a Yukman in two. The screaming top half had not even hit the ground before he swung it into the chest of another.

"FOR MYRI!"

That came from the young male's own throat, as the first enemy of his own day fell upon him. Led by his parents' examples, by sparring sessions taught to him since he could hold a blade, by duels and skirmishes throughout his life, Razkar was ready to meet it.

A growling monster swung down at him with a short mace, naked and filthy, teeth yellowed and sharp. Razkar swung up and knocked the blow aside, to his left, then slashed back down and opened up the creature's chest. It reeled back in agony, but its rage burned not an ember less.

Razkar looked into those black eyes, and saw nothing but an ancient, endless... hunger. As other beings needed food and water, this one and its kind needed only destruction. Razkar saw a rage and a lust that would burn and destroy and slay everything in all Mizahar, and still not be sated. But he did not see an "opponent". Not truly.

Just an animal to be culled.

With a snarl he jerked back his gladius and thrust it through the thing's ribcage, impaling it through the heart, twisting it and ripping it free. That demonic light fled from its eyes as it toppled back, and Razkar moved on-

-only for another to be running full pelt at him, crude spear in its arms, screaming at the top of its lungs.

He sidestepped and swung the gladius in a vertical arc downwards, knocking the spear aside, leaving the thing vulnerable across the torso-

-and slashed across its stomach, sending a tumble of black entrails steaming and boiling down to the ground. The thing fell to one knee, spear still in one hand, looking up with agonized hatred-

-long enough to see Razkar take its head off with another blow.

Battle was unfolding all around him, though that seemed far too tame a word. It had been birthed, screaming and roaring and covered in blood, crashing into the Jungle, and now it had dozens, perhaps hundreds more children just like it. Myrian and Yukmen clashed over and over, and while Razkar could see more of the creatures streaming from the Jungle, already he could see they were no warriors. They were strong but had no training, no discipline or finesse, swinging and cleaving like butchers. Even the youngest and greenest of his kin had no problem avoiding them.

But their strength was devastating up close.

Razkar saw one of them grab onto one of the Shorn Skulls and rip his arm of of her socket with an unearthly howl. The Myrian slumped, staring in sheer shock at the blood-spurting stump, and the creature started beating her with it. Razkar screamed his outrage, rushed to help-

-and something slammed into his side and bore him to the ground.

The impact knocked the wind out of him and within a moment Razkar felt hard, scratchy fingers groping around her neck and upper body. Terror lent him strength, images of that poor female fresh in his mind, and he punched and kicked down mindlessly. The hilt of his gladius smacked into something hard and there was a crunch, bones breaking, the grip lessened-

-and Razkar looked down into a bloody nose and even more hateful eyes.

"FUCK YOU!"

Sheer hatred coursed through him, down his arm and in the next blows. The Yukman threw up an arm and his gladius sliced through it cleanly, burying in its face. Razkar didn't stop. Face contorted in utter, contemptuous fury, he struck it again and again, as long as the fingers kept reaching for his face.

He didn't stop until it was nothing more than a pulpy mess.

It had him. That fire, that lust, that insatiable hunger... Goddess, had he seen that in those creatures? Was that where they were from originally, the Myrians? Now all he knew and saw was battle, potential targets, enemies surrounding him and the steel in his hands to reap his fill.

Razkar stood amid the swirling chaos and laughed, eyes already scanning for another enemy-

-and he saw his mother, proud and tall and splattered with blood, hacking down another enemy, swords never still. He was like her, now. He was worthy of the War Mis-

-then he saw the arrow catch her in the chest and bury itself in her ribs.

"NO!"
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Last edited by Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 6:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 5:23 pm

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The arrow slammed into Yurta's chest and she grunted more in anger than pain. But pain was one thing; injury another. The arrow was buried deep in her guts, and she when snapped it off, the arrow was still slicing inside her.

"MOTHER!"

Razkar roared at her and started running, gladius in hand. A Yukman came charging at him from his right and he ducked down, slicing at its leg without even thinking. The beast went down with an inhuman scream, toppling over and Razkar didn't even stop to finish it-

"NO!"

Another arrow slammed into her, the Yukman archer having mimicked the skill very well. Razkar could see it now, standing upright at the edge of the clearing, monotonously pulling arrows from the quiver at its side, notching them, firing.

Yurta went down to one knee, and Razkar saw blood trickle out of her mouth. He... He couldn't run fast enough. His leg muscles burned and they turned like pistons, but he couldn't get there. She was thirty feet away but it might have been thirty leagues.

Yukmen rushed him from both sides. He had time to see another charge at his mother, only to be cut down by her, twin gladius' flashing low, taking off its leg and then running it through. She tried to stand, and then their ugly, monstrous faces obscured his view, heading for him.

Razkar screamed louder and cut the hand off one before it could even land its first blow, kicking it away-

-but the other one threw itself at him, heavy body flooring him with little effort, and closed its hands around his throat...

He was on the floor. His lungs were emptying and his head hurt and he could see them close on her, shadows and monsters circling his mother, saw filthy, rusted swords rise-

"MOTHER!"

"BASTARDS!"


With a jarring impact the hands around his throat were ripped away, blood spraying into Razkar's mouth and face as his attacker was cleaved almost in two. He saw his father standing high above him, impossibly high up, left arm a ragged mess of blood and torn flesh, battle ax shaking in his right, biceps straining. Still he laid about himself with it, hacking down the one-handed Yukman, Razkar scrambling to his feet.

He ran, but the scrum of bodies pressed around him, bodies of Myrians and monsters so slick with sweat and blood and dirt it was hard to tell them apart. But his eyes were fixed on her, slashing around wildly-

-until the first blows came down on her.

"NO!!!"

Razkar's scream came out as one long, incoherent scream of rage and loss as he saw the swords and the snarling monsters holding them butcher her. Up and down they went. Sending blood spinning. Stilling her arm. Making her cough up blood and-

-and the scream became something far more.

He slashed to his side and laid open the chest of one creature, barely feeling the impact as a mace slammed into his left arm, hearing something crack. Emotions he did not even have words for blinded and protected him now, and he was aware of the pain, but... uncaring. His mind and his body shoved it to one side, and he pressed on.

Something screamed at his left and he impaled it without question, gripping the sword with two hands to rip it out of the bisected torso with two hands rathr than just pull it back, scattering splintered ribs and torn organs along with a great gout of blood. He ran. He was close now, there was hope, there was, there had to be-

Razkar took his gladius in his left and drew his hand ax, hurling it at the "archer" who had laid his mother low. The thing turned to him just as he threw it, bringing its weapon around to him-

-just as the ax slammed into its leg.

It toppled back and the bow fell with it, arrow flying high and vanishing into the canopy. The clutch of Yukmen around the meat that used to be his mother - No! She lives! Fuck you, she lives! - turned to him and Zek as they came crashing towards them, two avenging furies caked in blood and rage.

They did not even give them the satisfaction of fear in their eyes. They merely snarled or screeched their queer warcry, and raised their weapons-

Razkar's hate smashed into them with his body, and with a massive swing he took the head off the first. Zek tackled one and bore his body high, tossing it over his shoulder and swinging at the same time, cleaving open the stomach of the one behind it. Then he turned and bought his ax down so hard on the one he had flipped that it smashed straight through its skull and into the dirt.

His son was screaming one long howl of anger as he slashed and cut and hacked and punched all around him, uncaring of what came near. Even the Yukmen were getting... wary? It was not fear, they were too stupid for that, but even dumb animals knew death when they saw it, and to stray too close to this one was-

-his sword flashed... no... it was too slick now. It slid through the air, hacking off an arm and his fist followed it, breaking knuckles as it did the same to a nose, sword coming back to finish it-

-just as the blow across his back broke his hateful spell.

Razkar opened his mouth to scream but there was no noise, the pain seemed to quash it before it reached his mouth. He felt that singular agony of flesh rend open, blow slicing from the top of his shoulder down to the base of his spine. He felt a dull, angry blade scrape muscle and bone, his legs giving out under him, and he fell to his knees-

Time... it didn't seem to matter anymore.

He saw his father, hacking away and screaming and crying for his dead wife as they bore him down, taking two more with him even as they overwhelmed him.

He saw his sisters, unaware of their mother's death, fighting together... until one had her arm hacked off, killing her attacker a moment later with her last real breath.

Saw cousins and uncles and aunts and friends fight and die around him.

Is this glory? Is this what Myri wants for us?

Razkar closed his eyes and felt his gladius in his hand. One final surge coursed through him and he turned. If he would die this day, he would take that bastard with the sword with him.

He curled his lips back and screamed his defiance, arm drawn back for one final blow, seeing the Yukman shrieking his victory over him, long sword in its hands held high and triumphant-

-right before a gladius flew through the air and impaled it cleanly through the breastbone.

Razkar's mouth dropped open in shock. So did the Yukman's. Two feet of sharpened steel jammed itself through heart, lung and bone in a blink. The thing stagged back, toppling, dead before it finally fell...

The wounded, panting Myrian turned and saw his savior. Saw Yurta, mother and War Mistress, up on one knee, body hewn and wrecked, one hand extended from where she had thrown one of her blades. Only her eyes seemed alive and unhindered, though one was closing with a nasty wound.

Blood pooled around her in a lake. It did not belong to those who had...

"My son..."

Over the din, he heard the words. Then her eyes glazed, and she fell for the last time.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 7:46 pm

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The Myrians may not have fought in the vaunted style of the Sylirian Knights or the Akalaks, but they did know plenty about tactics. Many barbarians forgot that fighting was not all Myrians were schooled in. Tactical maneuvers, flanking, extending and compressing their lines, feints, ordered retreats, order of battle... all these were drummed into young Myrians minds along with the correct way to swing a blade. That day was no different.

The Myrians on the flanks quickly encircled the horde, gritting their teeth and not charging into the fray until the Yukmen had ceased to run howling from the treeline. Once their full force was engaged, they closed their trap on three sides, forcing the monsters inwards, moving along the outsides, as well, pushing, squeezing...

They lost fine females and males that day. But soon it was a slaughter, not a battle.

Razkar did not see any of this. He crawled, through blood and mud that was so clogged with each other it was all the same, past twitching and groaning bodies, outstretched hands and shuffling feet. He had eyes only for his mother, but could not raise himself. The agony in his back was a dull ache that seemed to belong to someone else. His eyes were focused, wide and bloodshot, breath stabbing at his lungs as he approached...

Her chest was not heaving. Nothing of her was.

"M... Moth... Mother...?"

Her eyes were open, but she did not see. Trembling hands... they were his... reached up and shook her, but her face and neck just jostled like a broken doll's. He shook harder, face contorting and changing, shifting and deforming, grief and pain robbing him of his senses. He heard no screams or calls. Saw no shadows falling over him, saw none of his clan or his family...

"No."

Zek slashed at the mound of filthy flesh in a blind fury, roaring so hard that his throat was raw and ached from it. But he knew the power of it, drawing air harder into his lungs, giving him every bit of strength he would need. His ax slashed and rose and fell over and over until it caught, and he grabbed a rock instead, smashing it around himself, making it the end of a mace with his arm forming the shaft.

Bodies lay around him. Cuts and bruises and blood covered him, but when he finally stood, he was alive.

And then he saw what was before him, and part of him wished he was not.

His wife, lying on her back, dead beyond all help. His son, looking to follow her, back slashed open and the look in his eyes was as shattered as his body looked. Around him his clan finished off those Yukmen that still fought, which was all of them. They never stopped. There could be a hundred of them or just the one, outnumbered beyond hope, and it would swing and punch and claw and bite until you struck its head from its shoulders.

The rest of the war party was doing just that: going from corpse to corpse, decapitating each one in turn. Zek finally hauled himself upright, years of experience blocking the pain from his mind, shuffling forwards...

Just as his son started wailing.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! MOTHER!"

Everyone must have heard it, Razkar thought later, but at that time he did not care. Not about how he looked or sounded, just that maybe if he shouted hard enough, she would wake. She would hear him and return. But she didn't, so he shouted harder, until he lost his voice and choked on his words and tears and... and...

He remembered... he remembered his father, gently pulling him away. There were tears in his own eyes, too, but his face was sheer stone. He was forcing his grief aside, something Razkar had no idea to do.

He had no thoughts. No feelings. He was adrift on his own body, floating over a field of corpses and blood...

"Zek... Zek...?"

Someone called his father's name.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 8:11 pm

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He could not fall apart now. The battle was won but it was not over. His clan was bloodied and battered. His children needed him, and... but...

Zek reached down inside himself and found that resolve he had relied on for so very long. The strength to push on through pain and loss and grief. The Jungle would not pause for him. His clan needed him.

No matter what.

"Zek...?"

He turned to see his brother Kileop, face bloodied but otherwise unmarred. The same ruthless resolve was on his face; that determination to push through the pain of the loss of kin to the conclusion of this day. Zek looked around... and found he was the oldest one there. He was in command.

"What are your orders?"

He swallowed, and focused. They had lost... well over a dozen. But there was plenty of them left to take the bodies of the dead back to the village, and destroy the remains of the Yukmen. He knew what he had to do.

"Take the bodies of the dead. Half our remaining party should be enough, we don't have far to take them." He gestured to the bodies being piled up, Yukmen slashed and battered, headless, but still not dead enough. "And have the rest set a fire. Incinerate these monsters."

He turned his eyes to his son, lying at his feet. He... He almost did not recognize him. Razkar was turned in on himself now, bleeding and wounded, but still breathing. His eyes... they saw nothing, but his head was still turned to his mother.

Yurta. Myri... Myri, help me...

He half-walked, half-staggered to his wife. His daughters were there, as well, except for...

Zek's face finally fell upon itself, looking from Tuoeil to Thraxa, but not seeing-

"Wh-Where is your sister?" Silence and silent tears answered him. "Where is Qerix?! What-"

"She was killed, father."
Thraxa spoke without meeting her father's eyes. "She... She fought well, but..."

Zek bowed his head and stroked his wife's dead, bloody forehead. So much lost this day. So much sacrificed. Wife... daughter... who knew how many friends... why...?

"What came to pass had to, my daughters." He said, and with each word the conviction in his voice grew. It was low and pained and he hated that it had to be that way... but it was the truth. "If these monsters had got into the village, they... they would have killed many more. We were right to meet them here."

"Why would Caiyha curse us so?" Thraxa was trembling now, her front falling tear by tear. "Why would Myri aband-"

Zek's arm shot out and grabbed her shoulder before the blasphemy could finish. Now his eyes shone with anger, softened only by the fact it was his child he was speaking to.

"The brave and the righteous fall in battle, too, Thraxa. Tis not always the monsters and the evil ones who are bloodied and lost by their end. This is the price of victory. Not just in blood, but tears."

With some effort that seemed to be more will than body, Zek rose to his feet, daughters looking up at him. His jaw was set and determined, and if anything, he looked more like their mother than himself.

"Myri did not abandon us, for we have victory. Tend to your mother. You will take her home."

"And you father?"


Zek looked down at his son, and they had their answer.
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Razkar on February 18th, 2013, 8:24 pm

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The world turned... but he was not part of it.

Fractures of light and shape pierced whatever plane he found himself on. He saw a pile of corpses, headless and dark, lit with torches and surrounded by chanting, bloodied figures. He saw others, bound at their ankles, hands tied to their waists, carried by the same figures with slow, mournful care.

He saw her... he saw her carried by females he knew. His sisters, were they not? tears streaming down hard faces. He felt shame flush through him... and realized he was moving, too.

He looked up and saw his father. Even with a wounded arm, Zek would take no help. His face looked as set and uncompromising as a bronze bust, and with every step he took, he could feel bones creak in his father's body.

But he did not slow. He would not let his clan down now.

"Father...?"

Zek looked down, hand brushing his son's face, some light of kindness finally beaking the surface of his gaze.

"Razkar? My son? You speak..."

"Why... She was... She was so strong..."
Razkar's words tumbled without form or function. "Couldn't fail... couldn't die... not possible... going mad, papa... not here..."

Zek reached down and still his son's lips before tears broke his eyes once again. Razkar had seen too much horror today without seeing his father collapse before him, too. He shook his head and kept pulling. The village was barely a bell away, and already a slow procession of silent, battered and sometimes deceased Shorn Skulls were snaking through the Jungle towards it.

"Hush, my son," he whispered as Razkar's voice stilled, "Save your strength."

His son had fallen. Unlike his mother, he could rise from it. But not today.

Zek turned his back on the screaming, roaring mound of flames where the Yukmen were offered to the Goddess-Queen.

Continued here
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My Words | Your Words | Myrian | Fratavan | My Thoughts
Razkar has been cursed by Yahal, and as such finds little acceptance from others; they will instinctively view him as being deceptive and traitorous. However, when close to one blessed by Yahal, the effect is negated. The curse is etched onto his left pectoral, and viewing the mark causes others to feel dirty and unclean.
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Razkar
War Is The Answer
 
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Blood And Tears

Postby Traverse on February 27th, 2013, 2:51 am

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Struck Down in Her Prime


Razkar :
Experience:
Gladius 3
Observation 4
Persuasion 1
Rhetoric 1
Socialization 1

Lore:
The Impatience of Youth
Horror That Destroys Even a Myrian
Mother and War Mistress
Yukmen: Weapon Wielding Monsters of the Earth
Fear: A Natural Reaction to Abominations
The Reality of Battle
An Invincible Warrior Struck Down
The Overwhelming Power of Grief


Additional Notes :
So, I knew this thread would come, seeing the before and after threads, but I was still hit full in the gut when it happened, I mean those bastards! And now I understand why you took a break in between these threads. The pain, sorrow, and loss were nearly tangible, and I wanted to tear those monsters apart every second as I read. I really enjoy this counter-Myrian relationship Yurta had formed with her son, where he seems to be secretly her favorite child, which really makes her death all the more poignant. As always, great writing, and I can't say I exactly look forward to the next part...but I am interested to see how Razkar overcomes and comes to terms with this grief.


Questions? Concerns? PM me and we'll get to the bottom of it. Safe Travels!
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