The Newly Departed

by **Solitude** on June 26th, 2013, 6:14 am

Solitude

1st Day of Summer, 509AV

Solitude woke just as the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. The first day of a new season had snuck by, and now the night that followed was quickly approaching. Solitude unfurled his wings and shoved himself off of his bedroll into a sitting position. He glanced around his makeshift “campsite”, if it could be called that. It was situated in a small clearing, completed encircled by grass as tall as a man. His pack and sword were carelessly cast to the side. Giving a deep, gravelly groan, Solitude snatched the bastard sword and drew it out of its scabbard.

He relished the rasping sound of its cold iron blade sliding out. The edge glinted in the dying sunlight, hinting faintly at its sharpness. Once the full length of the blade was clear, he set the scabbard aside and rested the weapon along his knees. It was beautiful, with its elegant rendered pommel--a crescent moon with a star nestled in its curve. Far beyond anything ever crafted by the hands of a zith. Yet there was something behind its beauty. The dark glower of the cold iron had a predatory, almost malicious cast to it. That pleased Solitude, for some reason.

He turned his attention back to the sun. It was slinking down into the grass now, its red light diminishing by the second. On the other side of the horizon, Solitude was certain that the moon was climbing. Driven by the reins of some godly force, it forged on into the sky just as surely as the sun retreated. The night was just beginning, and with it, Solitude’s evening ritual.

He rolled up his bedroll and thrust it into his pack, then shifted from his sitting position onto his knees. There he kneeled in the crimson light of the receding day. Thrusting the sword into the soft earth before him, he closed his eyes and shut out the world. Solitude drew in one long, slow breath and held it. He withdrew his attention from the rest of the world and focused it on that breath trapped inside him. He felt the dull ache that accompanied it; felt the slow thump of his heart. Reluctantly, he let the breath wheeze out between his teeth, and then drew in another.

He had just left his colony and his family; he had left his teachers, Afi and Sefa. They were all still fresh in his mind. He knew he had to leave. That was why he was calling himself Solitude now. He remembered the lessons Afi and Sefa had shown him... Reimancy, Flux, Auristics. They had initiated him, surely. But beyond that, progress was gruelingly slow. He had to make his own progress now.

Solitude opened his eyes and focused on the sword thrust into the ground before him. He stared at it long and hard, his eyes aching, then squeezed them shut… and when he opened them, he saw his weapon for what it truly was. It glowed with an ethereal silver light… as it’s light seeped into him, he felt the intimate details of the sword. He could see, even feel, the individual layers in the iron. The sword’s metal even varied in hardness… the glow from the core differed from that on the outside. He felt as though he were entwined intimately with his weapon, as though his senses had embraced it’s every detail… the cold, clean iron; the supple leather grip, almostly invisibly stained with his sweat…

Solitude inhaled sharply and snapped his eyes shut. His head throbbed and his eyeballs ached. He felt dizzy, almost unstable. Sefa had been right--even the simplest of magics held great demands for their users. Solitude shook his head to clear it and reluctantly opened his senses back up to the world at large. Then he heard it, off in the distance. The whisper of voices, the crunch of boots… the rasp of a blade in a scabbard. Solitude rose to his feet and buckled his sword around his waist, then spread his wings wide. With a leap, he launched himself into the sky.

by **Solitude** on June 27th, 2013, 6:59 am

Solitude beat his wings hard, lifting himself far above the sea of grass. He wheeled around and set off in the direction of the sounds. The grass blanketed the ground in all directions, as far as he could see. He flapped his wings and ascended higher still, casting his eyes over the sea looking for the source of the sounds. All seemed still, upon first inspection. He stretched his wings out and glided along on a current, his head pivoting this way and that, searching for his quarry. The sound of muffled human voices reached him, and he twisted his head in its direction.

There, a few hundred paces away, a pair of wagons laden with luggage sat amongst the grass. Solitude was a bit perplexed… the Kabrin road was not too far away, surely, but it was odd to find a caravan this far removed from the typical pathways. The wagons appeared to have attempted some sort of shortcut. He brought in his wings and swooped lower, in preparation for a fly-over.

As he passed overhead, he could see clearly that the lead wagon had run afoul of a crack in the earth, ruining its front wheels and bringing the caravan to an abrupt halt. The horses that must have drawn the wagons were staked a small distance away, and nearby a group of men lay resting by a small campfire. Solitude counted about twelve men, all looking either asleep or otherwise exhausted. Another hundred paces away, Solitude spotted the source of the sounds. A second band of men stood amongst the grass, much more alert than the first. They were all wrapped in leather armor and well armed.

Bandits, he realized. Solitude felt an odd conflict of emotions. He had spent the greater portion of his life doing the same thing; hunting humans in the night in order to make prey and slaves of them. The thought of Afi and Sefa crossed his mind, and the harsh life they bore at the hands of his own family. Solitude had wanted to save them, truly; but his family prevented any possible method of escape. He felt as though he could perhaps make it up to them, to himself, if he were to help this caravan. So it was decided.

Solitude was confident that the bandits could not see him as he glided silently overhead. His pitch black fur provided the perfect camouflage at night. He counted six of them. They were not Drykas, from the look of it. They had dismounted their horses, none of which resembled striders, a telltale sign. Solitude considered his options. Mundane humans or no, he could not dream of facing six armed and armored opponents at once. His only option was to attempt to eliminate them one-by-one, as stealthily as he could. Quietly, he tucked his wings and hung low over the glass. He came to a slow landing a few dozen paces behind the group, hoping that they did hear him.

He kept low in the grass, prowling as silently as he could. Furling his wings behind himself, he slipped between the blades of grass. As he crept up behind the group, a man at the front grumbled “Same thing as last time… slit th’ men’s throats, save the women, and then take whatever ye’ want from the wagons. Make it quick.” He had weathered skin and a salt and pepper beard, and he appeared a lot more experienced than the rest of his band. The rest of them were young, with fresh faces… perhaps not yet men. He could not be sure. There was one lagging at the back of the pack. He had a sword clenched in one hand, clearly nervous.

Solitude swept up behind him, his eyes nailed to his victim’s back, waiting to see if he would be noticed. As the group began to trudge forward through the grass, he made his move. Solitude threw his arm around the man’s neck and squeezed, tight. He clamped his other hand over the man’s mouth, hard. Immediately the man’s stiffened up and began groaning into Solitude’s hand. Solitude tightened his arm further, threatening to choke him. “Keep quiet, or I’ll make sure you die painfully,” he whispered into the man’s ear. The man groaned again, shaking. Solitude tightened his hand over the man’s mouth, his claws digging into his cheek. He began to drag his victim backwards, away from the group, and into the grass.

Now that he had a bit of distance from the rest of the group, Solitude clenched the arm he had around the man’s neck. The man began to thrash about, squirming and struggling to free himself from the zith’s clutches. Solitude squeezed harder, and fought to keep the man in his grasp. The man began to gasp and groan, trying to get a shout past Solitude’s hand. The arm around his neck tightened… tighter… tighter… Solitude felt the strength leaving the man, felt his neck collapsing beneath his arm. The struggle slowly died out as the man choked, then fell unconscious. As he fell limp, Solitude gave his arm one last, sharp jerk inward, crushing the man’s throat. He shoved the body to the side with a thump.

In front of him, amidst the grass, he heard a single, gruff voice call out. “Ken? Kenneth? Where are ye’?”

by **Solitude** on June 27th, 2013, 4:41 pm

Solitude stepped over Kenneth’s limp body and slipped back into the grass as the party of raiders turned back and began to search for their comrade. “Kenneth, ye’ vagik! Stop slackin’!” Their ringleader called out. Solitude retreated a few strides away, dropped into a crouch, and watched carefully between the blades of grass. The men, in an attempt to maintain the cover of night, did not have any lights. Solitude liked his odds against them, should they stay in the dark. His eyes could see in the low light far better than the weak eyes of a human. He watched silently as one of them stumbled over Kenneth’s corpse.

"Gren! Son of a--" he started to exclaim. Solitude pounced, swinging his arm. His fist slammed into the side of the man’s head, knocking him to the ground. The raider’s axe clattered away as he hit the dirt face first. Solitude ripped his sword out of its scabbard, and gripped it with both of his hands. He planted a foot squarely on the man’s back, and aimed the tip of his blade squarely at his neck. Solitude could hear the other raiders hurrying towards his location. He brought his sword down, driving the blade into the man’s neck. He felt the man’s spine give way, and then the tip sink into the packed dirt beneath it. There was a foul squelch as he drew the blade back out.

Solitude turned and sprinted away, through the grass. He heard shouts behind himself, and the thump of boots in the dirt. He spread his wings and beat the air, hard, lifting himself into the air. He tilted into a sharp climb, attempting to disappear into the black night-time sky. The shouts beneath him grew confused. “Ye’ bastard!” He heard their leader--Gren, he assumed--call out below. Solitude spread his wings wide, catching the air and wheeling around to fly back towards the caravan. He could see the caravaneers around their fire stirring, confusion on their faces. Solitude dropped his altitude to just over the grass, his feet skimming the tops of the blades.

As he flew away from the bandits, he considered his options in dealing with the rest of them. There was bound to be a few guards traveling with the caravan… but he wasn’t sure if he could trust them not to cut him down along with the raiders. Deciding to continue with his method of ambush, he dropped down into the grass once more. He gripped his bastard sword tightly and listened. There it was--they were sprinting towards him, having followed the sound of his wings beating the night time air. He would try to at least cut down another of Gren’s younglings before letting them begin combat in earnest. There were four of them still breathing, and Solitude was still wary of fighting them on a level field.

He snapped out of his planning as they came running by, a half dozen paces to his side. He broke into a sprint, readying his sword. Still gripping it with two hands, he brought it over his head as he charged into the side of one of the raiders. The man heard him coming and turned, seeing the Zith running at him with a bloody sword brandished over his head. Solitude brought his weapon down as the bandit threw his dented longsword up in a hasty block. The swords rang as they collided, and Solitude wasted no time in throwing a second slash at his target. He drew his blade to the side and launched it at the exposed torso before him, but again it was halted by a block.

Solitude glimpsed a wild determination in his eyes; this bandit was a determined one. Leveraging his initiative against his opponent, Solitude made as if to slash at him once more--watched as the man’s sword quickly leapt to intercept his--and instead simply threw his shoulder into his chest, knocking him off balance. These men were not formally trained swordsmen--not that he was. Solitude took his opening and thrust his blade into his opponent’s abdomen, watching the shock in his eyes as he fell onto the blade. He twisted the blade, ripped it out, and shoved the man away. Whirling, he saw the remaining three bandits squaring off against him.

The two younglings looked unsure, even frightened; Gren—the ringleader—stood behind them, a frown on his face. “Get ‘im, ye’ vagiks! I want his pelt!” Solitude let out a low shriek and brandished his blade, demonstrating the blood running down its fullers. The younglings balked, backing away with their swords still tight in their grips. Thinking quickly, Solitude called up the lessons he had contemplated earlier. A thick smoke began to rise from his arms with an audible hiss; he grimaced as he tried to focus on the res he was exuding and the men he was facing at the same time. The smoke began to gather about him in a loose cloud.

Solitude let out another shriek and brandished his sword, challenging them to come near. Gren seemed unfazed by the intimidation tactics, although not exactly eager to fight. One of his underlings began to back away, murmuring. He received a hard kick in the back of the leg for his trouble. “Get at ‘im, boy, you aren’t going anywhere.” The other youngling was gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles were white. He stared straight into Solitude’s gleaming yellow eyes. “Demon!” he shouted, raising his sword in an all-out charge.

Solitude mentally wrestled with the res as the youngling sprinted towards him, then managed to make a sweeping gesture with one arm. The smoke hissed and shot out at the raider along the ground, creating a howling wind that threw the raider’s legs out from beneath him and sent him sprawling to the ground. Solitude’s muscles clenched and he gritted his teeth with the concentration necessary to pull of the maneuver. Shaking off the mental fatigue, he paced over to the fallen bandit. The youngling scrabbled in the dirt for his sword, wrapping his fingers around its grip just as Solitude’s foot snapped down onto its blade, pinning it in place.

The bandit looked up into his eyes as he raised his sword. “D-d-demon…” he stuttered, having found his fear once more. “Demon,” Solitude agreed, as his blade fell and cleaved the boy’s skull messily. He pushed the corpse aside with his foot as he faced the two remaining raiders. “Two left. What happens now?” He asked in common, his voice rumbling in an impossibly low bass. Gren locked eyes with him. “We cut ye’ petchin’ head off,” he said. Solitude readied himself as Gren drew his sword.

by **Solitude** on June 29th, 2013, 8:01 am

Solitude slowly circled to the right, towards Gren’s off-hand. He kept both of his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, ready to move at the slightest provocation. He glanced at his blade for a moment, considering the blood that coated it. The blood of three men glinted nightmarishly in the moonlight, presenting a savage sight to Gren and his companion. The blood didn’t bother Solitude. He had been acquainted with bloodshed almost as soon as he could walk.

His attention snapped back to Gren. “Stand back, Mutt,” he said to his follower, “I’ve got this one. T’is personal now, zith.” He countered Solitude’s circle, making sure to keep his strong side presented at all times. The younger raider stepped back shakily, leaving Solitude and Gren to fight at last. Gren appeared to favor a single-handed grip, and his blade seemed to be a fair bit shorter than Solitude’s bastard sword. Solitude concluded that his advantages were therefore reach and leverage. He couldn’t be sure how skilled of a swordsman Gren was, however.

The circling seemed to go on forever, each combatant eyeing the other, probing for weakness. Solitude went over his lessons in his mind. Reimancy, Flux, Auristics. He hadn’t had hardly any practice in fighting using any of the three before he had left, but there were a few ideas floating around in his head. Flux was simple enough--send your djed where it’s needed in order to strike harder and faster. Reimancy seemed straightforward as well. His element--air--could be used effectively to misdirect and trip an opponent, as he had found out. Auristics seemed a bit more subtle… he supposed it could be used to--

Gren’s blade lashed out like a viper, flying sidelong towards his head. Solitude cursed himself and threw up a hasty block to his left, his own blade tilting vertical just in time to catch Gren’s. A jolt shot down his arms as the blades bounced off one another. Solitude quickly brought his blade around to the right and launched a slash at Gren’s abdomen. He leaned into the blow, hoping to connect, but Gren’s blade was quick. A swift block denied his slash, and sent another jolt down his arms. Solitude drew back a step, blade held vertically. He cursed himself again, determined not to let his opponent catch him off guard.

Keeping his stance shallow, he began to circle again. Solitude glowered, silently inviting Gren to try taking the initiative again. He kept his sight--and his mind--nailed to his opponent this time. He watched the way Gren circled, keeping his sword arm in front. His gazed slipped down to Gren’s feet. His steps were even, steady, and measured; evidently, the older bandit had far more experience than his peers. Solitude waited for his opening, watching Gren’s smooth, cyclical movements. The bandit seemed almost mechanical, never wavering.

Just as quickly as the first time, Gren’s blade lashed out once more. A lower slash, aimed at thigh level, shot lightning-quick towards him. Solitude was ready. His shifted his stance and brought his blade smoothly to the right. He braced himself as the familiar jolt shook his arms. Without pausing, Solitude launched into his own attack, firing a high leftward slash at Gren’s face. The raider fell back a step and his blade lept up to meet his assailant’s. Solitude swung again, this time right and low. Gren parried again, sloppily countering the larger blade. Encouraged, Solitude launched into a volley of blows, swinging left, right, right, left; driving his opponent ever backwards.

He could not get past Gren’s blade, no matter how many slashes and stabs he threw. Solitude kept his barrage up, doing his best to keep Gren on the defense. His arms burned and ached from the effort. Stepping in with his right foot, he swung his bastard sword in a powerful diagonal slash that threatened to open Gren’s body at the shoulder. The raider’s blade leapt, light as a feather, to intercept. Solitude again felt the shock of impact travel up his arms. Taking a step and shifting his left foot to the front, he launched a hefty horizontal swing at Gren’s ribcage. Again he was denied, receiving only the clang of steel on steel.

Exasperated, Solitude locked his mind on the Djed within himself. He struggled to harness the energy without providing Gren an opening, but ultimately, after one last stab, he withdrew. Panting, he slid back two paces as his assault came to its inevitable failure. Solitude gritted his teeth and wrapped his mind around whatever djed he could muster with an iron grip. Gren was more than a match for him; he would need to tap into something more in order to best him. Gren did not circle wait as he had earlier. As soon as he saw Solitude’s concentration split, he pounced.

Solitude wrested his blade to the side, throwing away Gren’s thrust. All at once, he let the djed he had leashed loose. It flooded into his arms and shoulders, invigorating him. He drove into Gren once more, throwing a powerful slash at his neck. The clash of steel rang in his ears as he forced himself harder, faster; he struggled to keep his thoughts centered on Afi and Sefa as the Flux coursed through his body. Gren’s blade shrieked as he parried another of Solitude’s blows, throwing off a spray of sparks as the force of the swings intensified. Solitude did not give a moment’s pause before he bounced back, throwing a low slash at Gren’s knee. Again there was a shriek and a spray of sparks. Solitude hefted his sword over his head and mustered his strength for a final blow. He threw all of his might into a single devastating overhead swing.

His blade crashed into Gren’s, the cold iron shattering the common steel of the bandit’s weapon. Gren fell backwards, thudding hard into the dirt. Solitude hissed, bringing his blade over his head once more. That mighty blow had felt glorious, even divine. He had finally bested Gren, had destroyed the blade that had turned him away for so long. Now, all that was left was Gren. He laughed a deep, bassy laugh, and stepped over the raider. His arms felt ablaze, glowing with might. He prepared to administer the final stroke, one that would split Gren’s impudent skull clean in two. Gren shouted. “Now, Mutt!”

Solitude howled as a horrible pain lanced through his back. He fell to his knees and his sword clattered to the ground. The once-glorious feeling coursing through his body turned to poison, wracking his every nerve with unbearable pain. He collapsed, falling face first. His vision began to blur, and he lost track of his surroundings… all he felt, all he knew, was the unholy pain wracking his body. “Gotcha, ye’ bastard,” he heard Gren in the distance. The last thing he saw was the pommel of Gren’s broken sword flying towards his face. Then all was black.

by **Solitude** on June 29th, 2013, 10:08 am

Solitude woke with a start. His eyes snapped open, though his vision was blurred. Shrugging off the dull shroud of unconsciousness, he sucked in a deep breath and propped himself up on one elbow. He rubbed at his eyes with the other hand, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then the pain hit him. He shrieked and fell back, writhing at the red hot agony arcing through him. His head began to throb. It quickly built momentum until he felt as though his skull was going to burst. His eyes snapped shut.

“Whoa! He’s back amongst the living!” He heard a voice call in the distance, then the sound of approaching footsteps. A series of scrapes, then the same voice spoke again. “Easy now, don’t move… those bastards really messed you up. You’re lucky you’re still breathing.” Solitude cracked an eye open and stared at the figure crouching over him. It was bright outside now; the night had passed and the sun had risen. Quite far, it would seem--Solitude guessed that it must have been around midday. “Now, I’m Dillon,” the figure continued, “I’m the one who patched your sorry hide up. Now, as for who saved that hide in the first place… that would be Heimar and Erik. You’ll meet them later.”

Solitude continued to stare through one eye, afraid to move a single muscle. “You are… human…” he managed to wheeze, “Why am I not… dead?” The figure, Dillon, gave a small chuckle. “Well, our boys--that would be Heimar and Erik--saw you fighting those bastards. After they mopped up, they dragged you back over to our camp and well… here you are.” He shrugged. “You were practically dead in the dirt, with that nasty fella with the beard standing over you. Thankfully, all that ruckus woke the camp up and they reached you before he could, well… kill you. Now, given that we’d spotted that party tailing us a few days ago… we assumed, rather assuredly, that they were bandits.”

“Of course, it’s not every night you’re woken up by a gods-damned zith fighting the bandits that were tailing you. And given the choice between bandits and zith, well… anyway. We assumed that you were on our side and dragged your ass back here. A dozen bells later and here you are.” Dillon nodded, then fell silent. Solitude managed a sort of nod, then laid flat on his back without saying a word. He was ridiculously lucky that the caravaneers--he assumed that was Dillon’s party--hadn’t just hacked his head off. He found it hard to believe that they were even remotely thankful for his… service. Contemplating this, he dozed off once more.

When he woke once more, he was alone. The sun was still high in the sky, so it couldn’t have been more than a couple of bells. Slowly opening his eyes, he gingerly edged up onto his elbow. After a moment, he made it up without incurring any intense pain. At last, he could survey his surroundings. He was laying on a bedroll--not his own--by the ashes of a campfire. There were numerous other rolls and tents strewn about. In the distance, he spotted two wagons and a group of horses tied down in the grass. This was indeed the camp of the caravaneers.

Turning his attention back to himself, he saw that his lowerbody was wrapped in linen bandages. He pressed a hand against his forehead and felt bandages there, too. After a moment of thought, he squeezed his eyes shut. His mind returned to Afi and Sefa. When he opened them, he could see his own aura. He singled it off in his mind, then began to probe. It took him a moment of concentration, but eventually he found what he was looking for--his wound. It marred his back, glowing a malicious red against the cool monotones of his body. He could see that it ran deep, although it had missed his spine. It entered his lower back, to the left of the spine, and progressed straight inward a whole three inches. He tried focusing in on it more, but he could not discern anymore details about the damage. Sighing, he closed his eyes and relinquished the aura.

A short while later, Dillon came sauntering back with two others in tow. Solitude assumed that these were Heimar and Erik. Dillon confirmed these suspicions. “You was lucky we saw ya,” said either Heimar or Erik. “He woulda gut you good.” Solitude nodded in silent thanks. He examined the two men who had saved his life. Both were burly men and bore full beards, and they had axes strapped to their belts. “I… thank you for your mercy,” Solitude ventured carefully in common. “Think nothin’ of it,” responded the other member of the duo. “Well, listen,” Dillon cut in, “You’re welcome to stay with us for a while, until you’re fit to travel again. We aren’t going anywhere soon--that wagon still needs fixing. Oh, and one more thing. What do we call you?”

“… Solitude.” It felt odd, vocalizing the name. He had dubbed himself that weeks ago, but it had more permanency to it now. Reclining there on the bed roll, he felt the beginnings of something. He felt that he had, perhaps, finally taken those first steps towards whatever it was he hoped to accomplish by going out on his own. It felt right. It felt good.

END