Azmere had been beaten, tortured, exhausted, dehydrated and blessed by a god. Yet he was still breathing. Hephiestian was gone and that pain was so large that the Drykas could barely feel his own wounds. Time was lost. He had no idea what day it was or what time of day for that matter. Bells, days, seasons; none of it mattered. The swollen face turned to the dim light masked by clouds in the east.
East.
Home.
What was Azmere without his strider? Would he still be accepted? Surely, but would the stares and questions mount further onto the shadow of his character?
Azmere had been friends with a scourge known as Wikus. The man had betrayed his people or the god of disease and corruption. He had betrayed his friend, too. Friend. Azmere scoffed a moment but then the hard lines of his face softened. As a young lad, the scarred boy had killed a man to defend Wikus. Wikus, in turn, had protected Azmere from the retaliation of an angry clan. The two young men got into more trouble than could be recorded in the woven scarves of their families. As a means to facilitate his escape, Wikus betrayed Azmere to a worthless pavilion who left him for dead. Ever the tough bastard, the Stormblood survived a strange set of days in the grass.
Once again, the Stormblood found himself wandering around the Sea of Grass with more than enough pain and anguish to pass around. He broke down his camp with the practiced ease of a seasoned traveler but chunks of flesh missing from his chest and several holes and gashes around his midsection. Over the next bell or so, he was able to wrap up the supplies he had managed to salvage and load them onto the broken mixed breed he had dubbed as Horse. The Drykas mounted the steed and pushed him towards the city’s trajectory. He had no idea how long it was going to take but he wasn’t going to give up. His new lord had made it very clear that faithfulness was not an easy road. Azmere’s head lolled a bit and he struggled to get a drink. It was going to be a long day.
East.
Home.
What was Azmere without his strider? Would he still be accepted? Surely, but would the stares and questions mount further onto the shadow of his character?
Azmere had been friends with a scourge known as Wikus. The man had betrayed his people or the god of disease and corruption. He had betrayed his friend, too. Friend. Azmere scoffed a moment but then the hard lines of his face softened. As a young lad, the scarred boy had killed a man to defend Wikus. Wikus, in turn, had protected Azmere from the retaliation of an angry clan. The two young men got into more trouble than could be recorded in the woven scarves of their families. As a means to facilitate his escape, Wikus betrayed Azmere to a worthless pavilion who left him for dead. Ever the tough bastard, the Stormblood survived a strange set of days in the grass.
Once again, the Stormblood found himself wandering around the Sea of Grass with more than enough pain and anguish to pass around. He broke down his camp with the practiced ease of a seasoned traveler but chunks of flesh missing from his chest and several holes and gashes around his midsection. Over the next bell or so, he was able to wrap up the supplies he had managed to salvage and load them onto the broken mixed breed he had dubbed as Horse. The Drykas mounted the steed and pushed him towards the city’s trajectory. He had no idea how long it was going to take but he wasn’t going to give up. His new lord had made it very clear that faithfulness was not an easy road. Azmere’s head lolled a bit and he struggled to get a drink. It was going to be a long day.