[Solo/Flashback] Restless and Wicked art Thou

[Chanuah]

40th of Spring, 507AV In the first light of morning, as the sun crawled slowly over the horizon, the Chaktawe began to wake. The Suli tribe crawled from their simple hide tents, ready to embrace another day of nomadic wandering and the struggle for life in their stretch of the desert. The young hunter, Chanuah, rose with them. He quickly rolled up his bedroll, as well as carefully folded and packed away his brilliant cloak of feathers, one of his prized possessions, sliding it into the back of his pack where it was most protected. He disassembled his low, simple tent of hide, rolling it’s poles in the skin and also adding it to his pack. He took up his beloved Tomahawk, Bitterthorn, and slid it gingerly into his sheath, sheathed his knife, and finally scooped up Soothsayer and his quiver and shouldered them both, along with his pack. The load was significant, but a life in the desert and of travelling since birth had hardened him to the stress. He could move in his tightly cinched pack almost as well as he could without. Stretching in the newborn sunlight, the dark-eyed native blinked the drowsiness out of his eyes and sought out his family, who had similarly prepared their own possessions. Chanuah approached his mother, Lana, whom despite her age still displayed remarkable beauty. Her hair was as sleek and smooth now as it was ten years ago. Lana turned at the approach of her eldest son, offering him a morning’s greeting and squeezing his hand as she had since he was a young boy. “Greetings to you too, mother,” answered Chanuah, in smooth and effortless Tawna, and with the voice of a man, not that of a boy that his mother so fondly remembered. Nodding, she pressed a parcel of dried meat into his hands. “Chanuah, my son,” she trilled, “I believe you shall be out to hunt today. You father hunted yesterday, and your brothers the day before.” Chanuah simply nodded, and turned to seek out his father, Aeran, but Lana once more stopped him. “Child, try not to forget your waterskin,” she called as she handed him his old skin, fresh water sloshing about inside. “I filled it for you yesterday. If you are going to go out and do an honest day’s work, you may as well be hydrated.” Chanuah nodded again, gratefully taking the skin and hanging it from his belt. With that, he was off, seeking Aeran. Within a few moments, he had found his father, fraternizing with a few of the elder hunters and discussing the travel path for the tribe today. As Chanuah arrived silently beside him, he clapped him on the shoulder and quickly briefed his son on the tribe’s movement. “Little One, today we are headed Southwest from here, farther inland. Perhaps if we are lucky, we shall find an Oasis not yet added to the hoard of the Eypharians.” “With any luck, father,” Chanuah replied, casting his eyes to the horizon. “I will hunt today. Perhaps Caiyha will smile upon me, send some game our way.” “Yes, perhaps...” Aeran mumbled, before beginning again in a louder voice: “Regardless, my son, you’d best remember our destination should you get separated from the tribe. Will you take anyone with you on today’s venture?” Chanuah considered this for a second, then declined, claiming that he was a man and could handle whatever beasts this desert could throw at him. With that, he was off, taking his weapons and his parcel of meat, wrapped thoughtfully in clean paper traded off of the Eypharians. Chanuah decided he would take his business closer to the shore, hoping to come across a wild cow or goat, though he knew those were rare. They would, however, provide more meat than the lean and dangerous jackals, and be less of a threat anyway. This course of action may lead him far from the tribe, and he would perhaps be gone for two days or more, but he was willing to do what was necessary. And with that, a lone Suli crested the peak of a dune, headed in the direction of the coast. The feathers on his vest and kilt gleamed in the early morning sun, and he wore a solemn expression as he marched off, away from his bretheren.

[Chanuah]

A few hours later, then sun had climbed well past the horizon and was now it full view. Chanuah kneeled in the sand on the face of a dune, examining his surroundings. His travel had brought him within view of the sea, to the west, and the glittering city of Ahnatep was visible on the horizon to the north. He once again drew Soothsayer from his shoulder, examining it’s laminated surface. It was made of the precious wood of the few trees that grew in this hostile desert. When held as if preparing for a shot, the tips of the bow curved away from the holder, even when it wasn’t strung. The string touched the surface of these curves when at rest, and this often resulted in a louder bow-shot than most were used to - but this did not matter as much as one would think: the added power increased the chance of the first shot being either lethal or crippling, and the decreased bow size was a much a boon as the added oomph. Chanuah drew the bow’s string from a side pouch on his pack and carefully fitted it to the bow, sliding it first into the bottom notch and carefully drawing it across the notch, then pulling it up to the top and using his foot for leverage and to bend the bow. He felt the sinewy string in his fingers, then carefully practiced of few of the different string grips his father had taught him: one with his first three fingers on the string and the arrow sitting to the left of the bow, a comfortable grip but one not without issues. The second draw he practiced was one where the user wrapped their thumb around the string, with the arrow sitting to the right of the bow, and held at a slight angle to the left. The fletching the shooter used to aim in this grip pointed straight up, as opposed to sideways in the three-fingers grip. This thumb grip was the one Chanuah preferred, as he found a vertical fletch easier to aim with, and with only one digit on the string, he didn’t need to worry about releasing three fingers at one. Chanuah gave the string one last careful draw, pulling it back slowly to his cheek as if he were aiming an arrow, then equally slowly relaxing the string so as not to let the weapon “dry-fire”. Chanuah suddenly heard a subtle shuffling sound to his left, like sand shifting. He had been so mesmerized in his bow-play that he had lost all regard for his surroundings. He stuck one hand out in the air, relying on the “air-sense” that all Chaktawe possessed to search the area for movement. The wind was calm, and if there was anything moving nearby, he was certain he would sense it. However, his scan came up negative, and he determined that whatever it was, it wasn’t too close. Chanuah decided he might have the drop on whatever or whoever it was. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the string of his bow, not yet drawing it back. Instead of cresting the dune and exposing himself, he crawled forward slowly to where the dune lessened to a valley between itself and it’s neighbor. As he rounded the dune, he searched the low ground to the west and spotted a pair of goats snuffling amongst a collection of desert scrub. They were no more than sixty paces away, a capable shot but not a distance at which Chanuah could guarantee a kill with his first shot. And so the Suli hunter lowered himself into the valley between the dunes, staying in a low crouch. He again held out his hand, testing the winds. The wind was calm, and when it blew it was from the seas. This was to his advantage, as he was downwind from his quarry, so they would not catch his scent on a stray breeze. clutching his bow tightly, Chanuah moved forward at a crawl, eyes glued to his pray. He hoped, casting out mental prayers to the Gods that he would not be detected, as his people could always used more food. His concealment held, and as he drew nearer, Chanuah could tell that one goat’s horns greatly out-sized the other, and he took this individual to be a buck and his partner a doe. As he neared thirty paces, half the distance from before, he raised his bow. Using the familiar thumb grip from a crouch, he took aim. Staring down the length of his arrow, Chanuah took aim at the buck. He could not shoot both of the goats before they fled, and he was uncertain if the doe was with child. He did not draw enjoyment from the separation of his prey from their mates, but it was a necessary evil in order to sustain his tribe. His loyalties were too his people first, and the animals second. Chanuah aimed his shot at the heart of the buck, as they were thick-skulled creatures, and whispered a quiet praise to Caiyha for the gift of the buck, and to Eywaat, brother crow, for the survival of his people. Chanuah made a few minor adjustments to his shot, staring wide-eyed down his arrow’s fletching, drew in his breath, and released the string as fluidly as was possible. Then many sounds reached his ears: the twang of his string as it contacted Soothsayer’s curves, the silent whistle of the arrow as it sailed towards his quarry, and a startled baa from the buck as it raised it’s head to the sudden sound. It didn’t have time to round on Chanuah’s posistion before the arrows struck true, sinking itself deep between his ribs and striking his heart. When the buck slumped to the ground, the doe nearly leapt with surprise, then bolted off down the coast, letting out a baleful cry at the loss of it’s mate. Chanuah solemnly rose from his crouch, shouldering his bow and drawing the hunting knife from his belt. He made his way to the fallen buck, watching the doe run off into the distance, still startled and shocked. He stooped at the corpse of the goat, planting one hand on it’s chest and gripping the shaft of the arrow with the other, and pulled it out with one swift motion. he wiped the blood off of the head and leading inches of the shaft on the fur of his kill. Blood dribbled weakly from the wound, the creature dead long before it’s killer arrived to rob it of it’s flesh and bone. Chanuah once again whispered to himself and the gods, while he placed the arrow back in it’s quiver and began to gut the goat. Half an hour later, he had prepared a few paper parcels filled with salted mutton and retrieved the skin of the goat, leaving it’s entrails and skeleton, scraps of fur still clinging to it, rotting in the sun as the buzzards circled overhead. The haul was decent, and the furs of good quality, but Chanuah still had room in his pack for another take of similar size. The more food he could bring back, the better off the tribe would be. With that thought in mind, he took off down the coast, in search of another quarry.

[Chanuah]

Chanuah had made it another few miles or so when the sun sun crossed the top of the sky. It now slowly descended towards the shining sea in the west, playing out yellow and orange hues across the reflective ocean’s surface. He took a moment to rest, shrugging off his pack and removing the dried meat his mother had given him earlier. Half of the portion was gone, consumed during travel, and he wolfed down the other half, starving from lugging around all of his gear and the added weight of the mutton. He could feel his water reserves inside of himself, and deemed them half full. When he finished his impromptu dinner, he unstopped his water skin and gulped a few mouthfuls, topping off his water to a comfortable level. He sat for a moment, watching the pretty colors dance across the water. After taking enough time to rest and regain composure, the huntsman rose to his feet again, swinging the familiar weight of his pack onto his back and setting off again to the south. He drew an arrow from his quiver, idly examining it. He could tell this was the one that had killed the Bowbacked Goat: there were still flecks of blood left on the steel head, as goat fur was not an ideal cleaner. Pondering the goat’s fate, he replaced the arrow and directed his eyes toward his surroundings. He was on the low ground, near the shore, there were higher dunes to his right, the east, the oceans to his left, the west, and the coast stretched far ahead of him. His tribe was to the west, and slight south west of his current position. If he bagged his second kill by nightfall, he could be back with his tribe in two days. This was not a bad plan, but it was certainly longer than Chanuah’s usual one day excursions. If his prey were to cling to the coasts, however, he would want an advantageous position should he come across one, and he severely hoped he did. He moved to the dunes, a high point where he could spot his prey from a distance. His mere appearance would not be so much as to scare them off, and having the high ground would allow him to spot his quarry from a distance. Chanuah did just that, cresting the rounded tops of the dunes, eyes searching in the distance like some small mammal on look-out. After about an hour of shuffling through the sand and scanning the distance, Chanuah thought he say something promising. A small herd of pack animals, grazing on the tough, harsh scrub inland from the coast, on the right side of the raised dunes if one were to face south. Chanuah quickly dropped to the right side, where the sea was in view, so he could move unseen towards the herd. From the view he’d had, there had been no shepard tending the flock. It could be possible that a group of Desert Cows had formed a herd, and if so, it would be easy to pick one off of the edge of the pack as they moved further south, he could take his spoils and be well on his way to see his family and his people again. He stalked faster down the coast, until he reached a point perpendicular to where he had last seen the heard. He took Soothsayer in his hand, and performed the familiar action of nocking an arrow. Chanuah crawled cautiously up to the top of the hill, watching the herd graze patiently, when he heard a piercing howl. Chanuah exhaled mightily, letting out the Tawna equivalent of “Petch!” and retreated back down to the base of his dune. Golden wolves would be closing on the herd any minute, and he didn’t want to get caught in the ruckus. Hiding at the base of the sand dune would hinder the sea-born winds in carrying his scents over, or so he hoped. He shouldered the bow and clutched his Tomahawk, Bitterthorn, in one hand, ready to defend himself from any incoming predators, and kept his other hand out, reading the air for signs of movement. Soon enough, the sounds were upon his: the startled cries of the cattle, the vicious snarls of the wolves, and soon enough, the sound of tearing flesh as the wolves attacked the herd of cows. Chanuah sat for a solid twenty chimes before he heard the ruckus die down, and he risked a peek over the hilltop. The wolves had taken a large number of the herd, and the half eaten carcasses lay rotting in the sand. The few members that were left had ambled off to the south, now moving steadily into a more hilly area, more inland. Chanuah immediately took off after them, stalking the herd, keeping his eyes on them from the hills and valleys. He kept his distance, not wanting to draw any undue attention, until he noticed one cow drop off from the herd. Chanuah saw his chance and took it, bow and arrow in hand. He found the cow, slowly tottering behind the rest. It bore a wound to a rear leg, slowing it down and forcing the others to leave it. Chanuah would put this creature out of it’s misery, and benefit his tribe in the process. The sun was beginning to dip low when Chanuah had finally cornered his quarry, who was growing tired from it’s fresh wound and had hobbled into a low valley, opening itself up for a shot from above. Chanuah’s approach was the same as before: he crept slowly to the top of the nearby dunes, and set up an elevated shot. Chanuah lined it up using his favored thumb draw, and took his time to align the arrow’s fletching with the Cow’s heart, ensuring that it would strike the creature down. Breathing thanks to Eywaat, Chanuah let the string slip off the tip of his thumb and the arrow whistled as it stuck, deep, in the cow. The animal went down, without a sound, and Chanuah nodded to himself with grim satisfaction as he moved in to dress the cattle and take what he needed. Halfway through his usual process of skinning his fallen prey and dividing it’s meat up into parcels, his pack at his side, a long shadow was cast over Chanuah. The Chaktawe sat up stiffly, letting the knife in his hand drop to the sand. He turned to face the man behind him. An Eypharian shepard stood there, in a plain cotton robe, crook in one hand, with another on the pommel of the wicked bronze scimitar sheathed at his side. A low hiss escaped the shepard’s mouth. “Suli...”

[Chanuah]

Chanuah stared, wide-eyed, at the shepard. He was conscious of the white clay painted in a stripe across his eyes, serving to shield them from the sun and to identify him to his folk. They also, it would seem, identified him the to shepard, who stood, one hand clutching his crook, and the other crossed over his body and gripping the bronze scimitar at his side. Chanuah slowly made a show of removing his bow and setting it on the ground, along with the quiver. Bitterthorn remained sheathed at his side, though the blade was concealed and he at least thought it was hidden from this rightfully angry Eypharian. Suddenly, the shepard ripped his scimitar from it’s scabbard, swinging it neatly towards Chanuah’s head in the same motion. The shocked Suli threw himself backwards, narrowly avoid the blade that skimmed by the tip of his nose. He scrambled to his feet as the Shepard advanced on him, pleading in horridly broken Arumenic. The Eypharian remained silent, his face a grim mask, as he brought his scimitar around for a descending slash, aiming to cleave Chanuah’s arm off at the shoulder. The Chaktawe pulled himself back, into a sideways stance, sidestepping the blow. His tomahawk nearly flew to his hand, though he made no attempt to attack. The shepard continued his advance, slash after slash, his fluid motions showcasing the fact that he was no amateur. This barbaric nomad meant nothing to him, and he would slaughter him for his insolence in killing one of his flock. Chanuah was frightened, surely, but he kept his mind focused on the fight at hand: the Shepard obviously favored powerful slashes with his scimitar, no quick jabs or stabs were proper with such a weapon. He did not want to kill this man, though he could not say the same for his adversary. A few chimes had passed and the agressor showed no sign of slowing down, though his target carefully side stepped or otherwise avoided all of his attacks. He slowly forced Chanuah back, up the side of the valley. Soon, they stood on the crest of the dune, a Shepard and a hunter. Chanuah decided to somehow disable the man, and drawing his tomahawk back threw a quick chop at the man’s sword arm, which was effortlessly deflected by a quick slap with the flat of the scimitar. Chanuah followed up with another chop at a different angle, inverting his weapon and swinging with the weight that counterbalanced the blade. He swung downward at his opponent’s shoulder, going for a crippling blow, but the man again parried with his tarnished blade. There was a ringing sound as Chanuah dented the shepard’s blade, but the man did not slow in his assault. The man was relentless, crazed, and thirsty for blood. Chanuah felt a deep inner sorrow as he realized his only option. He picked up the offensive, throwing a flurry of blows as fast as the shepard could deflect them, the sound of cold iron and bronze clashing echoing in what was fast becoming twilight in the desert. The shepard brought up one of his other arms, aiming for a quick disabling blow to the face. Chanuah counter with a sweep from his tomahawk, and drew first blood as he felt the bit of his axe sink into the man’s forearm. He wrenched his weapon away, and blood dripped onto the sand as it flowed freely from the fresh wound. The Eypharian swore creatively and lashed out wildly with his scimitar, the tip of the blade smacking into Chanuah’s cheek sideways and cutting a gash. Chanuah grimmaced, but continued his assault. He brought his tomahawk in underneath, swinging for the man’s sword arm. The shepard quickly recovered and swung his scimitar in horizontally, looking to gut the Chaktawe. Chanuah leapt back, chancing a glance at the Eypharian’s face. He grimmaced in pain now, but was clearly still focused. Chanuah frowned at the man, silently apologizing for what he was about to do. He advanced on his attacker again, sweeping his weapon low. He feigned an attack at the Shepard’s lower arm, as the scimitar was held by the upper arm. The Eypharian took the bait, flicking his blade downwards to parry the blow. Chanuah suddenly pulled his lighter tomahawk high, and he saw a look of surprise in the man’s eyes as he brought it down again, cold iron biting deep into the attacker’s shoulder. The Eypharian cried out in agony, and the scimitar finally dropped to the sand. The man fell to his knees as Chanuah tore his weapon out of his shoulder, holding it at his side now. The Eypharian watched his blood run off of the surface of the weapon, mingling with the sand. He barely had time to register a whisper from his Chaktawe opponent, a softly spoken “I’m sorry,” in what little Arumenic the man knew, before the weapon that had caused him so much pain, as was it’s namesake, smashed into the side of his head. It punched a neat hole into the side of his skull, contacting his brain and killing him instantly. Chanuah fell to his knees at the corpse of the shepard, silent tears rolling from his eyes onto the body’s plain robe.he wiped the blood of his weapon on the lapel of the robe, and sheathed it. Chanuah let out a quiet lament for the man, and raised his voice to Eywaat, Makutsi, Caiyha, and whatever gods who would hear him to protect the man’s soul in his reincarnation. He could bear the sight of the corpse no longer, and quickly descended into the valley between the dunes to gather his belongings. He shouldered his pack, laden still with the meat of the cow as well as the goat. He took up bow and quiver and marched off into the night. He would make camp as far away from the place of the fight as possible. When he finally set up his tent for the night, he would light a fire and skewer his meat roughly, as his father had taught him, smoking and drying it. Chanuah could hardly sleep with the man’s blood on his hands, and he spent long hours staring into the small fire, trying to be at peace with himself, before he warily drifted off into slumber. When he woke, he was as melancholy as before: he was no noble huntsman, but a murderer and a thief. He had the blood of a simple shepard on his hands, and nobody he could share it with. When he reached his tribe again, a day later, he would tell no one. He would simply say his hunt was successful, hand over his take and go on with his life. That night would haunt Chanuah for months, and he would still feel the repercussions for years later. Thread End

[Colombina]

The XP Wand Is Waved! A short thread but a good one! I look forward to seeing how your lone hunter develops. Thank you for the attention to detail and keeping to the spirit of the setting. Chanuah’s Loot 2 XP Hunting 1 XP Tomahawk 1 XP Archery Lore of Ektol’s common fauna Lore of land near Ahnatep Colombina is pleased.