Solo [Rattling Chains] Have Ax, Will Travel

[Razkar]

14th of Fall, 512AV

The horseman did not spur his mount. Instead the two beings ambled up the road north of Riverfall, the towering city with its gleaming marble falling behind them mile by mile. Neither looked back; both were too fixed on what lay ahead of them. And around them.

The Sea of Grass rose up like a carpet jungle on either side of the road, grasses taller than a man and thicker than the teeth on a fine comb obscuring vision past a few feet into the mass of foliage. The rider gripped his horse's rein with one hand, but kept his dominant one on the gladius at his belt. A rough-looking cloak covered his body, pulled tight against the decreasing temperature which was dropping day by day in a steady attempt to test his endurance.

It would have to try harder; Myrians did not break easily.

No noise from them save the steady clop-clop-clop of unshod feet over the ground. The "road" was not the stone and cobblestone affair of the city; merely hacked out of the grass at one point long ago and covered with gravel to stop it returning. Now so much of it had been flung to one side or washed away that the bare dirt was starting to show, wagon ruts gouged deep into the earth. But the ground is long-dead. Nothing would grow on it.

Birds twittered and called in the air. Other creatures barked and hissed, but for the moment did not go near the road. They knew, in that animal way, that the road meant men, and men meant iron and fire and pain. They left it alone... mostly.

The rider's ears pricked up. He could hear a new sound on the wind. Metal striking metal, but softly, as if wind chimes. He watched as the tree in the distance got closer and closer, coming into sharper relief. Had he not known otherwise, he would have thought there were willow wisps and dead branches hanging off it.

When he got closer, however...

A myriad of metal bondage hung from the limbs of the dead tree. Manacles and chains of all kind, most so old they were rusted dead and creaked as they swung in the breeze. Whenever the wind picked up they clashed into each other, sending up a sound like a hundred mournful bells.

Razkar looked at the fork in the road. One path was broader, better-tended, heading north-east deeper into the Sea. The other was narrower, tufts of yellowing grass poking up through the ground, leading towards a clump of trees that looked small from here but was probably a minor forest.

Smoke rose in thin wisps from deep inside it.

The Myrian smiled. He was on the right trail.

Since he talk with Kevlar at the Blue Bull, he had asked further questions, these ones more furtively. He knew that slavery was a sensitive subject for the Akalaks, and much as he respected their martial prowess, he despised their hypocrisy regarding it. There was a river of indentured servants flooding into their city, mostly female, and they had the gall to either ignore that fact or pretend they were above the morality of clapping another being in chains and bending them to their will.

Razkar did not understand it. Strength dictated morality, and the Akalaks were strong. So why hide your actions?

But he was not trying to find a philosophical argument in his questioning. The name Haev Provedan was promising, but only the first step he had to take. To actually find the man...

It took him several days, but eventually he got the rough directions. Rough, because they were so simple.Less than an hour riding north of Riverfall, turning down the right road at the Chained Tree, as one man called it, and then continue. That was it.

The Myrian steered his horse down the overgrown road and Mrrko began to clop-clop-clop as before, steady and certain and passive as always. Razkar kept one eye on the ground, wary of serpents or holes, but mostly he scanned the grass and growing number of trees around him.

Then, at the edge of the copse, his nostrils tingled. Tobacco. Sweat. Oil, the kind used on weapons. Stale beer and dried blood.

He smiled thinly and continued into the forest, road weaving and winding as it led ever inwards. Crunches and scrapes that could only be footfalls prickled at his ears from either side of the road now. He was not alone, and he got the impression he was being carefully watched as he approached the domain of Riverfall's slaver king.

Chimes later, he could hear more noise. Voices, so many and so far they were garbled, but growing in distinction. The smell of smoke and burning wood, the source of the wisps he had seen before, now curling and rising thicker and blacker than before. Even, if he looked carefully, the faint outlines of tents beyond the treeline...

"Halt."

He obeyed, much as it galled him to be spoken to so roughly. But, he reminded himself, he was not in Riverfall anymore. This was Provedan's domain, and his rule was law here, not the Council's. And as the figures emerged behind trees to stand around him, he saw that hired blades were his enforcement of choice.

Perfect.

Five of them. Only two wore matching armor, and cheaply made for the lot of them. Swords for most, a crossbow for one, a spear held by a taller man. All human... perhaps a couple were Dryska, by their skin tone and hair. The Myrian held up a placating hand and waited for the voice to speak again.

"What brings you here?"

"I look for Provedan." He directed those words to the man in the center, before Mrrko, a hard-faced man with a rough beard and the letters "T" and "R" branded above his eyebrows. "Want to work for him."

The leader glanced at the tattoos, the facial piercings, and most importantly, the weapons piled onto the strange foreigner, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Not a trader, huh?"

"No. Mercenary."

The leader chuckled, showing a mouth missing many teeth.

"Proper word for a savage, friend. Most here just call us "sellswords"."

Razkar shrugged, not looking to be dragged into some verbal sparring contest. He slid off his horse and stood before the man, careful to keep his hands in sight at all times.

"Not matter what word, thing is same. Fight for money. I fight for money. I was said to Provedan paid. Needed men. So I come."

He waited. He wanted to order these thugs to take him to their master and stop wasting his time. The sun is already high, obvious even through the sparse trees over them now, and he does not want to take that road back to Riverfall at dark. Not alone. So he waited, eyes cool and steady, Mrrko snuffling gently behind him.

Eventually, the leader jerks his head behind him, towards the camp.

"Follow us."

Razkar does.

[Razkar]

They shepherded him carefully through the winding trail that led down to Provedan's domain. It was almost gratifying, Razkar thought. Hands were on weapons, the spearman kept his weapon pointed his way at all times, eyes were flitting constantly to his weapon. He lowered his head and smiled to himself, killing the time by wondering how he'd kill them. The closest two would go down fast, the first blow. Throat and heart. The spearman next, his weapon knocked away and something large and sharp jammed into his side. The last two... tricky...

And before he'd finished his daydream, the trees thinned, parted, and the camp was spread before them.

Although "spread" was perhaps too grandiose a word. It oozed across the landscape, hemmed in by the twisted trees and yet not controlled by them. The clearing had been hacked and burned out from the heart of this copse, and what replaced it was a monument to it's desecration. Where once there were trees and hedges, filthy tents and cobbled together bridges stood instead. Where there used to be thick grass and rich dirt, now there was just endless mud and dirt, trenches gouged into the ground with dirty water pooling at their depths.

They led him onwards, deeper into the camp. There was some activity here. Mostly men dressed and armed like them, supervising those who were unarmed. Food was being cooked, clothes made and repaired, and Rakar turned when a mass of movement teased the corner of his eyes.

A platoon of slaves were being run around the edge of the camp, a loose ring of guards keeping pace. Razkar wondered why they didn't run, but he guessed that for every guard he could see, there was another he couldn't. He looked up to the surrounding trees, squinted... ah... there...

Archers and crossbowmen, perched on the branches like vultures. Stern, still men with cold, sharp eyes who would put a bolt in you from a hundred yards and then finish their apple without a second's remorse. Razkar nodded his approval. This man Provedan ran a tight ship.

They led him north, through the camp, to what must be a mine entrance. Tunnels hammered and dug into the rock. Rails on the ground, disappearing into the darkness. He'd heard this place used to be a mine; jewels or metal, he neither knew nor cared. Whatever it was, it wasn't anymore.

A clutch of men stand around the tunnel entrance. Not at attention, but Razkar can see they don't need to be. They're better-armed, wear better armor, and have that cold, intense composure of proven fighters. The second Razkar and his escort approach, they straighten. A short, squat man with braided hair and a full beard looks them over.

"Who's this?"

The Tattooed Man speaks. "A Myrian."

"I can see what he is," says the Bearded Man with a roll of his eyes, a tone of exasperation in his voice, "I asked who."

There's a short pause before a reply is heard.

"He, ah... didn't say."

Now there's more than a tone; there's a minor symphony.

"So without even knowing his name, you led this man into the middle of our camp?"

"He says he wants to work for Mister Provedan. Sellsword."

The Bearded Man takes one look at Razkar and takes in the weapons, the markings, the cloak of scalps, and shakes his head.

"You don't say? And here was me thinking he was a petching barber."

Even Razkar had to crush a smirk when he heard that. Tattooed Man shifted from one foot to the other, embarrassed but apparently impotent before this tunnel-keeper. He stays silent now, letting the Bearded Man take a full measure of their guest. Razkar returns the look calmly, patiently...

"My name is Razkar of the Shorn Skulls. I come see Provedan. Work as mercenary."

The Bearded Man doesn't respond immediately. He didn't need to be told what TRazkar was; it was obvious. But when he heard the name, he squinted, bushy eyebrows crushing his eyes. That name... he'd heard it before...

"I heard something about a Myrian." He said eventually, not taking his eyes off Razkar. "Killed a brace a' Zith in the Sea. Some animal place, too..."

Razkar smiled tightly, but it never reached his eyes.

"Santuary. Place name is "Sanctuary"."

The Bearded Man seemed to make a decision a few moments after hearing that. He nodded and turned his back on the Myrian, walking into the tunnel. He didn't say a word, just vanished into the blackness, lit only by the torches that were dotted at long intervals in the dark. Razkar watched him get smaller and smaller, vanish into shadow and then appear in light, over and over, deeper and deeper... then gone.

They waited. The Tattooed Man and his little group fidgeted and talked lowly. The mine guards stayed quiet. Watchful. Ready. Razkar had already gathered that these were a cut above the sellswords watching the perimeter. These men were seasoned mercenaries, professional sellswords who had survived many contracts and battles in their time, not just thugs who were in the trade for the buzz or enough mizas to whore and drink themselves stupid every month.

These were the men he hired to protect both himself and, since he hadn't seen any outside the tunnel and in the camp, his property.

The platoon of slaves made an appearance again, walking now, panting and sweating even in the chilly air. Their watchdogs stayed close to them, but didn't bellow or bully. They ordered them into two lines and they began to walk past Razkar and head down into the tunnel, back to... wherever.

Glassy, lost, hopeless eyes glanced his way, but only occasionally. Most were too broken to do anything but look dumbly ahead, easily led as cattle, resigned and defeated. Men... women... children. Razkar blinked, and found that he did in fact pity them.

Pitied that they were so craven as to allow themselves to be taken into bondage.

Slavery was an unusual concept to his people, but not alien. Among Myrians themselves, it was unheard of. Everyone worked. Even the old and infirm cooked, sewed, repaired fishing nets, sharpened weapons, carried out hundreds of tiny tasks. They simply didn't need slaves among Myri's chosen people. All the labor they needed, they already had.

Sacrifices, however, well... that was different. A steady trickle of captives dripped into Taloba, then became a gush as they were split open and offered to the Goddess-Queen. In the long ago, even before Razkar's grandmother, it had been a stream, a flood, thousands of crushed peoples and now-extinct tribes wiped out and sacrificed. But never put to work.

Haev Provedan knew of this. He saw it as a ridiculous waste of resources.

Razkar saw the man emerge from the tunnel, coming out as his good went back inside. Tall, plain, with eyes so cold they were more like marbles than anything else, he stopped at the tunnel entrance and looked over them as they passed him. So... clinical. Like a man observing his herd being bought back into the stables, which Razkar assumed was exactly how he saw them.

He held out a hand. The two lines stopped moving. Provedan stepped forwards and reached down, pulling up the shirt of one motionless male slave. He frowned minutely and showed the bruise there to one of his guards.

"Find out who did this."

That was all he said, and all he needed to say. The lines kept moving. So did he. What sun there was reflected dully off his bald head, and that bored, dead face stopped a dozen feet from the Myrian. He looked Razkar up and down, hands clasped behind his back. He couldn't hear him breath. Didn't see his chest move up and down. He blinked quickly, like a lizard, and when he spoke, that was the animal that sprang to Razkar's mind.

"Razkar of the Shorn Skulls... why should I bother hiring you?"

[Razkar]

"I'm good fighter. Good killer."

Provedan looked behind Razkar, to his sides, and even behind him, then shrugged.

"I have plenty of fighters and killers. Why should I pay for another?"

"I'm better than them."

This time Provedan didn't hesitate or pause, and his words didn't taste of malice or scorn. They just... were.

"No. You think you are. You don't know for sure."

Razkar straightened, eyes glinting a little in pride, the tiniest smirk on his face. "Test me."

Provedan raised an eyebrow a fraction.

"Against my own men? Men who have already cost me money? You either have too high an opinion of yourself, Razkar, or you don't know how a man protects his investments."

Razkar felt his jaws clench, not liking the way this was going. He thought it would be simpler. He knew his abilities were not flawless, but by the looks of the men around him, they were finer honed than the jumped-up bar thugs that made up most of Provedan's private army. But for every statement he made, there was a counter. For every verbal lunge, a block and retaliation.

Razkar had heard that Provedan rarely if ever used violence personally. The Myrian found himself hoping that was true, because if he fought as well a he talked...

"I proved can fight." He said, struggling to keep his words from sounding desperate before this barbarian slaver. "Fought Zith. Killed many."

"Yes, I heard that story." Provedan said, rubbing his bald head briefly, voice tinged with weariness. "Very impressive sounding."

"It was good fight."

"But that's all it is to me: a story. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard the deeds of sellswords and warriors magnified ten, a hundred times greater than they truly were? First it was two men he killed, then a week later, the story says five."

A short, blunt snort, which Razkar assumed was the closest the man could come to laughter.

"By the end of the month it's twenty men, five glassbeaks and a dragon. I place no faith in stories. When magic fails and the gods turn their back, all any man can rely on is the facts."

He stopped talked, leaving Razkar quietly confused. He didn't know what that little lecture was in aid of, but the thugs around him looks just as bewildered. He would find out later that Provedan rarely spoke at such length. Finally he cleared his throat and sallied forth again.

"I be loyal to you. Follow your orders."

"That goes without saying: I'll be the one paying you."

"You can pay me less."

Again with that eyebrow.

"Because you are a savage?"

That didn't even register with Razkar. He had seen and heard enough of the world outside Falyndar to know that term could be applied anywhere. It just depended on the time and the person. Better idea? Keep on that train of thought. The only thing that mattered to Provedan was profit: if Razkar could maximize or minimize it, that was his best bet.

"I not just kill for mizas. I kill for scalps. For blood. For Goddess."

"Ah. An idealist."

"Not know what that word is."

"It's a man who's yet to realize the only thing worth killing for is mizas, but I get your point." A pause as Provedan scrutinized the Myrian yet again. Razkar could almost hear the dark wheels in the man's brain turn, weighing and adjusting cost and benefit ratios, deciding and evaluating. "There aren't many Myrians in Riverfall. I could count them on one hand, and most of them are female."

His eyes flicked to the hem of Razkar's cloak, seeing the thicker hair lining it and the fresher, pinker skin under it. "And I see you have fresh Zith scalps on your cloak. Maybe there is some credence to your story."

"I not lie." Razkar said quietly, not aggressive, but mirroring the human's own simply-stated tone. "Not worth it. Sure you have enemies. Need them killed. I want to kill, and I kill for less. Is good deal."

"You may be right..."

Provedan turned as a quarter of men approached them. Three of his guards, all armed, flanking and following a fourth man dressed just like them. The only differences were that he was now unarmed, and he was pale with fear.

Razkar watched Provedan's face for some indication of what this meant, but the slaver just blinked a few times. Nothing was revealed. Nothing given away. And when the group stopped before him, Provedan's words were as calm and pedantic as ever.

"Justinian. You are the one who struck that slave."

Not a question; a statement. But the long-haired human still tried to talk his way out of it, words gushing from desperate lips.

"He was falling behind, sir, and he was-"

"-my property." Provedan cut him off with those two words, silencing him instantly. "And you damaged him. Do you know what you may have cost me? That group is due for delivery in two days. They will be inspected, and what do you think the buyer will say regarding that one if they see a bruise the size of my head on him?"

Silence. Fearful, cowed silence, and Provedan's voice changed not a jot.

"Answer. Me. Boy."

"He... He won't buy him?"

"Of course he will, but not at full price. I'll lose money. Fifty, maybe a hundred mizas for damaged goods, and all because of your stupidity. And if this was the first time, perhaps I would just have you flogged, but-"

"Sh-She was trying to escape, I told you, you saw what-"

Provedan didn't roar or shout. He just looked at one of the men flanking Justinian and nodded. Without pause the man turned and punched the younger sellsword in the gut, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him. Justinian sighed and coughed and cried out all at once and sank his knees into the mud.

"I saw an idiot with too much wine in his body strike my property out of the same brainless, short-sighted stupidity you displayed today. I thought that the beating given to you afterwards would have mended that. Apparently, it did not. You know my rules, Justinian. No more chances."

Razkar blinked in amazement as a sound of low, desperate weeping floated up from the young mercenary. One would have thought that to even be a sellsword, one would leave such weakness behind. Was this an example of those Provedan hired? He hoped it was an exception.

The boy raised his head, hands beseeching, face smeared with dirt and tears.

"Please... Please, sir... just... just let me go."

Provedan thought it over for about four seconds, then shook his head, face as expressionless as ever.

"No." He turned to Razkar. "You are in luck. It seems a position just opened up and, at the same time, it allows me to properly judge these skills you are so proud of."

The slaver raised his voice slightly and started rapping off orders.

"All of you, step back and give them room. Erando, give Justinian a sword."

His orders were followed instantly. The group that bought Razkar in stepped backwards hurriedly, not wanting to either get hit or miss the show. Provedan's own elites did likewise, but stayed closer to their master, weapons drawn just in case. The three mercenaries who had escorted Justinian backed away, the one called Erando leaving a bastard sword on the mud by the shaking boy.

Justinian looked at it in surprise, then at Provedan. Again with that tone, that ever-calm, never-ruffled voice that would face the gods or the seven hells with the equal composure.

"I won't let you live without reason, Justinian. You are, perhaps, still useful. Kill the Myrian, and I will allow you to leave and never return."

That was it, and Razkar did understand those words. While Provedan spoke he unbuttoned his cloak and draped it over Mrrko's back, the horse backing away with Tattooed Man holding his bridle. He drew his gladius and flexed his muscles from ankle to shoulder, cracking his neck to top it off.

The sun hid behind a cloud, or maybe the smoke just obscured it. Justinian was still on his knees. Provedan rubbed his head again.

"Razkar? On his feet or on his knees, you will kill Justinian. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Begin."

Razkar stalked forward.

[Razkar]

The boy knew what was at stake, even in his fear-addled state, and snatched up the sword before Razkar could get too close. He was grateful for that: poor sport, otherwise.

But the Myrian knew this was not about fun. This was an audition, and for a man who prized efficiency over showmanship. He would act accordingly.

Justinian scrambled to his feet with the bastard sword held in both hands, blade held in front of him, perpendicular. Razkar gripped his own gladius and circled him silently, eyes taking in the whole man, or trying to. His feet... his shoulders... his hands. Everywhere but his eyes.

Eyes didn't kill. Pretty much everything else could.

The mercenaries around them (and there were now a few) didn't hoot or jeer at the impromptu gladiator games. They knew their master would not appreciate it. They watched in silence. Justinian was one of them bare chimes ago, but among mercenaries, that is a lifetime.

Finally the boy struck, bringing back the sword and aiming a diagonal slash at Razkar's left shoulder. The Myrian sidestepped to his left, swaying his body as he did, and it hit nothing but air. But Justinian wasn't an all-the-way fool, and though the power of the blow spun him, he allowed it to, spinning around and away from any blow Razkar could make to his exposed back and side and facing him again quickly.

The younger man licked his lips, eyes wide, blade held ready... and quivering slightly. Razkar's expression did not change as he lunged, thrusting forwards.

Justinian jerked the sword down, blocking the thrust and knocking it away from his body. He tried to bring the bottom of the blade, near the hilt, upwards towards Razkar's face, but the Myrian leaned back away from it-

-free hand punching the boy in the right kidney.

Justinian yelped in pain, letting Razkar jump back and away. He clutched his side in agony for a moment with one hand, then reluctantly let go, both hands on the sword's hilt...

And it shook even harder.

Razkar wished this could end faster, but even an inexperienced foe can be dangerous. Their very inexperience made them... unpredictable. He waited, still circling, ring of faces hemming them in, uncaring and unwilling to interfere.

Justinian lunged and drew back his sword at the same time, another overhand strike. Razkar felt the gnosis on the back of his neck burn as he darted forwards-

-sword starting to fall above him-

-closing gap between them-

-both of his hands moved at once, left shooting upwards almost vertically to block the blow, palm facing upwards, Justinian's wrists slamming into it and sword stopping dead-

-and his right plunged the gladius deep into his stomach.

A hush. Brief and insubstantial. A few mutterings disturbed it, mercenaries and sellswords exchanging criticisms or praise, and then Justinian went and spoiled the moment.

By coughing up blood.

His hands loosened their grip on the sword. Blood pumped and gushed from the hole in his belly, flowing over the gleaming handle and down his leather breeches. Sharpened every day by a man who knew the true meaning and value of the expression "razor blade", it cut through flesh, tissue and organs like paper.

Razkar twisted the gladius and then ripped it free. A tangle of entrails spilled onto the dirt, hissing and steaming. The boy tumbled forwards to his knees, one hand gripping the hole in his stomach, face already the waxy white pallor of death, shock setting in as his mind had yet to realize having his hands there should hurt...

Taking his time, Razkar walked around to the boy's rear. He didn't seek Provedan's approval by looking. He knew his orders. The Myrian's right hand lowered and cocked back gladius held horizontal to the ground, muscles taut alike metal springs and then thrusted forwards-

"For Myri," he whispered.

The blade of the weapon erupted from Justinian's chest, heart impaled. And then, when Razkar twisted the blade, practically cut in two. With a final bloody gasp and a jerk, the boy died. As Razkar tugged his blade free, what was Justinian toppled forward with a wet thud.

Still silence. Razkar did not care. He straddled the body, pulled back his hair with his left hand, arching the back of the dead man, and made that familiar cut around the top of his forehead with his dripping gladius. With a savage jerked, he ripped the scalp free and tucked it into his loincloth. Then he knelt down and wiped his blade on the back of the boy's leg, and sheathed it.

Razkar turned and looked at Provedan. Provedan looked back and him... and nodded.

"Good work." His reptilian eyes flickered past him to the cooling corpse and he gave the smallest sigh. "A shame about the armor. We could have used it..."

[Razkar]

"So I work for you?"

"Yes, you work for me."

Razkar just nodded. He was not so young that he would get excited so easily anymore. He knew that for all the mystique and romanticism about sellswords and their adventures ways, much of a warrior's life was hard beds and utter boredom. He doubted this place would be different.

"What happen now?"

Provedan moved for the first time since the fight started. He walked past Razkar, hands clasped behind his back. The Bearded Man scowled around the still-watching mercenaries and growled at them.

"You gettin' paid to stand around and petching look? Back on patrol or back on guard, all a' ya! Now!"

The ring of metal, leather and flesh broke up instantly, leaving Razkar, Provedan and his guards. And...

Razkar squinted slightly. Another figure had joined them... sort of. Short with blonde hair down to her shoulders, she had the same cold demeanor as Haev, watching from the tunnel mouth with her arms crossed. She looked at Razkar, cool and unruffled by what she just saw. The Myrian frowned a little.

A Dryska female? Here?

"First of all." Provedan said, standing over Justinian's body. "Get rid of this mess. In the woods. Strip him first. The armor is useless, but everything else we can use."

"And then?"

The slaver turned from the corpse to his latest recruit. "And then you leave, for now. You're a warrior, Razkar, not a guard. You'll bore easily and cause trouble if I have you staring at trees or livestock for hours on end. But... I have other uses for you."

He knelt back down and quickly rifled through the dead man's pockets, ignoring the blood and the growing stench. He just blinked a few times and went about his business.

"Come back in two weeks. I'll have something... more suited to your talents."

Razkar didn't question any further. Men like Provedan valued information as much as money, for they knew just how much power it could give you. Or over you, if you said too much to the wrong person. When Razkar needed to know more, he would. Until then, he knew the bare minimum.

Fine.

Provedan stood up, three copper coins in his palm and shook his head in disappointment.

"I paid him a reasonable wage, and he never had coin in his pocket. Young people... they have no idea how to handle money."

He pocketed them and turned away from the Myrian, business concluded for the day. He started walking back to the tunnel mouth, the Bearded Man and his two comrades following, his last words uttered over his shoulder without slowing down.

"No later than midday."

Now alone, Razkar turned to the stiffening Justinian and got to work.

----------

They watched him strip the boy. They watched as his armor, his breeches, his shoes and his undershirt were pulled and peeled off and seperated. The leather vest was a write-off. Two deep wounds, and wide. The undershirt... that could be mended. The breeches would definitely need a clean, given how Justinian had loosed his bowels before dying, and the shoes were pristine.

Soon he was naked as a babe, and they watched the Myrian hoist the boy onto the back of his horse, mount it, and ride slowly away. The pile of clean(ish) clothes, with the bastard sword laying on top, would be collected later.

"What was all that about?"

Provedan turned to Caracatas, his diminutive lieutenant leaning on the opposite beam supporting the tunnel entrance. He cocked his head slightly.

"A new recruit. What else?"

"I meant with Justinian. You could have had one of the men kill him. You didn't need to use the Myrian."

Haev's face was indistinct in the darkness and shadow, but if someone was looking closely, they might have guessed he was smiling. He did so enjoy Caracatas' observations. It reminded him why he kept her around. Well, that and her peerless navigational abilities, a definite necessity on the vast, featureless plains that was the Sea of Grass.

"I wanted to see if the stories were true."

"And what if Justinian had killed him? Then you would have lost a potential sellsword and had to let Justinian go."

Provedan turned his head slowly, eyes glittering in the torchlight. Caracatas met them squarely and without fear. They'd been in business together a long time, and she no longer had any fear of him. She looked at him for a while... then sighed and shook her head.

"You were lying."

"Of course."

"And you knew the Myrian would win."

"Yes, I did."

"For certain?"

"With all certainty that was available. That savage slew over a dozen Zith a few nights ago. A moron like Justinian wouldn't be a problem. So, I remove myself of a useless employee, give the men a bit of sport and have the Myrian prove his credentials. I am satisfied."

Caracatas pushed herself upright.

"I need to prep the party going out tonight. Everything else is prepared."

Provedan just nodded, not needing to ask any more questions of his lieutenant. She knew her job very well. If she said something was ready, it was. No, he kept his eyes on the receding Myrian on horseback, winding through the tangle of trenches and tents that made up the surface of his little kingdom. A sound investment, he thought to himself. And if not...

Haev Provedan looked at the blotchy, brown-red patch where Justinian had fallen. By tomorrow, trampling feet and rain would wash it all away. Like it and he had never been.

The slaver vanished into his mine. He had other business to attend to.

[Razkar]

The rider did not spur his mount. Both took their time. A watcher in the Sea of Grass would have seen a slight smile on the rider's face. If he was closer, he may have made him out as a Myrian.

The Myrian rode on the horse alone. But there was more on it than before.

Justinian didn't even get a burial. He hadn't earned it. Razkar had stropped halfway between Rattling Chains and the edge of the forest, then simply turned off the trail. He pulled the naked corpse off Mrrko... and then drew his gladius.

Once he was finished, Razkar left the body in the brush and dead leaves. If the forests there were anything like the ones in Falyndar, within mere days an army of scuttling, skittering and crawling scavengers would reduce Justinian's corpse to a putrid, rotting hunk of bone-splintered meat. After another week, it would barely be that.

All the more reason to do what he did.

On the saddle behind Razkar, secured to the saddle, was a package that could - with some imagination - be described as roughly, possibly, maybe, just maybe, the same shape and size as a human arm and leg.

Razkar smiled. His blades were clean, he had a fresh scalp in his belt, a new employer who could provide him with the slaughter he desired... and his dinner for maybe a week had been taken care of, too.

Waste not.

The Chained Tree clanged and jangled as Mrrko cantered past it. Riverfall was on the horizon, gleaming and white and rising like an oasis of civilization out of the untameable Sea of Grass. Straight in the saddle and sun beginning to set over the ocean, Razkar rode towards it.

[Jackalope]

Razkar

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Observation	+2	Location: Rattling Chains
Persuasion	+1	Killing for Goddess
Unarmed Combat	+1	Killing as a Job Interview
Gladius	+1	The Dangers of an Inexperienced Foe

Witty Remark Here

Entertaining read. I enjoy your combat threads quite a bit. A couple things: First, avoid mention of dragons. None of those beasties in Mizahar. Second, you mentioned Dryska twice in the thread. I know you're talking about the Drykas, and I'm assuming it's a typo, but I wanted to make sure it was that. Finally, you do wonderful at describring the settings, and it's a treat to read. If you could make sure you reflect Razkar's actual observation skill in it, that would be better. He's noticing every detail, at least that's how I'm taking it. Otherwise good stuff! Thanks a bunch. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can figure it out.