Solo Retaliation

(This is a thread from Mizahar's fantasy role playing forum. Why don't you register today? This message is not shown when you are logged in. Come roleplay with us, it's fun!)

The Wilderness of Cyphrus is an endless sea of tall grass that rolls just like the oceans themselves. Geysers kiss the sky with their steamy breath, and mysterious craters create microworlds all their own. But above all danger lives here in the tall grass in the form of fierce wild creatures; elegant serpents that swim through the land like whales through the ocean and fierce packs of glassbeaks that hunt in packs which are only kept at bay by fires. Traverse it carefully, with a guide if possible, for those that venture alone endanger themselves in countless ways.

Retaliation

Postby Razkar on December 30th, 2012, 5:05 am

Image
36th Day of Winter, 512AV

Oaken blades arced through air that was more ice than immaterial, and Razkar was enjoying himself.

The Akalak opposite him blocked his strike and knocked the training gladius to one side, following it up with a backhand from his wooden lakan. Razkar swayed and stepped back, blow missing him, the the bigger blue-skin kept coming forwards, foot lashing out-

-only for Razkar to twist away to his side, the boot missing him entirely-

-leaving him open to the slash Razkar put across his chest.

The Akalak grunted and stepped back, nodding slowly. They'd been at it for nearly an hour now, and in that hour, Razkar's right hand had barely moved from its place, gripping the top of his breeches at the small of his back. The Akalak had been insistent about that when they'd started sparring. Razkar had asked for his help with dual wielding, but after a few chimes, Vikuris had shaken his head sharply.

"Not good enough with your left yet," he'd said simply, his twin/friend/partner/lover/Razkar never found out which Erakmus watching quietly from outside their tent, "We work on that first, then we use both."

Razkar had swallowed his pride and taken the advice, denying himself his right arm and concentrating solely on his left. Bruises and welts were rising on his body now, the first half an hour really hammering home just how little he used his weaker hand. But now, he was sliding around easily with the practice blade, and won his first real victory.

"Better." Vikuris said simply, then drew his second wooden lakan, "Ready for both hands now?"

Razkar smiled grimly and flexed his stiff, ill-used right hand a few times, getting the blood and feeling flowing again. Once it was part of him again, he filled it with his wooden ax and readied himself.

A sharp nod, and the Akalak flew at him.

Rattling Chains marched on around them, as it had been doing for days, weeks and years before. Sellswords were milling around, maintaining their weapons, sparring, cooking, eating, doing a hundred menial tasks a camp their size required. A platoon of slaves was jogging around the edge of the clearing, getting their weekly dose of exercise on Provedan's orders. Never would he hear it said that his livestock wasn't fit enough.

But Razkar could sense, could feel the undercurrent of tension roiling beneath the sprawling encampment. There were more guards on the perimeter, more archers in the trees. Visitors (rare) and deliveries of supplies (less rare) were even more thoroughly screened, and Provedan was rarely seen above ground. Razkar knew why.

His feud with Balor Takarian was still raging. The Myrian had secretly enjoyed the unseen duality of the situation: beneath the civilized and gleaming facade of Riverfall, what basically amounted to a gang war was being waged, and already many had died. It was an unusual thing for Razkar, to be involved in the underworld. Taloba didn't really have one. There was a slight black market, but punishments were so severe and discovery so certain that many didn't even bother breaking the rules of Myri.

But it still amused him. Even the haughty Akalaks had to deal with scum that wouldn't be out of place in... what was that place called? Sunberth?

He had heard a lot about Sunberth. He'd liked most of it.

The air whistled and he blocked a blow from the Akalak with his gladius, sliding it away and striking with his hand ax, but that was stopped, too, so he thrust with his gladius, and that was blocked, and, and, and, followed by, followed by, followed by...

The Burned Man watched the Akalak and Myrian dance around each other, blows and parries being exchanged and avenged with every passing chime. The Myrian was learning, and fast, but Vikuris was by far the better fighter with two weapons. He was merely going easy on the shorter, more inexperienced Razkar. He'd wanted to train, after all; not just get the shit knocked out of him.

Razkar caught a stinging blow on his arm and nearly dropped his gladius. Vikuris darted forwards and gave him a moment to compose himself and block his follow up strike.

"Focus!" He snarled, wooden lakan twirling and lashing out at Razkar over and over. "Me and my weapons! That's your entire world!"

Razkar gritted his teeth and growled, twisting his body to one side and laying a flat horizontal strike against Vikuris' side. The Akalak grunted and before he could reply to his Razkar's foot jerked out and caught him under the kneecap, making him wobble-

-as the Myrian thrust forwards with his left hand, aiming for his sternum-

-only for Vikuris to knock it away, half-spin around to Razkar's right-

-ending up with his right hand lakan poised an inch from his neck, and his left the same distance from his ribcage.

"Never over-reach." He said simply as Razkar cursed himself lowly and savagely in his own tongue. "Over-reach, over-exposed, then over-dead."

"Yeah, I got it."

Razkar straightened up and without any pause the Akalak held out his hand. The Myrian dropped five gold mizas into it, the agreed amount for his training this morning. He'd needed a good sparring partner, and didn't want to leave Rattling Chains for even a day.

Something was coming. Some break to the tedium, so action, some retaliation.

Haev Provedan had been betrayed. Over two dozen men were dead, but they were merely the pawns of betrayal, not the hand that motivated and turned them. That individual was safely holed up in oh-so-civilized Riverfall, where Provedan was unable to reach him, at least not with his usual forces.

But a reply was coming, Razkar knew that much. It had to.

"Getting better." The Burned Man said as Razkar sat down outside his tent. Th two of them had been talking more and more recently. Not as friends, really, but fellow sellswords who were simply bored and had little else to do. "Still a little cocky, though."

"You want spar later?"

"You couldn't afford me."

Razkar's laugh was harsh and dry as a wolf's bark, but it was a laugh none the less. He sat and gulped down some water, stretching his sore back. The arrow wound the Burned Man had stitched up weeks before still ached sometimes, but he was mostly over it. After a few chimes catching his breath, he'd practice his brawling. His punch bag was hanging from a tree, swaying gently in the frigid wind. More than once he'd had to knock icicles off the bottom.

But that was not to be. In a blur of hooves and steam and flying cloth and mud, a horseman tore from the woods surrounding the camp, making a beeline for the mine entrance. The dozen or so guards clustered around it were on their feet and had their weapons leveled by the time the rider leapt off the horse, beast still sliding to a stop.

Razkar watched calmly. Not an assassin, far from it. No paid killer would be insane enough to ride up and slay Provedan like some knight from the stories. He'd be dead before he even got close. Now the rider was gesticulating wildly, trying to impress something apparently very urgent on men who were, by nature and assignment, very hard to convince.

One of them vanished into the mine. He returned a chime later, with Provedan and Tortuga in tow.

"Could be something here..."

Razkar nodded slowly at the Burned Man's words, but did not avert his eyes. Words were exchanged, quickly, rapidly, breathlessly. The rider gulped down a skin of water and almost vomited his words up, sweat on his face. Provedan listened intently, hands behind his back and clasped as usual, eyes still as stone. Finally he nodded a few times and turned to Tortuga. He spoke half a sentence, then vanished back to his lair.

Tortuga looked around, saw Razkar, the Burned Man and the Akalaks watching like curious dogs... and crooked his finger at them.

The Myrian grinned, sharpened teeth shining in the freezing sunlight.

"About petching time..."

RecieptTraining: 5gm.00sm.00cm
Image
Last edited by Razkar on January 9th, 2013, 6:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Image
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)

Retaliation

Postby Razkar on December 31st, 2012, 12:46 am

Image
Tortuga gathered a dozen men around him, and Razkar recognized most of them. A couple of Drykas, outcasts that he'd seen hit bullseyes from fifty yards away. The Akalaks, Vikuris and Erakmus. The Burned Man and a clutch of other humans armed with everything from maces to daggers to halberds. They all clustered around their bearded commander as he drew his map into the dirt with a stick.

"This-" he pointed to a rough square "-is Riverfall."

He drew another line to the left of the square and named it the sea, then a circle a few feet to the north-east of "Riverfall".

"This is the Coalinga mines. You all know it?" Roughly half did, so he had to explain. "Gem mines. Very profitable, but very discreet sort of place. Lot of money made there, so very well-protected."

"We gonna hit it?"

Tortuga caught the human that asked that with a piercing stare, voice dripping scorn.

"We're sellswords, boy, not the petching Sylirian Knights! We'd get wiped out before we even got to the stones. No, we're not gonna raid it. We're gonna snatch someone that's visiting."

Razkar frowned minutely at the phrasing. Learning as he was regarding the Common tongue, "snatching" sounded a lot different to "kill". He didn't think it was a euphemism for it, either.

"Mean kidnap?"

"Whatever you wanna call it." Tortuga said with a shrug, tracing a line from "Riverfall" to the "mines". "We got word that there's a human there. Arrived less than a bell ago. He's... a target. You don't need to know why, just that the boss wants him. Here and alive."

There's no questions from the faces surrounding him. Most of them can work out who the man is: someone close to Takarian. An adviser, maybe? A financier? Middleman? Whatever he is, he's a fountain of information and Provedan wants to plumb it until he's a dry husk.

Razkar thinks that analogy will actually turn out to be pretty accurate.

The Burned Man finally speaks: "Protection?"

"Not as heavy as you'd think, but Akalaks." Vikuris and Erakmus stiffen for a moment, and Tortuga looks over to them. "Don't want to go, then don't. But don't expect pay if you're not going to shed blood."

"They could be kin to us."

Tortuga snorts, eyes glittering with amusement. "You think if you had kin near Takarian, the boss wouldn't have found out about it by now? Don't underestimate what that man knows, friend. Far as I know, his bodyguards are no-one linked to you by blood." He straightened up, eyes clod now, not amused. "And like I say, you don't have to go, but if you don't, y'don't get paid."

It took only a few moments and a single, long glance for them to decide. Their yellow eyes met and they both nodded.

"We'll go."

"Good. They'll be moving fast, so you two-" he pointed to the Drykas "-take down his horse, and do it fast. Once he falls, his protection will have to stall. We take them out, grab him, and we're gone."

"How many?"

"Our man says eight. All armed, and probably professionals."

There's an uneasy shuffling of feet when that hits the breeze. Not from the Akalaks, of course, but from the rest. Akalaks are, simply put, better than humans as far as combat goes. They're taller, broader, stronger and have better reflexes. More than that, almost all of them are trained in the arts of war since childhood, and they live a very long time. If this nameless human has eight "professionals" protecting him, then he has eight trained, experienced warriors. Nothing less.

"I don't expect everyone to come back." Tortuga says bluntly, looking around the group slowly. "But if we hit them hard and petching nasty, we can take half their number before they even know what's going on. The rest... well... it'll get bloody. But that's how it'll be."

There was a long pause, and Razkar scanned the faces of his "comrades" along with Tortuga. Fear, there. Lots of it. But eventually, resignation and grim determination won out. They were sellswords. They never expected to die in their beds...

And, a cynical voice in his head said, they could just run away if it gets too bad. What's Provedan going to do? Lodge a complaint?

"Where we make ambush?"

Tortuga pointed with his stick to a spot roughly between the city and the mines.

"Right here, in the middle. We do it too close to the city or the mines, and the guards at either will interfere. But in the middle, the grass will give us cover."

"What about civvies?"

Tortuga glanced at the older human sellsword, whose armor showed that he'd once marched with Ravok. Torguta figured that he was a veteran: who else would refer to peasants and travelers as "civvies"?

"Shouldn't be too bad. Not a lot of travelers on that rode, except for buyers and workers, and most of them live outside the mines. There's a mile and a half... maybe two miles, between the mines and the city walls. So we need to be fast. Anyone sees us, they'll rouse the petching militia and then we're in deep shit." He held his stick up and even with that, he looked menacing. "But unless the... civvies attack you, you leave 'em be. Same goes for the guards. We're not at war with Riverfall, got it?"

A chorus of nodding heads, and there was only one question rem-

"How much we getting paid?"

Well, there might have been two, actually. Tortuga named a figure, that applied to each man. Eyebrows shot up and chins were scratched appreciatively. Razkar crushed a smile and marveled. A chime before, these men had fear writ large on their faces. But now? Now they were ready to scale the walls of Riverfall.

And now for the last question.

"When do we go?"

Tortuga tossed the stick to the ground, eyes flickering over Razkar's shoulder. Caracatas was standing in the entrance of the mine, and heads swiveled round to see her. Face flushed and hands still carrying a faint patina of light, she held up a piece of parchment.

"Now."
Image
Image
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)

Retaliation

Postby Razkar on December 31st, 2012, 3:54 am

Image
Tortuga wasn't joking with that last, monosyllabic command. He took the parchment from Caracatas, got his bearings based on her first written instructions, and then started walking. South-east. And didn't bother looking back.

As one group, his dozen sellswords followed him. Razkar stopped by his tent and brought his composite bow, cursing himself for not practicing with it enough. He was barely even a novice, and now he actually needed it. But his ax, gladius and kukri weighed heavy on his belt. His armor reassured him now, more than just protection against the cold.

He had something to focus on, too. A distant set of targets, oblivious and unawares. But true soldiers. Tested warriors.

Razkar's heart beat faster at the very prospect. Sparring against stronger opponents was one thing; fighting for your life against an enemy that truly could kill you, that was...

What you were born to do.

They had marched fast through the Sea of Grass. The mines were roughly six miles from where they were, and Tortuga spurred his squad on mercilessly. They twisted and turned through the featureless grasslands, on a whim, it seemed. Once Razkar asked what they were avoiding, and Tortuga bluntly replied, "Pack of glassbeaks."

Razkar's blood ran cold, and Tortuga read his mind.

"Yeah. She can see them in the Webbing. Take us around 'em." He shook his head in wonder, never once slowing his pace. "Bloody boon, is that girl..."

Two bells after they departed, they came upon the road. To Razkar's right was a slowly rising pall of smoke that were the mines. To the left, well... it was impossible to mis Riverfall, rising like the domain of the gods from the cliffs by the sea. Spires and marble and arches and shimmering waterfalls visible even from here. Tortuga didn't bother taking in the view.

"You six, over there," he rasped, pointing to the grass on the other side of the road, "The rest of you with me. When you hear my voice, you two-" he jabbed a finger at the two Drykas "-take the human's horse from under him. The rest of you with bows, go for the Akalaks."

His men made to move and then his voice rasped again, just as urgently.

"Wait! Do any of you have personal effects?" The expression was lost on some of the more... rustic, sellswords. "Letters home, papers, anything that can be used to show people who you are? C'mon, quickly?!"

One of the humans raised his hand slowly, a letter in it.

"Er... from my wife. She's in Kalea, and sent me-"

Tortuga's hand darted out, snatched the paper and pocketed it. The younger human's face twisted in outrage but the bearded sellsword's expression alone stopped him.

"Nothing that can mark you as one of Provedan's men. If you die out here, and the Akalaks investigate, all you are is a bandit that died on a robbery. You get an unmarked grave and the boss, us and Rattling Chains don't get punished for your death. Is that clear?"

Silence, yet again, another hard truth battered into some of the younger mercenaries. Dying was one thing; but dying utterly alone? So that your clan and home and kin wouldn't even know of it? That was...

"Is price we pay." Razkar said simply, and shrugged. "We waste time."

There were no more effects. They split into the two groups, screened by the grass on either side of the road, crouched and with weapons ready in their hands. Razkar counted three men with bows on either side, half their number. That was more reassuring. They could get a storm of arrows in the air before the human's Akalak bodyguards would even get close. That would be better.

He thought that, but his weapons begged to be used in his hands. Ax and gladius, honest, ancient weapons designed to cleave and slash and stab. The best way to kill a man.

Razkar grunted. But not the only way, as he had learned.

As they waited, out of sight and crouched in the frozen dirt, his mind turned to the human. Who was he? Obviously someone very close to Takarian. Anyone less and there would not be this almost desperate haste, this unyielding desire to "snatch" this man and do it fast. What was he doing at the mines? Buying? Selling? Trading? On his bahalf? Takarian's? So many questions, but so-

Horses. Many of them.

Razkar raised his head slightly and saw a clutch of horsemen galloping towards them from the mines. He slid his a knuckleduster onto each hand. Around him, Tortuga and the five other sellswords readied their own weapons. He squinted against the harsh winter sun, tried to make out the riders...

Akalaks. More than half a dozen. Violet and blue and purple skinned, looking huge on their mounts, gleaming chainmail further clashing with their strangely-colored skin. And a human, riding in their midst. Older, stouter, with a rough beard and in fine clothes.

They were galloping, moving fast, but not a hells-for-leather bolt. They wanted to get back to the city, but not exhaust their horses in doing so. Razkar notched an arrow and raised his bow.

Tortuga would not wait until the group passed between them. That would mean firing a broadside of arrows at a galloping target, minimizing their chances of scoring a hit. No, they would fire when they were closer, but not to closer; when they were still almost riding at them, kicking up dust and mud...

"Ready yourselves!"

Tortuga's hissed command sounded clear over the quiet grasslands, but seconds later the battering hooves became louder and louder. Two hundred yards, by Razkar's eye. He aimed at the lead Akalak's horse. As large a target as possible, he told himself wryly, so if and when you do miss it, you'll still hit something.

Erakmus raised his own bow, a full-length long bow nearly as long as Razkar's body. The arrow rested motionless in his grip, chest barely moving as he breathed. Razkar tried to ape him, slowing his breathing, stilling his hands.

A hundred and fifty yards. Now he could make out features on faces, weapons bouncing on belts and on saddles. Lakans, mostly. A few broadswords. He drew back the arrow so the fletching brushed his cheek...

One hundred yards.

One both sides of the road, six men raised bows and took aim. Dashiel Wessler and his bodyguards rode on, the merchant's mind filled with plans for this evening, not the bloodshed he was soon to face. His Akalaks were guarded, wary, but even they were not expecting so brazen an assault.

"Dira guide my hand," Razkar whispered in his mother tongue, tip of his arrow fixed on the heaving chest of the lead Akalak's horse. "And Myri my heart, for today I honor you both..."

Fifty yards, and the hooves became as thunder.

"NOW!"

A roar from the grass, and the air was filled with arrows.

Continued here
Image
Image
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)

Retaliation

Postby Jackalope on January 20th, 2013, 2:40 pm

Image

Character Name

Award
Skill XP Earned Lore Earned
Dual Wielding +3 Combat Advice: Don't Overreach
Observation +2 Getting Used to Your Offhand
Shortbow +1 Firing into a Group


Ledger: -5 GM


Witty Remark Here
Good start to this three parter. I didn't award anything in the weapons themselves because you aren't really improving his skill at them but rather his ability to use them together. If you want to discuss that, please talk to me and we'll see what we can do.

User avatar
Jackalope
Check out that bunny heat
 
Posts: 345
Words: 128580
Joined roleplay: September 27th, 2012, 6:56 pm
Location: DS of Endrykas
Race: Staff account
Scrapbook
Medals: 1
Featured Contributor (1)


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests