Rambling Men [Malkaren]

[Razkar]

68th Day of Winter, 512AV
15th Bell

Razkar did not know it that day, but it would be one of the last times he would hunt around Riverfall. See him, then, as the sun was still high above the endless, roiling, swaying Sea of Grass. The stalks and strands were taller than his head, hiding a myriad of threats, but after almost two seasons, Razkar was becoming that little bit sharper to its dangers with every hunt he engaged upon.

That and he was raised in the jungles of Falyndar. Cyphrus held few horrors for him.

The Myrian was clad in his loincloth, breeches and shirt, weapon harness laid over the last. Gladius and hand ax with gleaming, leather-wrapped bone hilts were at his waist. Curved kukri and matching lakans were at his chest and back, but it was the bow in his steady hands that were his focus today. He was always looking to improve his skills at dealing death, and short of the Kendoka Sasaran and the true blood that he could spill with Haev Provedan's sellswords... this was the best place for it.

Best place to fill your stomach, too. You're running low on pemmican.

He crouched, arrow and bow held in place with one hand as his free one brushed his fingertips against the fresh tracks. Yes... Yes, definitely fresh. The ones that he'd been following, their edges were dulled and marred, age and weather weakening them. But the imprints here were sharp and deep. His prey had passed by recently...

Keen, obsidian eyes noted their number and direction, then he half-stood again, resuming his slow, careful march through the grasslands...

[Malkaren]

The hunt had been going on for hours and yet Malkaren's patience was anything but waning as he kept on his prey's trail as he had since he spotted them. His quarry was a herd of nabato that had been treading carefully through the grasses of the Sea and with good reason as they were the perfect target for predators and hunters alike. At least half of the herd of one dozen was made up of aging bulls and young calves whom both had difficulty traversing the thick grass that they made their way through regularly. It made them easy to follow and track as they migrated sluggishly along, leaving a wide berth in their path and attracting all kind of attention with many large snakes slithering nearby, eyeing up the young that would be easy enough to swallow. The only thing that kept them at bay was the adults that could easily trample them underfoot before they could strike and escape with their meal. Mal had his own reason for staying his blade. He'd been hunting long enough to know that one needs to wait for the perfect moment to strike. He could down one, maybe two if he was quick but he knew that if the right chance showed itself he could do so much more. His hand was constantly on the hilt of his blade that he kept placed nicely in it's new scabbard, his fingers tightening when he saw any of the bovine so much as sneeze. He had to scare off a few ornery beasts as he circled around them, afraid they would blow his cover if they tried to make a move themselves. Time kept dragging on and on and on until they finally set themselves up for the perfect ambush. The entire herd had stopped to give the young and old time to rest, leaving most of them sitting down on their legs. The time it'd take the tired beasts to stand was more than enough for a few crippling strikes that would leave many open for execution afterwards. Crouched down several yards from the group, Mal began making plans in his head to swoop in and make it a bloodbath. All the practice he'd had taking down these beasts made him feel like an artist with a canvas of blood and a brush of steel. Perhaps an overly glamours way to look at a profession where all one did was kill animals dumber than he was but he felt it was important to enjoy what he did. The thrill of the hunt gave him a medium to express his combat skills fully without needing to take sentient life and helping others in the process. It had even gotten him a few small benefits when he finally brought in the kill. A few extra mizas more than the beast's worth or the promise of the first few steaks cut being sent home free of charge. Perhaps one of the few things that Mal fully backed when it came to his people's culture was the freedom to do what you wanted. Admittedly when a child chose their profession after their first Rite they were stuck with it for the rest of their lives but at least it was something resembling freedom in such a strict community. Mal had slowly begun to inch towards the herd with his blade partially drawn when his ears picked up the lightest of rustling nearby. His free hand went to his belt as he grabbed one of his knives firmly by the hilt and turned his torso to toss it in the direction of the noise. The blade sailed through the air smoothly towards where he thought the mark he was aiming for was but he had released the blade too late and his overall lack of experience with what was still a new weapon to him made it drift to the side and fall short, the gleaming steel still visible with the tip dug into the ground. He hoped it was enough to scare off any surprised animal that had snuck nearby but he didn't hear the sound of the rustling grass as a beast beat a hasty retreat. This brought up immediate concern as his other hand quickly drew the tulwar all the way. Something smarter of braver was out in the grass with him and that thought alone was disheartening. Whether his failed preemptive strike had alerted them or not was unknown but he knew that it was safer to be cautious at this point. Moving towards where he had heard the noise he pushed through the grass, using the flat of his blade to move the high stalks of grass to the side as he went to retrieve his weapon.

[Razkar]

The noise was deep and bass and soulful. Razkar's ears pricked at it, mind trying to identify the deep, gentle roar. It was definitely bovine, not feline or bird or reptile. It reminded him vaguely of a Tskanna. Then he listened closer, feet stilled, opening his mouth to pop his jaw, hearing sharpening by just a fraction thanks to the realignment...

Hooves. Hooves and the crashing of horns.

The Myrian smiled thinly and shook his head minutely. The males were starting young this year, whatever they were. Judging by the sound of it, they were large, so even one would provide him with enough steaks and smoked rations for weeks. Which was as good as he could hope for: he hated to waste anything when he took a life on a hunt, but the fact was all he really needed was food.

Haev Provedan kept him in blood and scalps and mizas. He had little need for anything else.

So, wildebeest, or cows, or... whatever. Meat on hooves, basically. It sounded like a herd and Razkar started to move again, drawing back his bow at a crouch. Shouldn't be too hard to get close, the grass wold give him plenty of cover. Just get to the side, find a decent shooting position and take your pick.

His feet brushed against a thick stalk of dried grass, making it crackle and-

Thunk!

Something silver flashed from the grass and knifed into the ground. Something with a handle, and Razkar realized at a glance that was exactly what it was: a knife. Tempered and thin, with a wide head and a thin handle, a knife designed for throwing. The Myrian froze, stock still, mind whirring.

It had not come from the herd. Judging by the angle it landed at... it had been thrown from outside the small clearing that had been stomped by the mass of hooves and bodies. A fellow hunter, perhaps?

Then why throw it at you?

Without anything obvious being said or done, Razkar's entire being seemed to shift and change. This was no longer a hunt for food; it was stalking a potential assassin. He did not allow his mind to conjure fantastical possibilities of who could be out there. All that mattered was finding this person, and getting his answers.

Faint movement in the grass from the direction the blade had been thrown. The soft shifting of dirt as feet were planted. The familiar trembling of stalks as a body moved between them.

Moving as quietly as he could, feet avoiding the dry grass and staying to the mud where noise would be dulled, Razkar shifted to his side, keeping low, bow still taut in his arms. He kept moving until he was to the left of the throw knife, still impaling the freezing earth. When his unknown assailant emerged to claim it, he would appear from that side.

He waited. Such a chore, to wait, but patience was as necessary for a sellsword as for a hunter. He kept his bow up, eyes clear, waiting, watching...

A tall, blue-skinned Akalak appeared from the grass, barely disturbing any stalks and moving with barely a sound. Razkar still had difficulty discerning the age of that race, but this one radiated with youth. His movements, his face, his manner... they all reeked of the confidence that fewer years gave a person. Throwing knives festooned his chest, along with a long sword, and he moved closer to his knife.

Watchful, flinty grey eyes, searching-

The Akalak froze when he heard the faint sound of Razkar's bowstring tightening to his left as the Myrian aimed dead at his side, only two strong fingers holding back the arrow. He was barely fifteen feet away, and at that range the composite bow would bury the arrow clean through his torso.

"Do. Not. Move."

He accentuated every syllable with exquisite care, just to make sure he was understood. He rose slowly from his position behind the screen of grass, never taking his eyes or aim from the frozen figure. Razkar approached slowly, feet moving carefully so not to shudder or jar the arrow too much. But already his arms were starting to ache from holding the string so taut, and he needed answers quickly before they failed.

Which was not entirely a bad thing. He preferred killing with his blades, anyway.

"Why you throw knife at me?"

[Malkaren]

After a painfully slow march through the grass, a heavy sweat began forming on his brow despite the rigid cold. The tension was thick as he expected an attack to come out of the blue any minute in an attempt to take his life. He had heard stories of people who were either strong or foolish enough to wander the Sea in search of people to rob and kill on their way to and from Riverfall. Less credible tales told of the spirits of the tragic and vengeful who wished nothing more than the death of the living. Despite his best efforts the two ideas continued to pound against his brain in the dead silence. Neither of them were very favorable to his luck and he didn't like the idea of dying out in the wilds. He'd had enough of that for one lifetime. After a short eternity of walking with sword in hand he found the blade sticking out of the ground, intact and untouched. If he was as close to hitting his mark as he thought then his attacker either didn't notice the relatively silent blade or had left it there on purpose. He checked over his shoulders, trying to spot a face or limb in the brush as well as keeping track of the still resting herd before he looked back to the weapon and bent down to pick it up. His hand was no more than two inches away from the knife's hilt when a familiar noise met his ears and made him stop dead in his tracks. It was the sound of a bow being drawn, the same sound he'd heard a thousand times over on hunting trips with master. It was the sound that came just before the whirring of an arrowhead right before it dug into a vital organ or artery. There was a tense pause where he could have sworn his heart skipped a beat before he heard a second noise and felt some small relief at hearing words instead of the also familiar whoosh. Malkaren only held the pose for a few moment and despite the strangers warning he stood back up, moving as slow as possible as he lifted his free hand up in surrender, keeping his sword at his side until his back was straightened. He then slid it just as slowly towards his belt, sliding it carefully into the scabbard before releasing the hilt and putting the other hand up. The fact he didn't lay dead on the ground must have meant the stranger didn't see his actions as dangerous. His assailant spoke again, demanding to know why he struck out unprovoked which he was about to answer immediately before something struck him about the voice. It's deep tone signified it was a man and the voice itself was one he'd never heard of but the way he had spoken was hauntingly familiar. Somewhat rough Common with a hint of a familiar accent mixed into it. There was no doubting it, his attacker was Myrian or at the very least spoke their language. Armed with this knowledge, he spoke in a low voice that he hoped he could hear and the nabato nearby couldn't. "The Sea is vast in size and filled with beasts. Finding another hunter by mere chance is rare so I naturally mistook you for a beast." He did his best to stay perfectly still as his ears searched for any more noises in the direction he'd heard the bow string twang as he knew something as simple as turning his head might prompt an attack so spotting the man was out of the question. "I apologize if I seemed to be attacking you. Now if that's enough words of regret to sate you, I have a proposition we can both benefit from."

[Razkar]

"The Sea is vast in size and filled with beasts. Finding another hunter by mere chance is rare so I naturally mistook you for a beast."

Another hunter. That had been the Akalak's words. Razkar watched him pick up the knife with incredible slowness, and holster it... then move his hand away from it. He didn't think he'd be so stupid to try and have another crack at him, but the young do many stupid things.

Says who, old man? How long ago was it since you were as full of piss and shyke as this young one?

Then he frowned and took in the Akalak's clothes and gear. Another hunter. Really? But without a bow? Or spear? Or even a blowpipe? He was hunting animals with thick skin and keen senses... with throwing knives? The Myrian's face clouded, sensing a lie but still unsure of it, and he started moving slowly to his right, circling behind the still-motionless Akalak and listening intently.

"I apologize if I seemed to be attacking you. Now if that's enough words of regret to sate you, I have a proposition we can both benefit from."

Razkar chuckled softly at the brazen words birthing the second sentence. Fine, cocky words for a young one, especially with a trained soldier aiming an arrow at his back. But he still lowered his bow, very slowly, though he knew the boy's keen Akalak hearing would probably hear the easing of the bowstring.

As he lowered it, he held the bow and arrow with his left hand, palm keeping the arrow in place, sticking through his fingers as he held onto the meat of the bow... and let his right hand grip the hilt of his gladius.

Six feet, he silently calculated. With his weight already forward and knees bent, he could over that distance and sweep two feet of sharpened steel out of its sheath and slash it around in a diagonal blow within the space of a broken heartbeat.

If he was given reason to. Myri was his Goddess and Queen, but that of Victory and War, not simple, petty murder. So he waited, relaxing just a fraction as he stared at the young Akalak's broad blue back.

"What is proposition?"

The Akalak began to speak again... and Razkar thought he should have told him he wanted to actually know what the word proposition meant, since his Common was improving but not improved, if you catch my meaning.

But the boy did have something interesting to say.

[Malkaren]

Malkaren's entire body was tensed as he listened to every little sound that betrayed the human, his footfalls and bow tensing painting an excellent picture of where he was despite still not seeing him. The stranger made sure to keep it that way as he stayed in his blind spot and stopped directly behind him. He had a perfect chance to aim at the tender back of the akalak's neck or any of his vital organs and hit them if he was as good as he subtly threatened to be. However it seemed fortune was on his side for his words kept the Myrian interested enough to not drop him on the spot. Hoping to get on his good side as well as test his own luck, he bent one elbow down to point a finger in the direction of the herd they were both tracking. "It's a big herd. Chances are that no matter what angle we attacked from, a single hunter would only be able to get three as most before they got out of assured kill range." He pulled his hand up quickly, rolling his shoulder slowly as he continued, "Even with that bow I doubt you could land a good shot when all they're showing is their rumps as they run off. But if we work together we can take down most of them and eat like kings. Make a bit of profit off the pelts if that's something that pleases you. I could even point you to a few good buyers in Riverfall." As he fell silent again and heard his own words echo in his ears he could pick apart it's flaws in seconds. He regretted bringing up the idea of profit as it brought up the possibility that the stranger would strike him down and take all the goods for himself after they were done helping each other. An even worse idea was that he would think that was what he was after, putting him on edge and making him strike out at anything. Besides gain he'd given him no real reason to trust him other than borderline bribing and he highly doubted such a thing would work on a true Myrian. Myrian. An idea struck him like a bolt of lighting. Although he had heard the bow string loosen the warrior could easily ready his shot again or even attack him with another weapon he'd yet to see or hear so he played his cards very playfully. "I'm going to pull something out and put it down," he announced slowly and carefully to make sure he understood before his right hand reached down to his belt, messing with a buckle on his hip to loosen an worn curved leather scabbard for a for tense moment before it finally released. He caught it quickly and help it in the air to show him it was still sheathed before he explained himself. "This is my lakan. My people consider it sacred, as much a part of us as our arms or legs. I had to make this one almost a year ago after I gave my first one to a woman who saved my life. A Myrian healer whom I still owe a great debt to." He tossed the weapon aside, aiming for a patch of ground that was more dirt and grass to avoid noise before quickly pulling his hand back up again. "I swear on the honor I hold to that debt that I have no reason to hurt you nor any of your people unless is absolutely must."

[Razkar]

"It's a big herd. Chances are that no matter what angle we attacked from, a single hunter would only be able to get three as most before they got out of assured kill range. Even with that bow I doubt you could land a good shot when all they're showing is their rumps as they run off. But if we work together we can take down most of them and eat like kings. Make a bit of profit off the pelts if that's something that pleases you. I could even point you to a few good buyers in Riverfall."

Razkar's expression changed not one iota, until he heard the word "profit". Then he lips curled up into a disdainful grimace. He was being bribed; that was what it boiled down to. In truth, Razkar was not so much the savage or idealist (whatever suits you) that he had no purpose or desire for coin, but he was not so lustful for mizas that he was willing to slaughter harmless animals for it.

Which was how he saw them. Harmless, neutral... and not challenging. They were food, perhaps skins if he had the inclination. But the Akalak kept talking, and what followed next piqued his interest much more.

"I'm going to pull something out and put it down."

The Akalak heard a hiss of sharpened metal freed from a leather scabbard, then the rustling of shifting feet through frozen grass. Razkar stepped forward a few paces, gladius in his left hand, bow and arrow still clutched in his right. Cold, hard eyes watched the Akalak do just as he'd said, hand moving slow... and coming up with a familiar blade.

"This is my lakan. My people consider it sacred, as much a part of us as our arms or legs. I had to make this one almost a year ago after I gave my first one to a woman who saved my life. A Myrian healer whom I still owe a great debt to."

Razkar blinked. Three times, very quickly. It was the closest to surprise that he would betray in this tense moment. A Myrian healer? Was she in Riverfall? He had not seen any of his fellow race in this strange city. Would this boy know how to find them? If this Akalak, whomever he was, spoke the truth, then he surely did had some sense of honor. That was useful... but currently unverified.

The curved, ornate dagger was tossed to one side and Razkar's eyes flickered to track its fall, then snapped back to the Akalak. It certainly looked like a lakan. The two he had strapped to his back were identical to it.

"I swear on the honor I hold to that debt that I have no reason to hurt you nor any of your people unless is absolutely must."

Razkar cocked a wry eyebrow. He had heard oaths many times before, but knew that pretty words did not an honorable man make. Still... still... he decided to take the chance. This boy did not have the look or an assassin or sellsword, but how could one tell with an Akalak? But he had gauged enough of him to know that if worse did come to worse... he could take him.

Razkar shrugged and sheathed his weapon, walking around him in a closer but still wary circle, until he stood before the Akalak. On the way, he stooped briefly to pick up the fallen lakan.

The Myrian studied the blade carefully as he let Malkaren get his first full view of him, turning the blade over in his hand. Let him see the leather breeches and jacket that covered dark, tattoo-covered skin, scarred a dozen times over by scraps and fights across two continents. The piercing black "eye" painted onto his forehead and the polished bone piercings adorning his face. Hair high and tight into a topknot, and a gladius, ax and kukri strapped to his waist and chest.

Calculating obsidian eyes flashed up at the Akalak, and extended the lakan back to its owner.

"This is very good work." He spoke slowly, sounding out and choosing each word carefully, wanting to practice his Common as much as get his point across. "But I not need money for dead animal. I here for food. For meat. But since you keep word to Child of Myri-" here he used his mother tongue to refer to his people "-I will help you."

The blade was returned but Razkar put up a warning finger, suddenly serious... but for a different reason.

"But what we kill, we use. Not just for trophy, or head, or because thing is there. That is not good."

That said, Razkar finally drew himself up and looked the Akalak square in the eye. He realized that he was short for an Akalak, but still topped him by a good few inches and had that familiar flawless physique of the all-male warrior race. He kept his hand extended.

"I am Razkar of the Shorn Skulls."

[Malkaren]

There was a moment of panic as the sound of approaching feet and the drawing of a blade came up behind him. Whether the stranger meant to kill him before he could even draw the lakan or if he was simply getting into blade's reach was unknown but thankfully he stopped and listened to what he had to say before doing any harm. The hesitation he gave made it obvious that Malkaren's hunch on his origins was most likely correct. At the very least he seemed to be an honorable enough man or at the very least curious if he bothered to keep him alive. Seconds ticked by before the triumphant sound of a sword slinking back into it's sheathe met his ears. Putting down his tiring arms slowly, he kept staring ahead to wait for the mysterious man to step forward. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the man standing over his abandoned weapon, immediately identifying him as one of the Myrian. His skin was the similar shade the people were known for and his attire was similar to the many warriors he'd seen in Riverfall. However this man looked almost nothing like the healer he remembered fondly or even most of the others he'd met. As he picked up the blade and stepped into view he could see way he looked and how he carried himself. Even to the well trained and hardened akalak it was obvious this wasn't a man to be trifled with. A lesser man would be quick to loos their nerve in his presence with dark ink tattoos covering much of his visible skin on top of well toned muscles. The attire he wore was modest for being out hunting in a place as dangerous as the Seas with little in the way of protection against the cold otherwise the beasts though what space on his clothes he did have held weapons of all kinds, all nasty and sharp. Even his eyes looked off putting and dark, especially with the memory of Min's warm brown ones fresh in his mind. The man wandered over to Malkaren and handed him his lakan back with a few rough but understandable words of Common, the statement itself being quite a surprise as it was a compliment. The hunter simply nodded in response and took his weapon back quickly to reattach it to his belt again. He looked down so he could see what he was doing as the Myrian continued to speak, feeling that it was unlikely that the man would strike at this point which made keeping an eye on him unnecessary. Despite speaking something in what he could only guess was the man's native tongue everything else was perfectly understood: his former attacker was now his ally with the common goal of catching their prey. Right as he latched the sheathe back onto the belt the akalak pulled his head up at the sight of a quick movement in the corner of his eye. The man had put up a warning finger just before he spoke and warned him that nothing they caught would be killed for sport. Malkaren nodded again and spoke for the first time since their agreement. "Nothing will be wasted. If we kill even more than we plan on needing then I'll haul it to Riverfall on my back and make sure every piece is put to use. You have my word." The man held his hand out and introduced himself as Razkar. Despite the trust that the two were showing each other the akalak did take a moment to look down at the man's hand and check for anything resembling a trap or trick before holding his own out for the two to meet before shaking it firmly. "I am Malkaren. It is good to meet you."

[Razkar]

Razkar's dark eyes glinted oddly for a moment when he realized the young Akalak was trying to catch him in a trick, or a feint, perhaps. Some sense to him, then, he decided. To trust without reason is to die in this world. But finally he grasped the hand offered and there was that obligatory tightening of hands that all young men did when they first met, gauging the strength of the other, mostly on the Akalak's part.

Razkar merely gripped and then loosened. He didn't need to give the impression that he was strong. He knew he was.

"I am Malkaren. It is good to meet you."

Again with that strange glint as Razkar wondered if it truly was "good" to meet one looking such as him on the desolate Sea of Grass. But he put such thoughts to one side and kept his eye on the hunt. That was what they were both out there for, after all.

"Now that is good," he said airily, taking his bow back up and straightening the arrow in place, "we can get back to thing we were doing."

He gestured with his hand held like a blade, gesturing to where the bleating and hoarse roaring was coming from. Razkar had already cast his eyes over the Akalak's weapons, appraising them as any trained fighter would. Short range, mostly. Even the throwing knives weren't much good for anything more than ten feet away.

"I go around herd." He said, making a fist with his left hand and then moving his right hand around it to better illustrate. "Until we opposite each other. When I am ready, you will see this..."

He drew his kukri a few inches from its chest sheath, letting the sun catch it in a silvery slither. The Akalak would surely see that clear enough.

"And then I will start shoot arrow. Kill one, maybe two, but drive rest... towards you. Do what you can with... those." Razkar tried and failed to keep the vague note of distaste out of his voice. Throwing knives on a hunt? Good Goddess-Queen... "And we see what we done at end of killing."

Razkar stopped and realized with something close to embarrassment that he had just laid out an entire plan without even consulting the Akalak. He blinked, trying to hide the acute feeling off his features. So instead he just cleared his throat and scratched under his chin.

"Unless you have a better plan, yes?"

[Malkaren]

The man barely touched hands with him before letting go and diving into the explanation for the plan he had in mind, making Malkaren raise an in inquisitive brow. The man spoke quickly with many gestures and movements to get his point across despite the plan being as simple as they come: scare the prey into a very simple trap. Of course this did lead to the small problem of a herd of large bovine stampeding in the hunter's direction driven on blind fear and pain if the Myrian's aim was off. Not a prospect that would encourage the other man but to the sharp and determined mind of the hunter, it was just a smart set up that would only fail if he did. There was just a single moment that bugged Malkaren perhaps more so than having been held at arrow point as the stranger made a quick note of disdain towards his weapons. While no direct insult towards his skills, the hunter felt it was quite the biting remark to belittle his arsenal. His blades had served him well for many years, each bagging a good sized with his wits and a good strike alone. Even his newest tools were being put to good use as he found a well aimed throw could cripple a beast before he came in for the killing blow. He didn't show much of a reaction on the surface, simply tightening his jaw for a moment or two before listening to him finish what he had to say. Just after unveiling his plan, Razkar proved himself to be a man of surprises. After an awkward gesture and noise that Malkaren was familiar with doing himself he brought up the question if he had any input. In all honesty the akalak had expected the warrior to care little for his opinion and, admittedly, it was an odd comfort to see the tension he held on the surface break to reveal something a little more human. "I couldn't have put it in better words myself," he said with a quick shrug, pausing for a moment before lifting up a finger to get the man's attention. "But one rule. No aiming for the young. It's a waste of an arrow to take away a life still filled with potential." He turned his head to get a good look at the herd that was still visible in the grasses and quickly spotted a black haired nabato with it's gut protruding near the ground even as it stood there. "Aim for that," he said, pointing to make his point clear. "At least wound it. That bull has plenty of meat and fat. He's just slowing down the rest." His head snapped back towards his partner as he asked, "Understood?"