Flashback To Catch a Thief (Razkar)

[Turrin]

Time stamp: 1st of Summer, 503AV Location: The Jungle Wilds Who: Razkar Noon Bell “Marak, I know you are a capable warrior and hunter of our clan, but this one artifact symbolizing everything clan was, is, and what will be, so why in Myri blessed name do you want your son to come with you. If it were me, I would bring a Fang or War Party and demand those filthy skin peelers stand aside while I get back what is mine!” Still kneeling in respect of his Grandmother and matriarch of Twisted Vine Clan, Turrin looked down in the ground in silence as his father tried to confine his Grandmother to send him with on the hunt. The thirteen year old knew his Grandmother didn't like him or his sister because their mother was a barbarian, but the clan was in a state of crisis ever since the Dhani general skull was stolen last night. It was stolen by a old friend of Tulula's mother a myrian woman with Dhani blood named Cira of the Lost Grove. Everyone knew the Cira was a capable warrior in her clan, but Tulula's mother and her were friends from their days in the Queen's army, so the bonds of friendship run deep between them until last night. Tulula's mother Veera wanted to accompany brother herself to get justice from her former friend, but Grandmother Narla of the Twisted Vine told her straight out, no since she was the next ruler of the clan being the only daughter in a family of four boys. Turrin looked up slightly when his father spoke to his mother, “Mother, I know your angry since it was a guest own that stole our skull, but you need to be aware that if you lead a Fang or a War Party to the Shorn Skulls land in search of the thief. You will not only make the clan look bad in the eyes of the other clans, but you risk the wraith of Myri down upon us too.” Suddenly, Turrin jumped to his feet when his Grandmother Narla threw her glass into the wall and yelled at her son, “I will not stand by either and do nothing while the Dhani make a fool of me! Not with the pride of the Twisted Vine Clan at stake!” Turrin could see his grandmother shaking with rage as she gripped the hilt of her bastard sword. The old warrior shook her head and started to laugh out loud, “Fine, I will keep my cool for now, Marak, but if I don't see my clan's skull in my hand in a week. I will march a Fang through the Skin Wearers lands regardless of their objections or concerns. I care little for their traditions when the symbol of our clan is making it's way to Dhani territory as we speak.” Marak looked at his mother and said plainly, “Mother, we were taken by surprise by the treachery of Veera's friend, but we need to ask permission first before leading any search party through another Clan's territory.” Turrin's Grandmother and Clan leader stared at her son for a few chimes and said plainly, “Fine, you get permission first, but I want you to take a Fang with you and sit them on their border. I know that filthy belly walking traitor is working for someone on the Dhani side, so when you get permission, Marak, I want you to march quickly towards Zinrah as fast as you can muster.” Suddenly, his Grandmother's judgmental eyes fell on Turrin and asked his father, “Why are you bringing your son with you?” Turrin could tell his father logic was starting to bore the old crone, so his father made his point quickly, “What I am trying to get at mother, is a father and son wouldn't pose to much of a threat to their clan. Now if I brought a Fang or War party, it might start a feud between our two clans, and we don't need any more enemies than we already have.” Everyone knew Clan Leader Narla was a stubborn and prideful woman who rarely changes her mind for anyone. Also she was know to be a rash woman who would rather solve a conflict with a sharp end of sword than a contract. Throwing her hands up, the old woman said sharply, “Marak, you sound more like your father everyday! Fine take the whelp along with you, but if he dies, I don't want you complaining to me.” Three Bells Later Kneeling in the underbrush with the other ten warriors of Myri, Turrin waited for his father to speak, “Clan Leader Narla has given me permission to lead a Fang to capture the traitor. Now we will be going through Shorn Skulls territory, so my son and I will be heading to speak to the Clan Leader of the Shorn Skulls. Any questions?” One of the young female soldiers stuck up her hands and asked respectfully, “What will happen if we aren't allow through their territory?” Marak stayed silent for a few chimes and said plainly, “My son and I will go find the thief ourselves.” Murmurs went through the Fang as they seemed displeased about being left behind, but Marak said sternly, “This isn't open to discussion! You will follow orders or take up a craft! Do you understand me?” The murmuring from the Twisted Vine warriors went silent. Turrin could tell each one of them didn't want to anger their Fang leader. Marak look at Turrin and ordered in the same tone as his warriors, “Now everyone stay out of sight and wait for me to return. Follow me, Turrin of the Twisted Vine.”

[Razkar]

Two Days Later
14th Bell

Patience. That was the lesson Yurta had hammered into her son throughout the morning. A hunter could be the finest archer with the keenest eyes in the world, but it was all for naught if he had not the self-control to track his prey and prepare his moment.

Which is what the hunting party had been doing for the last few bells. The family of baboons had taken a meandering route through the vines and branches above them, flashes of black fur with scarlet rumps that Razkar had to squint to see... but they were there.

A big male, gnarled and with a broken tooth. A trio of females, his personal harem... and the young ones.

"Try and spare them," Yurta had whispered beforehand, though her whispers always sounded more like distant waves crashing on rock, "No point killing all of them and leaving nothing for next year. Remember, boy; we take what we need from Caiyha, not what we want..."

His mother's words came back to the seventeen (no, sixteen, regardless of how close it might be) year old as he crouched and crept through the half-light of the jungle canopy. The endless thick trestles of vines, leaves and trees forever forced Syna to peek through to the ground, never quite giving it a full-bodies look. Falyndar was bereft of the stripping chill of Fall and Winter, too, when leaves were shorn and trees laid bare, no further bar for Syna's rays. No, this place was of eternal green, and whatever thick tendrils of dazzling light came through were rare... and, in this case, unwanted.

For things large and dangerous and intent slithered in the shadows now. The word itself conjured images of Dhani, the Ancient Enemy, bane of Myri's Children... but it was her blessed people themselves that crept and stalked that day. A half-dozen of them, stripped down to loincloths and weapons, moving from shadow to shadow, shrub to shrub, sometimes crawling, more often crouching...

The baboons cackled and hooted back and forth far above, uncaring of the threat below. What had they to fear from the Naked Apes below, after all? They could climb fast and had claws of metal, true, but nothing close to the speed of they and their kin.

Razkar smiled grimly, young, lean face marred by mud and sweat. Good. Let them think that... until they taste our arrows.

He couldn't see them, but knew they were there. He raised his head just a few inches, seeing naught but fronds of shrubbery, curling lengths of vine that strangled the bottom of trees like thick fingers. Broken shards of Syna illuminated the ground here and there but... no... no sign of life.

But the sounds were different.

Scratchings. Rustlings. Tiny, minute sounds, from all around him... or in front of him... a circle, a noose, invisible but intent, closing... closing-

Then a bird call split the chorus of crickets, cicadas, distant finches and creaking branches. But it was a bird the young male knew was far from here, and from a Myrian throat. A signal! He frowned, trying to remember it. One long... two short... then a staccato...

Ah-ha!

Trap set. Prepare strike.

Slowly, agonizingly so, the Myrian rose from the mud and shadow like a wraith from hell. Above him the baboons resumed their calls and mutterings, Razkar's eyes never leaving them. Seven in total... three young ones, scrambling around the bigger adults. He would try to miss them.

He panted softly around the arrow clutched between his teeth, until one hand reached up to notch it in his shortbow. Nightmare images of his failure from two years ago staggered before his eyes, blinding him-

The deer he'd wounded but not killed. The desperate, grueling pursuit through swamp and mud, until he'd finally put the poor beast down. All because of a missed arrow; a faulty shot. Two years ago and he still felt the sting of his mothers knuckles across his jaw, the withering disdain she'd spoken to him with...

Razkar's jaw tightened as he sighted down the bow.

Not again. Even if I have to climb up there and kill the little petchers with my bare hands.

Shadows lengthened across the silent stretch of tumultuous jungle. Three other bows were raised... others of his clan took aim... drawing back the wet, silent strings with taut, expectant faces... waiting-

For the bird call they knew would follow. One long, one short, and then a cry like a demon-

Attack!

Four arrows flew upwards on the eastern border of the Shorn Skulls' clan lands. Comparative clam was shattered, destroyed by screaming baboons, young ones scattering as wise elders were pierced and fell with lengths of wood taller than their bodies.

Horror and death in the jungle, then a rain of dead or dying primates, falling to the hungry knives of those waiting below.

Razkar allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction. Not joy, or happiness; Yurta had beaten that out of him. Everything that walked or crawled or flew in the jungle was a child of Caiyha, just as every Myrian was a child of Myri. Respect would be shown... but a good shot was a good shot.

He closed on the thrashing baboon he'd hit, arrow shaft breaking at both ends as it flailed madly, only serving to carve into more organs through the ragged hole in its chest-

-before Syna finally died over it, and it stilled, unsure, unknowing-

Then there was Syna. A flash of light. A gleam... as Razkar's gladius slashed down, and the hunt was over.

For now.

[Turrin]

*** Pressed up against the tree, Turrin was wide eyed as he looked into the eyes of his attacker. Feeling the cold sharp steel against his neck, Turrin felt helpless as he stared into the eyes of the snake woman.“You should have never got up, Turrin if you stayed in bed. You wouldn't have to see me like this,” Turrin wanted to yell out to everyone inside his home, but he knew if he did the woman cut his efforts short with the flick of her knife. He just stood there silent as he listened to the snake woman prattle on about his father, “Turrin, you look so much like my Marak. I just wished I could have made her see how much he loved me...” Turrin raised an eyebrow at her, but he still said nothing and thought, “What is she talking about father barely talks to her?” He knew he wasn't in position to do anything. Suddenly, Cira's eyes flashed with anger when she continued, “If it wasn't for that pale skin red headed whore, you and Kaya would be my children, and I would be accepted in your clan! Now I will just be a thief in his heart!” She gave him a sad look and said with frown, “It is time for you to go to sleep my Turrin...” Suddenly, he saw her unsheathe another dagger, lifted it up into the air, and bringing the hilt of dagger down on the side of his head. Everything went black as he slumped to the ground. *** One Day Later Rubbing the bump on the side of his head, Turrin watched his father cut through the thick jungle with a machete. As the boy poked the bump, he clenched his jaw together to fight the pain. Turrin still couldn't believe Cira would this to his clan, but he knew from encounter outside the longhouse that his father had something to do with her theft. Turrin knew she wasn't a full Dhani because she wouldn't be aloud to live to long if she was one of their ancient enemies. No, Cira was a half breed like himself, but everyone in the clan knew she was unfortunate product of rape on the battle field. It was a cruel tale only spoke in whispers throughout the Twisted Vine longhouse, but it still made her hated by her mother and her old clan the Lost Grove. Grandmother Narla wasn't normally a woman with much compassion for a half breed Dhani child. However, after her mother and the Lost Grove clan rejected her and threw her out in the jungle to die. Veera found the half dead girl, she was able to convinced her mother to feed and shelter the castaway. When Turrin was growing up, Cira always acted like a second mother when his parents were away. The Myrian child knew she was basically a servant in her grandmother's longhouse, but she always had a smile when his sister Kaya or him was around. When his mother was around, Turrin noticed the snake woman doted on his father and his children. He often found her staring at his Inarta mother in contempt. The boy didn't understand the snake woman's obsession with his father or hatred for his mother, but he often had to stand by his mother to shield her from the snake woman's hostile stare. When his father stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow, Turrin decided to ask, “Father, what was your relationship to Cira?” As Marak continued clearing a path through the the forest, he looked at his son for a few chimes and said with looking at him, “When I was about your age, Cira promised her heart to me. However, because of Cira's Dhani's blood, I knew my Mother would quickly put a stop to our relationship with the sharp side of sword, so I had to think of some way to save her from my Mothers' hatred of her fathers' people.” Turrin stared at his father in disbelief. How could he love a woman with the ancient enemies blood. In his young mind, he didn't understand his father at all, but Turrin knew Cira was a beautiful woman with her dark skin and long black hair, so he could sort understood why his father might have fallen for the snake woman. Turrin ran a hand through his hair and listened to his father talk about Cira, “As you can tell your Grandmother believes in purity when it comes to the blood of our clan members, so out of love for Cira, I put a end to our teenage love.” Turrin wondered what life would be like if Cira was his mother, and how her Dhani blood would have affected his status in Myrian society. He knew the Dhani, Symenestra, and Chorada were universally hated by the Myrians, so he had no doubt his life would be much harder with Cira blood. Turrin knew first hand how his Grandmother treated his Inarta mother Ceela, and her contempt for her often trickled down to her half breed children too. Turrin's father went silent for about a half a bell. He wondered if he was thinking about Cira, his mother, or both. Turrin tapped his thumb on top of his talon sword hilt as he tried to pass the time. However, in the back of his head a nagging question floated into the back of his mind, and he asked loud enough for his father to hear, “Father, do you know any reason why Cira would do such a thing like stealing from our clan?” Marak said annoyed, “You ask a lot of questions for being hunter, but I will give you a theory.” Marak stopped his slow march, turned around to face his son, and said simply, “Regardless of how much Cira hated her fathers' people. She still had the mind of Dhani. She is a cold calculating woman who thinks through everything before acting, and the woman is beautiful and manipulative.” Marak brought his water skin to his lips and took a drink before saying, “I think she had this heist planned since I rejected her. She was spiteful and piety woman at times. She hated my Mother and knew she was the only reason for us not being together. In the end, I think Cira wanted to embarrass Narla.”

[Razkar]

It was a bloody business, but since when was that ever a distraction or hindrance to Myrians? With stern faces and patient movements the hunting party gutted and skinned the dead monkeys, the wails of the survivors fading in the distant canopy. Razkar wondered idly if they had some concept of revenge-

-then turned back to his work, skinning knife slicing under fur and the membrane of fat under it, parting the whole bloody mess from the even bloodier mangle of fresh muscle and yellowy fat scraps.

"Don't pull too hard, boy," his mother's voice rumbled next to him, tapping his knuckles lightly and drawing his eyes to her own, "Tight enough to let the fur peel off... but not so tight that if you cut too shallow, you'll rip the fur."

"Because we can use them for pelts?"

"Well..." Yurta said judiciously, carving down the stomach of one of the apes, pulling off the skin with years-practiced skill, as if she was taking a coat of a tiny example of Myrian-kind. "... perhaps a child. But waste not, want not. Another rule of the-"

Another call. Sharp, loud and from above; the lookout, always posted in the trees whenever the hunting party stopped for any period of time. Razkar frowned as he heard it, sudden suspicious and urgent movements of his kin telling him his ears and not failed him.

Enemy approaching.

"You remember well your calls, boy?"

Razkar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Gods, how did she do that? Tap into his wavelengths like some kind of mind-reader? He looked over at his dread-locked War Mistress and mother, nodding hesitantly.

"The more I hear them, yes."

"'Repetition is the core of training'."

"From Taloba?"

"Yes," Yurta muttered, and now it was only a whisper, the whole hunting party crouching, eyes furtive and focused, weapons in hand, "Now be quiet, boy."

The boy in question just nodded, and the Shorn Skulls began to spread out, listening... until another bird call sounded out the direction. North. He blinked, thinking... Dhani? No, unlikely. The Ancient Enemy rarely traveled to far from Zinrah. Crossing the lake, or circumventing it, through a dozen clan lands and countless patrols...

Then who? The Twisted Vine? They are the closest... but why would they bother coming among us?

Razkar kept his peace as the filthy, half-naked pack of Myrians began to ooze and slither into ambush positions. The sounds of distant slashing and hacking could already be heard, a blade hammering through the turgid vegetation... but only one. And the voices...

Two? Two travelers, alone, this far from the city? So strange.

More bird calls, some close together, others questioning and answering, shadows and bodies shifting, vanishing, reappearing... until the whole dozen-strong group had disappeared into the shrubs, vines and debris covering the floor... Razkar among them.

A fresh arrow notched, and his eyes on the inscrutable green before him. The rest of the hunting party was spread out in a semi-circle, their unknown "visitors" heading right into the middle of it. Razkar knew the tactic of old: wait until they're within both edges - the "horns" of the trap - then spring it. The only way to escape would be back where they came-

-and Yurta would lead a couple of others to cut that off, too.

He turned his head a touch and saw his cousin Azark give him a firm nod. Goddess, he wished he felt such confidence. Not often had the young male been confronted by enemies, intruders, trespassers, outsiders of all races... and always the question was with him: how will you fare? Will you fight with strength and courage? Or will you fall and fail before Her eyes?

The male took a low, shuddering breath, slow and easy, not wanting the sound of it to alert their prey... which was coming closer, trees and shrubs beginning to shake with the impact of the machete and the greenery falling away with each stroke, curtain collapsing-

-until two males stepped forward. One was older, taller, lined in the face but not an Elder. The other was shorter, smaller... barely into his adolescence, but carrying a determination in his dark face and-

Razkar frowned. Something about him was... off. Something in his features, the curve of his nose and his lips... something...

Mixed.

A final bird call cut off all thoughts and then there was only action-

-splitting cry from the lookout alerting them all-

In a tick Marak and Turrin were nearly surrounded by a dozen swiftly-risen figures, most aiming bows and blowpipes, the rest with spears in their hands. White eyes were stark and burning against mud-splattered skin, frowns crushing them down and there was neither mercy nor understanding in them.

Rustling behind them as they stood frozen, surprised... and Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls, flanked by a couple of her warrior-hunters, appeared from the way they'd come, arms crossed over her chest... each one holding a gladius.

"And what, may I ask, are you doing here... Marak of the Twisted Vine?"

Razkar frowned and wondered how his mother knew this male, but wisely kept his lips pressed together. Questions from him would come later: right now, they came from her, and required answers.

[Turrin]

Never being this far from Twisted Vine territory, Turrin could feel his heart pound in his chest. He wasn't quite sure his reason to fear the Shorn Skulls since they were Myrian like him, but they had a reputation throughout Falyndar for being ruthless to their enemies. He just hoped his father and him weren't considered enemies to the neighboring clan. Tapping the hilt of his talon sword nervously, he looked at the serrated long sword on his father's back, and he started to calm down when he relieved that he was with a experienced warrior. Suddenly, his father spoke up when he cut with his machete large vine out of his path, “Turrin, you have been tapping the sword hilt for the last bell. Remember if you show fear, your dance with Dira will be a short one. Have faith in Myri and let her guide your sword to victory.” Turrin blushed in embarrassment and said softly, “Father, I heard rumors that the Shorn Skulls were cloaks made from the skin of their enemies...is it true?” His father was silent for a moment and said with a laugh, “Yes, they enjoy their trophies and wear them with pride, but the Twisted Vine Clans aren't to different since we collect the heads of our victims. The skin cloaks are a symbol of pride to them like the skulls we collect.” Marak messed up his son's hair and said softly, “Turrin, fear is just a lack of understanding if you understand your enemy or ally than you will not fear them. In the end, you will learn to respect them, and it will save your life. Come, I rather not spend the night outside in another clans territory, or we might be mistaken for thieves.” Another bell has passed as they made there way through the jungle, Turrin noticed his father made no attempt to be stealthy as he made his way through the jungle. He was acting like he wanted to be found by the enemy or Shorn Skull patrol. The boy noticed that the animal calls were becoming more frequent as they made their way farther into jungle. Marak seemed to have a secret smile on his face as the animal calls floated between the trees. His father looked at his son and said with a smile, “You need to control your fear, boy. I have a feeling we might have some company soon.” Turrin nodded to his father and said softly, “How many do you think?” Marak shrugged and said simply, “If they wanted us dead, we would be dining with Dira right now. If I have to guess, maybe a Fang or two.” The boys eyes widen and said loudly, “Do they really need that many warriors to defend their territory?” Hearing a sigh of irritation, Marak said with a shake of his head, “Turrin, the Shorn Skulls are Myrian, so they might be different customs in their clan from us, but like us the Shorn Skulls are united under our Queen, so we have more similarities than differences. Now are you done squawking like a jabber monkey because you are giving me a head ache.” Turrin golden eyes scanned the edge of the jungle, and suddenly, a dozen warriors appeared out of nowhere, and Turrin's inexperience in battle caused him to unsheathe his sword and step in front of his father in a defensive position. Holding the curved sword with both hands, the adolescent watched the older and more experienced warriors with anticipation for battle. The half myrian eyes fell upon a woman with two gladius under her breasts. She seemed unconcerned about him since her eyes were fixed on his father the whole time. On the other hand, Marak seemed unconcerned and his father never unsheathed his weapon to defend him. Marak glanced down at his son and sternly, “Turrin stand down, sheathe your sword, and apologize to Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls!” Turrin was confused on how his father knew her, but he obeyed his orders, sheathed his sword, put his right fist in his left hand, bowed his head, and said loudly for her to hear as he looked at the ground, “My name is Turrin of the Twisted Vine clan, and I humbly ask your forgiveness for rashness. If you do not, I hope my life will balance out the insult. I caused you, Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls.” Turrin knew the Twisted Vine clan valued discipline, ritual, and etiquette throughout the clan. The clan always thought of themselves as protectors of Myri's empire and vanguards for Myri's armies, so the clan often tried to display a sense of discipline on and off the battle field. Still looking at the ground, Marak said out loud to Yurta, “It has been a long time, Yurta. It seemed like the years have been treating you fondly. You look as beautiful and deadly as ever.” Turrin made of face and wondered if his father was flirting with her or giving her a compliment. He knew his father was good with words from his mother, but he figured his father was using a diplomacy trick. Anyways, he heard his father continue, “I need to speak to your clan chief urgently. A relic of importance was stolen from the Twisted Vine clan. I need to get it back otherwise my mother might do something rash.”

[Razkar]

Razkar knew his mother was in no danger: even without a dozen of his kin brandishing weapons at her side, he doubted a pair of mere males would pose much problem to the War Mistress. Such a title was not easily earned, and competition was fierce among their kin... and yet when the young male drew his weapon, Razkar found himself edging closer towards the boy, warning growl on his lips=

“Turrin stand down, sheathe your sword, and apologize to Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls!”

The male flickered a glance to his mother, wondering again how they knew each other. Behind Yurta's stern, stony facade, he saw a glimmer of amusement, even fondness for the older stranger in front of them. That faded, however, when the half-breed did as he was told.

“My name is Turrin of the Twisted Vine clan, and I humbly ask your forgiveness for rashness. If you do not, I hope my life will balance out the insult. I caused you, Yurta, War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls.”

One sharp eyebrow arched and that was all Yurta gave by way of acknowledgment. The hint of a smile played around her lips and she looked past the boy to the father.

"Your son, yes? I heard you had bred with a barbarian, but then again... you never were the most conventional male, Marak."

“It has been a long time, Yurta. It seemed like the years have been treating you fondly. You look as beautiful and deadly as ever.”

A chuckle, so light and airy one would scarce believe it came from Myrian lips, fluttered through the air and she stepped around the still-bowing Turrin, ignoring him in favor of Marak. A smile was now fully formed on her lips, and her fang began to relax. Obviously not an enemy. If that were the case, Razkar realized, they would not have come tromping through the undergrowth like Tskanna.

They wanted to be found. They wanted to talk. Why?

"Oh, come now, Marak," the female said, just as airily, but there was ever the air of latent violence around her, testing all those she faced... and made all the more potent by the four or so inches she topped the Twisted Vine emissary by. "Still trying to mollify me with the same old lines?"

"There was a time you likes my lines."

"And there was a time our people were scattered and Myri was but the dream of her mother's mother," Yurta said without breaking sweat, her son realizing how much she was enjoying her verbal sparring session, "But that is all ancient history now, too."

“I need to speak to your clan chief urgently. A relic of importance was stolen from the Twisted Vine clan. I need to get it back otherwise my mother might do something rash.”

The smile vanished, but the gleam did not. Something "rash"? Such phrasing bordered on a threat to the War Mistress, but much as she would relish the chance to prove her skills... she was more than just a warrior now. She was responsible for the safety of her clan and the stability of this particular region of Myri's lands. So...

"Xola? Rakim?" Two of the hunting party stood to attention as she snapped out their names. "Begin a circuit of the lands. Alert our patrols, by word and calls, that they are to return to the village. Something important is brewing and I want all of us informed to meet it."

Without another word she turned from the two visitors and began a quick march back to their village, knowing her lands well enough she didn't need to check the sun or the sky. Yurta had been hunting and patrolling the tangled undergrowth for five decades; she would know her way back without her eyes.

"Follow me. All of you."

The hunting party followed her without a work or question, falling into a single file as they were trained to do, leaving the two Twisted Vine clansmen to do the same. Razkar stayed behind, bringing up the rear out of... what? Duty? Perhaps... but more likely curiosity. The Twisted Vines were known to the Shorn Skulls, of course; they'd been their neighbors for centuries, one of the few tribes not obliterated by the notoriously violent clan of skinners and reavers before Myri's Forging.

Peacocks. Dilettantes. Sophisticates. These were all the terms used and like most young men educated by his venerable elders, he had believed them. But now two examples of them were before him and... he couldn't see it. He saw two fine, strong examples of Myri's Children, intent and earnest, one old and shrewd enough to speak with a female on equal terms, and the other daft or brave enough to draw a blade on one.

"We will go to the Elders and the Matriarch," he muttered as they started to catch up, "They will hear your tale and decide how we will resolve this..."

[Turrin]

Turrin waited for the great woman's judgment, but it never came since she seemed to interested talking to his father than to acknowledge his existence. It was the story of his life in Tolaba being male and half breed, but he learned to accept it. The half-Myrian decided to take his place besides his father. Turrin looked around and his golden eyes fell upon a young man who was eying the exchange between his father and the War Mistress rather intently. Turrin made a mental note to talk to teenager when things calmed down. Turrin looked up at his father when the Myrian woman got to uncomfortably close to his father, but the look in the woman's eyes. He wasn't in any danger, for now. The half breed could tell by the way they looked at each other that his father and her had history, but he knew it was none of his business. When their verbal sparring match was over, Turrin listened to the War Mistress command her warriors. He was impressed by the strength in her orders. Looking up at his father, he asked softly while the War Mistress was preoccupied, “Father, you seemed to know her? Can I ask you how?” Marak looked down at his son and said with a smirk, “Yurta is a woman most men wouldn't mind knowing better, son. She is a good friend from my days in the army.” Turrin gave his father a confused look when he gave him the runaround with his answer. He shot a look at the War Mistress wondering how close of friends they actually were. Eventually, the War Mistress gave the order to head back to their village to meet with the elders and the matriarch of the Shorn Skulls. Turrin walked behind his father, and he watched the warrior in front of his father. He noticed on her back was a cloak made of varies of scalps. He was fascinated by the varies hair colors and types on her cloak. He noticed in the middle of the shoulder by her spine was a scalp taken by a person with thick long blond hair. It seemed like the center piece of the cloak while the rest were just varies black, brown and auburn hair color. She must have been a great warrior because her cloak of scalps was quite long almost to her heel of her black leather boots. He noticed the hood of the cloak was made of shiny with snake scale scalps. He figured the scalps were from some worthless Dhani warriors, so the young Twisted Vine youth watched the Shorn Skull woman with boyish fascination. Turrin wanted to walk up and ask the woman if they were all human, but he didn't want to embarrass his father and break ranks to ask the woman. Turrin looked up at his father and asked with a smile, “Father can I make a cloak like hers?” The female warrior overheard the excitement in Turrin's voice and looked over her shoulder with a smirk on her face. Marak chuckled quietly to his son and said simply, “You need to be a apart of the Shorn Skulls Clan to receive such a honor, but maybe when you are old enough, I could arrange...a possible union with a Shorn Skull woman.” The female warrior laughed and said to Marak, “If he grows up to look like you, emissary, I am sure he would have no problem catching a eye of one of our women.” Turrin knew that he was starting to find women attractive, but he didn't quite understand his father's talk about union and catching the eye of their women. He might be to young or to preoccupied with getting into the army to think about women at the moment. After a bell or two, Turrin started to smell campfires off in the distance. He knew that he was getting close to the Shorn Skull village and the wild thought of wearing one of their scalp cloaks.

[Razkar]

The young male watched the interactions in silence, but his normally-stoic face dropped into a frown at the ease with which his mother and this "Marak" conversed. The familiarity there was... somewhat jarring. He knew that Yurta was not only the fearsome visage she showed the world; she was a mother, a daughter, a friend and a wife. The barbarians associated bloodthirsty savagery alone with the Children of Myri, Razkar would have found such opinions asinine.

How could any race survive without the bonds of friend and family? Constant, unceasing brutality was impossible to sustain in the world, even the merciless land of Falyndar... and yet, for her to be so pleasant with an outsider, and from the Twisted Vines...

"What was stolen?"

The two outsiders turned at the curt, simple question from Razkar, bringing up the rear of their little column. The leagues were wearing on and some muted chatter had broken out among them, minds eager to relieve their boredom. But no questions were posed to the new faces. Until Razkar spoke, and he saw the hooded figure of his mother turn at his voice.

"It was-"

"Boy?!" Razkar's head snapped around like he'd been punched in the jaw, locking eyes immediately with his glowering War Mistress. "They need not answer questions from you."

"Yes, moth-" She growled, low and ominous and yet loud enough to rattle his eardrums even from several dozen feet away. "W-War Mistress."

Minor rebellion quashed, she turned her head and the column continued as before... but with much more silence, he noticed. Still, the smell of burning wood and the sounds of scolding, demanding, laughing Myrians was oozing through the humid air. Home was close, and Razkar felt his step quicken. He was at ease and unafraid in this jungle so many barbarian scholars had marked off as a place of horor and death... but his village? That was where he found peace.

Branch by branch, it seemed, the choking vegetation gave way to the rude huts and thatched longhouses of the Shorn Skulls. Many were out in the jungle, hunting, fishing, patrolling, but many more were going to and fro, baskets of cloth or food or other such goods in their arms. Some turned to stare at the newcomers their War Mistress had brought them, perhaps wondering if they were guests of prisoners.

But one group was walking straight towards them. Seven strong, movements slower and more deliberate than the younger specimens around them, but all moved out of their path like a shoal before cruising sharks. The Shorn Skulls seemed to rally behind them, knowing that for the Honored Elders to greet a hunting party, something more than delicious game was arriving with them.

"Blessings of the Goddess-Queen upon you, mistress."

Marak stepped forward and gave the ancient greeting with the proper respect, bowing low the foremost of the Elders: Lowax, Matriarch of the Shorn Skull. Still radiating poise and control despite her eighty-nine years, her eyes were unblemished and undimmed by the years. She smiled and wrinkles sprouted all over her face as she bowed back slightly.

"And with you, Marak of the Shorn Skulls."

"Ah..." There was a beat of confusion, even discomfort, as the Twisted Vine emissary seemed to struggle for words. "... I am honored you remember me."

"Rarely do we get one of your clan in our lands, my boy," Lowax said with a slight shrug, gesturing to the central longhouse of the village, her own home, where the Honored Elders met, "But reminiscing will have to wait. You are here on behalf of a cause most urgent, I understand, and I wish to know what that is... and why it concerns my clan."

[Turrin]

As Turrin arrived in the village of the Shorn Skulls, the half Myrian stayed close to his father as they made way to the Matriarch of the clan. He noticed the rest of the clan was starting to follow the hunting party down the dirt road to the long house of the clan. Walking behind his father, Turrin noticed his father bow to the Matriarch of the Shorn Skulls, so he made sure to do the same to not embarrass himself or his father. As he listened to his father speak to the Matriarch, he started to wonder if they known each other in there past. Still silent, Turrin followed his father and the Matriarch into the longhouse. When they walked into the large structure, Turrin noticed the other honored elders sitting in their respective places waiting for the Matriarch to take her seat. As he walked through the longhouse, he noticed the Shorn Skulls' longhouse has a similar design to the Twisted Vine longhouse, but the ornamentation was completely different from his Grandmother's home. The half-breed walked the Matriarch, and he noticed Lowax carried herself similar to his own grandmother and matriarch, Narla. They both must have been impressive warriors in their youth, but he knew that they were warriors even today, so he rather not test their patients to much. When Lowax took her seat, Marak walked into the center of honored elders and greeted them properly with a smile, “Hello Honored Elders and Matriarch of the Shorn Skulls Clan. My name Marak of Twisted Vine Clan and I come on behalf of Matriarch Narla to negotiate with you on behalf of your clan.” Turrin knew his Grandmother and Matriarch was known by her neighbors as ruthless bitch who would rather gut someone than have a civilized conversation. He just hoped his Matriarch's reputation wouldn't hamper his father's efforts to much. Marak paused for a moment and waited for the reaction of the Shorn Skull council to continue, “Matriarch Narla has charged me with the task of retrieving a artifact of great importance of our clan that was stolen about a day ago. My Mother is quite distraught over the embarrassment of losing to artifact and told me to lead a Twisted Vines Fang through your territory to recover the artifact with or without your consent.” Marak shook his head and continued his story, “I know from listening to the stories of our two clans that it wouldn't be the wisest move on my mother's part for both of us, so I came here to negotiate a deal with you.” Turrin turned his head to listen to his father's proposal. He knew his father was facing a upward battle with the Shorn Skulls council. Suddenly, Marak lifted his eyes to Matriarch and said simply, “I came here to ask you if I could lead a Twisted Vine Fang through your territory to recover the artifact. I promise that we will leave your territory as soon as we retrieved what was taken from us. If not,...would you allow my son and I to recover it.” Marak paused for a chime to let his request sink through before he continued talking, “I know that the Shorn Skulls Clan have been Twisted Vines southern neighbors for ages, so the history between us can sometimes breed mistrust and grudges that aren't easily forgotten even from generation to generation, but we are all Children of Myri, so I hope you consider it even though we don't share the same tattoos or ornaments as the Shorn Skulls.” Turrin looked up at his father when he spoke, and he was always impressed that his father had knack for diplomacy and speeches. Matriarch Narla was never good with words or with people in general, but she mated with Grandfather who seemed to have a silver tongue, so he did most of the negotiating between the clans. When Grandfather died, Martriarch Narla made Marak, her son, the new voice of the Twisted Vine. Turrin knew that if Matriarch Narla was in charge of diplomacy, the Twisted Vines would have blood feuds along there borders within hours of the meetings. Luckily for everyone sake, the old hag had some sense in her brains to send someone else out to do the talking for the clan.

[Razkar]

Razkar would must afterwards that it was perhaps more Lhex than Myri who was weaving events to transpire as they did that day. It happened to be their hunt the Twisted Vines stumbled onto; his fang that went out; his mother that was leading them. If none of those things were factors, the young male certainly would not be inside the Elders' longhouse with Matriarch Lowax and the War Mistress.

But the interlopers were their finding, thus their responsibility. So it was and had been for generations; so it would continue.

A dozen gnarled but quick-eyed elders took their seats in a building constructed as much of bone and tanned skin stretched like leather. As the Twisted Vines looked around, they would see ranks of grinning skulls leering down at them from the beams, the shelves, the walls, wherever there was space or a surface for them to be placed or nailed. Many were Myrian or human, with a sprinkling of odd little deformities that suggested the other offshoots from humanity. But the Dhani... there were given pride of place.

They rose and unfolded like a grisly peacock's tail behind Lowax as she sat in her throne-like chair, in the center of the half-circle of Elders now staring stonily at the visitors. She raised her hand, just once, and Marak knew that was the sign.

“Hello Honored Elders and Matriarch of the Shorn Skulls Clan. My name Marak of Twisted Vine Clan and I come on behalf of Matriarch Narla to negotiate with you on behalf of your clan.”

Razkar knew that Lowax was a venerable and wise leader, but had yet to learn that she did not stay that way without being cunning and cautious in equal measure. Sadly, that meant playing politics. Even as other faces scrunched up in distaste at the name of the Matriarch of the Twisted Vines, uncouth and belligerent as she was, the oldest female's remained an immobile map of lines, only a single blink betraying any reaction.

"And so you come before us to tell your tale, male," she said, voice low but resonating, rebounding from skull to skull, listener to listener, pitch and timbre seeming to make everyone stand a little straighter just for hearing it, "Pray, continue..."

“Matriarch Narla has charged me with the task of retrieving a artifact of great importance of our clan that was stolen about a day ago. My Mother is quite distraught over the embarrassment of losing to artifact and told me to lead a Twisted Vines Fang through your territory to recover the artifact with or without your consent.”

There was a slight but clear hiss of indrawn breath, eyes flickering back and forth between warriors and elders. All of Falyndar was Myri's domain, and her Children had earned their birthright, but passing through clan lands without permission or even warning was... uncivilized. Lowax didn't even move her hand; she merely frowned slightly and looked beyond her guests to the bobbing heads of the War Mistress's Fang-

-as did Yurta herself, seated at her Matriarch's right hand, eyes widening a touch in outrage-

Djed never worked so fast or sure as those two females casting their eyes with firm intent. Twelve borderline rebels became still as marble a broken tick later, several even standing to attention... Razkar among them.

"Narla is a... fiery, female," Lowax said with some effort, and a few keen observers could see it certainly was an effort, "And to lose such a prize would make any Matriarch desperate. But sending a mere two warriors plunging into the jungle in pursuit, Children of Myri or not..." Lowax's features creased for a moment in concentration, as if Marak and Turrin were curious beetles she had yet to categorize "... such actions speak of Tanroa being against thee..."

"Who's T-"

"Shuddup, boy!"

“I know from listening to the stories of our two clans that it wouldn't be the wisest move on my mother's part for both of us, so I came here to negotiate a deal with you. I came here to ask you if I could lead a Twisted Vine Fang through your territory to recover the artifact. I promise that we will leave your territory as soon as we retrieved what was taken from us. If not,...would you allow my son and I to recover it.”

Another hiss, despite the fresh, terrified memory of that such actions bought about. But now Yurta had a similar look on her face, frowns crushing her eyes, turning to Lowax slightly as if wanting reassurance this would not be so. Lowax merely lifted a finger and the buzzing wasps of dissension faded back to silence. She motioned again, and the glib negotiator plowed onward.

“I know that the Shorn Skulls Clan have been Twisted Vines southern neighbors for ages, so the history between us can sometimes breed mistrust and grudges that aren't easily forgotten even from generation to generation, but we are all Children of Myri, so I hope you consider it even though we don't share the same tattoos or ornaments as the Shorn Skulls.”

"Think you I need a male reminding me of my duties to clan and Queen?" Lowax's tone was suddenly dangerous, flinty eyes now looking more like a viper beguiling a mouse before that final, lightning strike. "I led this clan when you were still rubbing shyke on your face; speak not to me of duty..."

Razkar almost gasped at Lowax's crude words; she almost never used foul language... but it told him much. It told him she was offended, and Marak was a bold, and perhaps foolish into the bargain (the two traits were fast friends, after all). The unfamiliar male did not shirk or shrink, though. He stood tall and awaited the judgement of the Elders, who now whispered among themselves, heads bobbing this way and that, but a definite thread of argument and opinion leading straight to Lowax.

"I agree to you request for assistance, male. If it must be that the Shorn Skulls will clean up the Twisted Vines' mess, so be it. T'would not be the first time." There was a low, almost ghostly chuckle of amusement but she kept speaking, dashing Marak's other hope. "But I would advise against waiting for another fang from your lands. If time is indeed of the essence, you can ill-afford to wait three, maybe four days for them."

A lined, worn but flexible hand was raised upward, gesturing at the still-glowering Yurta, hurt betrayal flashing in her eyes.

"War Mistress Yurta and her War Party will provide all the assistance you will need. I am sure you would not dispute that... and we do have experience fighting the Dhani."

Another ripple, this time ripe with confusion, and Razkar wondered if the newcomers were just as afflicted as he was. He frowned and glanced around, seeing similar faces trying to work out where that divination had come from. The Dhani? Since when did they become part of this?

Lowax leaned forward a touch, eyes glinting with amusement, and a rare, predatory smile graced her lips.

"Your lands are to our east. Your thief flees west. Where to? Will she live on the banks of the Kandaktu forevermore? Perhaps cross the entirety of the jungle and meet with some barbarian vessel on the Western Ocean? I think not. My guess is that she flees across the river... and then on to Zinrah."

No ripples. No gasping. But the sense of shock was so fierce and coarse that every Myrian felt as if they'd been slapped. A Myrian, a Child of Myri, actually heading... for Zinrah? To collude and conspire with the Ancient Enemy? It was enough to turn some of the Elders green with disgust and Lowax's amused expression morphed into a snarl of hatred.

"We shall find this traitor. You, your son, and my warriors. We will track them, find them, slay them and reclaim your clan's prize and honor. Then we shall feast on their carcass and strike their very name from all records, save those reserved for the lowest pits of all the hells..."

A roar, sharp and fierce and hungry, barked from the lips of Yurta's fang, weapons jutted into the air for a brief moment. Razkar was swept along in the same crackling emotion, teeth bared, vow of vengeance made in silence, but no less dire for it...

----------

She had lost count of the days she'd spent stumbling and running through the foliage. Stopping only for snatched hours of sleep, surviving on snatched handfuls of berries, bananas and even moss. Her burden was beginning the carve ugly friction scars into her shoulders but her ill-gotten prize never left her back.

Panting, gasping, she paused for breath. Gods... what was she doing? What had she been thinking? Again a hammer of doubt smashed through her rage and anger, as if wielded by Myri Herself. But she could not go back. There would only be one fate for so base and loathsome a traitor...

A face shone on the ground before her. She squinted, leaned closer... saw her quizzical features in the puddle of rain water.

The faint sheen of scales, hidden under tanned flesh but still glinting in the right light. The eyes were worse. Bisected. Forked like the tongue of the one that had violated her mother.

The thief quaked, shook, trembled and a lifetime of disgust and ill-treatment flooded into her and exploded out in a sickening, anguished cry-

She stomped and scraped and even clawed until the puddle was an empty, gaping hole, water splashed around and the natural mirror shattered. All was silent, or as silent as it ever was in the seething mass of life that was Falyndar. She panted with tears in her eyes and then jerked her head up.

West. To the river. To a boat, any boat, canoe, even a tree trunk for her to cling onto... then to Zinrah.

The only home she had left.

The thief ran on.