Closed brother of the forgotten.

[Oworo Birdflight]

Oworo couldn't help but return Ellie's smile as she filled her water. Her face spoke of defiance, bravery that any other woman in her current position probably would've possessed. Many would dread their future among the Zith; she only thought of her life after all of this. In his own mind, Oworo could both admire and pity her beliefs. He had been inside Xy, lived among its inhabitants. He's seen things, done things, that shattered the morale, the psyche of the individual. He had gotten used to it. Part of him may have even liked it . . . And that was what made the whole transition from freeman to slave easier. He had accepted the hopelessness that came with it all, convinced himself that above all else, he'd survive it. The thought of escaping . . . that was secondary to. Long ago, he told himself he wouldn't just be a slave. He'd be the best. And this, this was a feeling that he couldn't put into words as advice for this woman. He wanted her to realize that her beliefs would be squashed once they made it back to Xy. They would break her down to the point that Lhavit and anything else she had sought after would dissipate away from her mind; all she'll want is relief. Relief from the pain, the struggle, everything. If only she realized that the answer, the key to sustaining this relief is to just give up her own life. She needed to forget who she was, the life she had lived before the Zith had found her; she needed to be the person they wanted her to be. That was who Oworo was; he was a creature that the Zith had created. They asked for an obedient slave; Oworo became that slave. They asked for a trustworthy pair of hands to aid them on their latest raid; Oworo provided the hands. Oworo was a good slave, a slave to was treated good. Or, at least better than other slaves that didn't know what he knew. The firm whisper of his name in Pavi awoke Oworo from his trance he had fallen into. Oworo looked at Ellie, wondering just what put her on edge. Her own eyes were fixated behind him, in the trees they had walked through to reach the river's edge, so Oworo turned himself slowly, taking in the yellow eyes that stared out at him from the shadows. Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes were possible among the Zith, but uncommon, and Oworo knew none of the Zith he traveled with possessed the unnerving tint. The voice that spoke out to them was rich, but in the way that his masters spoke when they conversed with him. The Zith's common was broken, their vocabulary limited to commands and curses; despite the short sentences, Oworo felt that this figure had a firm grasp on the tongue. Furthermore, none of his masters would've hid themselves in the tree line, especially to speak to them like this. No, this figure was a stranger, an enemy. A cry from across the water startled Oworo a little more than the figure before him. One of his masters had called out to him to sound the horn. Oworo glanced back once to see that the Zith had landed on the shore, sword free from his harness. It seems there were enemies on the opposite shore, probably the ones that had startled the birds earlier and put him on guard. Oworo returned his focus back to the eyes in the tree. The horn he had been given hung at his neck, mostly forgotten since they left the camp earlier. He knew if he reached for the horn and sounded it, it left him vulnerable to the figure in front of him. His bow would be left useless in his other hand, and he was too close to the figure to dodge any projectile he fired at him. Oworo's life truly was on the line if he followed orders. And his life was too if he didn't. Oworo didn't know anything about this figure, or how many allies he had with him. For all he knew, this could be some lone vigilante trying to rescue slaves under the nose of the Zith; his silent entrance certainly didn't assure the slave of reinforcements waiting in the distance. Granted, the Zith's cry from help meant there were some others across the river, but that still meant nothing. Three or four was all it would take to startle the Zith, which still didn't put Oworo at ease. He would leave with the rescuers and his masters would hunt him down. They would kill those who saved him, but he and Ellie would be spared. Spared to be made an example back in Zith. Oworo glanced once at Ellie, who was probably watching him, and mouthed to her "I'm sorry." And then Oworo grabbed the horn around his neck and sounded it off one time, the blast echoing off the trees and expanding out into the distance.

[Vanator]

Vanator was about to suggest they head back to the rendezvous point when things erupted. The fairly mundane activity of the humans across the river was interrupted by something, as the man turned to look into the woods behind him. Almost simultaneously, the Zith that had passed overhead returned, lower, eerily close over the treetops. The Drykas had a bad feeling, now suspect that they had been spotted, or perhaps their horses. Regardless, the monster lighted on the bank in front of them, obviously aware of them as it squared off and drew his sword. The Zith was bold, or foolish, to engage the volunteers with the odds against him. But when it bellowed a command to the man across the water, Vanator surmised this was no juvenile. He reminded the Drykas of Nightstorm, a strong Zith leader he had encountered a year earlier, when he rescued a captured Benshiran.

For a split tick, Van considered whether he could get the bow off of his shoulder, raise it and hit the man across the river before the horn could be raised to his lips. He decided it would take too long, and he would have to drop his ax. Besides, Van did not relish the thought of killing a slave. His attention flicked back to the imposing Zith before them. Van could smell him, the familiar scent he would never forget, the odor that filled his nostrils for a nightmarish year. Smoldering hatred deep within his being was fanned to into a flame, years of despising the murderers of his first wife, the captors that enslaved him, the invaders that assaulted Sanctuary, again threatened to cast him into a battle rage.

With a deep breath and a shrug to settle his chainmail tunic across his broad shoulders, Vanator raised the cold steel battle ax in both hands and charged out of the foliage towards the Zith slaver.

[Favchean Hronis]

Favchean had not time to reflect on his horse walking on the dry twig for the darkening skies exploded with activity. The Zith that had flown over head, clearly seen by Favchean despite the lowering levels of light, had alighted upon the storm, and then a brassy call of a horn that blew loud enough for the slightly pointed ears of the Akalak to hear loud and clear.

He didn't stop to think, he didn't stop to even purposefully react. Instead his body did what he had trained it to do over the years, and instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch. His primary weapon is, and would always be until Dira welcomed him into her embrace, his body. His thickly muscled arms at the ready to defend or attack, his core tightly strung for precise movements. It is only after a moment of observing the Zith before them that he reaches his left hand to his right hip and eases his Lakan from its sheath.

He left his dagger sheathed on the other hip, he was much better at fighting without it then with it at the moment. His Lakan is held tight against his arm, hilt out first. It will be only used to reinforce his strikes, to draw blood more easily. Favchean follows Vanator, at a good distance so as to keep out of the lethal reach of the axe the Drykas carried, hanging back to protect the Drykas rear. His attention focused on the Zith that they could see, but also keeping an eye out for where there is one zith and slaves, there is more often then not multiple ziths and slaves. Petching colonies.

[Caelum]

OOC : Hi, ya’ll. Please forgive my delay in posting. I was attempting to contact Davus’ player to ascertain whether or not he intended to continue with the thread or if I should write his PC out of the story. He has not responded to my PMs and I think at this juncture we can safely assume his lack of interest. Once again, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting and appreciate your patience. Ellie watched the soundless apology shape itself on her fellow slave’s mouth and green eyes rounded with horror. The water buckets slipped from her hands to hit the ground and roll, spilling river water over the western bank. For a moment it looked as if she was lunging for Oworo himself, maybe to stop the sounding of the horn or perhaps to punish him in her frustration; but her feet skidded against the grass, sliding her right around him whereupon her arms flung out in a protective gesture. “Don’t! Don’t, don’t, please don’t!” She shouted, terror elevating her voice against the fading echo of the hunter’s horn. It was not Oworo she was addressing, but Doran whose forward momentum came to an abrupt halt, the wicked gleam of his lakan catching the fading light as its curve was diverted away. “Get out of the way, girl,” the Cerulean growled, and he reached for her arm to push her aside. It was Oworo he wanted, or maybe just his damn horn. Golden eyes flicked momentarily across the river, narrowing against the battle beginning on the other side. “Give me the horn or I will have your head,” he snapped at Oworo. It probably was not an idle threat. “ELLIE!” A girl’s voice rose out of the battered copse of trees at the Akalak’s back, shrieking a warning. Oworo may have recognized the voice as belonging to youngest of the five women, Maryem, whose dark eyes had grown fierce in captivity. The Zith on the eastern bank gripped his massive broadsword in both hands and released a guttural cry when the horn sounded and his enemies burst from the treeline like quail flushed from the underbrush. He did not retreat, rather seeming to like the odds, and instead he stepped into Vanator’s attack sideways to dodge the first swing of the Drykas’ ax. His own sword curved around, slicing a sickle moon out of the air and aimed for Vanator’s shoulder. In the distance came the carol of other horns, their dark, clear notes overlapping from three separate directions.

[Oworo Birdflight]

A deathly silence fell upon Oworo's ears after the blast of his horn subsided; it was as if all noise had disappeared, scattered away by the power of the horn in his hand. Or maybe it was just his fear. Fear of the figure in the shadows, of the enemies across the river, of death itself surrounding him, ready to take him into its fold. He saw out the corner of his eye the figure move, a blue blur as he ran for him. Was this how his life was meant to end? Surviving the destruction of his family, and the enslavement of Zith, only to be cut down on a peaceful day. And suddenly, he could hear again. He heard Ellie moving, heard her yell at the figure. Looking down, he noted that the slave woman had stepped in front of him, blocking him from the figure as he lunged at him. A glint of steel passed harmlessly around the woman, sparing her for a demise that had been directed at Oworo, not her. Why save him? Why save someone who had helped killed her companions and enslaved her friends? Why save the man who merely sat idle as the Zith had defiled her and the rest of the captives, watching, knowing that soon it would be him that would take their places? She could've just let the man kill him, and left with her rescuer while his life blood drained away on the bank. Yet she risked her own well being . . . Oworo was at a loss for words. Thankfully, the mysterious assailant spoke, drawing his attention away from the woman. In the open, Oworo could see that this figure was an Akalak, one of the blue men who lived on the cliffs. Every year as a child, Oworo would pass the city with his family, but he had never once entered it; thus, the only men he saw were the traders who came into their Pavilions. This was one unlike the others he had seen though; they all had clear faces, unmarked by ink or paint. This man, though, bore hues of oranges and yellows in a wild design, designs of which he knew not the purpose. The Akalak demanded him of his horn Oworo still held firmly in his hands, with a tone that sought no protest. Oworo's eyes flicked to the wicked blade he held; from little he had seen of this man's combat prowess, he stood no chance to oppose him. Had he fulfilled the requirements laid down to him by his masters. Sound the horn, they had said. Warm them of approaching enemies. Had they heeded his warning? The blasts around him was all the answered he needed. Oworo tossed the horn into the grass at the Akalak's feet, but he didn't move out from behind Ellie. Off in the distance, he heard a second voice cry out, calling for the slave girl. Oworo had recognized the voice of Maryem from the countless nights she screamed, crying out in agony as the Zith had savaged her. The youngest of the group, she had been spared the least by her captives . . . "Beware the Zith with the crescent scar around his eye." Oworo said suddenly, in Pavi. "That one is Samhuinn, captain of this party, and my master. He won't take too kindly to your intrusion." Oworo's tone was firm, without mocking or humor behind the words. He was merely warning this man who the real enemy was, out there in the woods. Convince him of the real threat, Oworo had one been told, and then you may be overlooked. He only hoped that this tattooed man could do just that.

[Vanator]

The tense atmosphere had erupted into chaos as Van and Falchean charged from the brush towards the defiant Zith on the bank. He was an imposing creature, robed in large, dark membranous wings and readying a large broad blade. Nor did the Zith falter as the Drykas swung his ax mightily. Van hated Zith, and the desire to take this one's head had driving muscle and sinew to drive the broad axe head in a deadly arc at the monster's neck. But Van's opponent was no foolish juvenile, and instead of parrying the strike with his sword, the Zith juked and managed to slip from the cold steel weapon's path.

Momentum behind the charging swing, unmet by blade or flesh, carried Vanator into a precarious off balance movement as it sliced empty air. The Zith exploited the human's momentary vulnerability and leveled a swing of his large sword at Vanator. Unable to redirect his heavy ax head in time to block the Zith's blade, Van twisted his torso, dropping his shoulder and arching back his head in an attempt to avoid the path of the sharp, nicked edge of the broadsword.

The echoing of horns, starting with the one across the river, filled his ears, as did the approach of his Akalak comrade crashing through the underbrush. Van did not see the Cerulean emerge on the other bank, or what may have been transpiring there, or in the woods around them. For the moment, he could only focus on the deadly foe before him.

[Favchean Hronis]

Favchean knew enough to stay far enough away from Vanator and the Zith with their longer reaching weapons so that he did not interfere. However he circled around the two carefully, his eyes not bothered by the growing gloom which was only helping the Zith rather then hindering it. As soon as the horn pierced the sky, Favchean looked across the river and saw one of the two -the male- with the horn to his lips. A tick of pity was overridden by the anger that one was loyal to the Zith, but that was all that Favchean had time to register before he turned back to the fighting pair.

"We are going to have more company." He warned in a loud growling timbre, just as Vanator swung with his axe. The answering horns had the green Akalak immediately searching the skies, before he turned his eyes back to the Zith with the blade. When it swung downward toward Vanator, and Vanator twisted to try and avoid the blade, Favchean took his Lakan and reversed his grip on it so it angled down rather then up. Darting in, the large man stabbed at the Zith's back, aiming for a strike between the wings, hoping that his Lakan slide between the bony vertebrae and didn't just pink the animal and slide off.

Either way he was hoping only to distract to give Vanator time to get his axe adjusted. For they would have more then just this Zith, and Zith alone are dangerous..a Zith in a group were deadly... they needed to dispatch this one quickly to get into defensive maneuvers to alert the other patrols.

[Caelum]

Ellie's head whipped back and forth between Oworo and the brightly marked Akalak. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, pronounced. There was a fine quiver moving through her limbs, as if she might burst into conflagration at any moment; but as Doran jerked the horn out of Oworo's grasp, she gulped back a sigh. "Crescent scar," the Cerulean grunted his acknowledgment. Yellow eyes bore hard into Oworo's countenance, the sheer brutality of his regard capable of leaving a soul slightly battered. The Akalak swung abruptly around, neatly catching Ellie's arm when she sprung for the copse. Rabbiting her back, he shoved the girl right at Oworo's chest and growled. "My comrades are coming. Get her across the river, and use the bow on the zith --" With that demand, he spun to dash into the trees and toward the sound of Maryem's cry. "Petch. Petch. Petch," Ellie spat, blistering the air with her fear. She pushed at Oworo and then sense caught up with her long enough to stumble her back toward the river bed. The zith on the eastern bank released a furious cry when Vanator ducked his blow, but it was with silence that he met the slice of Favchean's lakan. The blade split skin, scraped bone, but the beast but snarled and swung on him, one massive wing snapping out to knock Vanator the rest of the way to the earth. Favchean would soon find himself under direct, if waning assault of the Zith's sword. A thunder was growing in the world surrounding this embattled riverbank. It whispered through the ground and rustled against the sky, building toward torrent from opposite directions. That which echoed in the earth came from the thud of hooves and the racing Akalak, the reverberation in the skies doubtless that of their foes, all determined to clash. OOC : Vanator, Favchean, feel free to take that Zith down and kill him. Oworo, if you do end up crossing the river, it only comes to about hip-high but the current is fast and strong.

[Vanator]

OOCGoing to post to keep this moving.

The notched edge of the Zith's blade swung past Vanator's neck, the Drykas avoiding decapitation by mere inches. Van staggered, his contortions to dodge the wicked sword compromising his balance. Chaos increased as the recently quiet forest began to reverberate with the cacophony of echoing horns. Van saw the bulk of the deep green Akalak for an instant before it was eclipsed by the Zith foe, but the Drykas heard his companion's warning. Moments later, the dark beast let out a gravely snarl that raised to an angry shriek, body arching and wings expanding as the Akalak's blade bit into the Zith's back. It spun around to meet the new enemy, broad, membranous wing striking the already unbalanced Vanator and toppling him to the ground.

As he raised himself from the ground, Van sensed the thunder of hooves. Reinforcements were on the way. A glance past the warring ZIth and Alakak revealed the scene on the opposite bank. Even in the growing dusk, Van could see the colored Cerulean speaking sharply to the man and woman, pointing back across the river in his direction. Only a tick passed as Van looked up at the back of the Zith, wings spread, ragged sword raised against the towering Favchean.

His battle ax lay at his side, rattled from his hand at his fall. Van left it, plucking the hand ax from his belt and launching to his feet with a roar. His left hand entangled in the greasy black mane of the Zith, gripping firmly and yanking back. The hand ax was raised, then brought down viciously against the exposed neck, slicing into strong sinew as soft flesh. Black blood fountained out of the severed artery. Again and again, as Favchean faced off with the beast, Van hacked at the creatures neck until the cold steel edge met bone.

[Caelum]

Thread Award

Vanator

Skills
Deduction +4
Intelligence +1
Investigation +2
Leadership +4
Persuasion +3
Riding (Horse) +2
Strategy +2
Stealth +3
Tactics +4
Weapon: Battle Ax +3
Wilderness Survival +2

Lores
Battle With Zith
Leadership: Conviction
Tactics: Cover of Darkness
Wilderness Survival: Fording a River
Wilderness Survival: Gear

Miscellaneous
100 gold mizas
Broad Sword (Cold Iron)
Gauntlets

Notes

I’m bummed this wasn’t completed, but such is game attrition. Oworo, should you return to game I will be more than happy to award you. Please just PM me to let me know. Vanator, your loot is based on how far into the thread you wrote and the objects in question belonged to the zith you fought on the riverbank. Don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns and, as ever, edit your post in the grade request thread to reflect completion.