Open Zark Starter Post

Zark surviving the Wildlands and traveling to Ravok

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While Sylira is by far the most civilized region of Mizahar, countless surprises and encounters await the traveler in its rural wilderness. Called the Wildlands, Syliran's wilderness is comprised of gradual rolling hills in the south that become deep wilderness in the north. Ruins abound throughout the wildlands, and only the well-marked roads are safe.

Zark Starter Post

Postby Zark on April 23rd, 2017, 3:48 am

Leaving Camp

The flames flickered off into the night, forcing shadows to dance along the surfaces of the many tents sprawled out. Whenever darkness danced over the Myrian warrior, it quickly moved away, as if afraid to hide the darkened creature’s skin. The red fire truly lit him up, making the tan color turn a fierce red; the first few weeks the enslavers had captured Zark, they thought they had caught a demon. It was unnerving, how calm he was in his restraints. How he did not fight and struggle as most slaves did. It appeared as though he was resigned to his fate. Yet, they were reminded of the brutish nature of the Myrian by his look and corded muscles in his arms. They were reminded of the cannibalistic nature, when his chestnut iris scanned them over like nothing more than prey. There was something unnerving about the sharp nature of the young warrior. They thought they would never get used to the red demon that appeared every night when the flames of the fires lit the camp, rather than sunlight. Even bound, they always checked over their shoulders, in case he had freed himself. The Myrian was disciplined, he had mostly accepted the fact he had been captured. He wouldn’t make it worse by struggling, or threatening the guards. He had been quiet, all this time. Not a word was uttered. This news also spread among the caravaneers, for it was both good and bad. No one knew his true intentions. Would he truly submit to a master? That couldn’t be right, he was a Myrian after all.

The fierce warrior knew better. And not a soul dared harm him, for two reasons. One, they feared the wrath he could bring down on them should he survive. Two, the Myrian wouldn’t sell as well if he was bruised and broken.

Over the first few weeks, everyone was afraid of him. But now, they had lowered their guard. They stopped having trouble sleeping. They stopped looking over their shoulders the farther away they traveled from Taloba. The Taloban army would not follow them now. They probably marked the boy as dead. They were out of the jungle, it unnerved Zark. He knew he had to act soon, before he was sold to a single master ,before he could come to be recognized as a slave. If he could free himself now, the only people that had seen his face, were those in this caravan. They travelled a lot, chances were, he’d never see them again. The Myrian however wasn’t all that vindictive, he couldn’t be. What could one soldier do against the many guards the caravan had hired? They were armed, equipped and skilled. He was mostly naked, with a lot more bark than bite.

But it was wrong to underestimate a Myrian.

They did not think of him as a fearsome, red-demon Myrian soldier now. They saw him as a plain slave, one that had more backbone than most. It was this night he would free himself. It was the best opportune moment. The leader of the caravan had bought large quantities of alcohol, this would distract the mercenaries enough for him to slip through. He had prayed to Myri, Dira, Kihala, Syna and especially Leth. The reason being, tonight was the full moon. But he did not want the light it provided. He wanted Makutsi to hold herself back, to keep the clouds thick and floating up above, so that the night would remain a pure, opaque ebon. His prayers were answered, as the red of the fires were the only light around.

A few days ago, he had managed to pry free one of the many ornaments in his thick hair. It was a carnivorous tooth, nothing too fancy. Nothing that people would notice missing on his great dark mane. It was, however, enough for Zark to break through the wooden plate of wood that kept his hands bound. He had managed to go through the underside of the plate, carving a hole until the wood was brittle enough to break. And he did. To muffle the noise, he inched towards a mud pit and covered his binding with it until he was convinced the sound of snapping wood would be hidden with the simple splashes of watered dirt. Splashes wouldn’t alarm anyone, especially with the many drunks that would be roaming about, careless of their steps.

The fragile wood broke easily, using his feet as leverage. Some mud splattered on his body, but Zark did not care. Tonight, in the complete black, no one would see that he was dirtier. He looked over his shoulder, wondering if he ought to help out the other slaves. He did not like the idea of actually helping weaker people. Myrians? Yes, he would go out of his way to ensure their safety. It was the Taloban way. These humans and other races he did not recognize? He cared little for them. He would come back to them and free them, but only because they would prove a proper distraction for his escape. He focused on his task ahead, slyly making his way through the camp to one particular place. A tent he had come to memorize, one spot that had attracted his ire and hatred. The guards did their jobs, the slavers and caravaneers, traders and travelers that tagged along merely lived on their lives. But there was one man who Zark had to get back at. There was one being he needed to punish for capturing him and taking what was his: specifically, a dagger that had been given to him by his parents.

He would also kill him, because Zark believed vengeance would win him his pride again.

So it was that the young man furtively snuck through the maze-like tent conglomerate. He knew that path, he did not follow it through sight. He could barely see a few feet before him in the complete dark. It was by heart, each step was calculated, he knew each puddle and how to avoid them. He knew which turns to take, what paths that led directly to a campfire to bypass.. It was quick and efficient, the way of the jungle and predator. He knew he couldn’t mess up, lest he face foes with nothing but his teeth. Snake-like, crouched and back crooked like only a young man could do without the aches of age, he hurried along the designated warpath he had chosen. When he finally reached his destination, he slid one hand along the flap of the tent, untied the knot that kept it closed and he sneaked in, ensuring the tie the knot back again when he was through.

He heard a snore from a single man; it was deep, guttural, obviously he had drunk heavily before his bedtime. The Myrian warrior stood tall, then, standing his five foot ten in front of the cot with the sleeping figure. A true predator watching over his foe that deserved only death. He had no toolds to carry out his vengeance. No knives, no spears, no sword or axe he could use. He needed none of those. People feared Myrians because they were tribal, fearsome warriors who had no mercy and sacrificed other beings for the glory of Myri. Zark had teeth, and he would sink it into the flesh of this mercenary to kill him. One hand pressed tightly over the man’s nose and mouth, clamping the airway shut, the other hand pressing down on his chest, he dug in. He bit the neck, right where the artery was, hard. Blood began to pour into his mouth, spilling at the edges with crimson delight as Zark gulped and drank the hot liquid. It was refreshing, soothing after weeks of eating stale food and meager rations. He gulped and swallowed, waiting until the gushes from the artery subsided. The mess was meager, and the sounds that came from it barely heard above the snoring and crackles from campfires.

When he stood up again, he wiped the blood from his chin, all it did was smear red across his face. He looked down, the fierce brown eyes speaking volumes at the dead foe who had lowered its guard. He stared down at the very first man he killed in such a manner. It was personal. I wasn’t some skirmish near Taloban, it wasn’t a raid in the jungle. It was in a tent, against a man who had taken what was his. He then turned, and began to scavenge the basic necessities. Fresh clothing, food, water, and other items he figured he could either use or sell. But what he truly sought was his dagger and sheath. When he found it, he held onto it dearly, pressing it close to his chest and giving a prayer to his Goddess Myri, thanking her for such fortune in unfortunate events. He strapped the sheath on his chest, and then he grabbed a large cloak with a cowl that hid most of his body down to his feet. He strapped on boots and he felt strange with them. He typically wore no shoes or some light sandals. He knew, however, that the rocky road was not so well suited for him barefoot. The cloak had two arms that allowed freedom where typical cloaks were only meant to wrap yourself in with. He then marched back, quietly to where the other slaves where.

He used his dagger to free them, and when he gave the go, they all began to flee with their own instincts kicking in. He? He marched off into the night, disappearing into the wilds with only his wits to protect him. Even with the new set of clothing, boots, cloak and dagger, he felt naked without his spear or his sling.

Perhaps he could make one, perhaps he would not have to.

Taking a deep breath, he knew what he had to do. His search must be to impress Myri, and earn the respect of the Taloban army after his capture. He would need a great gift to earn their pardon. His passion for crafting weapons would come in handy. This is what he would do: Learn the secrets of weapon-making and bring back one worthy of legend and myth.

Decided, he grinned, the sharp canines visible even in the dead of night. His tongue would lap every so often at his cheeks, trying to clean what was left of the drying blood from his skin. Zark of the Tempered Steel was free once more.
Posts: 4
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Joined roleplay: March 20th, 2016, 10:43 pm
Race: Myrian
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