Atroxa
New Member
Lies are the Plague of Speech - Arabic Proverb
The clash of steel and the tang of blood on the air were an all too familiar combination for Alath. Violence and death in battle were simple a part of her life, her blood. But this was different. Faces smeared with blood and twisted in agony came and went in her vision, faces she knew, people she loved. They were calling her name, their voices a wailing chorus of pain and sorrow, she tried to block them out, slashing with her sword wildly, trying to fight off her enemies and the accusations of her dying tribe. Pain exploded through her as a sword pierced her body, and her mind shattered into a thousand bitter shards, falling into the blood-soaked sand to become a part of the sun scorched dunes.
Alath woke with a scream, jerking up right and waving her dagger around in her terror, her body soaked in a cold sweat. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a red glow over her small camp under a clump of scraggly trees, and Alath's stomach turned as she looked at the sand, reminded of the blood soaked sand in her dream, a dream she had often. Jade green eyes shut to ward off the image and she pushed her wavy black hair out of her face, where it was trying to cling to her damp skin. She was still clutching her dagger in her hand, and put it away, grabbing some branches from the pile nearby and tossing them onto the sleeping fire. Slowly, small tongues of flame woke, licking the fuel hungrily.
'It's just a dream you know,' a voice said in her head, the tone a mixture of condescension and assurance. Alath turned her head to look at Nasim, her only companion. The small bay stallion was watching her curiously, the fire reflected in his deep brown eyes. "I know," She muttered aloud. "I don't think you do," he countered disapprovingly. Alath just frowned, she didn't feel like arguing. She knew what Nasim meant, that it was all in her head, that is wasn't the ghosts of her loved ones blaming her for their deaths. Alath still couldn't help but feel that it was though. A classic case of survivor's guilt, not that she knew of such a thing, and if she did she'd deny that's what she was experiencing, the guilt seemed justified to her. "They would not hate you simply because you lived," he told her, the harshness of his tone gone, only seeming calm and reassuring now. Alath did not answer for a long moment. "I left them," Alath whispered, prodding the fire with a branch.
The sky was already beginning to lighten in the West when she had awoken, the twin moons hanging low over the East horizon, so Alath had gotten up and begun to pack. She gave Nasim his breakfast to shut him up, and brewed some tea over the fire while she ate some biscuits and chewed on goat jerky. The hot herbal tea warmed and calmed her, and by the time she was finished packing camp and saddling Nasim, she felt much better. Alath never felt completely right though. Not any more.
She and Nasim had been making their way East from town to town, taking work when they found it, as they traveled to Rasuul, the royal city of Kha'Lail. It was one of the largest cities in the country, built on the banks of one of the few stable rivers in Kha'Lail, though it dwindled into nothing further into the desert. But there, in the foot hills of the Draagon Mountains, run off from melting snow and the storms hat seemed to ever linger at the peaks formed the Hamara River, which Rasuul was built beside. The mountains were dangerous. Ogres, orcs, dragons, and many other ferocious beasts called them home, but water was so rare in the desert, the location was considered worth the risk. These creatures regularly came down into the valleys and foot hills to raid, and while this meant that Alath could almost always find some work, she didn't particularly like fighting monsters, so she hoped she could find more domestic work in the city.
Sometimes, Alath wondered if it would have been better to have died with her tribe than live this shameful life. With all of her tribe dead or enslaved, she had no loyalty, and staying alive and having food to eat had taken a higher priority than her honor. So, Alath was now a mercenary. Fighting was all she knew, really, so her sword drew blood for anyone with enough gold, water, or food to offer her. She fought battles, hunted bounties, protected people, whatever task required a warrior with enough skill to be paid for their services. Mercenaries were blights on society, men without honor. And now, she was one of them. Her father and uncle would be so ashamed.
They stopped at mid day to wait out the extreme heat under some trees, then continued on, the sand beginning to harden and pack together into a more rocky terrain. Finally the shining city of Rasuul glimmered on the horizon, the hulking mass of the mountains forming a back drop. This was not their first visit to Rasuul, so Nasim took them, without prompting, to the inn they always stayed at, the Seeking Hound, the two travel weary and just wanting to get out of the sun for a day or two.
The clash of steel and the tang of blood on the air were an all too familiar combination for Alath. Violence and death in battle were simple a part of her life, her blood. But this was different. Faces smeared with blood and twisted in agony came and went in her vision, faces she knew, people she loved. They were calling her name, their voices a wailing chorus of pain and sorrow, she tried to block them out, slashing with her sword wildly, trying to fight off her enemies and the accusations of her dying tribe. Pain exploded through her as a sword pierced her body, and her mind shattered into a thousand bitter shards, falling into the blood-soaked sand to become a part of the sun scorched dunes.
Alath woke with a scream, jerking up right and waving her dagger around in her terror, her body soaked in a cold sweat. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a red glow over her small camp under a clump of scraggly trees, and Alath's stomach turned as she looked at the sand, reminded of the blood soaked sand in her dream, a dream she had often. Jade green eyes shut to ward off the image and she pushed her wavy black hair out of her face, where it was trying to cling to her damp skin. She was still clutching her dagger in her hand, and put it away, grabbing some branches from the pile nearby and tossing them onto the sleeping fire. Slowly, small tongues of flame woke, licking the fuel hungrily.
'It's just a dream you know,' a voice said in her head, the tone a mixture of condescension and assurance. Alath turned her head to look at Nasim, her only companion. The small bay stallion was watching her curiously, the fire reflected in his deep brown eyes. "I know," She muttered aloud. "I don't think you do," he countered disapprovingly. Alath just frowned, she didn't feel like arguing. She knew what Nasim meant, that it was all in her head, that is wasn't the ghosts of her loved ones blaming her for their deaths. Alath still couldn't help but feel that it was though. A classic case of survivor's guilt, not that she knew of such a thing, and if she did she'd deny that's what she was experiencing, the guilt seemed justified to her. "They would not hate you simply because you lived," he told her, the harshness of his tone gone, only seeming calm and reassuring now. Alath did not answer for a long moment. "I left them," Alath whispered, prodding the fire with a branch.
The sky was already beginning to lighten in the West when she had awoken, the twin moons hanging low over the East horizon, so Alath had gotten up and begun to pack. She gave Nasim his breakfast to shut him up, and brewed some tea over the fire while she ate some biscuits and chewed on goat jerky. The hot herbal tea warmed and calmed her, and by the time she was finished packing camp and saddling Nasim, she felt much better. Alath never felt completely right though. Not any more.
She and Nasim had been making their way East from town to town, taking work when they found it, as they traveled to Rasuul, the royal city of Kha'Lail. It was one of the largest cities in the country, built on the banks of one of the few stable rivers in Kha'Lail, though it dwindled into nothing further into the desert. But there, in the foot hills of the Draagon Mountains, run off from melting snow and the storms hat seemed to ever linger at the peaks formed the Hamara River, which Rasuul was built beside. The mountains were dangerous. Ogres, orcs, dragons, and many other ferocious beasts called them home, but water was so rare in the desert, the location was considered worth the risk. These creatures regularly came down into the valleys and foot hills to raid, and while this meant that Alath could almost always find some work, she didn't particularly like fighting monsters, so she hoped she could find more domestic work in the city.
Sometimes, Alath wondered if it would have been better to have died with her tribe than live this shameful life. With all of her tribe dead or enslaved, she had no loyalty, and staying alive and having food to eat had taken a higher priority than her honor. So, Alath was now a mercenary. Fighting was all she knew, really, so her sword drew blood for anyone with enough gold, water, or food to offer her. She fought battles, hunted bounties, protected people, whatever task required a warrior with enough skill to be paid for their services. Mercenaries were blights on society, men without honor. And now, she was one of them. Her father and uncle would be so ashamed.
They stopped at mid day to wait out the extreme heat under some trees, then continued on, the sand beginning to harden and pack together into a more rocky terrain. Finally the shining city of Rasuul glimmered on the horizon, the hulking mass of the mountains forming a back drop. This was not their first visit to Rasuul, so Nasim took them, without prompting, to the inn they always stayed at, the Seeking Hound, the two travel weary and just wanting to get out of the sun for a day or two.