Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

[1075] – Y05.075 – Gone II

Adam stared at his reflection, the surface of the water rippling with every breath he took.

He could see it. The fire. He could feel it against his skin, cutting him like a thousand knives.

He could see it. The fire. He could hear the screams of those he killed. He had tried to recall their names, he had made that promise to himself.

He could not remember their names, even though he had made that promise to himself.

He could see it. The blood. The gore. The crushed skull of a Vice Commander.

He could feel it against his skin. Thick sludge, weighing down his shoulders. He scrubbed against his skin, red raw from the hour he had spent in the bath. The water had grown cold, but he had yet to noticed.

As he stared into the reflection of his eyes.

‘Five rounds,’ the half elf thought.

Five rounds.

If they were as strong as Adam expected. If the fight went about as well as he expected, he had estimated the fight to last five rounds. If he could complete his task within five rounds, he had enough time and Mana to flee. He could grab Lucy. Mara? The Iyrmen could help her, he was sure of it.

Rajin sat in the corner, illuminated by the gentle candlelight. He sipped at the alcohol lightly, feeling the gentle warmth dancing through his blood. He continued to sip away at the alcohol, before the one legged Iyrman, dropped down opposite him with a grunt.

Jarot placed down two gold coins and tapped the table twice with two fingers, before he leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, feeling his back crack. He enjoyed the silence while the workers brought over a platter of food for the pair, who had ordered lightly the entire evening, but were about to feast.

“Bordor,” Rajin said. “Grey Claw?”

“Grey Claw,” Jarot confirmed. “I have not heard that name in a long time.”

“His nephew joined the Three Hundred Blades.”

“Grey Claw’s nephew?” Jarot asked, raising his brow questioningly.

“Twelfth Blade.”

“Bordor’s heart must bleed every night,” Jarot said, sipping the wine Rajin poured for him, taking a moment since it tasted so poor, only to recall it was not made by Rajin.

“His brother retired, and his son, he joined…” Rajin waved his fingers, having forgotten which of the various guards the man had joined.

“No one has a sword arm like Grey Claw, not even his brother,” Jarot said.

“Maybe his brother,” Rajin said.

“Maybe,” Jarot said. “Millions of farmers, but only a dozen like Stonesword and Grey Claw.”

“It would be difficult for the King if there were more like Stonesword and Grey Claw.”

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“They leash them well enough, the Grand Duchess, the Order.”

Rajin smiled slightly. “What can the Aldish do, but to leash their people like dogs?”

Jarot shook his head lightly, cutting into the meat now that it had cooled down, tasting it, before sprinkling more salt atop it. He ate the food slowly, only accepting the smallest of morsels. He could barely taste the meat, even after salting it so heavily, barely tasting the salt.

The candle flickered beside them.

“The King’s Blades were refused,” Rajin said.

“Less to kill.”

“Can you do it?”

Jarot stopped cutting into his meat, his eyes slowly tailing upwards to meet Rajin’s. “I am not so old you need to worry of my rage.”

“If you cannot control it, your grandsons will die.”

Jarot stared deep into Rajin’s eyes. “You have grown old, Rajin, that you have need to worry of my rage.”

“Do not forget why we have come. We are old men. Our skin wrinkled. Our blades speckled. It is our right to die, but Jurot? Adam?”

“Eat your steak, Rajin.”

“Say it,” Rajin said.

“…”

“Say it.”

“I can do it,” Jarot assured, biting into his steak. “Can you?”

“I feel cold, Jarot. My bones, they shake in the night. I sleep when it is dark, and I wake when it is still dark. I walk the fields of the Iyr in the morning.” Rajin fell quiet for a long moment, looking through Jarot. “I walk by the cabins. I hear their cries. Their screams.”

“Can you do it?” Jarot asked.

Rajin remained silent for a long moment. He clasped his hands together, rubbing his scarred hands, feeling the warmth spread through them. “I can do it.”

“A stupid question,” Jarot accused.

Rajin slowly nodded his head, and the pair continued to eat in silence, stacking up the gold to one side, and the bottles of wine, which did not soothe their hearts, but warmed their old bones.

A cold breeze welcomed Tonagek as he walked through the dark roads of Red Oak, half of his steps confident, the other half struck by misfortune. The candles in the distance marked the night market, illuminating the few figures, and the guards as they scanned across the market, ready to find any contraband, and the silver which greased their palms for blurred sights. Tonagek sat down upon a bench, his eyes scanning across the night market. As a few people looked his way, he shook his head lightly, and they left him be.

“Should I buy some moonleaf?” Mosen joked, appearing from the darkness, his arm nestled between his blade and thigh.

“I will stab you.”

Mosen shrugged his shoulders, winking at a nearby guard, who may or may not have had any intentions to start trouble with a limping Iyrman, but definitely had no intentions of starting trouble with a limping Iyrman while a heavily scarred Iyrman stood nearby. “A drink, instead?”

“No.”

Mosen chuckled lightly, but fell silent, rather than making any more jokes. “You brought Quiet Rain?”

“They could not deny me the blade.”

“Do you have any intentions of returning to the Iyr?”

“Is that not why you are here?”

Mosen let out a growl of a sigh. “We are not as young as we used to be, brother. Will you continue to trouble me like this?”

Tonagek glanced towards Mosen, his eyes full of an accusatory glare, before his eyes returned to the night market, and the various barrels, and crates, and goods covered under tarps, leaving only vague shapes to the imagination. Tonagek closed his eyes.

‘Father, what is this?’ Tonogek had asked during an outing in Red Oak.

‘A barrel,’ Tonagek had replied, still not used to his son calling him father.

Tonogek had blinked up at his father, waiting expectantly. His hair had been cut by his mother before they had left, so that it kept out of his eyes. He was still young, so only carried a wooden club at his side.

‘It is filled with spices from Aswadasad.’

‘Like dates?’

‘Dates are a fruit, not a spice.’

‘Is tomorrow a fruit?’

‘No.’

‘Not a very good fruit if it is not a fruit,’ the boy said, shaking his head.

‘In the night market they hold different spices, and drugs.’

‘Drugs?’

‘To cloud one’s mind.’

‘Clouds belong in the sky, not in the mind,’ the boy stated.

‘Yes.’ Tonagek ruffled his son’s hair lightly.

Mosen allowed the Iyrman to reminisce upon days long past, his eyes glued to the figures around. A small urchin approached cautiously, holding out her hands in front. Mosen flicked her a silver and a copper before the girl slipped away, while other urchins gave him a questioning look, but the Iyrman shook his head and they dispersed.

“Any problems?” a guard asked, tipping his helmet towards the Iyrman.

“No,” Mosen replied.

The guard and the Iyrman exchanged a look for a long moment, before the guard tipped his helmet, and continued his rounds.

“What did I say about talking to the Iyrmen?” his companion whispered, the woman keeping her voice low.

“Just checking in on them,” the guard replied.

“Do you know who they are?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s Tonagek.”

“Tonagek?”

“His great grandfather used to fight dragons for fun.”

“Yeah, and my great grandfather used to-,”

“Rule the rivers, I’m sure. I’m serious, and you see the other Iyrman?”

“The one in armour?”

“No, that’s Tonagek, the other one’s Mosen.”

“Mosen?” The guard asked. “What kind of name is that?”

“The kind of name that says he’s related to Bloodblade, you son of a ox.”

“Who the fires is Bloodblade?”

‘Oh my gods, he really is stupid,’ the woman thought, glancing aside to the nearby merchants, who noted the look of shock within her eyes. “Did you smoke some moonleaf?”

“No, I just had a little drink before I started my shift. Also, it’s not a ox, it’s an ox.”

“It’s going to be my fist in your throat if you don’t shut your stupid mouth.”

While the marital argument between the two guards continued, Mosen caught the eye of the urchin he had slipped his coin to. He shook his head, and the urchin shrugged her shoulders, before slipping away back into the shadows.

The next morning, Dunes cleaned the blade, eyeing his reflection within the blade. It was a blade that held an enchantment which was identical to one given to a dragon. It was a blade that stated his intentions to his wife, or so he had hoped.

“Dunes,” Jurot called, catching the Priest’s eyes. “May I join you in prayer.”

“Do you have a sword?” Dunes joked, before the pair joined together in prayer. The pair prayed quietly upon their knees, clasping the hilt of their weapons with one hand, their knee with their free hand. The prayers lasted a minute at most, before Dunes turned his head to the side, blowing out a puff of air.

“We will stay at the fort tonight,” Jurot said. “We will make it to the meeting by tomorrow’s noon.”n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

“Noon would be best,” Dunes agreed, smiling slightly. “Lord Noor will be our shield, and Lady Arya, our sword.”

“Baktu, our right,” the Iyrman added.

“Yes,” Dunes said, smiling a sad smile.

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We are so close. I can taste the blood.