The Road of Hero's Transition (S:ARG - The Wandering Swordsman)

[Closetmonster]

That there was a shift in black cloth along the man's cloak could have just as easily been an errant breeze as it might have been a tail or a cantrip set into the weave. The motion was visible only due to the tattered nature of what had once been very fine material, so that like spider silk, the edges of the cloak caught every and any shift of its owner.

The road had the thick ruts in it from multiple carriages through an area which no doubt grew swampy during wet seasons. Someone with hard earned tax money had come back and spilled fine gravel over the road's surface but wagon wheels won and the gravel was pounded into the dust as well as forcibly migrated to the center of the road. No doubt, when it had been initially done, it had helped for a month or longer. No longer, for the ruts forced wagons caught into them, to roll in their premade tracks.

All better that neither of the two men had a wagon or even a handcart. They carried their belongings in large packs, the slighter of the pair having tied his tightly to his body. At his side, he carried two black sheathed blades which peered out from the fore of his cloak though the cloak, tunic, and all the man wore was in black as well, so only a very astute eye may have seen the delicate blade hilts.

With the sun overhead, the slighter of the men was warm under the black turban. He'd changed out both the facial wrap to a lighter cloth, and the charms which he now wore. The charms were those of his own making, to cool his body under all of the unseasonable clothing, utilizing the copper realm coins but with a far stronger magic set upon them. That he chose the charms and not to undress might have been a point of discussion for any one else but for these two, for they held their own secrets and steadfastly guarded one another's privacy from their own selves.

They moved quickly, both accustomed to walking for long distances through all forms of weather. It would have seemed almost as if they had a place to go, a destination and perhaps, in a manner of speaking they did, each one of them with their own journey. That they walked together was more happenstance and some strange, silent camaraderie which decreed their keeping one another company for the miles they'd traveled. So long as their prey stood before them both, they would travel the same road.

[Terminal]

It was therefore fortuitous that the prey both hunted held the same heading. Not together, and certainly not allies as the two men tentatively were, but their quarries nonetheless seemed to reconverge on one another more often than not. Suspiciously often, as a matter of fact - but whatever misgivings held, both men seemed to agree that they owed dues to the other, and so the coincidence was treated just so. They traveled in tandem, and if they made for an odd sight on the road, they were not often accosted for it, probably due in part to the second of the two.

The larger of the men was a Northerner, wearing garb common to the natives of the region - thick cloth that hung loosely as robes so that ice and cold alike were shed from it, with many overlapping layers beneath that allowed freedom of movement, trapped body heat and kept out snow. A hood and cowl obscured their face, leaving empty space only for their eyes. As with most other natives of that cold and dismal region, the figure's robes were adorned with sewn and dyed runic symbols that displayed the nature of the owner. Traders from the province had a certain array indicating their profession, as did smiths and guards and healers - and while Northerners were by no means omnipresent elsewhere, it paid to recognize such emblems, especially since on the open road recognizing one from the other could mean the difference between life and death. The patterning upon the man's robes marked him as a hunter - but strangely, runes for that of a warrior, a questor or perhaps merely a highwayman were also present. This was a man who was used to violence and struggle, and took no issue in letting others know it. And while his companion took some care to hide his weapons, he did not - he carried a tall and intimidating spear, made with finely lacquered black wood that was doubtlessly denser and harder, yet lighter than, steel. Ringlets of glinting metal capped the end of its shaft and ringed the grips, firmly securing them. The blade was finely forged, with a reach that rivaled that of most swords even before some smith had decided to attach it to the end of a stick.

The man, while accustomed to weather harsher and fiercer than merely the sun shining, and despite their swift movement, clearly had not spent much time in the region. The lower portions of his robes were soaked through. It was not the wet season, but a storm had passed through earlier and the area had always been prone to flash-flooding - something that had surprised the man greatly, as he had never before witnessed a body of water larger than a lake (which had probably been frozen over in any case). And so though they forged ahead with swiftness, he appeared ill at ease, keeping his weapon close at hand and firmly held.

And so it went, the few travelers that had passed them had gone out of their way to avoid interaction. A dark stranger of ineffable qualities and a tensed and armed warrior, both silent and as grim as the grave - few cared to know their business.

[Shon Harris]

The rutted and worn road lie patiently. A superior predator to any other, the road waited as if aware that to see satisfaction it must merely be. Should it seek to entice passersby like so many paths, rigidly bending and breaking itself apart, it'd surely scare many away. This was not its nature. Instead the road lie smooth and seemingly endless. Hills in a distance might temporarily hide its view, but those who'd walk it were not shaken. All who walked this path knew that it was a long one -- endless, maybe. All the world seemed to branch from this road. Many a temptation for those with destinations waiting, many an opportunity for those without. What the road might bring was as much a mystery as one's fated departure. That as well. Death. Where there was death there might also be immortality. A gamble indeed. A big risk, but was it any more likely to die on the road than sitting at its edge determining a decision? With every second we die a little more. The road was a choice of how to live and die. A choice to dare fate and follow those ruts carved into gravel in hopes of finding something worthy.

His eyes opened. The earth seemed appeased by a recent storm. All around the dirt looked to have taken more than its share of the gifted waters. He wondered what the rainy seasons would be like with the present weather. Fear, he thought to himself, unfolding his legs and stepping down from a stone. Hand placed over his golden sash, he slipped a sheathed sword between it and his caftan. He eyed his surroundings and slipped on an earth-toned satchel. With his belongings collected there was nothing more to do here. Bowing his head, the man turned to the tree beside the stone. It stood tall, proud, and generous.

"Thank you for the shade," he whispered, as if a prayer, "May I one day return the favour."

Hesitations fell away as his first step landed on the road. He raised the excess of his cowl over his head. Eyes shaded, he looked about in search of a sign at which direction to start this path. This road was such a mystery to him, something stumbled upon while wandering the lands. Humility lowered his head once more as he gazed once more upon the tree. His eyes ran up the trunk, up the body, and out through the branch for which he had been so thankful. The branch pointed parallel to the road. In that direction, he saw two silhouettes in the distance. A smile stretched across his face.

"Two favours."

[Nemaisare]

"Hoy! Beetlebritches! You the rescuin' sort?"

The voice, for all its noise, was a thin sort, as though stretched too far and close to breaking. Perhaps it was the size of the source, after all, small folk have small voices. Ordinarily... Or perhaps it was the circumstances. Small folk also did not usually address big folk. Nor did they particularly enjoy being stuck under a layer of muddy slime and grassroots too heavy to escape. "No, damnit! Don't you dare keep on! I'm here, right here! Oh mercy me, this is disgustin'...."

The speaker squirmed, face screwed up in a miniscule expression of a disgust that was far greater than the measureable size of his body. His arm was wrenched rather uncomfortably behind him, and the weight of the waterlogged grass was too much to lift without use of both arms. He couldn't wriggle free either, not backward or forward or sideways. If he could have, he'd have been long gone, one could be assured of that! The earlier flood had caught him at a most inopportune time, and Isha'd been forced to shin up the nearest stalk of grass, it had cut his fingers on one hand and torn his trousers, and all that trouble had availed him naught. These two were the first of any sort of people to walk by, and he could make out only a few details of black cloth, hence his frustrated nickname, of the one. Among his own, beetles were considered to be hard on the outside, soft on the inside, so calling a person a beetle wasn't an insult. Calling someone beetlebritches, on the other hand... Had different implications. In this instance, however, Isha was mostly refering to the colour of the stranger's clothing.

Twisting as far as he could, he glared desperately through the stalks as they walked by, hoping they'd stop, and gasped as his bent arm twinged. Well, at least it wasn't dislocated, just asleep, and his shoulder hurt like hell. But if these two walked past without stopping to help, he'd be a meal for whatever came along with an empty stomach sure as could be. He didn't want to end that way. No more than he wanted to end starving to death beneath a pile of rotting plants. Had his mother walked by right then, she'd not have recognised her son, so covered was he in mud, but he supposed there was some consolation that he hadn't drowned.

[Closetmonster]

Arlyne paused and cocked his head. He turned his head fully toward his companion, for he had automatically chosen to let the other man walk along his blind side to be another set of eyes there for where he had none. The sound, also, seemed to come from that direction. Then, with a strange, uncanny sweep, his face turned the other way and his eye laid to rest in the general direction of where the small creature was captured.

He frowned, paused in his walk, so that his companion went forward a bit before noting that Arlyne had quit.

“One... moment,” he stated in a voice which was both lilting and dusky, like a voice captured between adulthood and childhood. He lifted his hand between them in an absent sort of gesture then took a hesitant step forward.

For a moment, he seemed to be listening, his head cocked and the one eye which actually functioned sweeping the side of the road, until with a soft “ah,” he nodded and walked quickly to the edge of the road. Amusement danced in the light crinkles of his eyes as he knelt to the ground.

Up close, visible were two eyes, mismatched for one was the pale color of milk, while the other had a radiant burst of gold in the middle of a circle of green hazel. The hazel one searched and finally focused on the small figure there. He blinked, surprise readily apparent for whatever it was he'd been looking for, a miniature person was not it.

“Marie, this?” he murmured in confusion and then reached out as he frowned, slender, dark brows curling down in concentration. The small man was difficult to see, so covered in mud, but as he moved, it was plain that he had arms, legs, and that he was of human shape. If not that, then the small face was clear enough to at least be obviously recognizeable.

“Gods, but you're,” he hesitated, then drew his hand back and carefully removed his glove. “Here now, let's have you free, hmm?” he spoke in pleasant tones, quiet and as if they were in confidence as he then plucked at the grasses. They were in a thick clump, it was lucky the little man hadn't simply drowned actually. The mud itself, while it would have been not worth a moment's thought of Arlyne's time, was obviously quite a danger for someone so small. It was almost laughable how easily he moved the grasses and released the small figure. He pulled back and watched it, waiting to see if it would dissipate as no doubt such men did, for he'd only ever heard tale of them and despite his extensive travels, had never managed to lay eye on a single one until that moment.

He crouched, relaxed and calmly curious over the small figure though he would not have been had his other eye functioned half so well as his primary. For he could not see the approaching figure, nor did he hear it while so focused on what seemed to him to be something of a natural miracle. “Have you seen any thing so amazing, He Who Lies?” he reared back to call to his companion, loathe to look away for fear he'd lose sight of what he could not finally view fully free of the grass. Truthfully, he would never have even taken note of it had he not been alarmed by Marie's misted form lost in her own amazement hovering over the wee man. Then again, ghosts were the type to see things more clearly than when they had been alive.

[Terminal]

He Who Lies did not have bad hearing, but with his hood fully drawn discerning such a low voice was not likely. The small-folk man's voice was unheard by him, and he continued on until he noticed that his erstwhile partner had suddenly stopped.

"What is it?" He asked. His voice smoothed and aged with weariness and wariness alike infused within it - but granted his voice a certain pleasant resonance, if not tone. Arlyne waved absently with a hand, and the Northerner fell silent. Had he spotted a threat? He appeared to be listening carefully. Against his own better judgment, He Who Lies pulled down his hood in order to hear better. His revealed face was slightly rounded, and while weathered it remained smooth and retained a softness to it. He had a large shock of wild hair, dark but also greyed. The man was in his autumn years, but had aged gracefully, so it seemed. His lips were thin and set in the barest of frowns, though his eyes held no scorn within to match the look. It seemed more that frowning was simply the man's regular expression. His eyes narrowed as Arlyne made for the side of the road, and followed behind him with spear leveled and prepared to lance out into the muck and grass if necessary.

Arlyne murmured excitedly as he reached into the grasses to free the small, trapped man. "Proceed with care and expediency." He Who Lies said in a low voice. "...Wait, what is...?" He finally got a good look at the small man as Arlyne easily swept aside the grasses and mud weighing him down. He Who Lies blinked several times in confusion at the sight. He supposed it was well and proper that Arlyne had saved the small man from a sticky end, but the Northerner could not comprehend his enthusiasm. He drew back his spear as Arlyne freed the small creature, as it was clearly not a threat. Or at least not one that he felt confident about being able to run through at such a close range. Paranoia crept back into the larger man's mind, and he turned to survey the road in case this was the premise for an ambuscade - he heard and saw nothing out of sort, save for the receding storm in the distance.

He squinted. No. There was something else as well...there was a tree further down the road, and the silhouette of another person...

He Who Lies flinched as his name was spoke aloud.

"Might you refrain from bandying my name around as you might the charmed currency you wear?" He asked in a scathing tone, scowling and not even turning to face the two. "There is no telling who or what may be listening to us. Make haste with your fawning, least our respective quarries outpace us - and take heed, a wayfarer descends upon us."

[Shon Harris]

After a moment of scrambling the two figures ahead produced a third from the earth. Seeing it was enough to urge his hand to the hilt of his blade. His free hand spun the beads laced upon the mala wrapped around his left wrist. A quiet prayer for good intentions, for peaceful resolutions, for something good. The walk toward the figures matched with the ritual calmed his nerves. As much as it looked like the start of an ambush, it just so easily could have been innocent rough housing. Not worth any bloodshed. Regardless, his right hand rested on his sword. He glanced down to it, his hand, ensuring that what was exposed by his caftan was still tightly wrapped in black cloth. They need not know.

The Pilgrim approached the group with awe-inspired eyes. To them it might seem he was looking through the group, but he meant no disrespect. He had never seen such fog in the day before. Off in a distance further down the road, if one were to diverge from the path there seemed to be a few buildings. That unnatural fog hazed his view though. Wait, he paused the thought, unnatural fog? For many years he'd heard of this very thing, but he always thought it a folklore to make youth more appreciative. Could it have been a warning? He shut his eyes a moment. By now the group was growing quite near. He would make no assumptions about the land in a distance unless there stood the two mountains. Stories from long ago kept just out of reach of his memory. The Pilgrim remembered the fog though, the two mountains, and the chilled feeling he'd get when hearing the tale. Here and now, he reminded himself, focus.

Of the group only two appeared much of a threat. One, the least of his concern, seemed to have been pulled from out some dirty hole. A half-ling or person of little height, but he felt an air of cheer about the fellow. The other two felt a bit more complex -- obscured. A looming and dark figure, the first to see the Pilgrim approach, watched with a steady eye. The dark figure seemed to have announced something, but since none drew weapons it might be a simple warning. This man dressed as if emulating the spawn of the night. True, darkness might embrace him, but the Pilgrim knew that its only true ally was one who'd sacrifice all. A disturbing thought. Yet, this darkly dressed man did not feel so disturbing. Lastly, a Northerner spear-man whose attention was largely still fixed on the half-ling. Maybe the more empathetic of the two taller man, but also more visibly armed. He knew the man was a Northerner from the robes draped over his body, layering here and there. Such dress was not too far off the Pilgrim's home. After all, his home lie south a few days ride to a Northern tribe. Thinking about it, though, the Pilgrim knew little about their people.

Raising a hand, the Pilgrim called out, "Forgive my intrusion, do you all need a hand? Does this to do with the smoke up-ahead?"

[Nemaisare]

Yes! Please…

Isha’s eyes narrowed as he twisted his neck into contortions it wasn’t built for while trying to do something a little more constructive than stare at the sky. he could hear the footsteps pausing, then coming, hesitantly, yes, hesitantly closer. And soon enough the cloth transformed into a human wearing black. A man. Both facts he’d already deduced in the interim of first hearing the steps and shouting to catch their attention. He could hear words too, heavy things that fell too fast, for all they spoke far more calmly than he had, for his ears to make much of.

There! Finally, the giant figure crouched beside him and covered half the sky Isha had been able to see, and he let his neck relax. Spines were not built to bend that way…

Still, he was compelled to express his nervous energy somehow as he found himself the subject of interest this man chose to focus on. While it had been his plan all along to win some form of help, the very simple fact that instinct was reminding him humans and big folk weren’t meant to see his kind made his stomach curl. As though some carpenter was shaving bits away and each curlicue was misgiving. The spearpoint floating a few feet away did not help matters greatly. He wriggled, trying again to free himself. A futile effort that sent the blood rushing from his face beneath the mud as his shoulder protested the movement again. It was unfortunate that the next thing he heard was of no use to him, and he latched onto the incredulity with a fierce will to remind the man that he wasn’t there to gawp.

“Small? Unreal? Rude? Stuck in a sodding mud pit with a giant starin’ at me no ‘elp of any sort!” As tended to happen during moments of extreme duress, isha’s words ran away on him, and his voice rose to shrill volume as he gave the man a green-eyed glare through narrowed eyelids. Thankfully, his persistence won him the help he’d been looking for, whether or not it had already been on the man’s mind to do something beyond staring.

When the grasses were lifted, he grimaced and sucked in a breath through his teeth, rolling onto his front to free his trapped arm. Suddenly, his energy deserted him, and he found it so much of a struggle to push himself upright that he might have believed the black-clad fellow had dumped the grasses on him again. Amusing himself at the wee man’s expense… He’d seen the children of humans at play; he knew how man often entertained himself. The remembered spear gave him strong enough motivation to ignore his fatigue and sit up with a grimace. Had he lain there much longer he might have discovered the mud was wet enough to drown him in as gritty a death as he’d ever heard of. Thankfully, he suffered from neither drowning by mud nor a renewed reason to fear. The bigger man had set his weapon against the earth. He’d not be using it.

Still, Isha could not help his suspicions. Circumstances being what they were, his honour would not allow him to vanish into the grass not three of his steps behind him. They’d never find him again, good intentions or no. In all fairness, the mud he would need to pull himself free of might make that exit a clumsy one besides. But the one now staring as though he’d grown two heads and was speaking in tongues had been kind enough to help, and for all that he might have rescued himself had he the use of both his arms at the time, Isha’s life had been spared solely through the man’s actions. He owed him a debt. A debt was not repaid by running off into the weeds. Or at least, it wasn’t properly acknowledged.

He grimaced and forced his shoulder to rotate, trying to massage some life back into his dead arm. It had gone to sleep all the way past the elbow, if he ever felt his fingers again, he was quite certain it wouldn’t be without a great deal of awkward pins and needles between then and now. Damn…

Flinching into a standing position and halfway through dragging his foot into the first running step, Isha paused mid-stride with the realisation that the sudden movement on the part of the man above him had been nothing dangerous. It had not even implied danger of another sort. Hissing out a curse, he glared at the man, the arch of whose boots came to his midsection. “I’m no thing, beetlebritches. M’a miskin” And covered in mud as he was, it seemed likely the man who showed rather less interest in him had seen a more amazing sight. A cleaner one, too. Rather than remark on this little fact, however, he turned his scowl on the other. He hadn’t really done much of use as far as Isha was concerned. “Garn away ye. Isn’t a thing listenin’ as unnerstands round here. Exceptin’ that fellow.”

He flicked his head towards the man neither he nor the black-clad fellow had noticed until he’d been pointed out, unwilling to give up massaging his arm back to life simply to point. “Been lying there full on half the day, haven’t I? Nothin’s been by.” Luckily or unluckily, from his perspective. He muttered the words before tendering a sketchy sort of bow to his rescuer.

“In your debt, sir. And doubly so I might borrow your shoulder as you go? I’ve no destination, and more need to satisfy honour.” He could address nothing brought up by the newcomer until he could see this smoke for himself. A vantage point would do him well, but as he could not climb one handed, he was forced to again request help. Besides which, the grasses that surrounded them now were not the sort up to supporting his weight.

[Closetmonster]

The black clad man hadn't a habit of such childish awe in general. It was, perhaps that his main traveling companion was so stern and recalcitrant that he'd come to the late habit of lightness. And yet he was not alone in his view of a tale made real, for Marie, in her silent and unannounced nearness had a delight to her for which Arlyne could not help but recall childhood and the multitude of adventures she'd brought them all on - before.

He smiled, though the smile showed only in his eyes. “Miskin, is it?” he asked, then turned his head to look at his companion, his gaze caught on the approaching stranger. He kept his gaze on the man who came closer, but his face tilted back to the man who stood at his side. “I did not think of any others, I will not repeat the mistake,” he stated, for in truth, he had known quite well that his companion was not comfortable with bandying his name about. It was less a name in Arlyne's mind and a great deal more a title. He hadn't had cause to think of anything else to use while talking to the man. There had been no need to do so. They had only been the pair of them for some time and they'd been a silent, focused pairing as well. The road called to them and they had gone.

It had been nothing more than a murmured apology, if apology it could be called, and he lowered his voice even further as the man came upon them. When the man made no aggressive move and Arlyne's companion was more than capable of engaging should the man make the mistake of being unfriendly (though he seemed friendly enough to be sure) Arlyne turned his attention back to the tiny creature and allowed the men behind him to discuss the path and smoke and whatever else concerned them.

“No debt, small friend,” he reached for the small man, offering his ungloved finger as a means to help the man up, for he seemed to be in an exhausted state, still sitting in the mud. “But if you'd like, you're welcome to my shoulder until you come to wherever you wish to go.” He had heard of the small people able to travel great distances by way of bird, deer, even magical roads set into the mouse holes. If the man wished to travel by way of shoulder, what was Arlyne to say? Besides, he hadn't seen Marie so happy as she whisked about his shoulders and nestled into the fox fur attached loosely to the shoulders of his cloak, her ghost weight being nothing more than that of a small tuft of breeze.

As he helped the small man to his feet, Arlyne drew from a pocket a small white handkerchief. He waited for the small man to gain the road, then offered the square of cotton. It was delicate, a lady's favor, but it showed wear of the road, just as the rest of him did.

Remaining stooped, he turned his attention back to the others while the smaller man cleared the greater part of debris from himself. There had been mention of smoke and while he had noted some mist on the road, he couldn't say he'd been attending enough to have noted smoke just yet. It wasn't that he disbelieved the newcomer, more that he was intrigued, for smoke to be mentioned meant more than the wispy drifts of a campfire.

[Terminal]

He Who Lies left Arlyne to continue fawning over Miskin. In truth, he felt that with the approach of another stranger, this very well could be a staged ambush - a seemingly helpless small-man who might distract travelers and preoccupy one or two while a larger partner took the opportunity to close in. The small-man could have moved to blind Arlyne by striking at his eyes, or perhaps have revealed a comically small blade and slashed at the wrists, while the stranger rushed in with his blade. However, the Northerner's paranoia did not come to fruition - the strange pilgrim carried a sheathed blade, but made no move to draw it as he approached. He Who Lies made a point of angling his spear ever-so-slightly, blade still pointing skywards but also extending the amount of space about his person that was unofficially off-limits, given that it would be mighty uncomfortable to stand underneath the blade of a spear.

"Your assistance shall not be needed. My companion chanced upon a burdened..." He Who Lies briefly glanced at Miskin, considering what to call it. It had expressly requested that they not refer to it as a thing, and he doubted it would appreciate being referred to as a child, an animal or a fairy. "...fellow, who appears no worse for wear. If you refer to the surrounding fog, it is only due to the storm which passed this way previously - it shall probably fade in due time."

There was a brief pause, and then the Northerner's eyes widened very slightly - his speech had not been twisted within his last statement. Was the creature's power growing so, that the aftermath of its passage marked the very air itself for all time? He silently cursed this foolish plan of his. He had underestimated the resourcefulness of Arlyne's brother, who had somehow managed to escape the storm, but not before the creature had sensed the impending bloodshed hanging over his head. It was too late to turn back now, and leaving Arlyne to try and orchestrate an incident that would pry the beast's attention away from the fleeing brother would be unlikely to succeed, with how fast the latter was moving. And with the horror heading South, it would leave a trail of inhospitable conditions in its wake, making their journey all the harder and potentially throwing the lands themselves out of balance, if this fog had truly been caused by its passing.

...They would need to quicken their pace, so as to catch up before Arlyne's fallen brother decided to ring the world.

He recovered from his shock quickly, not wanting to let his guard down around the pilgrim. He took a moment to look the man up and down, making note of his garb - it was commonly worn by locals of the lower portions of the Northern regions, those who were not viewed as 'true' Northerners. The two peoples did not interact often, often minding little of the other's business, and so He Who Lies knew next to nothing of them or what sort of person the pilgrim may have been. However, he supposed at the very least the two peoples had managed to live next-door to each other peacefully for several centuries. It was unlikely the pilgrim held any cultural animosity for them, unless Arlyne's garb was indicative of some far-flung nationality that He Who Lies was not aware of.

"We travel from lands above here to those below, seeking an end to joint means. What brings you from the tundras adjoining the great Northern desert to the steppes, stranger? You do not look to be about on business." At least, he assumed - the pilgrim was not carrying any baggage, save a small satchel - unless he was a courier by profession, it did not seem likely he was traveling out of necessity.