Aemoten
The bleak autumn light offered no warmth at this hour, and the air felt damp and strangely devoid of oxygen. He was vaguely aware - despite of his foggy mind and closed eyes - that the strange foreign man was still looking at him, now appearing clueless more than anything else. He did not care.
Could not care. No presence of mind left to care, even if he wanted to. Just the scraping pain in his throat and upper chest, exhaustion, and the vague feeling that he was falling each time he tried moving his head. Tilting his head back seemed to somewhat alleviate the latter sensation.
There was a thud somewhere to this side, oddly muffled, and footsteps soon after. And the restless trampling of a now-riderless horse which was now actively considering his chances of getting away from the terrorbeast not far from him without either his human berating him or the said terrorbeast taking after him at the sight of him fleeing. And then there the occasional gust of wind - rustle of leaves and long grass. Nothing else. Almost peaceful.
He had been through wars. The waiting - in darkness, in rain, in heat... Plate armor would have been murder in the heat and rain of the far southwestern climate; they themselves were always either lightly armored, typically in leather, or not at all. Sekalyns did not march far in lined formations, either. They held ground and waited, or they crept forward, took position, and waited. Swords were perhaps the most definitive weapons of Sekalynic warriors, but none of them hesitated to use the advantage higher ground and arrows and bolts could offer. Or polearms, where those were appropriate - sometimes a shorter and more versatile weapon was preferable. Thicket, trees and jagged terrain changed odds and the way you had to fight further. You
used the terrain.
Lower Sekalyns and the Northeasterners at least had their share of flat terrain - and the northeasterners with their somewhat more humane climate were the only Sekalyns who could somewhat frequently be seen in metal armor when going to battle -, but the Middle, Upper and Higher Sekalyns predominantly resided on jungled cliffs.
Tek - easily defensible settlement.
Tek Naretenet. Tek Atokeanet. Tek Iatkanet. But there was always waiting. Waiting for an attack. Out-waiting an enemy. Sometimes intervention was not even necessary; disease was a wicked killer in and of itself, and people of foreign lands fell to the maladies native to jungles easily. Heck, go into the deeper, more marshlike sections of the jungle, and even the Sekalyns began to contract some manner of nasty fever. Locals eventually became immune to the places they lived, one could come to realize, but foreigners had no such luck... And then there was simple rot. What was unclean, rotted there. No wonder many northlanders considered representatives of the Sekalynic culture neat-freaks...
But at other times, men and women died by blade. Because there was no other way.
There is no honor in killing nor glory in war, from no bloodshed fame shall arise. [...] For blood is blood in the veins of all, and same is the way in which it flows from wounds. Loss of moral after a number of skirmishes was a thing, but these men and women knew how to cope with loss. They could fight despite it,
through it. Even after the waiting. (There was always waiting.) Despite hunger and lack. Through the hopelessness. Or following a retreat. Sometimes retreat was necessary, or all would be lost. Better fight another day, than... They would be weakened, but not broken. Only one more useless than a broken man was one who was dead.
You took care of your people.
And yourself. "You're barely able to stay in the saddle," he heard Jaelnec's voice, and felt someone's hand on his arm.
"Is there anything I can do?" "Broken men do not win battles," he mumbled, seemingly unrelated to Jaelnec's question, and perhaps unaware of the Nightwalker's question altogether. He had not discernibly moved yet. "Nor save worlds."
The foreign warrior let out his last breath in a shaky sigh, opened his eyes, and looked down at the Nightwalker. The ground attempted to flow to the left, but after he had been still for a bit and blinked a few times, it settled to its original form.
The black-haired man seemed to inspect Jaelnec more closely now that he was on the same level as him, and then took a step to the side and twisted his torso to be able to comfortably look at his com sitting up in the tree.
"Look at the younger man's eyes; I don't think he's human. If there was any doubt - with the dekkun
and all, then I think this at least confirms they're not some of those nonhuman-slayer-folks." The foreign man remarked to her, once more in his native.
"Since they're going to Zerul City
anyway, we could just stick with them, what do you think? I doubt that any random band of cultists dares bother us all with that beast tagging along." Iridiel shifted slightly, unsure of their course of action... On the one hand, if the new grouping betrayed them, she, Domhnall and Claw would have very little chance to escape and would likely end up slaughtered, or enslaved. On the other, they could prove to be powerful allies in combat...
She thought for a long time, her head bowed and her hair falling over her face, masking it from Domhnall unintentionally...
"Safety in numbers, Domhnall. We had best stay with them." The man - whose expression he could not see since he was now practically back to them - just nodded briefly upon hearing the woman's reply, and turned back to the newcomers.
The foreign warrior stared dully at the exchange. For obvious reasons, he could not comprehend what was said, but it did not seem to be of concern. Not like his judgment was the most trustworthy at the time being.
"It is as I said..." he noted to Jaelnec. "Not much can be done. I need rest." He sounded morose, and disturbingly faint. "I won't hold till Zerul City. Suspected I wouldn't. Before we ... left, that is." From there the instructions he had given to Jaelnec. "Didn't want to raise it. Leaving behind that place was more important, and not... Did not want to worry others. Her. She's enough to deal with as is. Don't want to tell her it would be a longer stop, either, but..." He made a vaguely resigned gesture with his non-weight-carrying hand, barely more than just lifting his fingers. "If the loss of a couple of hours means I'll be coherent enough to understand what people tell me, it is worth it. Objectively, anyway." Things had the tendency of going much more smoothly when you were at least capable of thinking properly.
"Could stay here; we're not in too much of a hurry," the black-haired man offered. "We're headed for Zerul City, too, so could stick together for that, too... Bandits and these Crusader-folks out there, on the roads. You don't look like either to me." He shrugged, spreading his arms with the motion, and subsequently seemed to only now notice that he was
still holding a knife on his hand. He looked at it with a mildly surprised-confused expression, and then stuck it into a sheathe on his belt. "I'm Domhnall, by the way, and she" - he gestured at the woman up in the tree - "is Iridiel."
"I ... see," the foreign warrior commented, pausing for a bit too long after that. "I would be Aemoten. Etakar's name you know already. Well met."
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