Solitude was a simple thing.
The veil of night had fallen over the highlands after Kasrjin had departed from the graveyard, and with it came the deadly chill. There was no fanfare of biting wind or howling of a great storm to accompany the demise of warmth; naught remained but a raw, brisk silence. A brilliant tapestry of stars enveloped the heavens above, solemnly gleaming against the night blue sky, poignantly lighting his surroundings in a pale silver light.
He adjusted the furs around him, thin eyebrows twitching in surprise at the western continent's surprisingly hostile environment. The glaciers and mountains among which he had occupied with the majority of his life were unforgiving, and the winters were as fearsome a foe as any number of black-armoured intruders. It would seem that this region was not lacking any number of fangs in that regard; he'd abandoned the metal spaulder and unfolded a short, folded shawl, lined in vanilla-coloured fur that matched his tunic. His boots crunched in the snow, punctuated by the cry of wolves splitting the air and the occasional beating of draconian wings.
His patrol of the area was an experience of contrasts. More than once he'd buried himself beneath snow or lain flat against rocky outcroppings to avoid the wildlife or an errant patrol of knights. At other times, his march was surrounded by nothing but hills, mountains, and snow, with nothing to threaten him for miles other than his own thoughts.
In a way, the latter was far more dangerous to him.
With the sky clear, it would be a simple matter for him to return to the settlement; the grey towers of the fortification he had passed through to enter the highlands peaked in a black silhouette against the glittering canvas above him. Thus, the Xaela felt rather confident in exploring as far as he felt the need to, so long as those towers were within his eyesight. Emerald eyes flashed in the darkness, glancing at everything of note and then some. The seclusion was comforting in a way, and heartrending in another. It had been a nigh uncountable number of suns since he'd landed on the western continent, and though the number of people around Kasrjin had increased considerably, his chest still felt the dark grasp of isolation tugging at him.
Solitude was a thoughtful thing.
His contemplation and his march practically skidded to a halt. He found himself atop a cliff, just visible enough to see the fires of a secluded military camp that was huddled beneath the stony embrace of an imposing escarpment. What startled him was not his location, however, but the sight he was greeted with that had escaped his conscious notice until he was almost right on top of it.
It was a heavy wooden stake, a head and a half taller than him in height, the end sharpened to a fearsome point. And upon it lay the lazily-shrouded body of an Au Ra, a ragged length of tarp barely covering the body's torso. The body was a male Xaela, like himself, though from whom or where he had come from was impossible to tell. The body had obviously been discarded for a disconcerting amount of time, for the telltale blue-green tinge of frostbite had long claimed the body in a frozen rigor mortis and various bits of chilled flesh had been picked by what carrion could brave the harsh cold. Splatterings of dry blood could barely be seen crawling down the length of the stake, though they too had frozen in the chill. The Au Ra's horns had been hacked off with some manner of implement, the horns themselves nowhere to be seen, and though his eyes were closed, his mouth and face had stretched in pain.
Kasrjin stood stock still at the sight. It was the second of such he'd seen, and though it did not shock him, the message it carried was blatantly aware.
He wasn't welcome here.
His hand found itself reaching towards the leather-wrapped handle of his sword, but upon grasping it, he stopped.
"Do your people not mourn those who have passed on?"
His right hand still lay clenched upon the sword handle, but his left reached into a pocket that had idly been sewn into the folds of his tunic.
His left hand grasped the smooth, obsidian pebble. The instant he did, a small, slight burst of warmth spread from his arm to the rest of his body. He could feel even through his gloved hands the engraving that Tsanai had carved into it.
His hand dropped from the hilt of his sword.
Kasrjin's hand pulled a knife from within the folds of wide outer sleeves. The rigid length of tiger tooth that Nayaga had painstakingly formed into a fearsome blade--despite the scout's admitted clumsiness with tools--easily buried itself deep into the brittle length of the wooden stake. The durable tips of Erdeni's immaculate leather gloves that wrapped his hands made short work of the frozen dirt and snow at the base of the stake, loosening the earth's hold on the shaft.
"You do seem intolerant of any sentimentality."
His hand reached into his tunic again, grasping Tsanai's runestone. Another jolt of energy coursed itself through him. It was weaker than the first, and barely perceptible, like a final weak heartbeat, but it was enough.
With the soil loosened, Kasrjin had managed to bend the stake enough for him to stand with one leg on the ground and the other planted firmly against the hilt of the planted knife. With a heave and a grunt, he planted the top of his head and the palm of his hands firmly against the corpse's back.
His ever stoic frown across his face, the Xaela grunted and heaved against the frosted cadaver, with each headbutt and shove of his hands the length of dead weight moved off of the shaft. After several attempts of this, Kasrjin moved to the front of the stake where the fearsome point lay aimed almost at his head. Still panting, the brisk night air biting the inside of his lungs, he bent his legs beneath the body and, with a final mighty shove, forced the body off of the stake.
The dead Xaela's stiff corpse unceremoniously popped off the stake like a cork, and the tortured pose the body held prevented it from rolling.
The combination of the exertion and the cold had robbed Kasrjin of his breath, and he bent with his hands against his knees to recover. As he did, veridian eyes glowed to examine his deceased compatriot.
Solitude was a tiresome thing.
"The dead should not burden the living."
Familiar words. His own.
After a few minutes, he set about to work, gloves reaching into the soil and snow both, peppering the body in a blanket of churned dirt.
He shouldn't be here.
Kasrjin, in an odd display, circled the body, his knees bent and feet shuffling, throwing snow and dirt clumsily with both hands onto the body until an awkwardly conspicuous mound had formed over it. A conveniently adjacent rock served as a headstone.
An uncelebrated grave for an equally uncelebrated individual, whose name would forever be lost.
He tossed the harness, sword and all, away from him and collapsed next to the grave, thudding next to it in a slouching sit. A snowfall had begun, his only company after such an endeavour.
Solitude was a lonesome thing.
A hand reached in to touch the runestone again, but it had no more comfort to give. Isolation's dark grip tugged at him again. The stoic frown still lay artificially plastered on his face, and he felt an ache between his chest. A finger lay on the rune stone and traced the engraving. It was complex, but by now he could recall the pattern through muscle memory alone.
His right hand tugged at the base of the glove wrapping his left. It was made perfectly to size, as always. Not a seam or scratch in sight, so carefully was the leather treated and stitched.
The bone knife still gleamed at him in the dark, the immaculate polish on the piece reflecting the moonlight.
With the snow between his fingers, he closed his eyes, his head resting on the palm of his hand.
He could almost imagine familiar mountain passes.
The sprig of evergreen hemlock that had been woven into the collar of his tunic had lost its scent. He breathed deep, and exhaled.
He could feel his chin begin to tremble, and it was not because of the cold.
It was a distant memory, that feeling of clarity. Of certainty. A terrified eye shot itself towards the grave next to him. Hacked off horns. Left on a stake. Nameless, and with none to know the cause.
Feelings that were a distant memory.
The sensation would be forgotten, with time.
He shouldn't be here.
Solitude was a painful thing.
A wolf's howl jolted him from his reverie. Instinct took over. A hand reached for Ersugen's flawless sword, before cognition reminded him that he had tossed it away from him. Impulse commanded his muscles, and he scrambled for his weapon and its harness.
The howl came again. His hands frozen in fear.
His mind finally acknowledged the sound. It was too far away to be a threat.
For several long seconds that felt like years, Kasrjin lay sprawled on the dirt and snow, hand frozen in desperation to reach the length of blued steel.
His fingers grasped the leather-wrapped hilt, and pulled it towards him.
The Xaela stood up, not a second glance being spared to the slipshod grave he'd left.
The harness again affixed to his back, tunic brought in order. Legs locked straight in a martial stance. Stoic expression on his face. He walked over and pulled the knife from the stake, shoving it into its sheath affixed to the inside of his sleeve.
He could still see the fortifications in the distance.
A deep breath.
And he marched again.
The veil of night had fallen over the highlands after Kasrjin had departed from the graveyard, and with it came the deadly chill. There was no fanfare of biting wind or howling of a great storm to accompany the demise of warmth; naught remained but a raw, brisk silence. A brilliant tapestry of stars enveloped the heavens above, solemnly gleaming against the night blue sky, poignantly lighting his surroundings in a pale silver light.
He adjusted the furs around him, thin eyebrows twitching in surprise at the western continent's surprisingly hostile environment. The glaciers and mountains among which he had occupied with the majority of his life were unforgiving, and the winters were as fearsome a foe as any number of black-armoured intruders. It would seem that this region was not lacking any number of fangs in that regard; he'd abandoned the metal spaulder and unfolded a short, folded shawl, lined in vanilla-coloured fur that matched his tunic. His boots crunched in the snow, punctuated by the cry of wolves splitting the air and the occasional beating of draconian wings.
His patrol of the area was an experience of contrasts. More than once he'd buried himself beneath snow or lain flat against rocky outcroppings to avoid the wildlife or an errant patrol of knights. At other times, his march was surrounded by nothing but hills, mountains, and snow, with nothing to threaten him for miles other than his own thoughts.
In a way, the latter was far more dangerous to him.
With the sky clear, it would be a simple matter for him to return to the settlement; the grey towers of the fortification he had passed through to enter the highlands peaked in a black silhouette against the glittering canvas above him. Thus, the Xaela felt rather confident in exploring as far as he felt the need to, so long as those towers were within his eyesight. Emerald eyes flashed in the darkness, glancing at everything of note and then some. The seclusion was comforting in a way, and heartrending in another. It had been a nigh uncountable number of suns since he'd landed on the western continent, and though the number of people around Kasrjin had increased considerably, his chest still felt the dark grasp of isolation tugging at him.
Solitude was a thoughtful thing.
His contemplation and his march practically skidded to a halt. He found himself atop a cliff, just visible enough to see the fires of a secluded military camp that was huddled beneath the stony embrace of an imposing escarpment. What startled him was not his location, however, but the sight he was greeted with that had escaped his conscious notice until he was almost right on top of it.
It was a heavy wooden stake, a head and a half taller than him in height, the end sharpened to a fearsome point. And upon it lay the lazily-shrouded body of an Au Ra, a ragged length of tarp barely covering the body's torso. The body was a male Xaela, like himself, though from whom or where he had come from was impossible to tell. The body had obviously been discarded for a disconcerting amount of time, for the telltale blue-green tinge of frostbite had long claimed the body in a frozen rigor mortis and various bits of chilled flesh had been picked by what carrion could brave the harsh cold. Splatterings of dry blood could barely be seen crawling down the length of the stake, though they too had frozen in the chill. The Au Ra's horns had been hacked off with some manner of implement, the horns themselves nowhere to be seen, and though his eyes were closed, his mouth and face had stretched in pain.
Kasrjin stood stock still at the sight. It was the second of such he'd seen, and though it did not shock him, the message it carried was blatantly aware.
He wasn't welcome here.
His hand found itself reaching towards the leather-wrapped handle of his sword, but upon grasping it, he stopped.
"Do your people not mourn those who have passed on?"
His right hand still lay clenched upon the sword handle, but his left reached into a pocket that had idly been sewn into the folds of his tunic.
His left hand grasped the smooth, obsidian pebble. The instant he did, a small, slight burst of warmth spread from his arm to the rest of his body. He could feel even through his gloved hands the engraving that Tsanai had carved into it.
His hand dropped from the hilt of his sword.
Kasrjin's hand pulled a knife from within the folds of wide outer sleeves. The rigid length of tiger tooth that Nayaga had painstakingly formed into a fearsome blade--despite the scout's admitted clumsiness with tools--easily buried itself deep into the brittle length of the wooden stake. The durable tips of Erdeni's immaculate leather gloves that wrapped his hands made short work of the frozen dirt and snow at the base of the stake, loosening the earth's hold on the shaft.
"You do seem intolerant of any sentimentality."
His hand reached into his tunic again, grasping Tsanai's runestone. Another jolt of energy coursed itself through him. It was weaker than the first, and barely perceptible, like a final weak heartbeat, but it was enough.
With the soil loosened, Kasrjin had managed to bend the stake enough for him to stand with one leg on the ground and the other planted firmly against the hilt of the planted knife. With a heave and a grunt, he planted the top of his head and the palm of his hands firmly against the corpse's back.
His ever stoic frown across his face, the Xaela grunted and heaved against the frosted cadaver, with each headbutt and shove of his hands the length of dead weight moved off of the shaft. After several attempts of this, Kasrjin moved to the front of the stake where the fearsome point lay aimed almost at his head. Still panting, the brisk night air biting the inside of his lungs, he bent his legs beneath the body and, with a final mighty shove, forced the body off of the stake.
The dead Xaela's stiff corpse unceremoniously popped off the stake like a cork, and the tortured pose the body held prevented it from rolling.
The combination of the exertion and the cold had robbed Kasrjin of his breath, and he bent with his hands against his knees to recover. As he did, veridian eyes glowed to examine his deceased compatriot.
Solitude was a tiresome thing.
"The dead should not burden the living."
Familiar words. His own.
After a few minutes, he set about to work, gloves reaching into the soil and snow both, peppering the body in a blanket of churned dirt.
He shouldn't be here.
Kasrjin, in an odd display, circled the body, his knees bent and feet shuffling, throwing snow and dirt clumsily with both hands onto the body until an awkwardly conspicuous mound had formed over it. A conveniently adjacent rock served as a headstone.
An uncelebrated grave for an equally uncelebrated individual, whose name would forever be lost.
He tossed the harness, sword and all, away from him and collapsed next to the grave, thudding next to it in a slouching sit. A snowfall had begun, his only company after such an endeavour.
Solitude was a lonesome thing.
A hand reached in to touch the runestone again, but it had no more comfort to give. Isolation's dark grip tugged at him again. The stoic frown still lay artificially plastered on his face, and he felt an ache between his chest. A finger lay on the rune stone and traced the engraving. It was complex, but by now he could recall the pattern through muscle memory alone.
His right hand tugged at the base of the glove wrapping his left. It was made perfectly to size, as always. Not a seam or scratch in sight, so carefully was the leather treated and stitched.
The bone knife still gleamed at him in the dark, the immaculate polish on the piece reflecting the moonlight.
With the snow between his fingers, he closed his eyes, his head resting on the palm of his hand.
He could almost imagine familiar mountain passes.
The sprig of evergreen hemlock that had been woven into the collar of his tunic had lost its scent. He breathed deep, and exhaled.
He could feel his chin begin to tremble, and it was not because of the cold.
It was a distant memory, that feeling of clarity. Of certainty. A terrified eye shot itself towards the grave next to him. Hacked off horns. Left on a stake. Nameless, and with none to know the cause.
Feelings that were a distant memory.
The sensation would be forgotten, with time.
He shouldn't be here.
Solitude was a painful thing.
A wolf's howl jolted him from his reverie. Instinct took over. A hand reached for Ersugen's flawless sword, before cognition reminded him that he had tossed it away from him. Impulse commanded his muscles, and he scrambled for his weapon and its harness.
The howl came again. His hands frozen in fear.
His mind finally acknowledged the sound. It was too far away to be a threat.
For several long seconds that felt like years, Kasrjin lay sprawled on the dirt and snow, hand frozen in desperation to reach the length of blued steel.
His fingers grasped the leather-wrapped hilt, and pulled it towards him.
The Xaela stood up, not a second glance being spared to the slipshod grave he'd left.
The harness again affixed to his back, tunic brought in order. Legs locked straight in a martial stance. Stoic expression on his face. He walked over and pulled the knife from the stake, shoving it into its sheath affixed to the inside of his sleeve.
He could still see the fortifications in the distance.
A deep breath.
And he marched again.
