Fair Trade
A Fair Trade
The trade caravan lumbers to a halt for the evening as the chocobos grunt their weariness. The wagon masters snarl, demanding of their beasts to continue pulling. A half mile from the barren hills that lead into what the merchant trains call 'The Stillness' outside of those dreaded places called 'Jagds'. Caravan help jump from the wagons, trying to urge the beasts of burden along, coaxing and praying for them to continue on. No one wants to be caught near The Stillness at any time of the day. Above, the sun is hazy in the sky, mid-afternoon at best.
The merchants continue trying to cajole their beasts along, and the caravan guards seem to take a hardened edge this close to The Stillness. All except one, who seems quite content to smoke his pipe and take a few steps forward toward The Stillness, stretching his arms high above his head. "Fucking noisy lot," Yosh grumbles about the stem of his pipe.
"Hey, get yer ass to helpin'!" shouts on of the merchants toward Yosh. "I ain't payin' lazy Archadians to sit and do nothin'! We have this cargo to get to Moorabella in three weeks. Quit dallying!"
The aging swordsman rolls his eyes in the direction of the merchant. "I ain't bein' paid to cart cargo around. You hired me to help protect your caravan. Now shut yer trap and push yer own stupid animals." He turns his gaze out to The Stillness. In all his travels, he's never truly been this close to the phenomena.
Far off in the shadow of the hills, a flicker of movement; the caravan has been spotted, and ragged, tooth-marked ears are upright and quivering as the crouched shadow lopes from cover to cover. Nowhere near approaching, whatever it is, but pacing back and forth under the cover of the long shadows... perhaps nerving itself up, or deciding whether this herd of noisy, smelly things is for eating?
Yosh rolls his right shoulder, feeling the age and ache of disuse. Too long without true combat instead of trying to teach idiot boys how to swing a sword without stabbing themselves. He nods to one of the younger guards. "Balance more t' yer toes, kid. It lets y' be ready to move when yer guardin'," comes the sage advise. He turns cool gray eyes toward the hills, not seeing what waits. For now, The Stillness has his attention, captivated by the lack of any movement, the barren nature of it in general.
The merchants still scuttle about, trying to urge the beasts into motion again. "No way in Shiva's Frozen Tits are we camping this close to Tulque!" shouted another merchant as he finally managed to get the pair of chocobo pulling his cart to lumber forward a few steps.
A second shadow, and a third, roaming here and there among the rocky outcroppings and what tenacious scrub manages to find purchase on the edges of jagd. With only the red dusk for light, identifying them is difficult at best. Could be Lobo, could be tribesmen, could be bandits, could be any one of a number of things; all that's certain is, whatever they are, they're nothing that would hail the caravan and come in peace.
The aging mercenary inhales deeply, catching the stench of the unwashed, of the cart animals, and of the grain from one of the wagons. He motions the guards back away from him as he takes a few more steps forward. "Goin' t' take a piss," he says about the stem of his pipe before moving toward one of the scrub bushes. "Fuckin' idiots," he mumbles under his breath. "Better pay me fer wastin' my time teachin' idiot farmboys."
Closer to the scrub, the scrabble of clawed feet on hard-packed earth can be heard, if faintly, scattering from Yosh's trail. Unexpected behavior makes even the most patient hunter wary, and these things that make endless noises could be dangerous... better to keep distance, watch more.
Yosh blows out a long breath and gets down to the business of emptying his bladder on the poor scrub bush. His eyes close in thought as he strains human ears to listen to the area around him. Sadly, a human's ears just aren't suited for any subtle sound that happens by. Soon he finishes and begins to tie up his trousers, gray eyes watching the landscape.
Soon enough, the sounds become loud enough for human ears to pick up; claws, slowly digging into the earth, noses sniffing the air, uncertain noises produced from the back of the throat. Something is approaching from behind Yosh, and whatever it is could possibly be considered humanoid.
The aging swordsman tenses, gloved hand moving very slowly toward one of the pair of long swords tied to his sword belt. Muscles tense, as though drawn up along a string from the top of his head. He tightens his lips about the stem of his pipe. Further out toward the caravan, the yelling and the shouting continue, the mercenary unnoticed as the caravan tries to urge their animals back into movement.
A clump of dirt, packed by infrequent rains and baked beneath the sun to end up as something more solid than the average snowball, hurtles toward Yosh's back; if it hits, the impact will certainly be felt, but anything more than a mild bruise is unlikely.
It impacts, and it sends the man turning, drawing blade to turn in the direction of where he thought it came. Gray eyes alight with the thought of challenge of some terrible beast, or at least anything that will be challenging in comparison to a bunch of trade merchants pissing his time away.
The shadows scrabble back, lithe but lumpy shapes; here and there, a suggestion of animal fur and matted reeds disguises their outlines, but some details can be discerned. Humanoid body types, thin, almost skeletal limbs, and faces smeared with caked mud and leaves, leaving only wide, gimlet eyes to glitter with light reflected from the far-off lamps of the caravan.
Yosh lets his eyes look toward the shadows, his other hand drawing the other blade out. "Fuckin' wraiths," the aging mercenary grumbles about the stem of his pipe. He hazards a step forward toward the eyes and their reflections, muscles tensing further.
"Ff...ffff...uuuuuuchhhh...." The shadows tense, snatches of noise passed back and forth between the moving shadows. Some drawing back, some approaching haltingly, confusion and hesitance evident in the cluster's movements, which poses a curious question; when have the undead *ever* been wary about what to do with living flesh?
The Archadian's lips draw down into a frown around the stem of his now burnt out pipe. Hands tighten their grips around the blades as he turns his gaze briefly, the light of the caravan lanterns and the duky sun catching in his eyes, a brief flash of silver. The tension in his body causes him to nearly tremble with withheld energy. "Show yourself," he demands, voice rasping like gravel.
Two or three of the shapes rise somewhat, more of the wordless talk passing back and forth between them and the less determined members of the cluster. "Sssshhhh.... Sho. *Sho.* Slf," one says, apparently trying to ape the mercenary's challenge.
The mercenary slowly moves the blades toward his belt, sheathing the first one with a quiet sound. His eyes flit back and forth at the shadows, human-dulled senses trying to follow the shadowy shapes. "Who are you?" he demands, one blade still in hand.
The creature doing the talking scoots to one side, halfway into a puddle of dim evening light to reveal decidedly humanoid body, if thin to the point of emaciation, and female. Hides and bundles of reeds drape across its body, the modesty afforded apparently a side effect of the fact that *some* sort of body covering is needed when night falls and heat flees. The top half of a Lobo's head caps its own, strings of fur and hide and desiccated gore trailing down its back to cover matted, filthy hair. Wide eyes and pinprick pupils stare at the mercenary, a restless gaze that darts here and there, birdlike, as the rest of its cluster pull together, their attention firmly locked upon their evident leader.
The mercenary slowly slides one foot a half step back, his body still tense with a potential violent encounter looming ahead. He looks at their 'leader', fingers gripping painfully on the hilt of the blade in his hand. The in the background, the sound of yelling continues as the caravan prepares to push forward, the other farmboy guards preparing to push. It's all lost to Yosh as he stares at the leader, watching for the vaguest hint of conflict.
When conflict happens, it's not on the part of the person facing off against Yosh. Two of the pack behind, their agitation boiling over, fall on each other, struggling and biting and clawing, their antics unnoticed by the rest of the group. The leader's mouth works, lips pursing. "Whhhhoooooo. Yu."
"I am Yosh Thraex," the mercenary offers, voice grating. A hint of nervous energy tinges the words, fingers retightening on the hilt of the blade as he keeps it pointed toward the ground. The mercenary lets his eyes look over the leader.
"Yo. Sh. Yosh. Thray." A grunt follows this, a glimmer of something not quite intelligent passing through the being's eyes. Her head lowers, too-wide eyes rising to remain riveted to Yosh's face. "....Toolk," she says of herself, and nothing more.
His eyes watch, entranced with the face. "Toolk," he repeats, hoping it's the leader's name. A small amount of tension leeches from the swordsmand as he slowly moves to sheath the other blade, leaving his hands free of weapons. Perhaps a bit foolish, but it appears he doesn't want to start an incident with an undetermined foe.
The merchant guards begin to slowly urge the wagons along in the gathering darkness, wheels creaking as the guards start to get behind and push the wagons. The mercenary, however, remains riveted at the strangeness this close to The Stillness.
"Toolk," she says again, nodding slowly. Her face splits (and cracks, due to the thick layers of mud caked across her cheeks and brow) in a wide grin, revealing teeth that have been filed down to points, seemingly at random; as though the practice was started, halted, forgotten about, and picked up again, over and over. Turning, she barks... no works, simply a sharp, pitched sound that scatters the beings behind her, before turning back to face the mercenary. A filth-caked, clawed hand gestures vaguely at one of the blades on his belt.
Yosh glances down at his blades and back to Toolk's face. "My swords?" he asks, hand moving to rest against them, as though they are a talisman in the gathering darkness. He glances to the other shadowy shapes, trying to keep track of their movements as well as the 'female' in front of him.
An answering grunt is given, the female stepping closer. "Sord," she replies, waving crooked talons at herself. "Sord."
The swordsman prepares to take a half-step backward, jacket shifting to reveal the glimpses of a Vieran-made necklace about his neck. Feathers and polished bits of bone. "I think those would be claws," he says in a low voice.
The necklace does take hold of the woman's attention, eyes narrowing briefly at it, then the man who wears it. "Mmn..." The blade is gestured to once more, then the ground at her feet. "*Sord,* she repeats, emphasizing the word in the manner of a command."
The mercenary's blade is his lifeblood, an extension of his arm. In the arena, it is what keeps you to fight another glorious fight. On the plains outside The Stillness, it keeps you from dying. "I think I'll decline the offer," Yosh says after a moment. He takes a half step back, hand moving to prepare itself for a quick draw.
The half-step is matched by a full step forward, and as the creature closes, it becomes clear that while she may be no wraith, there is a great deal of deadness in her eyes. "Sord!" She barks, as though commanding one of the other creatures behind her... creatures who perk their heads at this display, ragged ears rising... ragged, *rabbit-like* ears.
"No," Yosh responds. His eyes widen at the corners, crow's feet disappearing briefly as he sees the ears. Viera ears. The blade slides an inch out of the scabbard, the leather of the glove creaking. The remnants of daylight play across the swordsman's face, catching his gray eyes again to shimmer silver for the briefest of moments.
The woman halts, face screwing up as though an idea had begun to nibble at the back of the remnants of her brains. A hand dives into the tangle of hides and reeds near her belly, re-emerging with something covered in mud, with shining patches here and there; gold glinting from cracks in the crust, a deep blue glimmer elsewhere. Holding it out, she gestures toward the half-bare blade again. "Sord."
The mercenary shakes his head, declining the trade. He takes another half-step backward, his knowledge of Viera flicking through his head. The half-step is toward The Stillness, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand.
Now the woman's face twists in rage, and a sharp glottal sound rises from her throat, caught and passed among the cluster behind her as they begin to spread, fanning out and circling widely around the swordsman, herding him *toward* the Stillness, and the jagd beyond. Stepping forward again, she makes no more demands for the mercenary's weapon... and a flicker of magic plays over her free hand, its light a wavering, watery purple.
The swordsman's face is a play of emotions, from shock, surprise, and finally to anger. 'A gladiator's weapons are an extension of yourself,' echoes in the back of Yosh's mind as he moves to draw the weapons with practiced grace. His heart races in his chest as he knows he's being driven to unfamiliar territory. 'Everything in the arena is your weapon, boy. From the sword in your hand to the dirt on the ground. You are to make the fight entertaining for those who watch it, and you are to keep alive doing it. Your Dominus expects it,' rings again in his mind.
But out on the fringes of jagd, different rules apply; here, the world is willing, and able, to *take* the one weapon that sharpens all others. Here on the fringes of jagd, the Mist that breathes life into dust, and power into life, slowly leeched away by the mystical sinkhole at its core. Here on the fringes of jagd, even a gladiator has fewer weapons than he realizes. And the herding semi-circle of crazed Viera seem to know this, and plan for it, for they press closer, the wavering light of the leader's hand growing brighter with each sinuous movement.
His breath comes quicker, eyes trying to find any sort of advantage. Cattle being led to slaughter. Yosh's blades flow back and forth as he is led backwards, waiting for the opportune time to strike against an otherwise now angry foe. 'When you are pushed into a corner, you fight. Let your opponent tire himself with pushing. Preserve your energy and strike when it is most advantageous,' comes the advice at the back of his mind once again.
The first move is made, but not from the apparent leader; far to Yosh's flank, a bone circles end over end, lobbed toward the retreating fighter. A long bone, tooth-scarred and yellow with age... almost human.
Yosh draws the blades up to cross in front of him, the bone hitting him in the side as he expected it would. He glances out of the corner of his eyes, trying to watch those coming. His backward trek continues, no words of advice coming from his past.
From the other side, another lobbed missile this one a shattered piece of the skull of some Fiend, the closing ferals hooting in excitement. What sport, this one! He doesn't even flinch when things are thrown!
Back and back, toward the jagd. Yosh's heart beats fast in his chest, causing the blood to pound in his ears. 'You will not fail me in a fight again, Yosh. You were fucking pathetic, standing there like a girl who pissed her pretty dress!' comes the rumblings in the back of his mind. The Dominus. The one who Must Not be Failed. 'Lash the fucker until he stops screaming. He'll learn to not flinch in the arena.'
And now the leader's hand rises, the flare of magic bright in the dark stillness as a bolt of power lances out, slamming into the earth at Yosh's feet... A few breaths later, the earth itself heaves in protest, cracking and surging upwards, the ground around the epicenter bucking and heaving at the sudden formation of a miniature hill.
The heaving catches the swordsman off kilter, causing his footing to skid and come crashing down upon a knee. The sickening crunch of bone can be heard as his kneecap breaks. A grunt of pain passes his lips as he feels the tendrils of hurt creep up his leg. The blades remain in his hands as he grits out through clenched teeth, "Fucking mages."
Weakness! The Viera hoot as one, the entire pack closing in on the mercenary, twisted claws stretched out to tear at arms, hands, clothing, the mass as one bearing down on Yosh to bring him to ground.
Those gray eyes flit back and forth in the darkness. The swords move with the grace and a Rozarrian ribbon dancer--perhaps only of one in their second year of practice-- from his awkward kneeling position. "Like hell you're taking me," he snarls, the promise of pain thick in his voice.
By this point, it's fairly clear that they don't understand proper speech, but they do know the defiant cries of a wounded predator, and if this one's claws dance more prettily than theirs, it only means the tactics must alter. Pressing into a tight ring around the mercenary, they dart in, first from one side, then another, then behind and to the right. Never attacking in full, always seeking to draw him out and off-balance. The leader stands behind the ring, hand glowing again, the Earth magics responding to her barely-conscious call.
Yosh snarls in fury as he tries to push himself up, kneecap shattered and causing more pain. The blades reach out, years of training trying to hone itself in the desperate hour, trying to bat away the foes. His gaze locks to the leader, the purple light bathing his face and his rictus snarl.
This time, the attack comes from several sides; blades bite into flesh, drawing out yowls of pain, as hooked and filthy claws seek purchase in flesh, tearing deep into arms to slow the dancing of the blades, biting into legs to hamper mobility, and once more the flash of Earth magic causes the ground to plummet and heave beneath the mercenary's feet.
The heaving and rocking of the earth beneath the swordsman's feet causes him to loose his balance, tumbling backwards with a grunt. Warmth oozes down his arms and legs, staining clothing about the rent flesh. Yosh's gaze is defiant as he tries to scoot backwards, the occasional slash out with his sword trying to find purchase in flesh.
And purchase it finds, as one of the attackers falls back, retching blood as a vital organ is pierced. But hobbled, wounded, and driving steadily further into the magic-empty jagd, victory looks less and less likely. And the leader of the cluster seems to know this, dropping into an easy crouch, voice rising in a long, low, mad ululation as her followers harry at the mercenary.
Breath burns in his lungs with the onslaught of being driven further toward the jagd. Yosh's limbs feel heavy as he tries to swing again at the harrying pack. Gray eyes look to the leader, a mixture of fury and determination burning in the aging swordsman's eyes.
One hand is caught at a critical moment, teeth finding purchase in flesh as the limb is dragged groundwards under the full weight of the Viera's body, paired with the strength of blood-fueled madness. The other hand, caught, bitten, dragged down. As though it were the signal to act in earnest, Yosh is swarmed in a heartbeat by raving, snarling creatures that once were women of surpassing beauty and grace. Their leader, eyes glinting in the light of her magics, scuttles forward, eldritch light throwing dancing shadows on the mutilated ruin of her headpiece, face split wide open in that mad, shark-toothed grin.
Gloved hands try uselessly to reach for those hallowed blades, those extensions of his body, but they are out of reach as he is pinned. He tries to struggle, feeling the teeth bite further into his flesh. 'Don't you dare flinch from battle in the arena, Yosh. The Dominus will have me beat you until there is no flesh on your bones. Do you want that, you arrogant pup?' comes the words of advice from his teacher so long ago. Gray eyes look to maddened ones, defiant even as he is pinned down.
Once more the hand dives into the matted hides and reeds, drawing out the filth-encrusted object. "Sord," the leader says, her voice crooning and gentle. Fingers flex, breaking off layers of caked mud and blood, revealing an idol of sorts... A figurine, cast in gold and studded in sapphire, playful Carbuncle rampant; a treasure from a lost age, when Tulque was no name to live in terror of. Gently, the object is set beside Yosh's head, an offering of trade.
A beautiful trade to behold, but the swordsman is resolute. A pair of swords made as his 'Freedom Gift'. To give one away would be to cut off his arm, or to even lose an eye. "No," he says, chest heaving and burning with breath, the warm oozing still staining his clothes and skin both aching and numb.
The Viera's face twists once again, but as the mortally wounded pack-member lets out its death rattle, her head whips up, eyes narrowing in broken thought. Whatever idea she gets seems to please her, for her hand dives back under her 'clothing,' extracting a strange vial-like object; crystal, banded in tarnished iron, carvings worn smooth by the passage of time, she takes a moment to gaze at it, slack-jawed in the face of its beauty... and then moves to straddle Yosh's shoulders, her free hand reaching for his face. Such pretty eyes, that look says, surely flesh for flesh is good trade?
The swordsman's breath quickens, chest still heaving as he tries to struggle, the chase and the fight having winded him greatly. Those gray eyes widen from determination to uncertainty, laced with fear. His squirming tries to renew itself, teeth and claws digging into already torn flesh.
Magic contributed to his fall, and magic contributes to the conclusion of the trade; a touch upon Yosh's chest, and time slows to a crawl, to nothing, deadening light, sound and feeling, conscious awareness freezing in its tracks. Yosh will never see the hand reaching down, the talons that pluck the purple-flecked eye from his head. He won't see her place it in that jar, watch the worn-smooth carvings grow sharp and clear as they glow with power. He won't see the Viera leave in the same manner they came, swiftly and silently, scudding back to the comfort and mad hell of the Deep Mist. What he will see when time resumes its crawl, is the dead Viera some ways away, and the golden Carbuncle figurine placed as close to the center of his chest as can be managed.
