A/N: This is a segment of a roleplaying thread at Fort Ruddler's RPG boards. This one is a huge IC mission roleplayed out by many different players. I haven't edited anything (spelling, grammar, tense, post order, etc) yet, and I might not get around to it for a while simply because this is such a long thread. I hoe you can still follow it.
The only character I wrote the part of was Riala, although NPCs such as Loam and the hedgehog tribe and the leveret were written mostly by me, occasionally by other people. Many of the other roleplayers simply stopped roleplaying, and so towards the end the only people still roleplaying were myself, Mackbry, and Moonrose.
Wayside Patrol – Partings and Endings
With Loam returned unharmed, the hedgehog
tribe has no qualms about releasing Bloodfur. They go as far as to cautiously
tend Deathjaw and even build the first waystation. The patrollers, meanwhile,
are given a very warm welcome: a feast and a night's shelter. The tribe has no
trouble realizing the benefit that a patrol would give them, and go out of
their way to help the fortbeasts.
The patrol leaves
early the next morning and sets a steady, brisk pace, managing to keep it up
over the next few weeks. Interruptions are few and far between, routing the
occasional hostile vermin being one of the only difficulties. Supplies are
plentiful, injuries are superficial, and morale is high as they finish the
ninth waystation.
It is half a
day's travel into the Emerald Grove that they find the village.
Riala is on
scouting duty and on her own this time, as her partner had twisted an ankle
earlier in the morning. She is in the treetops, always more comfortable in the
forest canopy than on land, moving at a steady pace from limb to limb. A slight
shift in wind ruffles red-brown fur and she pauses, nose twitching as the
breeze touches her face.
Smoke...?
Tufted ears prick
forward and swivel back, straining for noise of forest life. The birds have
gone silent, and that means danger to the squirrel's woodland-trained mind. She
tenses as a sound not made by any bird cuts through the air. It is an unearthly
wail of heart-rending grief.
Her nerves yell
for caution, but her instincts urge speed. Experience says her instincts are
trustworthy, and Riala breaks into a flat-out run for the source of both smoke
and scream. Scarred paws become a blur on rough bark as she leaps from limb to
limb, tree to tree, brought to a halt at last by an abrupt absence of trees as
the forest gives way to a clearing.
It was a village
once, that much is clear with one glance. A dozen wooden huts circle a tall
fire, hot enough to reach the squirrel with its warmth. The village is a small
one, holding no more than twelve families - once. Now the emptied town holds
only ghosts and the raging funeral pyre in the village's center.
Ghosts and a pyre
and a grieving leveret, her once gray-green tunic and blue-gray fur stained
dark with blood.
Riala turns in
the direction of the rest of the patrol and lets loose a chittering cry that
echoes throughout the grove, and then she focuses again on the leveret, who
hasn't looked up from the flames even once. She drops to the ground silently,
but this time the hare's long ears prick up at the faint thud of paws on loam.
The leveret whirls, face streaked with tears, light brown eyes red with
grieving, a naked dagger gripped in one bloodstained paw.
With a shock,
Riala recognizes herself in the young hare's face. The grief warring with
hatred is the mirror of her soul all those seasons ago, when she stood before
her father's funeral pyre... except the leveret lets her tears flow free where
Riala has locked hers inside for seasons. For her entire life.
Gold-brown eyes
lock with light brown, and they share a silent understanding for a long moment
as the patrol reaches the clearing...
Mack ambled quickly through the forest,
avoiding as many twigs and dry leaves as possible. Smoke, first it had been
smoke he smelled, soon followed by Riala's loud cry in the traveling party's
direction. Something had to be wrong.
Finally the hare
broke the cover of a thick group of birch trees to find himself staring at the
once-was village in flames. He ground to a halt, his spear suddenly becoming
slick in his paws as the truth sunk in. But where was Riala?
His question was
soon answered as he gazed around in frozen shock for a moment. There she was,
oh, and a young leveret was near her. Slowly, so as not to surprise the pair,
Mack made his way around the burned frame of a building until he was at Riala's
side.
"Riala?"
The elderly hare said softly, no other words conjurable at the moment.
She shakes her head silently as Mack
speaks her name in a tentative query. "I can only guess what happened
here," the squirrel says, voice unusually soft, and leaves the hare to
make his own conclusions about the village as she walks slowly towards the
leveret, doing her best to seem unthreatening. The leveret's dagger remains
upraised, her muscles tensed, but she makes no move as Riala continues towards
her and stops a length from the funeral pyre, nearly abreast with the young
hare.
There is silence,
with the only sound being that of the crackling fire. The squirrel stares into
the flames, mesmerized by images of the past, her own thoughts, and the thought
of what had happened here. It is she who ends the quiet, her rough voice softer
than normal, barely audible except by the leveret's sharp ears.
"Your
family?"
A small nod,
almost invisible, and the tears well up anew in the young hare's light brown
eyes.
"What
happened?"
Silence from the
leveret for several long moments, but finally she speaks in a voice gone cold,
emotionless, as if someone else was talking through her. The trauma had seared
life from her voice, leaving only tears and little else. "Vermin. Killed
everybeast. Didn't steal anything, didn't take slaves. Just killed. They didn't
find me. I was in the woods. But I saw it. And I built the fire for them."
Her lip trembles
on the last sentence, but she bites it and it stills. Riala watches with a
growing fury in her shadowed gaze. "Which way did they go? How many?"
The leveret draws
a deep breath and calm seems to settle on her like a cloak as she recalls
facts, eschewing emotion from it as best she can. "They went north. There
weren't as many as the villagers. But we aren't warriors." Fire and
fierceness and anger drive out grief momentarily, and Riala again sees herself
in the hare's brown eyes. "I'm going to be a warrior. I won't let this
happen again. Ever." It has the forcefulness of an oath from the heart,
one she'd rather die than break, like the one Riala had made so many seasons
ago - that she'd kill the one who murdered her father.
And I did...
and where did that bring me?
She doesn't need
to ask. She knows the answer, and she does not like it. Without thinking, she
makes a decision and an oath.
I will not let
this young one become like me. I will not let her grow up full of hatred,
twisted by vengeance-lust.
But how to do
that? The leveret will grow into a warrior; that is her oath and it will not,
should not be broken. How to somehow aid her to live without the soullessness
that comes from hate?
By not giving
her the chance to live a life seeking for vengeance...
Riala nods
slowly, the flames of the funeral pyre reflected in shadowed gold-brown eyes
turned hard with determination and a new purpose.
By destroying
those who destroyed this village.
*Moonrose walked in silence, plagued by
the tiny Bloodfur. The red-hued pup had decided that the albino was to be his
new traveling companion, at the advice of Loam, and rarely left her side. The
'yotes' had decided to travel with the Fortbeasts, insistent on assisting them
for the rest of their journey. With a sigh, the mouse quickened her pace,
annoyed by the young one's constant presence.*
"Why does
Mackaberry 'ave long ears, Mooneywose?" The dibbun asked, tugging at her
black cloak. He had become very admirable of the hares in the traveling party,
having never seen something as fleet and as jolly.
*The mouse gave
him an irritated side glance, not answering. A light breeze brought a familiar
scent to her nose. Fire. Seeing Mack break from the group, the albino followed
without hesitation.*
"Stay here,
pup," She told Bloodfur as she dashed away.
*The scene was
horrendous. It made the calloused warrior halt in her tracks and hold back a
gurgled scream. The scent of burning flesh and hair was sickening, and she
choked on the death-filled air around her. The stench alone made her stomach
churn nausiously. Amist the burning and the carnage were Mackbry and Riala. She
recognized their forms immediately. Jogging closer, she sees a small leveret,
covered in a gritty mixture of blood and tears. Her keen ears perk up from
undernieth the heavy black hood, catching some of their conversation with the
younge one over the roar and crackle of the fire.*
"I'm going
to be a warrior. I won't let this happen again. Ever."
*A small tug at
the corner of her cloak brought her swimming back to reality. It was Bloodfur.
His eyes were filled with horror as he gazed on into the fire-strewen clearing.
The mouse could only imagine in terror what his keen nose was filling him with.
Though this was no place for the pup, she didn't have the breath to send him
back. What was done was done, and he had already seen the worst of it. She
hoped.*
"M-M-Mooneywose?"
He asked, trembling slightly as he clutched her skirts. His eyes were dry, in a
state of terror beyond tears. "Will we die too?"
Tufted ears twitch at Bloodfur's
frightened question and the squirrel turns, gold-brown eyes holding the
shadowed steel of death's promise. It is not aimed towards the 'yote, however,
and her chill words make her target clear. "You won't die, not you nor the
leveret - not today. Those who did this" and the flick of the night-cold
gaze is all that is needed to show what she speaks of "will never kill
anybeast... ever again."
Riala glances to
Mackbry, then to Moonrose. "There's no more than two dozen vermin, from
what the hare says. The patrol can take them, but somebeast will have to remain
behind with the young ones."
"No!"
The adamant protest explodes from the leveret and she steps in front of Riala
as if blocking her way, light brown eyes flashing. "I'm going to be a
warrior! I'm coming to fight them!"
Something
flickers in the squirrel's gaze and is gone, but for a second her normally
stone features had gone soft and sympathetic. "You will not do much good
as a warrior if you get yourself killed before you have learned to lift a
blade," she says, rough voice unusually quiet. "Stay out of this one.
Train, learn, become a warrior in skill and heart - free of hate and
vengeance-lust. Then you can truly fulfill your goal... you can prevent
something like this from happening again. Will you do that?" Her tone is
not condescending; it's that of one talking to an equal, and her question holds
complete seriousness.
A long moment
passes and then the leveret nods, eyes never wavering from the squirrel's. She
doesn't move as the rest of the patrol enters the clearing, as one creature
volunteers to stay with the two younglings. She remains rooted to the spot,
serious and silent, watching as the patrol disappears on the trail of the
vermin who destroyed all that she had known and all that she held dear.
*A/N: Just to clarify things, this is a
really weird post from the POV of Riala while she's bloodwrathy. Scary.*
find them
The steady drum
of paws on loam, the blur of green-brown-gray in peripheral vision, the scent
of fur and upturned loam and fading smoke behind. An entire patrol on the trail
of
vermin - slay
filth shed foul
An acrid taste on
the breeze that scatters fur and leaves and thought. The twitch of tufted ears
at the ghost-murmur of distant voices, a narrowing of gold-brown eyes flecked
now with red-death mist at the sound and the thought of
blood - on my
blade my paws my
Shadows
deepening, darkening, moving in a sound-dead forest. Ahead the dying, believing
they will never die, laughing, fangs and blades flashing in grins, forgetting
already teh screams the pain the child's tears the pyre... and behind, still
wailing their silent siren song of grief and pain to a mourning hare and a
soul-scarred squirrel are
ghosts -
demanding restless crying for
A wolf's howl
raising chills and hackles, war's omen, death's trumpet on the chilling wind.
Golden brown now darkened, shadowed, now flooded with misting red becoming a
torrent. Firelight flickering in uncaring vermin eyes. Laughter, a fang's
gleam, red by baleful flame. Silver moon glittering, mingling with sunset and
fire on blades scraped by whetstones, erasing chips from slashing against bones
of innocence, erasing all memory of
death - for
these for blood for innocence for lives gone for
A wordless yell,
bloodwrath taking over, ignoring the hare who says to calm, to wait, to
strategize... ignoring reason and sense and instead drawing blade, whirling
roce. Footpaws running as hated vermin stare and the stare is fixed forever
with dagger's thrust with stick's crash. Not seeing not hearing not feeling as
the foe fights back as blades bite into crazed red-brown fur stained dark with
death with blood with fury. Not noticing the patrol charge in joining in battle
in killing, only thinking and desiring
REVENGE
* * *
The battle was met under a blood red sky.
With a primal roar, Moonrose threw herself into the fray, hacking mercilessly
at the vermin around her. Mercy was for the weak, she could feel the angry
hatred coursing through her veins like a poison, numbing her from any pain
inflicted by a foe's blade. Her white fure soon became stained with dark
crimson blood as her blade sliced through a foebeast's ribs, and she smiled in
grim satisfaction as she watched him fall. She wheeled, her sword becoming a
silver arch as it sliced through flesh and bone alike. There were beasts
everywhere; screams of pain, the clang of metal on metal, battle cries, all
rose to meet the oncoming night. Yet still, the orange and red of sunset clung
to the darkening sky, batteling against the blue velvet night and the dewdrop
stars for control of the vast sky. The mouse remembered fighting like this
before, the same blood hung over her head, the same hatred brimmed in her
heart. Her eyes had become an angry red, glittering with rage in the
battlelight. She had lost all sence of it all, she was half-mad and
bloodthirsty. The feeling of death that haunted her past suddenly errupted
inside her brain, transforming the mouse into a maddened monster, death in
itself. With a crazed laugh she swung her blade about threateningly, smiling
maddly and calling out the heavens in a racaucious voice, which cut through the
battlenoise and echoed in the empty sky.*
"HAVE AT YE,
VERMIN SCUM!"
*She advanced,
both paws on the handle of her double-bladed sword and swinging hard. She had
become a kill-crazy demon, and her blade flashed at anything that moved.
Somewhere or other she had lost the tip of her ear. A dagger burried itself in
her sholder, causing her to stumble, but in her crazed state she was oblivious
of the pain. Removing the bloodied dagger from her tender flesh, the mouse
emitted an earsplitting roar and flung the blade from her, smiling grimly as
the blade found its mark in the throat of a vermin. You will not live to
harm a goodbeast ever again!! roared in her mind, repeating each time a foe
fell to her whistling blade. She was gone. Moonrose was gone. She roared in
maddened laughter that cut through the deafening melee, foreign and unbidden to
her throat, but it wound around her tongue and escaped into the night. She
could feel the corners of her mouth unwillingly curl into a demonic smile. The
sight alone made the courage-lacking vermin hesitate to meet her challenging
eyes. She fought, a bloodied, red-eyed monster that was heedless to caution and
everywhere at once. A fighter. A ghost. A Fighting Ghost.*
*Deathjaw let forth a war-howl that would
have sent shivers down even the most callused and black-hearted vermin's spine.
His daggers were flying in all directions, followed by his blood-covered claws
and dripping fangs. He was a primal monster from a nightmare, with bloodshot
eyes and gaping jaws. A fox tried to pin him with his rusty cutlass, waving it
threateningly to the bigger canid. With a throaty growl, the yote lifted him
easily, and ripped him into two pieces with his bare paws. Many of the vermin
had never seen a coyote before, and this massacre struck fear into their hearts
as they turned tail, clambering over each other in an attempt to escape the
enraged canine.*
"NOBEAST
'ARMS ME MATES!" Deathjaw let loose a bloodcurdling howl as he tackled
another foe, easily tearing him apart. "LUUUUAAANNAAAAAAAAA!!!"
*He was a sight
to behold, bloodied muzzle and paws, slobber and foam building at the corners
of his mouth. He licked his crimson chops as he spotted a nearby rat, firing
arrows into the melee.*
"Fresh
meat..."
Meandering about the dense foliage of the village outskirts, and quite content to watch the fighting rather than risk his own life, a single rat grips the haft of his spear, debating whether or not he should take up the battle. Before his mind can reach a solid conclusion, a pair of lissom arms slip around his neck with frightening professonalism. With the glint of twin daggers being drawn back, the rat's head lolls as though on a swivel, a warm and ruddy cascade spilling down his front. Suddenly, the body is launched violently forward with a powerful shove, where it tumbles into the side of a burning hut and ceases twitching. Stepping from the surrounding, as though being born from them, Rook emerges at ready, his fur bristling in malice as a pair of stoats charge, swords held high. Ducking beneath the swipe of the first attacker, Rook lashes out with his leg, catching the stoat in the back and knocking him off balance. Then, the otter clashes with the second assailant, dodging and slashing with both daggers, his hackles drawn up in a fearsome snarl. Stumbling back to the battle, the first foe thrusts his blade upwards and catches Rook in the shoulder, just beneath the bone. Crying out in pain, the otter delivers a hefty blow to the second stoat and turns on the first with unparrelled fury, grabbing the unfortunate beast by the scruff of his neck and driving his knee up in the vermin's gut. Before the stoat can draw a second breath, his wrist is bent back and twisted around the otter's scarred arm. A sudden jerk and a loud pop heralds the stoat's screams as his arm hangs limp at his side, wrenched from the socket. Swept to his knees, the blubbering beast is then kicked in the face for his underhanded attack and left to suffer while Rook searches for another to fight.
Thoroughly winded from the run to catch
up to the others that so willingly charged ahead, Mack finally broke the cover
of the thick shrubbery, his spear whirling. For a second, the elderly hare
though his eyes were decieved him, a red mouse? But no, it was Moonrose who
stood just a few feet in front of him, her eyes a dangerous shade of crazed
red.
Quickly dashing
away from the length of her sword, Mack let out a bloodcurtling cry as he
charged a squinting weasel. "Swords of justice, Arise! EULALIAAAAA!"
The hare's spear weaved a lethal path through the air, finding the middles of
any vermin near him as it turned to a near blur. A few quick knocks to the
skull and shoulder sent a rat to his knees where the bloodied tip of spear was
the last thing to met his vision as it whistled towards his head.
Mack's gray fur
was soon splattered with blood of his pown and that of the enemy, his tunic
torn in many places, his cap swept away by an angry cutlass, and his spectacles
cracked and broken. A ferret suddenly charged the hare from behind and made the
fatal mistake of plunging the tip of a rusty saber into the back of Mack's left
shoulder. He suddenly arched backward in pain as his teeth grinded together.
Flashing around, the hare faced the sneering face of the dark brown ferret,
still holding the bloodied saber in one paw and a broken stick in another. As
he turned, the butt of Mack's spear slammed into the ferret's stomach, causing
the ferret to double in pain. The hare didn't give him a chance to wallow in
his agony, however, for the head of his spear soon followed, slashing a
dangerous course acorss the ferret's face.
He could feel it,
he could just feel it, Mack was losing control of his entire left arm, it was
just too painful to move. Without the use of both arms, his spear was useless.
Sighting on a weasel who's height had somehow been stunted at birth, Mack let
his spear fly. Seconds later the weasel keeled over, the spear through his
neck. Mack bent over and picked up the saber of a dead stoat and scrambled back
into the fray.
*Moonrose let loose a crazed peal of
laughter as a stoat fell at her blade, its head lolling forward and blood
squirting forth from its neck. She was unstoppable. She felt invincible.
Everything had turned a shade of deep crimson, blurred with rage. She swung her
sword heavily, aiming where life bubbled close to the surface, hacking and
slashing, her blade being met by pained screams and dying gasps. Blood had
saturated her right sholder, soaking her arm in her own blood as the dagger
wound clensed itself. The sky was darkening over the melee, as the last
surviving light of sunset died a slow and agonizing death at the jet-black
fingers of the night. Grinning like a madman, the blood-stained albino let
loose a triumphant roar as she threw herself at a weasle, sword in left paw,
blade meeting blade with numbing force. Their whiskers touched, her red-crazed
eyes smiled with evil intent.*
~*His eyes were
wide with fear, never before had he seen such a demon. Her eyes... they burned
with hellfire, and she could not feel the white-pain of his blade. He sunk the
cutlass deep into her unguarded side, into her footpaw, and still she advanced,
laughing like a maniac and howling like an injured wolf.*~
*The mouse
sneered into his frightened face, her ghastly appearence sending chills through
his quivering body. She raised her blade, an adder poised to strike. Without
warning, she lurched forward with a gurgling noise, her blood-red eyes rolled
back in her head. It hurt to draw breath, she could no longer lift her blade.
What was going on? Seeing his oppertunity, the weasle brought the handle of his
cutlass down hard on the back of the smaller beast's neck, snarling in
satisfaction as she fell, an arrow sticking out of her back like a ship's mast
and pinning her bloodied and torn black cloak to her flacid body. Assuming he
had broken her neck with his blow, the weasle jumps back into the frey, leaving
her for dead.*
Strange... her brain slowly ran
incoherant things around, her mind reeling and her world growing hazy. She
watched the battle through hooded eyes, watching as the silluettes of beasts
blurred together, watching as night finally fell. Very strange...
something... over the battle noise.... it's me... me, me, me..... my blood...I
can hear it... dripping on the grass.... Mackbry?..... Rook? Riala?...... Am I
dead? I don't want to be dead..... No... Not dead...... It hurts to breath... I
am not dead... Not dead...
*The mouse let
loose a tired sigh, closing her bloodshot eyes and still gripping her bloodied
sword tightly in her left paw. She felt oddly calm, despite the arrow deeply
driven into her back, drifting off and up, and for a split second, she thought
she saw Mackbry's cap, blood-spattered and laying on the ground a few feet from
her. But the image quickly faded, and the surrounding world darkened into an
eerie silence, a deathly silence.*
Riala is a whirlwind of death, dagger
flashing red with vermin blood as it darts in and out of hated flesh, roce
turning slick and dark from crashing onto heads and into ribs and smashing
faces into pulp. Her lips are pulled back from her teeth in a feral grin, her
ears pinned flat against her head. Red mist, the color of blood, the color of
rage, has driven back the shadows in gold-brown eyes until it is all that
remains. Has driven back thought and reason and emotion until all that controls
the whirling stick and flashing knife is a blind desire for death.
A vermin's
scimitar etches a line of fire across her middle but she doesn't feel it,
doesn't care. It only fuels the bloodwrath that fills her mind with hate and
bloodlust, and she turns, rust-gold tail lashing with fury. Her roce flies and
the rat's head is smashed, blood splattering onto the forest-shaded tunic and
onto the scarred red-brown fur.
hate kill fury
rage blood blood blood DEATH
Wanting only to kill,
seeing each moving body as only another target, another enemy, another death.
Slashing, clubbing, killing, ignoring the growing wounds on her body, ignoring
the pain that the unthinking bloodwrath drives back. Breaking through the
vermin, past the battle into a sudden lack of war... Enraged at the lack of
targets as the battle tapers off, the patrollers winning at last. Not
remembering who is friend and who is foe, only seeing bodies to kill, to slay,
to destroy...
kill shed
blood slaughter slay destroy KILL!
Diving towards
the nearest creature with a wordless scream, wild and bloodthirsty and
chilling, death's siren call. Dagger loosed from a scarred paw, embedding
itself in the flesh of one who is unable to believe that this familiar friend
has become a foe. Roce crashing down, blocked by a reluctant saber, a
gray-whiskered face contorted with yelled protests, trying to reach past the
blind killer to the comrade within, his words falling uncomprehended on tufted
ears laid flat against a scarred head.
"RIALA!
STOP!!"
Stick crashing
down again, again, again, blocked each time by the saber but for how long?
Snarling, furious that this blade denies her the life she wants to take! kill
must kill must KILL
"RIALAAAA!" The cry, desparate,
not wanting to have to harm a friend who seems a stranger, a friend bloodwrath
has twisted into a feral monster.
riala
Faltering, the
name slamming against the rage cloaking her mind, stick raised to crash down
once more.
riala Riala
RIALA
Red mist
thinning, letting gold-brown gleam through, confused and lost.
no reason ye
couldn't live the rest of yer life happy
Remembering a
tavern, words spoken in a first conversation, a rare time she allowed a glimpse
to her heart.
mackbry?
The light of
recognition beginning to return to battlecrazed gaze, focusing on gray whiskers
and long ears.
"Mackbry...?"
Spoken in a
hesitant voice, raw with yelling, only just now realizing what has happened.
"What did
I...?"
Gold-brown eyes
stare at her own dagger buried in the hare, shock spreading over the scarred
face, and she steps back in horror and fear... fear of herself.
"That's my
dagger... I..."
The final cries
of battle begin to die as the last of the vermin are fought to the death, but
somehow the sounds of the fight are distant, almost unheard. Riala is caught in
the horror of what she has done, what she has allowed bloodwrath to do, and she
backs away slowly, something akin to fear in her eyes. Fear of herself...
"First
Teltoli... now Mackbry..." Her faltering words are whispered with eyes
wide with shock. "I would have killed you..."
Mack's breath faltered as he fell to his
knees, a dark red stain spreading across the back of his tunic, encircling the
dagger that Riala had so unknowingly plunged into his back. His left arm
flapping uselessly at his side, he stuck the tip of the saber into the ground
before him and leaned heavily on it. Strangely, as he looked downward, his
breath coming in ragged gasps, the hare managed a slight, painfully contorted
smile towards the ground.
"But,"
he coughed out, his voice faltering for a second, "ye didn't." Blood
dribbled down from his nose and he could taste it in his mouth, it was a foul
taste. The hare looked up at Riala, as if trying to somehow reasure her in some
way. "Riala-" He coughed and sputtered for a few seconds before
continuing. "It...well, tisn't yer fault." A few short words was all
he was able to manage, he could feel the dagger burning in his back,
threatening to pierce his lungs if pushed any farther.
"Could
somebeast-" Mack said with a furious grinding of his teeth, tossing his
head back to indicate the dagger, "hurts more in...than out."
The shouts and cries of conflict began to
taper off with the realization that there was no standing off against the
tourbillion of death and steel that carried the Hellgates along in her paws,
namely Riala. Those who turned to flee were greeted by an enraged Rook who'd
witnessed the fall of an albino mouse he secretly admired; Moonrose's blood,
mixing with soil. How much was hers, and how much was theirs? All of it will be
theirs now! I'll drink it, bathe in it, season my food with it, and paint her
name with it, over and over and over again!!!!
Moving like a
chimera, concocted from a frail mind, Rook darted through those who were intent
on fleeing, his blades ambling across vermin chests, stomachs and throats as
they scratched and bit, trying to rake his eyes. One managed to thrust a dagger
up into Rook's shoulder, but it registered as a bramble scratch might and was
forgotten in the wet, crimson sound of twin daggers being plunged down into
soft flesh once, twice, thrice and no more. The harsh snap of bone followed and
the tearing of cloth sounded after that, though both brought stillness. There
were no more to fight. All who had come that way were down, either groaning, or
silent with their eyes glazed and harsh in death. Rook tottered on his feet,
his tunic ripped, his daggers dripping steadily, a mix of stinging sweat and
tepid blood. His facial expression was one of anguish and remorse, his
shoulders hunched, breathing ragged, ribcage visible through a thin layer of
tawny muscle and vermillion
"....sorry...i-i'm
late....wen-t-t...my seperate...w-way..."
Moving as
though in a trance, Rook stumbled over to where Moonrose lay and, without
resistation, swept the frail figure up into his paws and hugged her tight to
his matted chest, muttering brokenly
"....s-somebeast
take her...take from me an-and help this good m-mouse....don't die..."
*Approaching the last of the Fort's
battlers, the canid took a knee, as was custom in his tribe, and mumbled a
prayer of blessing. It was a blessing well deserved, he had seen friends fall,
bloodied and torn, screaming all the way to the Dark Forest Gates. Though he
was now completely sane, he was horrendous looking, blood covering his jaws and
muzzle, dribbling down his chest, pieces of flesh cruely twisted from his foe
lay matted into his fur, his paws up to his elbows dripped lifeless blood.*
"May Mother
Luna always keep ye safe from 'arm."
*He then turned
to Mackbry, the bloodied hare who had helped him and protected him in his time
of need when no one else would. The dagger in his back seemed out of place,
like a river in the middle of the desert. A red river. A river of blood. He had
seen the alpha do it. Without a word, the yote placed a bloody paw on the
handle of the blade and with a quick tug freed it from the hare's body.*
"There
y'are, mate... Best staunch that wound afore y' bleed t' death..."
*Deathjaw turned
to face the blood-strewn land with a face unreadable, blotted with the bodies
of both friend and foe. There was a good side to being a killer, you have no
remourse.*
"Hellgates...!"
Riala stares at
the deep wound her dagger has made in Mackbry's back, at the dark stain
spreading across the hare's tunic. She stares, unable to speak, unable to act,
as Deathjaw pulls the weapon out. She stares, for once in her life not knowing
what to do, unable to do anything, unable to act.
Best staunch
that wound afore y' bleed t' death...
Deathjaw's voice
breaks through her trance and the strange immobility that freezes her in place.
Paws ripping at her frayed and cut tunic - going to have to get a new one
floats across her mind, a thought that is out of place in the situation,
distant and detached - she covers the distance between herself and Mackbry in
two quick strides. There's no clean cloth, not after a battle; the best she can
do is to bind the wound to prevent too much blood loss until it can be better
treated. Riala ties several strips of her tunic together and wraps them tightly
about Mackbry's torso. It immediately turns dark from the blood leaking from
the dagger wound.
Another splotch
of darkness catches her gaze at the hare's left shoulder where a rusty saber
had entered it. This one takes less cloth and less time to bind; it's done in
little more than a minute. Riala's face is impassive the entire time, her
awareness feeling oddly detached from her body, as if she's looking down on the
scene from above. Only the wide gold-brown eyes betray the fear and guilt
within, as do the words I'm sorry... whispered over and over, as if repitition
will remedy what she has done.
...s-somebeast
take her...take from me an-and help this good m-mouse....don't die...
Rook's stuttered
words finally reach the tufted ears, and Riala turns away from Mackbry as if in
a dream to see Moonrose, almost unrecognizable with her white fur stained
almost completely red.
Seasons...
no...
She didn't mean
to say anything, but the words escape her throat in a whisper. The dimness of
early night made it difficult to see the entire scope of the albino's injuries...
but the moon's pale light revealed enough to know it was serious. An arrow
wound buried in Moonrose's back, the arrow still embedded there...
"I... I'm no
healer," she says, gold-brown eyes dark with shared pain. "I can bind
wounds, but not much else. I can't take out an arrow... I know you can't just
pull it out; the head will do more damage coming out than it did going in...
but I don't know how to get it out and I don't know how to find out if the
arrow pierced a lung or the heart and I don't know what to do if it
did..."
I don't know
what to do!
She can scarcely
keep from screaming the anguished protest that echoes throughout her mind. Thus
far she had been able to go by feel, had been able to lead without too much
difficulty... She knew how to fight, she knew how to kill, she was able to
figure out how to lead a patrol -- but this? Rarely in her life had she come to
a situation where she did not have any idea what to do, where to go, how to
act. Even when she did, it never affected anybeast save herself if her choice
was wrong. Never had she been trapped in a situation when she didn't know what
to do, when not knowing what to do could cause somebeast their life. Never...
not until now.
I... don't
know what... to do...
Weakly Mack heaved himself to his feet,
leaning so heavily on the saber in front of him that he feared it would snap.
Curtly nodding to the blood-red Deathjaw, he did what he could to smile in his
pained state before patting the coyote limply on the back. His gray eyes
searched the clearing, finally landing on the dead carcass of a weasel, a spear
through his neck. The hare scuffled over to the weasel, his height shortened as
he bent almost double. His spear retrieved, Mack slowly ambled over to where
Rook stood holding Moonrose.
"Here
Rook," he said, his words short and sharp as if harder to speak than
normal, "lean her up here." Mack gestured towards a large oak as he
spread his unharmed cloak (it had been in his haversack during the battle) on
the ground before it. The hare pressed his left arm against his stomach to keep
it from flopping around uselessly as he slowly, but very deliberately, hobbled
to Riala's side. His eyes creased as a brief smile flickered across his face.
"C'mon, I'll
help ye with yer wounds." It seemed no more words were required, the
subject Mack guessed Riala feared the most was best left untouched.
With alacrity, Rook obeyed the hare's order, a flash of pity running the length of his scarred features, creasing them as he gently set Moonrose against the oak's trunk, a few paces from the spot where she'd fallen. That task completed, the otter could do no more and slipped back to crouch several yards away, neglecting the blood that formed brittle tufts of dirty brown in his fur.
Ahh!... that hurt.... Dead?.... can't
see.... see.... not dead....
*The mouse's
bloodied ears twitched ever so slightly, the only thing showing that her heart
still beat.*
So heavy...
can't even open my eyes... open my eyes...MY eyes.... My head's 'bout to
split..... can't... uhhhnn...
*Her mind reeled.
She was trapped inside her own brain, and it was full of cobwebs and cracks.
She still clutched her sword, she felt one arm heavier than the other, though
both were numb. She could hear voices, though they were muffled, low murmers
whispered into the darkness and scattered by the soft breeze that tickled her
whiskers.*
Can't move....
where?..... Dead?..... it hurts....
*She winced
inwardly. Soon, though, her mind began to slow, and her thoughts stopped as she
drifted into sleep.*
"C'mon, I'll help ye with yer
wounds."
Gold-brown eyes
blinked slowly, bewildered at the hare's words. Wounds...? It was like the word
was a key, unlocking the door of shock and the aftermath of bloodwrath that had
kept the pain at bay, and the squirrel's wounds made themselves known with a
vengeance. A slash on her side, on her arm, on her leg... none so deep as to be
much of a threat unless left unattended.
"No... mine
aren't bad," she says quietly, though her teeth are clenched as she rips
up yet more tunic to bind the cuts. "Help Moonrose... you've probably more
experience at healing than I... and she's far worse off."
Finishing at
last, Riala limps over to where Moonrose lies and crouches beside the albino
mouse, rare concern flickering in her intense gaze. "Don't die on us,
mouse..." She hasn't known the albino for long, but she respects her
fighting spirit and ability, and she feels somehow responsible for Moonrose's
condition. After all, if she hadn't rushed into battle without a moment's
planning... if she hadn't let bloodwrath take control...
hellsteeth...
bloodwrath...
Her wiry frame
tenses with the turmoil of emotion that grips her soul in a breath-stealing
vise. The bloodwrath... uncontrollable, unpredictable... her bane that drove
off all reason, that consumed her mind in fury and bloodthirst so that she
could not distinguish friend from foe... With it, she was a danger to all
goodbeasts near her. Without it, she could not hold her own in a fight, and
otherbeasts could die.
A mousemaid's
dark eyes... a scream... the thud of an arrow in innocent flesh because she could
not get there in time....
In that moment,
kneeling over the fallen albino's bloodstained body, Riala makes a decision and
an oath.
I will not
return to Fort Ruddler. I will not put my comrades... my friends... in danger.
I will not have them hurt, maybe killed by my paw.
And Riala never
goes back on an oath... she never falters once she has made a decision. It is
final and permanent and all that remains is to tell the others that she will
not be returning with them - but it is not time for that. First the wounded
must be tended to...
Mack's misty gray gaze remained glued to
Riala for a few more seconds, there was some strange fire burning in his eyes.
Granted of course, there always seemed to be a fire that burned in her eyes,
her very soul, but, this time it was....
Unable to find
the right word in his silent thoughts, the hare shrugged it away and limped
over to Moonrose's still form. "Truth b'told," he began, kneeling by
the bloodied mouse's side, "I've no knowledge as t'what ye do with arrow
wounds. I know a few poultices I can whip up fer her deeper wounds, but other'n
pullin' that arrow out I don't know any other way."
He reached over
to a dead weasel nearby and pulled an arrow from an almost empty quiver on the
back of the dead beast. It was thin and light, a perfect killing machine.
Staring around the clearing, it seemed almost every other arrow scattered on
the ground was much the same; thin and light. "Well, I don't think these
blokes used barbed arrows, they're thin at the top," Mack said, holding up
the arrow he had pulled from the dead weasel's quiver. "Swift, easy
killers not meant to cause much torrture. An' they're shaped like thin leaves,
not triangles, jest like m'spear. S'long as we're careful, it should come out
clean an' we don't seemed t'know any other way."
The gray hare
took a deep breath to reassure himself as he turned Moonrose's unconcious form
over. A sinkening red stain had form on the cloth that covered her back and the
ugly arrow shaft sticking out didn't help make the sight better. Slipping his
own belt and stained tunic off, Mack set them off to the side while pulling a
flagon half full of water from his haversack. With everything in place, he
wiped a nervous paw across his brow and blinked, staring down over the rim of
his spectacles at Moonrose. Hells teeth, he could hear a shaky voice in
his head say, don't let me mess up, not with Moonrose.
Taking a firm
grip on the arrow, Mack swallowed visably before yanking upward hard. He could
feel the pain in his shoulder and back burn painfully, but he didn't stop until
the shaft was free of the poor mouse's back. Immediately grappling for the
flagon of water, Mack uncorked it and poured it slowly over Moonrose's
profusely bleeding back. Once it was moderately clear, he jammed his tunic over
it and wrapped his belt around her while turning her over onto her back; he
buckled the belt around her middle. Mack's breathing was fast and worried as he
sat back, the look of a weary, nervous docter showing clearly on his face. He
stared apprehensively around the group before pouring a bit of the water onto
his paw and dabbing at Moonrose's brow. "C'mon m'gel, m'friend. C'mon, ye
can do it, don't die on us, Moonrose lass."
*It rained. Softly at first, the wispy
grey clouds gently misting the ground, but soon the sky was filled with heavy
black masses, blocking out the gently glittering stars and breaking open,
pouring down buckets of cold, driving rain. Lightning forked its way through
the dense sky, like a gash, and with a growl of thunder the clouds knit their
own wounds back together, leaving the vague presence of a fading scar if one
looked hard enough. It swept over the battlefield, as if the Earth herself were
clensing her bloodied face, washing away the stench of death and replacing it
with the gentle fragrence of a summer storm. Mud soon burried the dead as it
ran from the high hills down to where they lay, foe and friend, akin to each
other under the soupy mess. The mouse listened to the sound of the rain
slapping the ground furiously, smelt the mud, and felt as rainwater ran through
her blood stained fur; fully awake in brain since the removal of the arrow but
her body still as death. Mackbry's tendings had helped the wound profoundly,
though her mind was still befuddled with randomness and confusion. Water flowed
into her ears, her closed eyes, condenced on her whiskers and lashes as it
stung in her shoulder, her side, her footpaw, her back. Still she did not move,
didn't even bat an eyelash as the water cooled her fevered brow. Her wandering
mind drifted far away from the patrolers, far far away on a breeze that smelt
of wet grass and rotting roses.*
Here... Where
is here? My back hurts... Rain... love the rain, cold, calm..... Her thoughts were
scattered, like her broken and battered mind could not place them in the right
order. ... the Earth is growling.... not dead.... not dead.... the water
smells good, nice......sore...... vermin, why did I kill them?.... them....
them.... her........ why did I kill her.... didn't know... didn't know, not my
fault..... didn't know.... can't go back.... so sorry, sorry sorry..........
rain.... love the rain....
*The yote turned his head to the falling
sky, letting the rain drench his fur and wash away the blood and flesh that was
not his, letting the cool air fill his lungs to replace the hot, stuffy battle
oxygen. The rain would bury the dead, saving them time, and besides sensible
purposes, it refreshed him, washed him clean, the pelting drops on his face
told him he was still breathing. Shaking himself in the way only canids can,
the tribal beast trudged over to the large oak which many beast huddled in
shelter from the growling storm. The smell of blood, pain, and terror soon
mixed with the sweet smell of rain and oak leaves as the beast entered under
the halo of branches. Rain still leaked through the canopy and showered them in
water, but it was not as driving as it was outside the tree haven. Spotting the
old hare who had protected him, he made his way over, reaching into his vest
pocket and producing a few random herbs. For a moment he hesitated, all the
beasts seemed worried, pre-occupied with something; maybe he shouldn't
interfere.... the beast shrugged it off and strided through, only to stop short
at what he saw. That mouse.... familiar... Ah, the one who had struck him. Was
she dead? He though for sure one who could strike a yote would be able to
survive a simple brawl such as this. The vermin were pushovers, barely worth
his time, easy prey. And yet she fell? He shook his head in distain before
tapping the hare gently on his uninjured sholder.*
"'Ere,
mate..." The canid almost sheepishly handed him the pawful of herbs.
"I'm no 'ealer, but m'be these'll make due fer summat while a foraging
party 'eads out?"
*He then averted
his gaze to the injured mouse. She sure looked dead, if her ears and tail
weren't twitching, he predicted they would have burried her by now.*
"Wot's wrong
wid 'er?"
"She got an arrer in the back,
mate." Gratefully excepting the herbs, the hare slowly turned Moonrose
once more onto her front. He reached a paw out and gently pulled back his green
tunic, now stained with Moonrose's blood. Ever so gingerly he tucked the
strange herbs Deathjaw had given him around Moonrose's wound before replacing
the tunic like it had been.
Turning her over
once more, Mack then stood up and, surprisingly, wrapped a paw around
Deathjaw's broad shoulders. This time, however, the old hare's look did not
speak of comfort, it spoke of worry. "The rest be up t'her." Mack's
gray eyes sparkled with tears that threatened to spill out at any second and
his voice shook as he spoke; truth be told he had little hope for Moonrose and
Mack rarely lost hope for anything. Pulling away from Deathjaw, he sniffled a
few times before mumbling something about going to find firewood for the night
and disappearing into the woods surrounding the clearing.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~Moonrose Flashback~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Why..... it's
so dark.... can't see..... Her mind groggily flew back into
wakefullness. Her eyes were open, but she couldn't see.
That noise, a
light, a silluette.... someone's coming in.... Father...?
The sound of
footsteps could be heard creeping across the weathered wooden planks, a shaft
of lantern light poured across the floor, distictly showing a long, moving
shadow with an outstretched paw.
No...... then
who?..... stranger...... The mouse's paw instinctivly strayed to her
swordblade, which rested on the nightstand next to her cot. A muffled squeal of
surprise issued from the shadow. Its paw also rested on the handle.
NO! THIEF!! Her mind roared.
Wrenching the
weapon from the stranger's hand, the albino flailed, thrusting it blindly into
the darkness. She was rewarded with a gurgle of pain and the sound of blood
spattering the floorboards. The lantern hit the floor with a dull clatter,
tossing light randomly over the floor and casting wildly dancing shadows along
the empty walls.
Hellsteeth,
what have I done... The red fog clouding her brain slowly
lifted, and the bloodied face of the corpse slowly registered in her mind.
What have I
done................
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
*The cool smell
of rain and the feel of water dripping on her brow slowly dissintegrated the
troubling memories and brought her mind back to the dreary present. She tried
to move her mouth, her paw, anything, but found them still paralyzed.*
I am not dead... Her mind told her
reassuringly. Not dead.
*A lone tear
squeezed out of the corner of her eye- but perhaps it was only rainwater that
was trickling down her numbed cheek.*
Not dead...
Within the hour the hare had returned,
bearing a face that made him look even older than he was. A temporary camp had
been set up and the soft pattering of raindrops on the cream-colored canvases
of the patrol's tents. Slopping across a ground of mud which formed most of the
clearing, Mack dragged a few small logs behind him.
Droplets of water
dripped sadly from the brim of his cap, forming a puddle in the middle, and his
eyes were red with tears. Mack sloshed his way slowly over to where Riala sat
silently by a small fire, her back to the tent in which Moonrose tossed and
rolled in her troubled sleep.
"I...I...here,"
was all Mack could manage and pushed the logs in Riala's direction.
Riala accepted the logs wordlessly,
feeding one to the dying fire that captured her whole attention. The dance of
hungry flames reflected in her brooding gaze masked the dark shadows flickering
within. Rain hissed as it landed on the burning logs, scattered into mist.
Even the sky
weeps...
Fire twisted
about in her mind, a reflection of the red-gold tongues that battled the
falling water for survival. The flickering light cast shadows on her thoughts,
looming in the corners of her mind, and the flames burned away all words into
the velvet muddled state of the in-between. Half conscious, mind emptied, only
seeing the flames and only hearing the night.
She spoke without
quite realizing it, not certain the emotionless rough voice barely audible
above the soft raindrops was her own. "I won't be returning to the
fort."
Mack froze, a rain sodden piece of bread
half-way to his mouth and his eyes gazing into space. When he finally did move,
it was slow and deliberate, movements of a beast injured inside himself. He
turned to look at Riala, a deep frown creasing his gray whiskered face.
The patter of
rain accompanied the steady stream of water falling from the brim of the old
hare's cap as he turned away from the squirrel without a word. He stared
downward for a few minutes, concentrating on the forgotten slice of bread as he
rolled it over in his paws.
"The land cries
it would seem," he finally spoke, his voice quiet and strained as if
speaking to himself. "But is it for you?" Strangely, Mack's accent
was no longer the thick, cheery one it used to be; it was solemn and reserved,
quiet and understanding.
He lifted his
gaze once more to look towards Riala and a brief sad but understanding smile
flickered across his rain-splashed face. "I won't stop you," the hare
exhaled. "I know why you don't think you can stay. Just remember," he
said, placing a wet gray paw on the squirrel's shoulder, "you're not who
you were..."
Nodding towards
her, he turned away and sullenly faced the fire, muttering one last time,
"You're not who you were..."
The rain passed with the days that followed, each of the patrollers slowly healing from the battle. They were joined by the twobeasts and younglings that had remained at the massacred village, and still they rested until Moonrose was able to travel, until they were all able to travel. That day the rising sun silhouetted a lone squirrel, one scarred paw raised in farewell to the patrollers as they turned their faces northward, to Fort Ruddler. She watched in silence, motionless, until all that remained of the home-returning fortbeasts was only memory, and then she too disappeared into the forest.
To Sandfur Dunerunner, Drill Sergeant and Infantry Commander of Fort Ruddler:
I have proven myself a danger to my comrades in battle, unable to distinguish friend from foe while under the influence of the bloodwrath. In sparring practice I attacked Field Marshal Teltoli Riverbuck of Platoon 4 with intent to kill. During the Wayside Patrol, in a recent battle with vermin, I attacked Major General Mackbry Taffellappen, also with intent to kill, and threw a dagger into his shoulder. Therefore, I submit my resignation from the position of Major General to you along with my resignation from the ranks of Fort Ruddler. Included are my badge of rank and an extensive report of the Wayside Patrol experiment, given to Major General Mackbry Taffellappen for transportation to Fort Ruddler.
Signed,
Riala Goldentail
