Post by Aloisë on Mar 30, 2022 11:30:07 GMT
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Dogblood
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STARRING: The Widoghast.
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SCENE I.: In the Myrwood, Heartlands.
SCORE: [newclass=.Score];font-family:amiri, serif;font-size:0.77vw;color:#EBE1D3;display:inline;[/newclass][newclass=.Score a]color:#EBE1D3;font-family:amiri;font-size:0.77vw;text-decoration:underline;[/newclass][newclass=.Score a:hover]color:#DFCFB9;[/newclass][newclass=.Score a:active]color:#DFCFB9;[/newclass]
[attr="class",Score]"Silver for Monsters"
.SCENE I.: In the Myrwood, Heartlands.
In the shadow of the Calved Mountain - about a days worth of travel away from Praach - lay the Myr Woods. Largely unsettled forestlands that once housed a bygone people, it's thick canopy now accomodates a lush menagerie of wildlife. The word Myr comes from Elder Morahan, meaning "peace" or "calmness". With what hides amid the trees, most hermits would agree that the ancients named it so because it is best to leave the woods alone.
"AAAAH-*"
A man's last scream cuts through the treecover like the crackle of thunder. Startled flocks of birds scatter in the wind around a woodsman's cottage in the middle of the forest, one that was on no map or attached to any road. Tents, wagons and provisions were littered around the place as if a group of people moved in here recently in search for temporary shelter. Whoever they were, they worked hard to remain secreted away in this nook for there was a multitude of better lodgings along the road.
But buried secrets had a way of clawing their way back to the surface.
More grunts and struggle. String being loaded and releasing wooden coffin nails. Then two heavier sounds, doors flying open into splinters and a body taking a hard fall onto wooden flooring. Behind, the caravan was in shambles. A hanged man's boots were swaying gently in the breeze. What remained of its men was haphazardly dispersed around. One was caught with his pants down at the latrine, another's top part burned to the bones in the campfire. But most were awkwardly stabbed, slashed or shot to death. The time for subtlety had long passed.
"Don't worry, Mishko. You aren't the only one who howled in the end."
Aloisë reloaded his handheld crossbow, having to duck slightly as he entered through the doorframe into the ransacked cottage. By the way the interior looked, it was clear that he would find a shallow grave somewhere out back. He grumbled under breath, recognizing that this was what they done in the war. But never to the commoners. Shame how far his former friend had fallen. "Radovan did. So did Ian."
The quarry winced and bit his tongue. He was a disheveled, mousy man not much younger than Aloisë with rotten teeth and hair that was receeding early. On his right shoulder sat a black iron pauldron of similar make to the breastplate that was of identical make to Aloisë's own. He noticed that the closer he got to Hoachím, the less of the Borderman's articles his bastards wore. Even though it meant that it would be much harder to track them now, a sense of rightfulness washed over the ranger.
"Bastard. You killed them...", the man pushed himself deeper into the cabin by the palms of his hands as his right leg was badly wounded.
"So I have.", the bolt clicked in place inside the crossbow's mechanism. "You left us down there to die, Mishko. Like fodder."
"I-it is not as simple, Loisë.", he had a hard time getting the words out amid the pain.
The manhunter squatted down to lock eyes with his former friend, angled the crossbow at the other leg and... "Is it not?" Fired. The bolt nailed the thigh to the floor.
"AGH!", Mishko's breathing raced, then lulled into heavy huffs of muffled pain. "Hrrnh... Please do not do this. Please."
"Tell me where the rest of them are.", the Widoghast rose back to his feet and kicked the nailed leg. "Otta. Erwál. Dimonic. Frances. Hoachím!", he swooped down to grab Mishko by the scruff of his tunic. "Where is Hoachím? Speak!"
"They-they are a-at the Seven-score. They a-are in Praach."
Aloisë threw him aside, reloading the crossbow once more and looming over the other Morahak with the sun shining over his back. Another click, then the man starred down the arrow's shaft. Last wisps of Aloisë's patience held the trigger finger at bay now.
The cowing Mishko's hand shot up once more in a last desperate attempt at getting through the inconsolable manhunter. "Please, Loisë! We didn't know any better!"
"Wrong. You've known me for years." The mechanism discharged, delivering the bolt through the reaching hand and burying it deep into Mishko's traitorous head.
Despite his self-assertion of superiority, there was no satisfaction in seeing his friend's lifeless body slump to the ground. They were all soldiers, all brothers. Mishko was just another casualty, another blind follower of their virtuous leader as he once used to be. Already dead to Aloisë at the moment the choice was made for him. The two of them weren't that dissimilar. Only difference being Aloisë was the one left behind. He hated to think what would've happened had their roles been reversed, but they were not. Second thoughts were a slow and lethal poison. So he pushed down into the kiln of his vengeance and focused on the task at hand. Getting to Praach.
"AAAAH-*"
A man's last scream cuts through the treecover like the crackle of thunder. Startled flocks of birds scatter in the wind around a woodsman's cottage in the middle of the forest, one that was on no map or attached to any road. Tents, wagons and provisions were littered around the place as if a group of people moved in here recently in search for temporary shelter. Whoever they were, they worked hard to remain secreted away in this nook for there was a multitude of better lodgings along the road.
But buried secrets had a way of clawing their way back to the surface.
More grunts and struggle. String being loaded and releasing wooden coffin nails. Then two heavier sounds, doors flying open into splinters and a body taking a hard fall onto wooden flooring. Behind, the caravan was in shambles. A hanged man's boots were swaying gently in the breeze. What remained of its men was haphazardly dispersed around. One was caught with his pants down at the latrine, another's top part burned to the bones in the campfire. But most were awkwardly stabbed, slashed or shot to death. The time for subtlety had long passed.
"Don't worry, Mishko. You aren't the only one who howled in the end."
Aloisë reloaded his handheld crossbow, having to duck slightly as he entered through the doorframe into the ransacked cottage. By the way the interior looked, it was clear that he would find a shallow grave somewhere out back. He grumbled under breath, recognizing that this was what they done in the war. But never to the commoners. Shame how far his former friend had fallen. "Radovan did. So did Ian."
The quarry winced and bit his tongue. He was a disheveled, mousy man not much younger than Aloisë with rotten teeth and hair that was receeding early. On his right shoulder sat a black iron pauldron of similar make to the breastplate that was of identical make to Aloisë's own. He noticed that the closer he got to Hoachím, the less of the Borderman's articles his bastards wore. Even though it meant that it would be much harder to track them now, a sense of rightfulness washed over the ranger.
"Bastard. You killed them...", the man pushed himself deeper into the cabin by the palms of his hands as his right leg was badly wounded.
"So I have.", the bolt clicked in place inside the crossbow's mechanism. "You left us down there to die, Mishko. Like fodder."
"I-it is not as simple, Loisë.", he had a hard time getting the words out amid the pain.
The manhunter squatted down to lock eyes with his former friend, angled the crossbow at the other leg and... "Is it not?" Fired. The bolt nailed the thigh to the floor.
"AGH!", Mishko's breathing raced, then lulled into heavy huffs of muffled pain. "Hrrnh... Please do not do this. Please."
"Tell me where the rest of them are.", the Widoghast rose back to his feet and kicked the nailed leg. "Otta. Erwál. Dimonic. Frances. Hoachím!", he swooped down to grab Mishko by the scruff of his tunic. "Where is Hoachím? Speak!"
"They-they are a-at the Seven-score. They a-are in Praach."
Aloisë threw him aside, reloading the crossbow once more and looming over the other Morahak with the sun shining over his back. Another click, then the man starred down the arrow's shaft. Last wisps of Aloisë's patience held the trigger finger at bay now.
The cowing Mishko's hand shot up once more in a last desperate attempt at getting through the inconsolable manhunter. "Please, Loisë! We didn't know any better!"
"Wrong. You've known me for years." The mechanism discharged, delivering the bolt through the reaching hand and burying it deep into Mishko's traitorous head.
Despite his self-assertion of superiority, there was no satisfaction in seeing his friend's lifeless body slump to the ground. They were all soldiers, all brothers. Mishko was just another casualty, another blind follower of their virtuous leader as he once used to be. Already dead to Aloisë at the moment the choice was made for him. The two of them weren't that dissimilar. Only difference being Aloisë was the one left behind. He hated to think what would've happened had their roles been reversed, but they were not. Second thoughts were a slow and lethal poison. So he pushed down into the kiln of his vengeance and focused on the task at hand. Getting to Praach.