Alive

[Nevare]

"h o u n d. . ."

It's a raspy voice filling his ears whilst fingers thread through his hair simultaneously. His side's alight with pain, and his breathing's erratic; hitching. His breath stills, and he's groaning loudly against the knot of fabric between his teeth; veins pumping along the arch of his neck as his face reddens with heat. His nose wrinkles when an offending, acrid odor assaults his nostrils. It's the smell of burning flesh; human flesh -- his flesh.

...cauterized.

He wasn't sure what had gone wrong; in fact, Nevare had lost track of time and thought when having fled to this majestic mountain range, but therein was his problem. It's such that had led him stranded here, and he's alone, but he's not frightened.

His hands scramble and within moments he's dropping his belt knife to the snow. It's hissing while Nevare's reaching for a handful of snow to press against his freshly cauterized side; the flesh riddled with scars and splotched with pock marks. His breathing slows to a still, and for that aching moment, everything's calm and still; nigh perfect. His head lolls backward and settles against his rolled up panniers; a makeshift pillow.

How far was he from civilization? It's a question that lingers upon the forefront of his mind; teasing him. He knew he couldn't turn back now, and all he had left to do was to continue onward and forward. He had at least lost his enemies, but he had likewise lost the leg of his retinue; his warband. They were now missing, and they were more than likely as lost as he was, but at the least they'd have foodstuffs and provisions; they'd have the wagon full of supplies. As for Nevare though? He didn't have such luxury. It's then he feels the heat of breath upon his neck.

"Aquilon," Nevare beathes outward and lifts a hand to his warhorse's nose; fingertips smoothing over that open mouth. It's moist to the touch, and the heat breathes life into him; renews his vigor almost. Nevare knew what he must do, and he knew that he couldn't stay there. He couldn't linger and wait for his enemies or his warband to catch up; he had to continue moving. It's then, and only then, that his hands lift and grip upon Aquilon's reins for assistance. His mount motions backward to ease Nevare upon his backside before pulling him to his feet.

Nevare surveys his camp.

It was simplistic to say the least, and besides those rolled up panniers used for comfort, Nevare had little else to the make of his camp but for the barely there fire used for his cauterization. It's that which he stumbles toward and kicks snow onto, and within moments he's stooping to gather his panniers and fixate them onto Aquilon's saddle, but the task's done with a half-hearted light to such; he's tired, and he's worn out. His eyes...they're sagging shut, and the chill of night's biting through his leathers and clothing. It's leaving him with chattering teeth and cracked, bleeding lips.

His hair's matted with dried blood, and his clothing's slick with such, cracking with each step and motion he performs. He's slick with sweat, and his breath mists upon the air. His nose's assaulted with the smell of burned flesh and the scent of offal that still clings to his flesh and clothing as if his wayward escape had only been moments beforehand when, in reality, it must have been nigh three days. Truth be told, Nevare's unsure how he's still well and alive, but despite such, he clambers onto Aquilon's back with groan as the wound upon his side pulls uncomfortably. Within moments Nevare thumps his heels upon Aquilon's sides and he leans forward until he's laying across that great neck.

"H o u n d . . ."

His eyes flutter open. Hours had passed since his last stop, and his side's aching. Bile burns up the back of his throat and his hand's soon lifting to wipe blood from his mouth before he's retching over the side of his mount and upon the earth; soil and slow -- muck and mud. It's then his hands tighten upon Aquilon's reins and he's forcing himself to sit upward with his face tucked against the whip of wind; the bite and chill. It's then he sees it.

...ruins.

It's not much, and it's definitely not civilization, but it leaves Nevare with a semblance of safety, and it's shelter from the storm brewing all around him. It's much needed, and in truth, it may be just enough to lose his pursuers. In the end? Well, Nevare's not sure whether or not he could thank the gods or damn them. Either way though, Nevare's groaning aloud as Aquilon shifts to transitions to a quickened pace toward the ruins of an abandoned citadel, but the chill's got fingers deep within him.

He's shuddering and his head's swimming with pain. Heat's flush and spreading throughout his chest as the chill's biting and anchoring into his warm, sun-kissed flesh. He's aching, and he's tired. He longs for rest, and truth be told, he wants more than such. It's for the first time within his life that he questions whether or not this was where he wished to be. He would have much preferred to be a child then and there; a child and still within his mother's lap well before his father had taken him away. He questions his father, and he loathes the man that had made him what he was then and there before he's choking on blood and bile before attempting to spur Aquilon forth at a quicker pace. It's then that his eyes sag...

His eyes fall slowly shut as Aquilon takes a deep dip, and within moments Nevare's losing his balance; he's shifting within the saddle with a sharp turn as soil and cobbles loose beneath Aquilon's weight. Within moments the earth comes crashing up at him before he's hitting cobbles and meeting darkness. It's a sick slap of flesh upon snow and stone.

It's an uneventful way to die.



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[Illias]

Ryoma Echizen - a young samurai prodigy at the age of 12. Yet Ryoma sees none of this. Many people come to him to seek his advice in his hometown, Tokyo, Japan. His father was not tad bit proud of him, even though that was the case. To him, Ryoma is just a kid that has much more to work on, and to Ryoma, his father was just a distant figure, waiting for him to catch up on. And it was because life was like that, he wanted a change. He wanted a new environment to live in, where he could hone his skills and chase after many great warriors rather than only his father alone. His father was a great samurai, and Ryoma respected him with every inch of his soul - but that wasn't enough. As a child, he is cocky by nature and he still has alot to explore on in the world of swordsplay. Yet, that's not just it. There would be sorcerers, witches, mages, champions, warriors, archers and many other types of humans or creatures out there that he had yet to meet. He had heard, from people travelling to his home country Japan, that there was such a place called 'Avaren' that would have all he needed to gain experience and improve as a warrior himself. He saw a few warriors. They were bulky, heavy and has thick muscles. Ryoma didn't like that. He was swift, lean and powerful. He didn't like to blunder around, and he was sure there will be alot of 'blunderers' in Avaren as well.

As he hoisted his backpack higher on his right shoulder, his sword sheathed by his side, he stepped through the snow to see a large structure before him. It looked old - almost ancient, and most certainly deserted. Shifting his golden-brown eyes higher up above him, the skies were clear. His travelling cloak kept most of the chill out, but the wind was still strong out in the open. He'd have to find a place to settle down after travelling for 3 days from Japan. Moving through the thick snow gingerly, he stepped into the Abandoned Citadel. Ryoma was well aware of things that might dwell behind those corroded walls, and even more in the darkness that hasn't seen light for years. He trudged his way through the snow, finally landing his feet on soild ground. Feeling the stone under his leather soles made him slightly glad, yet slighty vulnerable as well. As he continued his way through the citadel, looking for a good place to camp up for the night, he heard a soft neigh. Ryoma stopped in his tracks, his gauntleted right hand immediately grasping his sword hilt. His golden-brown eyes were on alert, and he scrutinized his surroundings with absolute care. There was someone here, perhaps. Yet maybe he was wrong - perhaps it was just a stray horse that had somehow found abit of grass in the cover of the citadel, yet that's almost entirely impossible. No horse could have made its journey here alone - there was only snow for about a few miles around.

Then Ryoma heard the soft neigh again, and he moved towards the source of the sound. The twelve-year-old had no idea how to react to all this. As his golden gaze landed upon the horse, the horse neighed again, dipping downwards. Ryoma lowered his gaze to see a slightly ten and bloodied man lying on the stone and snow that littered the citadel grounds. Hesitant, Ryoma wondered if he could trust that man... who was lying there so serenely like he was dead. Ryoma hurried over, deciding that it was better not to leave him here, and kneeled down beside the man, turning him over to his back. Ryoma stared with wide-eyes at the man's condition - how did he even get here without dying out in the snow? If nobody had passed by, the man would have... That's right, he wasn't dead yet. The man wasn't dead yet - and Ryoma must try to save him before he does. He looked like he was about to drop off the twig at any moment. Ryoma exhaled loudly, and the warhorse stood silently, watching them. Ryoma brushed the man's dirty golden hair away from his blood and dirt-caked face. "Hang in there," Ryoma said in his low voice - he didn't sound like a child at all. More like a cocky brat with nothing to do in life besides kicking other people's asses.

Ryoma pulled away his hand, to reveal the cauterized flesh of his side, and Ryoma put a hand up to his mouth, trying not to vomit. This man was in a worse condition that Ryoma could ever imagine. How did he even survive at all, in the snow-covered plains? Ryoma slid off his backpack and rummaged inside, his small, fair hands shaking badly. He was afraid. He had no idea why, but he was afraid that this man could die. Ryoma took out a grinder, and a handful of dried herb. He knew that this was a natural painkiller that could make the pain of a wound go away for a period time, allowing the body to heal. He took those things, and hoisted the man on his small back, struggling as he brought the man into a small empty house in the citadel. Inside, there were hay and wood preserved by the coal, and Ryoma heaved a sigh of relief. Rolling the man off his back onto the bed of hay, he moved on to light a fire in the middle of the room, and sat by the fire, grinding the herbs quickly into powder. Mixing some water from his skin-bottle, he made the powder into a paste, and moved over to the man on the hay. The horse neighed, resting at another corner of the room. Ryoma closed his eyes and relaxed himself, and slapped the paste onto the man's giant wound, palpating so that the paste could sink into the flesh and blood.

Stripping some cloth from his extra tunic in his back, he bandaged the man's body, around the would and tied it up neatly. Ryoma's work was done. Now all he needed to do is to get some sleep, and maybe next morning he could check if the man was alright. Ryoma took off his travelling cloak despite the cold, and covered it over the man on the hay. His gold-brown eyes watched the man's face - it was flushed from perhaps, a fever - and Ryoma sat down at the foot of the hay bed, curling up into a small ball. He leaned his head on the cracked wall beside him and closed his eyes, hoping much that the man would do a good recovery. Sometimes, he just thought that he was a little too soft to be a warrior - his father told him to pursue a career in Healing instead. But Ryoma, being the cocky brat that he is, wouldn't stand for that. He wanted to be something else... something more...

And then, his breathing levelled out, and he shivered in the cold as he fell asleep there.

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[Nevare]

"k i l l i t . . !"

The walls are echoing with the sound of his father's raspy, hoarse voice. He's screaming at the top of his lungs, and veins are nigh bursting from his throat; spittle flying from his open mouth and eyes bulging from his wide face. He's barking outward toward Nevare; he's screaming at his son before tossing a dull, rusty blade out into the sand pit; the arena. It's falling, and soon it finds the ground with a loud thump, and for the moment there's utter silence.

The hound's salivating as warm, slick spittle dribbles to the sand beneath him. It's not him though; in fact, it's the beast that's upon all fours in front of him. With teeth bare with intent to do harm and nothing else. He can hear his father calling; barking and screaming until his face's red.

"Kill the beast!"

Nevare, only having been witness to eight summers, launches forward to sprawl across the sand and sweep up that dull, rusty blade whilst the salivating hound lunges at him. It happens within the span of several moments; seconds even. It's a sudden urge that's bestial at best; primal. It's what drives him as the hound snarls, barks and seeks to catch Nevare within his large, saliva slick maw.

It's his first bloodletting.

It's the first time he's forced to become something he's nothing; something else entirely. It's the first time he's drawn into a world that would forever be something he's apart of, and he revels within such. He savors the rush of adrenaline threading throughout him; hooking fingers within his flesh as fear takes ahold. It's a moment entirely full of utter bestial instinct and nothing more; young, but as vicious as ever.

He still recalls the flow of blood running down the length of his dirt-caked hands as half-buries the blade into the hound's gut; the creature snapping its maw upon his shoulder and his own jaw clenching tight as tears flood his eyes, and pain blossoms throughout his form; it bites deep into his being and rattles his mind. It shakes him from the sleep that had taken over his body.

He awakes suddenly, but instead of finding something he had expected -- pain from his freshly, and sloppily done, cauterized wound -- he finds a numb, cold patch of flesh upon his side that's slick with something -- an unguent of sorts?

Nevare's unsure what it could be, but he's awake, and his hand's working beneath the fabric of something or other; a cloak. It's not his. It doesn't smell of anything familiar, but to be fair, Nevare smells of horse, piss, blood and offal; of sweat, dirt and grime. Either way though, he's soon grunting as his freehand lifts to some attempt to free himself of the confines of the fabric, but he's weak; he's tired and worn out. He's groaning and writhing within the hay beneath him, and it's at that very moment that Nevare suddenly realizes he's elsewhere.

His last memory was that of being astride Aquilon's wide back, and within the next instant, Nevare had fallen and struck cold stones. He had been drowned within darkness and dreams; within memories of the past that had forced him awake. Nevare's not sure which he would have preferred though. There's something more attractive about reliving his life prior to this moment, but that's not to say Nevare's frightened or even that he had never experienced such.

Nevare's way of peculiar way of fighting was the fact that he managed to survive it often. He's brash, and there's not a hint of hesitation within his stance. He's one that would eagerly toe-to-toe with another and toss his own body into the fray as emotions drive him. It's reminiscent to that of a berserker almost; only almost. So, due to such, Nevare was accustomed to having his wounds cauterized to clean them of any infection, or even sewn such, but this time was different.

Nevare had served beneath banners and he had been given assistance; he had often been carried and led to some pavilion behind their lines to be tended to. As for the moment? Nevare had sloppily cauterized his wound and had burned good flesh in the act. He also didn't exactly dress his wound afterward, and there was a fever coming on quickly. He could already feel his head swimming and his flesh humming with heat. That's not even mentioning the fact that he's light headed and that the edges of his vision's dimming; faltering. But he can't let it get ahold of him; he can't drown within darkness again.

He's willing strength and calm into his body; he's willing a semblance of strength into his limbs whilst pressing elbows beneath him and against the hay and floor. He's pushing himself upward and attempting seek a semblance of leverage so that he may more easily look around the current shelter he's within, and possibly even find the being that may have saved him. Nevare highly doubted that Aquilon, his warhorse and companion, could have done this. It's then that he finds him.

Nevare's unsure how much time had passed since his falling into darkness, but one thing he did know was that he's alive, and he's well. He's breathing albeit slowly; hitched even. That only meant that this person of sorts, this...child?

It was hard to tell from the distance between one another, and that's not even mentioning his blurred vision, but he's sure the boy, or girl even, was young and quaint. It left him wondering how said person managed to get him out of the wild wind and snow alone. Perhaps Aquilon had assisted? Then again, Aquilon wasn't the kindest of creatures, but intelligent; he could have assisted to ensure Nevare's life. So, was that it?

Nevare attempts to sit up further, and he even goes as far as to attempt coming to his feet, but that goes no where and the attempt's clearly feeble as he groans and falls backward into the hay. There's a knicker from the corner of the room, and for that moment, Nevare suddenly realizes Aquilon was likely out of the brisk chill of the night and lingering within the room as well. He grunts and wrinkles his nose briefly before looking back toward the child.

The boy, or girl, was still resting away, but despite this, Nevare couldn't help but wonder at the luck of it all. Perhaps the gods were smiling down onto him after all? He couldn't find any other reason for his still living. It's then that he's rolling onto his side -- his good one -- before tucking that cloak tighter against his form.

How long had he been asleep for? Nevare had lost track of time since fleeing into the mountain range. Since then hours felt like days, and days felt like weeks with pain spreading throughout his side alongside exhaustion and frost bite; that's not even making mention of the fever still brewing within him that leaves him shivering involuntarily. It took only moments before he's deciding to speak; to wake the other.

He grunts first, but it's a feeble attempt.

"You," he speaks aloud, but his voice's hoarse and wispy; soft. It must be the blood that had coated his throat and nigh left him choking on such for hours. He lifts the cloak covering him and wipes it across his mouth with a grunt before his freehand quests outward for a stone of sorts; he finds a sliver of one and lifts it enough for a toss. It's soon landing and skittering across the short distance between one another before he's breaking into a fit of coughing.

Well, at least that would most likely wake him, no?

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