Statistics
Name: Detraeus
Stage: Adept
Class: Archer
Level: 33
Stats:
INT - 20
ATK - 55
DEF - 31
LP - 210
ENG - 210
Inventory:
Firani Dragon Orb x 3
Gaili Dragon Orb x 1
Moonstone x 6
Royal Venom x 9
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Detraeus drew his measuring cord taut, squinting at its marks.
‘
Measure twice, cut once,’ Martrae’a told him often.
Plucking a small, craftsman’s knife from his belt, his brow knit together in a scowl as he cut a reference notch into the uncut arrow shaft in front of him. Two broken shafts. One arrowhead chipped beyond repair and another lost, snapped off and buried in the body of a now-dead arvathi. He wouldn’t even be
needing to fletch new arrows yet if it hadn’t been for that stupid girl.
The mental accusation wasn’t precisely accurate, of course — he might just as easily have snapped his arrows in the garghons he’d intended to hunt before she scared them off — but Detraeus wasn’t in a forgiving mood and preferred to stew in his irritation, replaying the scene in his head far more times than was likely healthy. Why had he turned back for her in the first place? He’d owed her nothing, but spilt blood for her. Taken a
risk for her. A stranger. A dovaa, of all things.
Pursing his lips tighter, Detraeus checked his measurements once more before making his cut.
Stupid.
Clumsy.
Loud.
What had she even been doing? And why did his mind deign to continue thinking of her? Asking these impossible questions when she ought to have been out of his head long ago?
“Sleep is good for a body, Detraeus. Especially a growing boy’s.” Martrae’a’s voice came from his left, hanging between the frame of the main doorway. Deep, for a woman, and coarse with age, but still warm somehow. Earthy. “Gives it the energy to build a strong foundation.”
Detraeus set down his newly cut shaft, and reached for the flint beside it without a word. The
clack, clack, clack of stone against stone filled the night air uninterrupted for several long moments. Though he heard her approach — the staggered, tap-shuffle of her cane and one good leg was hard to miss — he didn’t pause his efforts, focus locked on the shape of the flint as he clipped away at it.
“You’ve made enough arrows in the past three days to last you weeks.”
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.“As practiced as you are at silence, it might benefit you to note that if you would like to talk about something, it is my sight that’s leaving me, not my hearing, and for now my ears are available.”
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.“She must have been some girl.”
Clkkk—Detraeus bit back a curse as his striking tool missed the flint, cracking into the tips of his fingers instead. Gritting his teeth, he sent Martrae’a a narrow glare. A half-second after opening his mouth, however, her fingers touched his and he froze: shoulders bunching, breath sucking in sharply between his teeth and hands darting back as whatever he might have said crystallized in his throat.
But she only removed the half-carved arrowhead and striking stone from his grip before giving him his space again, and Detraeus’ breath tumbled back out from between his lips, his glare softening to a conflicted frown.
“You shouldn’t carve when you’re angry—”
“I’m not angry,” he clipped.
“—you’ll ruin more perfectly good flint than is worth it,” Martra continued. “Bang two stones together if that helps you beat out your frustrations, but don’t waste our materials.” A pause. “I’ve never seen you so focussed on someone…”
“I should have let her die.”
“Do you believe that?” Martra didn’t so much as blink.
Detraeus frowned. A confusing twist of responses battered up against his tongue, but he bit them all back, and eventually, scowling, he stood. Leaving the workbench behind him, he stooped to grab his quiver and strap it at his hip, cinched in place his chest belt of throwing knives, and fetched his bow. After double checking the fighting dagger at his hip — a wicked, curved blade that had been gifted to him nearly six years ago now — he made to leave.
“Detraeus.”
He stalled. After a long moment, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to say more ‘til he responded, Detraeus turned back to face her. “Ma’am?”
Matrae’a threw something at him, a dark bundle which he moved instinctively to catch and did, grunting as it hit his chest. He blinked as he looked down at it. His cloak: thick, protective, and warm with a built-in hood. Good for stealth in the dark as well as something to stave off the creeping chill.
“It’s winter, boy,” she said. “Dress like it.”
Detraeus opened his mouth, brow pinched in a puzzled frown, but after a time, he closed his lips again, giving up on speech, and unfurled the cloak. Tugging it neatly about his shoulders and fastening it in place, he set off into the night.
One of the things Detraeus appreciated most about Martrae’a was her lack of invasiveness. She never asked where he was going, only listened when he saw fit to tell her. She never attempted to ‘forbid’ him of anything or control his choices, and asked little of him while — if he were to admit it — she gave back far more than he deserved in return. A place to stay free of judgement and ridicule. Hands on practice in the craft of smithing. Stability.
And yet…
Detraeus navigated the swampland surrounding Martra’s home with familiar ease. He knew the place practically by heart now, after having inhabited it for three, verging on four years now, and while he was always calmed by trekking out into it — burying himself in the dark of the trees and tunneling all his focus into a hunt — the restless energy that had been bothering him ever more as of late seemed only heightened on his own.
As kind as Matrae’a was to him, the raw
normalcy of it all unnerved him. He needed to get out. He was too comfortable, too attached, too dependant, and too weak here. As much as she seemed to mean well, it itched at Detraeus to feel so tied down. So stationery. He needed to push himself, not let himself grow too soft around the edges; he’d made a promise to himself, and he had to stick with it.
That, he decided, was likely what had bugged him most about his encounter with the dovaa girl. Once upon a time, not so many years ago, he wouldn’t have blinked before taking the opportunity to run and letting her die without a speck of guilt on his conscience. It wouldn’t have
occurred to him to stop, help a complete stranger and risk his own safety in the process. Something had changed in him, and he was convinced it couldn’t be for the better. Time with Martrae’a was making him complacent, and foolish.
He was no longer a child, and needed to leave. Soon.
No sooner had he thought it, than Detraeus froze in his tracks, the sound of muted shuffling through the swamp reaching his ears. Someone, or something shared the woods with him. Tugging the hood of his cloak up and tucking it in close to mask the mist of his breath in the winter air, Detraeus quietly un-holstered his bow. Readying it with a single arrow pinched loosely between his fingers, he gave the area a broad panoramic glance before progressing forward again. Slowly.
Whoever it was moved far more quietly than the dovaa girl, clearly a more experienced hunter, probably older, but they were not silent. Not like the occasional oblivionite hunter that Detraeus had encountered in the past. Practiced, but not so sure-footed, as though both the terrain and the dark were an obstacle. From this, he guessed one thing: they could not see in the dark. Not an oblivionite.
Another dovaa? Or a sight-impaired hybrid?
Seconds later, Detraeus had his answer as he spotted her outline. Another woman. Petite and decked head to toe in practical, fighter’s leather with a hefty weapon. Pale, marble-like skin that seemed almost to glow under the light of the moon. No horns. No scales.
Detraeus felt his breath slow and his blood chill even has his pulse started up a wardrum’s rhythm in his throat. Orderite. She had to be; there was no other logical explanation.
‘Run.’Detraeus fingered his already-strung arrow, swallowing hard as he watched her, stomach already churning with bile. Hatred. Panic.
‘Run.’He could shoot her from here, probably. It would be a long shot, though, and she was likely far stronger than he. She
looked the part of a seasoned warrior. His lip curled back. One of Seren’s filthy, corrupted monsters was here, on
his continent treading far too close to the only place he’d ever come close to calling ‘home’. How could he possibly run now?
It would be nothing but cowardice if he did.
He breathed out, a slow breath that curled as steam even in the naturally dense, foggy air. Tightening his grip on his bow, he raised it, and aimed.
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Die ResultsDetraeus rolls 66 for initiative - goes second.
DEF = 25% - 310 x 0.25 = 77.5 physical damage blocked
10 x 20 = 200 x .25 = 50 magical damage blocked
