Welcome to Gaia! ::

Statistics

Name: Casseth
Stage: Expert
Class: Gaili barbarian
Level: 55

Stats:

INT - 74
ATK - 60
DEF - 45

LP - 820
ENG - 620


Inventory:

- Ayrala Dragon Orb x 1
- Kiandri Dragon Orb x 5
- Peisio Dragon Orb x 5
- Aiskala Dragon Orb x 1
- Diabi Dragon Orb x 17
- Healing Potions x3
- Blood Tome of Bone Armor

Die Results

Cassath rolls 73 for initiative - goes first

Detraeus beat his wings, darting sidelong to avoid the incoming rock, and grit his teeth. Casseth was barely trying. He knew it. Different — and better, he supposed — than fighting him poisoned, but Detraeus didn’t want an easy fight. He wanted Casseth to push back. So, he drove forward. He forced Casseth onto the defensive, sending down several lines of arrows, designed to miss, to keep Cas moving, and then holstered his bow and dove to ground level, blades drawn again.

Together, they danced.

Like trained performers, they knew each other’s moves, advancing, anticipating, dodging and driving in again. Angrier and on the offense, Detraeus provided the rhythm, his blades sweeping in and clink, clink, clinking against the hard metal of Casseth’s imprinted axe, but Cas met his every stroke. Detraeus, in spite of himself, found the fight relaxing in its familiarity. His feet found footholds on the rock, his wings balanced him, his blades knew how to move to Casseth’s beat, and this ache was friendly.

He and Casseth had shared so many, not like this, but alike to it in form, if not context. And so, his mind filled in the blanks: Casseth’s laugh, the burn of Eowyn’s sun, the feel of sand under his feet when both discarded their boots. Sharing water. Sharing company. Sharing words. Sharing food.

Sharing comfort, and companionship.

Casseth was the first, best, and only friend Detraeus had known for an extended period. And somehow, under the light of Soudana’s moon, on the edge of her dark shore, dancing over black rocks to the pulse of the surf and the whisper of a sea breeze, Casseth was still the small hybrid boy who talked too much when he asked his name eleven years ago. He was still the boy who gave him the first gift Detraeus had ever had the benefit of being given. The first to extend an offer of friendship stubbornly, no matter how coolly Detraeus turned his shoulder, and the first to make Detraeus want to relax. Want to smile. Wish that he knew better, how to make his own company enjoyable.

His throat hurt, and his grip on his blades tightened to the point of shaking as he lunged forward.

Detraeus narrowed his eyes, pulse dancing in his chest. Surrender. How dare he. How dare he. Detraeus leapt in, snarling. “Guard,” he demanded, swinging and drawing his blade up. He held it, tip to Casseth’s throat, quivering as he panted. But Cas held his ground. Silent, and stoic as his element. “I said guard,” Detraeus snapped, pressing enough that the blade’s edge nicked into Cas’ skin, drawing a thin, narrow bead of blood. When still Casseth refused to move, Detraeus swore, and sheathed his blades, spitting out his next words. “Fine. You want to die?”

He stepped back, maneuvering the rocks for a dozen and a half paces before breathing out curtly and unholstering his bow. Avarice was his weapon, an extension of himself. She was honor and strength, and by his goddess if he were ever to land a dying strike to Casseth, it would be properly. He fingered an arrow — stare locked to Casseth’s as he drew it from his quiver — and nocked it. His breath trembled between his lips as he drew, but he cemented his aim and grit his teeth.

“Run.”

Easy.

So easy. It should have been easy.

Detraeus’ eyes stung, his exhale burned in his throat, and he fired. The arrow whistled within a fraction of an inch from Cas’ ear, but his friend did not move, and he swore beneath his breath. He blinked rapidly, an attempt to clear the sting as he loaded another arrow, drawing and locking.

“I said run.”

The second arrow snipped past Casseth’s opposite ear, nicking the middle edge narrowly as a pinprick. But other than what might have been a fraction of a wince, Casseth held his ground. And Detraeus could not force his trembling fingers to load another arrow. His swearing came out messy, brittle and fragmented.

“What do you want from me…” The sounds of the surf outweighed the hoarse whisper, and when he received no response, Detraeus repeated himself, his demand this time an abrupt crack of volume juxtaposed to the otherwise quiet night air: “What do you want from me?”

Detraeus shook as Cas retreated, but held himself upright, ready, and silent, until well after the hybrid disappeared within the treeline. Only then, did he allow himself to shudder fully and sink to the stones of the rocky shore. He swore to Soudana. Swore at Casseth. Swore against himself. He spat, cursed, and snarled, threw stones, and slung empty threats. But it did not stop dampness from staining his cheeks.

Weak.

It did not stop his shoulders from shaking or his breath from hitching up on itself. It did not keep Casseth’s face from his head — or Araceli’s, or Adarrah’s — and he compensated only by curling tighter, folding his wings around himself, and digging his nails into his skin as he hid his head against his knees.

He was too old to cry.

Too strong to cry.

Too bitter to cry.

But he did it anyway.

Afterwards, when his body finally rid itself of all the excess grief that it seemed to need, he stooped, taking Casseth’s gift dagger back up from where it’d been discarded and tucking it amidst his things. He knew not, then, whether he would ever display it again on his person, or even use it, only that in that moment, it hurt more to leave it behind than it did to pack it with him, and so that was what he did. No longer willing to stay in one place, particularly not at the site of his current camp, he packed and departed that night, making up his mind that, while on the continent, the least he could do was pay a visit to the woman who had spent many of his previous years here raising him: Martrae’a Khelvun.

And, perhaps if fate truly favored him, he might happen again on the bubbly and bulbous khehora, Malta. She seemed, for all her flaws, to be a consistent and reliable source of a willing ear that would listen and heal without judgement.