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DraconicFeline rolled 5 100-sided dice:
100, 23, 52, 63, 55
Total: 293 (5-500)
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 Posted: Fri Jun 06, 2014 12:31 pm
Character || Ruelash
Stage || Swordsman
Battling || Sailscale x 5
Battle Stat || 29
Defense || 9
Roll Needed || 50-100
Rolled || 100, 23, 52, 63, 55
Outcome || Win x 4, Lose x1
Experience earned ||
Difficulty || 9
216+18=234/2 = 117 exp
Needs 1250 words
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Posted: Sun Jun 08, 2014 6:47 am
Ruelash was happy to return to Zena. He'd had fun during the battle - What did it matter to him if the group lost? He had been knocked unconcious, but he had gotten to kill without reprisal, he had been let off the invisible leash of civilization and it had felt good. So, who cared if everybody else said that they'd lost? He'd had fun, he was alive, thus... he'd won.
Normally, this path up the Sauti mountains would be one he would have travelled alone, or with only his hoofed companion, but he was not alone this time. Iroia was with him, and for once he did not want to murder his travelling companion. She talked, sure, but it was fun. She fought, and she was actually decent at it. They sparred, and that was excellent. And Direk didn't hate her, which was diplomatic, not that Ruelash cared about diplomacy. It was just an added bonus in this case.
It was different, though. Iroia kept up fine and he had no problems with her, but as a group, they went slower and they ate more, which wasn't so much a problem as something to take into consideration. It meant the supplies he could afford, that would last him all the way to Secer, would only get them as far as the border, at a stretch. So he didn't bother buying too many supplie:. Hunting would increase the time before Zena's snowy lands would be revealed in all its deadly glory, but hunting was a good kind of slow, full of death and meat. And it was fun.
It was the third night in Sauti, and his companions were resting in camp. They were both having problems with the pressure and the thin air, and it tired them faster... Ruelash understood that much. They would get used to it eventually, the both of them. He didn't mind, which was surprising in Iroia's case. Direk was an animal, and thus didn't count towards annoyance, but Iroia was a person. Normally, the slightest delay annoyed him with people. But she was an ally. A friend. She was different. She was special.
He himself was glad for the altitude and the changes it brought, and was restless. So, he used his time constructively, scouting ahead of the camp and further down the path. Ruelash liked surprises, but it was always good to know what they were first. Which, he supposed, killed the point of the surprise, but killing was often involved anyway, so it suited him either way.
It was very dark, black as the back of his eyelids, black as a Zenan cave during a blizzard. There was no light, no reprieve, the haze hiding the stars and moon. He brought a torch with him, enjoying how the flame light danced on the rocks around him. He did like to see, and flame light was a great way to see it. He could almost imagine that it's red was blood, spilled from the very mountains themselves, by his hand. Such fancies of power kept him amused during these long trips. That and the occasional ambush.
Chirping caught his attention, and he looked up to see, vaguely revealed in the firelight above, the shapes of sleeping sailscales on nests in the cliff face. He grimaced, growling softly. He hated sailscales, with their fast little wings and sharp little claws. If they all died one day, he hoped he would have been the one to kill them. They did have the redeeming feature of being good eating, and of laying eggs.
Eggs. That WAS a nest up there, wasn't it... His mouth began to water at the memory of omelets, prepared by himself, prepared by his brother, the poor excuses for omelets prepared by his sister... he licked his lips.
He'd told Iroia about Veshki, and his ma, and his pa, and about his life - more than he'd ever bothered to tell anybody about himself beyond his name and the fact that he hated them. He wondered if he was making up for not hating her.
He hadn't, however, told her about the omelets yet, and the best way to tell her about them was to make them in the camp tomorrow for the first meal. Now that was an idea - he hadn't made omelets for anybody but himself - not even the men he had allied with. He snarled quietly at their memory. Their loss. When he met them next, he'd make them an omlet, oh yes... His eyes glittered in the firelight as he thought gruesome thoughts about just what sort of 'omlets' he would make for those traitorous scum, of what he would do to them when he found them. Delightfully gruesome thoughts.
He decided he was going to kill these sailscales and bring their meat and eggs back to the camp. They needed the supplies, and it would be less sailscales in the world. He began to climb the stony wall, setting his torch against the stone where it would give him some light to see by, but not take up a hand he'd need. He could hear the squeaking of the sailscales as they slept, and they did not wake as he crept up to them. They covered the nest, but he could see, amongst their bulk, the oblong shapes of eggs. He'd have to force them off to get to them but - he grinned - that was fine with him.
He grabbed one of the sailscales and plucked it off the nest, breaking its neck before dropping it to the ground below. He grabbed another one, giving it the same treatment as its fellows woke up in alarm around it.
They screeched and clawed at him, and he drew one of his swords, leaving a hand to hold the rock for balance. They swarmed about his head, clawing at his eyes, and he waited, forcing himself to be patient in the face of pain before, with a cry of gleeful rage, he slashed one out of the air. It fell to the ground, twitching, as one of the other ones screeched after it. It's mate? Possibly. Ruelash didn't care as he sent it to join the other one with another slash of his sword.
The remaining sailscale became more cautious, flying out of reach and watching him warily as he climbed fully onto the ledge and started loading eggs into his coat, where they were likely to survive the climb down.
It dived at him, suddenly and without warning, a shadow in the dim light, and he fended it off with a snarl and a slash.
It evaded him, it's teeth bared, and he decided to make his way down, having collected all the eggs in the nest.
The sailscale nipped at him as he sheathed his sword, and he swiped at it with his hands with a snarl, missing it, before beginning his climb from the ledge. He went as fast as he could, driven by the little monster's sharp attacks, but he landed safely with a thud and drew his swords again - both of them.
He grinned up at the sailscale, daring it to come closer. It circled once, twice, and then - with an almost dejected posture - it flew away into the darkness. He smirked. "Coward." he said gruffly, before collecting the dead sailscales to bring back to the camp. This would, he thought, be enough for weeks, if they were good about it.
Beaming with pride and a pleasantly eventful end to an otherwise boring day, he started back along the path to the camp.
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