All Around Me are Familiar Faces (Flashback, Vluhariqh)

[Soren Kvistson]

"You are free to choose,"

Ashan 4th, 711 (Age 42)

The sun was already set over the wilds of the Eternal Empire. It was still frigid out, Cylus having passed just trials before. There was snow a plenty on the ground, and normally caravans wouldn't typically be found out in this weather. But Kvista's caravan was not typical, and the Eternal Empire was not the most normal place. Despite being ruled by the Great Invader, the Eternal Empire could only be described as one of the most well built and safest lands in the world. They'd been on the same road from Heaven Fall fortress in the Spines, having left the lands of Yaralon. The road was in incredibly condition, with constant patrols of Eternal soldiers.

So, they traveled until the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness shrouded the lands. But they pushed onward, knowing the spot they'd make camp was coming up soon. It was one of several they used on this road when they traveled, and the forward scouts had already gone up and claimed it, and began preparing it. The caravan light torches and plunged through the darkness, comforted by the safety of the Empire.

Soren was sitting upon the front of his own wagon, wrapped up in his thick furs and heavy cloak, holding the reins while the driver warmed his hands on a torch. This driver was from Yaralon, looking to stretch his legs a bit. "Roit furkin' crarckin' ourt. Shurda gorne tor da Hortlarnds."

Soren chuckled, the fog of his breath spreading far, joining the man's Yari Common, "Nar, Hortlarnds corlder. Snor mairke urt warmer." He looked up and saw a familiar bend in the road, and plucked a bottle of vodka from his pack, "Toime fur sorme heert."

He passed the bottle to the driver first, who happily pulled the cork and took a long swig of the firewater. He passed it back to Soren, who happily drained the smooth liquid, enjoying the burn all the way down, feeling the warmth spread through him. He pulled on the reins to slow the oxen a bit, as they were nearly there. Then he passed the leather cords over to the driver, "Toime tur git reardir."

The caravan slowly beetled its way into the clearing next to the road, and circled up around the edges. Once his wagon was parked, Soren hopped down into the snow, his pack over his shoulder. He left the bottle for the driver, who happily nursed it while getting the animals under control. Soren saw that the scouts had gotten the bonfire in the center of the clearing burning bright and hot, enough to melt much of the snow around the area.

Soren opened up the loading door of his wagon, dragging a heavy barrel out. He grunted as he picked it up against his chest and carried it over, setting it down in the mud near the fire. He then walked back, grabbing a crate. He set the crate by the barrel, and then moved the barrel on top of it. Then reaching into the crate, he grabbed the spigot, and quickly replaced the cork in the barrel with it, spilling hardly more than a drop. He grabbed one of the wooden flagons inside the crate and filled it with the Yari Bonemeal Lager. It was terribly bitter, and a bit coppery, but it would do the trick. Plus it was cheap. A good brew for the road. The expensive brews were for selling. This barrel was fair game for any who wanted it, and there were more than enough flagons to go around.

Soren returned to his wagon, grabbing his bedroll and a few other things, along and returned to the fire. He set up his seat on an empty barrel he'd brought, and began toasting next to the fire. Many others were already doing the same, and the beer was beginning to flow. Soren raised his cup as his mom and dad, the leaders of the caravan, moved over to the fire as well, their silver hair glowing in the moonlight. They were old but still fit and able. She still was the leader of the caravan, and he still ran the food wagon, though Soren's sister was working it now. He'd wander over for a meal after a bit. For now, he just wanted to see the camp unfold. It was one of his favorite things to see.

"But you are not free from the consequences."

[Vluharqih]

CREDIT

Alex let the reigns of her horse hang limply in her hands as it plodded along the fairly empty room.

It had been nearly a full cycle since Alfred and Joanna had been caught. She still remembered the absolute absence of emotion she knew she should've felt as she hid in the crowd, watching the guards walk the pair of them away into a waiting carriage.

She had stuck around for a few trials, long enough to hear the sentence- death for Alfred, and exile to a work camp for Joanna. It was part of Andaris' crackdown on crime, and her adoptive parents had paid the price.

She had pilfered Alfred's secret stash of nel, gaining enough to purchase passage to the mainland and an old drafthorse from a farm. It was slow, but reliable and strong as the tide. She had named him Alfred, enjoying the idea of being his master, but the joke hadn't felt as good as she'd thought it might. Still, the name had stuck.

Alfred turned with the road, no input from Alex needed. She smiled at leaned back in the saddle, stretching her back out. She had holed up in a tiny inn just east of Korlasir for the heart of the cold weather. The city had been underwhelming for the seat of a conquering Immortal, and Alex had pushed on for greener pastures, not realizing that Cylus was just around the corner.

She had nearly been driven mad with the waiting, not wanting to travel in the dark alone. The roads were supposed to be safe, but one could never be too careful.

She glanced up at the rapidly sinking sun and sighed. It'd be another cold night camping for her and she didn't relish the thought. Alfred's ears pricked up, however, and she noticed his pace increase slightly. Alex shook herself from her daydreaming to catch glimpses of light through the trees ahead. Another inn already? It had been scarcely two breaks since the last.

But as she drew near she realized that it was traveling caravan. Company and safety would be much appreciated, and caravans were often happy to share their fires and stories.

She approached, calling out a greeting. [color=#478C9C"Ho, the camp."[/color]

The standard reply of, "Ho, da rooad," came back, thickly accented.

That completed, Alex swung herself stiffly out of the saddle and landed in the snow, wincing as a hole in her boot filled with snow. She tried her best to ignore it, and strode over to the woman who had called out to her.

"I don't suppose you have room around your fires for one more?" Alex said, mentally preparing herself for the negative.

"We can always make room around the fire for one who still observes the Andaris ways," The woman said, her accent suddenly vanished. In its place was a slightly aristocratic Andaris accent, and Alex marveled slightly at the ability. People were more likely to trust someone who spoke like them and being able to switch your accent on demand was a useful skill.

"Alexandra McKay, though Alex works just fine." She said, stretching out her hand. "On my way to Yaralon, and I'd appreciate any word of those parts you might have."

She listened as the silver haired woman gave her the news, then thanked her and slid a few nel into her hand. Alfred was brought over and wiped down, Alex checking his hooves for any pebbles or injuries. Finally, she threw his thick blanket over his back and went to sit by the fire, joining the rest of the wagoneers.

She spied a thick barrel with a small queue of people milling about with flagons. She set her pack down at a decent spot near the fire, the ground frozen but reasonably dry, and rose to join the crowd.

She was pouring herself a cup of the rough smelling beer and turned back to the fire, only now noticing the man seated on the barrel next to her pack.

She settled down in a relaxed crouch, comfortable beside the man. Silently she raised her flagon to him and took a deep drink. Bitter, but it warmed her and was free so she wasnt complaining. She listened to the rumble for a bit, the same thick accent the caravan leader had showed floating through the air.

"Evening." She said, startled as he turned and she saw his face. She knew him.

[Soren Kvistson]

"You are free to choose,"

Soren looked across the way as he heard his mother hollering to a woman's voice from the dark road, using a rougher accent. It was standard in these parts, Yari were common and responded better to such voices. Simple people they were, a little crazy, a little special, but simple enough to deal with. Once you learned their ways, that is. If you didn't bother with that, you were best never interacting with them. They were not a culture that one could fake it through.

He heard the Andaris accent and relaxed, they were even easier to deal with than Yari. Unless it was a noble. Nobles were always best left alone. Bunch of too rich idiots without any connection to the real world. He watched as his mother put the woman through the paces of greeting and news, and he watched her happily accept payment for such. She wouldn't have asked for it, but she was not the type to let free nels pass her by.

Soren watched her, and many others fill their flagons with the pale beer. And watched as she sat down next to him. He finished off his drink, leaning over, refilling it. Still looking toward the fire, "Headin' to Yaralon eh? It's good you're on your own then." He could tell she'd never been before, for he couldn't feel the presence of a silver mark on her, the very mark that every other member of the caravan had.

He knew that he wasn't allowed to speak of where Yaralon was, for she'd have to find it on her own, nor could any marked help her to reach it, he could talk in broad terms. And so began his mild dance of words, where he said one thing, but meant something else, similar, but still something else.

"You should buy some extra water from us before you go." 'It's dry season there. Water will be hard to find.'

He took another swig, turning to find her face. She was pretty and clean. "Shame you don't have any visible scars. They like that." 'They fight. Like... a lot.'

He smiled at her, sticking out his hand, "Hi. I'm Soren Kvistson. Alex right?" Of course he was, he was an excellent listener. "Are you hungry, you won't find a better meal than what we have for a while." 'There's not much food in Yaralon.'

He knocked his head toward the food cart being run by one of his many siblings, "Rabbit and shallot stew. Neela makes a mean stew, and is meaner if you don't like it." He pulled himself up slowly, not bothering to hide some of the slight creaks of old age that were beginning to plague him. It wasn't so bad yet, his parents had it worse, and they were much better at hiding it. He held out a hand to help Alex up, if she so desired. "Join me? I'm starving. And you look like you've a story or two."

"But you are not free from the consequences."

[Vluharqih]

CREDIT

She did her best to conceal her shock. Where did she know him from? His face was familiar enough that she doubted it was a 'pass on the street' sort of way. She mastered herself quickly and turned back to the fire, gazing into its dancing depths. There was always something magical about fire when on the road. It hypnotized like no other, turning awkward silences into appreciative, companionable contemplation. When he replied, she too was gazing into its flames, pushing the thought from her mind for the moment. He had shown no sign of recognizing her, so she was less concerned.

"Yes, that's correct. Yaralon is my ultimate destination, though we'll see. I'm not sure how things will go there, and I'm rather...untethered at the moment." She said, her voice low and relaxed. Happy to be in a bustling camp rather than a solitary tent with only Alfred for company, she was feeling chatty. "That's some good advice," She said, noting the same way of speaking of it that everyone she'd encountered had spoken. Broad terms, without giving much away. "though I've scars aplenty for them. Besides, I'm never opposed to getting a few more."

She caught his turn in the corner of her eye and matched it, tensing a little as he faced her fully. Yet still no reaction. Perhaps she didn't know him?

"Hi. I'm Soren Kvistson. Alex right?"

Her mind froze for half a second, before realizing that the silver-haired woman and her had been talking less than twenty paces away from where they now sat. She shook his hand, the name suddenly making it click. That night, what felt like so long ago, in the tavern. The Blacksmiths Arms, if she remembered right. Her first planned kill and one of the last jobs she had done for Alfred, as it turned out. She let a small half-smile cross her face as she remembered the man's offer to travel together, wondering what threads of fate would lead to this encounter. Had she left with him then, she'd be in the exact same position as she was now. "Yes, that's correct. Nice to meet you, Soren. I'd be glad of a hot meal made by better hands than my own." She let out a small chuckle, turning them over in the firelight to examine them.

"If it were possible I swear I would've burned water by now." Alex chuckled at his small joke and watched him stand. She noticed his slow movement and was on the edge of joking about it, but held herself back. He didn't remember her, and she could hardly change into Val now. He might be offended, though Alex doubted it from what she remembered of the man, but she'd rather not get herself kicked out of the encampment. She gave a half smile and accepted his hand, rising and saying, "Seems to me like I should be the one helping you up, not the reverse. But yeah, I'd be happy to get some food, and swap a few stories. What's that saying, stories are like people, the bones are the same, yet it's the details that matter the most?" She couldn't help but lace in the words, remembering their disagreement from so long ago. She doubted he'd remember, but she would enjoy teasing him if she could get away with it.

She walked over to the food cart and gratefully got a large bowl of the stew, returning to sit. "Care for a top up?" She asked before sitting, and went to fill her own flagon. Upon sitting at last with her food, she raised the cup and said, "To blood spilled and to deaths past," remembering the bastardized toast he had proposed. It had taken her four whole trials to figure out why it nagged at her mind- she had learned it as a child when studying Athart.

She grinned at him over the lip of her raised cup, looking forward to the meal

[Soren Kvistson]

"You are free to choose,"

Soren laughed at her self-effacing joke, and laughed loudly at her joke at his expense. He pulled her up with ease, "Oh, I'm not so old yet, young lady, though the cold does seem to make me think otherwise." After she said the line about bones and people he stopped and stared at her. Then he broke into a big smile, clapping her on the shoulder, "Finally, someone who knows a thing or two."

He walked over to the food cart, waiting his turn patiently, drinking away at his beer all the while. He saw his sister Neela, she was the eighth, or was it ninth, of the children, serving with a large smile. She was the middle child. His mother and father were very productive with their free time. Neela was young enough that she could be Soren's own daughter. "Hey there Neels, how're they bitin?"

"Oh fuck off old man, that was one time.

Both of them burst out laughing as she slopped soup into a bowl and handed it to him. He couldn't hold her up, she was working after all. He walked back to his seat, just trailing behind his new friend Alex. He gladly accepted the top up, and sat down next to her, with surprising agility, and without a single spill of his soup. As though he'd done that same motion ten thousand times.

Which he had.

And then she toasted and he could only smile more. He raised his flagon, "And may our talons never run dry." He took a deep drink then looked over at Alex curiously, "You're well traveled lass. Color me pleasantly surprised." He set his bowl into the crook of his knee, perfectly balanced there, so that he could eat while still drinking too. "Apologies, that was rude. It's just Rynmerens aren't know for traveling beyond their island. They often think that traveling there is more than enough."

He took a sip of soup, not making a loud show of it, he wasn't a beast like them Yari across the fire, he decided he'd give her a gift of a story, rather than asking for a trade. "This beer we're sharing is Yari Bonemeal Lager. Only one man in all of Yaralon makes it, which isn't so uncommon there. That city is massive, sprawling. One of the largest cities in the world. The country is quite small but the city is huge. Larger than Andaris, though not near as neat or clean. Quite the opposite."

He took a draught of the lager, "You see, the Yari people live a harsh life in a harsh land. It's made them quite different from other peoples. They are not lesser by any means, but they are terribly different. The man that brews this lager is known simply as the Bonesnapper. It sounds menacing but the name is a combination Bone and Whippersnapper, for he is one of the oldest men in the city. The man is effectively a garbage collector, for lack of better terms. Might be better to say that he's a scavenger. The man roams the city and lands around it searching for corpses. But he was no gravedigger. In Yaralon, nothing is allowed to go to waste. This man would barter for the corpses of those killed in honorable combat, would gather leftover bones of rats and dogs and cats and anything else he could find."

He let a pause linger there, as he ate at his soup nonchalantly. He wanted to drag it out, let Alex imagination run wild on this man's use for the bones, before he continued. "He would boil the bones in vinegar to bleach them to the purest white. Then he would bundle them all up and travel to the heart of the Hotlands. There, he would make his way to the heart of a dangerous place known as the Bone Yard. Once there, he would offer up these bones to the Bone Yard. And in return, the Boneyard would give him a sack. This lager is brewed from the contents of that sack, though he refuses to truly say what is in it."

At that, he took a long drink, finishing it off. "But for a new friend like you, I think we try something else." He reached into his pack and pulled out a long, skinny bottle made from what looked to be bone as well. "Finish up your drink, this here's supposedly the good stuff."

He pulled the cork from it, smelling the terribly pungent liquid. "Whew, she's strong." He looked at Alex with a twinkle in his eyes, "Been saving this for a while. Athartian Blood Wine." He offered the bottle, and thus, the first pour, to her.

"But you are not free from the consequences."

[Vluharqih]

CREDIT

Alex smiled at his compliment, taking it in stride. It wasn't a surprise to her- moving from Ne'haer to Rynmere she had noticed a more insular environment and that was as a 10 arc old child. "I'm not originally from Rynmere, which may serve as a bit of explanation. Ne'haer born, actually."

She listened in appreciative silence as Soren told her a story, her brow furrowed as she did her best to memorize all the small details that she might need to get to the city. Large, sprawling city meant it should be easier to find.

She was busy devouring her soup as he wrapped up his story, taking several moments of silence to allow the story to sit in the conclusion. It was an interesting piece of gossip, and a curious tale indeed. What could someone use bome for? Idly, she wondered if he were growing some plant in and among the bones, but none of the plants her mother had grown sprang to mind as likely candidates. Shrugging, she kept the story in mind, but did not obsess over it.

The sounds of the camp washed over them, a pleasant murmur of voices, clinking bowls, laughter, and crackling fire. She too finished off her beer, the bitter brew tasting more mellow now, somehow. She smiled as Soren pulled out a new bottle and held her empty glass out towards him in a wordless gesture.

"That's mighty kind of you. You this generous with all those you share your campfire with?"

The wine splashed into Alex's cup and she waited till Soren had some as well, before clinking his glass and taking a sip. Compared to the bitter beer, the wine was strong, in more ways than one. She smiled as she felt the burn down her throat and sighed appreciatively. Good liquor was well outside of her purse at the moment.

"I suppose it's my turn for a story then," Alex said. "But first, a gift for you too."

Alex rummaged in her bag, withdrawing a small wooden box, well sealed against the cold and damp of Ashan. Opening it, she withdrew a small wooden pipe, already packed with Psinia Smile. The characteristic, smoky smell wafted from the open box, and Alex lit and puffed away on the pipe before offering it to Soren. It wouldn't affect the Yludih, but many humans seemed to enjoy the slight mellowing and slightly relaxing herb. She had found the box in a frozen man's bag along with a number of other supplies.

Sighing, she settled her bag as a back rest and pulled forth a story she had read in the great Yludih Archives, penned countless generations ago.

"It was long ago now, but this tale tells of a forgotten and ancient kingdom. Some say it was populated by a race killed off by the Immortals, some say they became the Immortals. In any case their King waged a dark and terrible war against a vicious breed of monsters. Tales say these beasts were much larger than any currently in Idalos, covered in fur and scales. They preyed on this ancient race, and so the King declared war." Her tone, light and easy began to sink into a solemn and, to what she hoped was, an entrancing tone.

"They were victorious at first, but soon the war began to tell on the warriors. They were dying of a strange disease, one that caused their blood to thicken. It is said that the ancient King's own son was stricken by this disease, and in a panic, the King put a reward out for any who could save his ailing son."

She took another appreciative sip of the liquor before continuing, ensuring his attention was firmly on her.

"But it was to no avail. His son continued to wither and die, and distraught, the King went to the very monsters he sought to destroy, bargaining with them for his son's life.

They agreed, and provided the King with a magic rune that could restore his son's strength and vigor, however they demanded a terrible price in return. The King was forced to step down, his own health traded for the magic rune. However his son never wavered in their battle against the beasts, taking over as his father faded away, yet something was changed.

In the old Kings last days, he witnessed with growing horror, his son's obsession with the new magics. He experimented on his subjects, twisting them into unrecognizable shapes in an effort to improve.

His father begged him to stop, but the new King was mad with power. In the final days before the old Kind's death, he saw his country tear itself apart and be picked apart by the monsters, their true price for the aid now apparent to him."

She glanced around, her somber tone and grim story seeming to be at odds with the laughter and cheerful toasts of the encampment. Ah well, nothing for it now.

"To this day, if you search the old parts of the world, it is said that you can still find traces of these civilizations. If one is truly dedicated, they might even find some long hidden magical rune to decorate their body with, using the power of these ancient monsters for their own." She finished with a quiet exhalation.

The story was a long one, but Alex felt as though she had told it reasonably well. She took another swing, and finished her glass with a self-satisfied sigh, glancing at Soren. The night was young still and she had no desire to be in bed already.

[Soren Kvistson]

"You are free to choose,"

In response to her inquiry, he could only smile, "A generous man becomes surrounded by generous friends." Soren watched as she poured her drink before doing so himself in kind. He tapped the flagon to hers, and began to drink the strong, full bodied wine, made from the fermented blood of captured enemies. Some might blanch at the thought, but Soren figured that dead men were not using their blood any longer, so who was it really hurting?

Famula maybe, but Soren did not answer to her. He had no doubts that she was real, despite not having met her, but he was not one of her flock. He never intended to follow any god, being, or other man. He was his own, pure and simple. Then Alex offered a gift in exchange, and could only smile brightly. One never expected a gift, so one could always be pleasantly surprised.

Soren leaned forward, finishing off his soup, setting the bowl off to the side, and watching Alex intently. She pulled out a pipe, and his eyebrow rose curiously. He watched her light the pipe and smile. It had been ages since he smoked. He was not particularly well adept at it, but was always willing to share a pipe if offered. Once the pipe made its way to him, he took a soft hit, holding it deep in his lungs, feeling the relaxation washing over quickly. He let it out slowly through his nostrils and passed the pipe back, a softer, cozier grin upon his face.

Then she started into her story, and he leaned back, getting comfortable, listening. It was an old story, or a story of old, it was always so hard to figure out which a story might be, if not both or neither. It had all the hallmarks of a classic though. Ancient war, terrible power, and an obvious hero. It took a familiar, but always nice twist. A useful, but terrible power. It was a story he'd heard about the magics of the world before. And the story ended with the promise of great power. He suspected there was plenty of truth in this story, just the details were lost in time. He would place his bet that this was a story of old.

And it was a story he appreciated, for it was a gift, and a gift well given. He knew nothing of magic beyond that it existed, but he had no doubts there were many out there who could be called monsters for wielding it. But he was not an adventurer, he didn't long for the treasures buried deep or the powers of ancient beings. He preferred the treasures of gold, stories, and relationships. And booze.

He finished his wine just about the time she finished hers, and he leaned forward, filling her cup, "Ne'haer is quite the journey. We're about an arc's journey from there now, give or take." He gestured back to the food cart, "Neela was born out there. Right in the middle of the Tunawas' garden in the Animal Sanctuary." He found himself wondering where she stood on magic and Immortals. She told the story well, not letting her own opinion change it.

Part of her reminded him of somebody, but he couldn't put his finger on it. And he had never been the type to press or interrogate. If it came to him, it came to him. Though, there was one thing that was strange to him. Even in the safety of the Empire, it was a nagging concern. It wasn't fear, it wasn't being especially careful, for she was sticking to the roads. So why...?

He looked down into his drink, a bit nervous, because he didn't like to press with such questions like the one on his tongue, not this early in a night. But there was a familiarity here, beyond a first meeting, one he couldn't explain. So he took a deep breath, a half drink, "Why is it you've come to traveling alone? I apologize if that's forward, it's just not common, especially in these parts." His eyes looked up to find hers, true concern in his.

"But you are not free from the consequences."

[Vluharqih]

CREDIT

His comment about generous friends wasn't exactly where Alex's mind had been going. She had been about to comment on the need to be careful, else one would wind up with a retinue of leeches, forever sucking away at the blood of your purse, but curiously abset during the salty storms of life. The phrase was an odd one for her, a tad overdramatic, and nearly frowned at herself for using it. What had gotten into her tonight?

Soren let the story lie after she had told it, a choice she was very grateful for. It never did to ask questions about a story immediately afterward, not when the mood was this relaxed. Beyond that, if he had asked where she heard it, she could hardly say Oh, well you know. The secret night-time city world of my people has an eons-old ancient crystal library containing all the knowledge of our ancestors.

"Yeah, it's a bit of a trek from here. To tell you the truth, I don't remember it. I should've been old enough to have some memory of my first sea voyage, but nothing. The journey from Rynmere to the mainland was the first ship I remember being on." She glanced over at the server and nodded her head. "Odds are good that you were in the city the same time as me then. She doesn't look that old."

She was sipping at her wine when Soren seemed to gather himself and speak, slightly startling her. Her thoughts had been elsewhere, poking at the gap in her memory that stretched from that moment when her mother had been killed to arriving on Alfred's doorstep. And how she had gotten herself to their house was beyond her.

Her heart was slightly sore at the memory of her mother's death and her father's murder, raw despite the arcs since the incident had occurred. By the seven, had it been that long since she'd seen her father?

Soren's question shook her out of this line of thinking, and she turned her head back to him. "No, I suppose it isn't at that. Saw a corpse a few trials back, looked like the poor man had frozen during Cylus some time." She said this somewhat lightly as if that sort of thing was of no concern. "And I doubt that he's the only one dead, though most of the Empire seems to be free of bandits and animal attacks. After I left Andaris, I tried to find some people to travel with."

She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a scar stretching down her forearm. It was a nasty looking one, a long puckered scar the length of her forearm, poking through to the other side on several places. It wasn't often Yludih got scars and Alex knew she'd have to work at getting rid of it. Defining features like that had a tendency to bleed through forms, from the warnings her parents had shared, and the last thing she needed was an identifiable mark. From what she'd heard, scars on a Yludih were mental scars, not physical. In fact, one of the Yludih in her parent's circle had shared that he had a scar that had developed after a traumatic escape from a city. It was a large bulls-eye shape on his shoulder blade, and he had no idea how to remove it. She'd need to spend some time focusing on what her arm had looked like before the thief had nearly killed her that night. It'd be annoying, but she had little else to do on Alfred's back.

"But the road is plenty dangerous, even with company. Got to find people you can trust, or else this can happen. A man and I shared a campsite one night and decided to travel together, for safety. The third night he came into my tent and tried to force himself on me, knife against my throat." Thankfully, that cut hadn't scarred, but the blade had gone clean through her neck and into the dirt, severing her esophagus. Only the surprise of the man when she didn't immediately die was enough to let her have a chance of wrestling him. She'd taken a number of wounds, but in the end, she had overpowered him and took her revenge. She'd enjoyed that one, and his charred corpse had been left without its manhood as a warning, though she doubted any would put it together. "I got my arm between, though he sliced it right down to the bone. Managed to fight him off. Been on my own ever since." Her tone was dispassionate, and she felt very little anger. In truth, her reaction to the man was more instinct than anything else. Yludih didn't have reproductive organs the same way other races did, but the man had got what was coming to him regardless.

"How come you to travel with this lot anyway? I take it from your accent you're from Andaris as well?" She paused, thinking. "No, that can't be it either. I've noticed the leader of the caravan, that woman over there, put on the Rynmere accent, so I assume you're doing something similar." Alex cocked her head and listened to the men around her speaking.

"Howr doe aye spearkr loik de rest or dem?" Her accent was off, significantly, but she glanced up at Soren, hoping for guidance.

[Soren Kvistson]

"You are free to choose,"

He saw her jump as he asked his question, clearly carried off to an untold story after speaking of her origin. He definitely was not going to press further. He'd already done too much. He listened to the story of her journey, told in memorable fragments. Corpses were not uncommon to find. He remembered the first time he'd found one. He was eight, and he told his mother, thinking he was doing the right thing. She had smiled at him, patted him on the head, then told him the scouts had already found it. He asked why they didn't bury it. Her smiled softened a bit, then she said two important notes. "We do not know what the man honored in life, and we will not be offending him nor them by going against his wishes." Then her face turned more grim, "And if we stopped to bury every corpse we came across, we'd never get anywhere on time. The world is full of corpses. The important thing is to not become one of them."

He leaned forward to look closely at her scar. It was a large scar, a constant reminder of her survival. Of what brought her to now. His lips were thin lies as she spoke of her near rape. He could understand why she'd gone on her own after that. It would be hard to trust again after that, for anyone. He knew far too well. "Nah, I'm not from Andaris. I'm not really from anywhere. I was born on the journey, and maintain it still. And yes, I can wear several accents, though my mother there has a much better knack for it."

Commenting on her fight to survive was a pointless one. Everyone fought to survive, in their own way. To comment on it would be like complimenting her for being able to breathe. Though he was glad that she had fought successfully. He put on his Yari accent, "Oir cairn speark loirke t'erm arl triarl, anir triarl." Then he grinned cheekily, "But speaking Yari is tiring and only good when speaking to actual Yari. It's not a wide spread language."

He laughed a bit at the sudden abruptness of her question, "To be honest, the trick is lots of R's. You wanna sound like you're gargling gravel. My mum calls it fat-tonguing. H's aren't common, T's are soft, I's are oir's, and so on. It's pretty easy to pick up, and that dialect is so... inconsistent. Many mini dialects based on what small neighborhood in Yaralon you're from." Then he slapped his leg as he remembered something, "Smaller words are better. Nothing worse than a well educated person in Yaralon."

He took a long drink, "You've answered your own question. I travel with these people because I trust them. Not because they are family, or friends, but because they've earned my trust, and I've earned theirs. We've seen plenty of blood, of others and our own, such is the way of the road. We've shared tears, sweat, stories, and drinks." Then he looked her directly in the eye, "We're in just as much danger as you when we travel. The only difference is we can share the good times with each other too." It was not an admonishment against her lifestyle, nor was it a boasting of his own. Rather, the tone carried with it one that he'd used before back in Andaris. It carried the tone of an invitation.

"But you are not free from the consequences."

[Vluharqih]

CREDIT

Alex listened to Soren's accent, her ear trying to mimic the sounds. "Yeah, it's by far the strongest accent I've ever heard. Seems like you're speaking with a mouthful of cotton."

She nodded at the rest of his advice, making a mental note of the last bit. Small words, act dumber. Got it. She had heard some stories of the Yari people, always muttered quietly, and never in their presence. They whispered of a battle scarred people with fire in their veins and the best mercenary companies in the world. This was what she was looking for, a chance to prove herself in blood and struggle. She was a killer now, shaped by Alfred, but it was her only skill. She hadn't spent enough time with anyone else to learn a trade, and a life of being a prostitute didn't appeal to her. Those were the only options available to a woman without income, and any other role, without a guardian or male, would result in more of the same.

She stayed silent as Soren described the bonds that tied his caravan together, and watched them move about the fire. She saw the easy manner the Yari newcomers were pulled into conversations, and the happy smiles all around. The older man, obviously the husband of the woman she had talked to before, was half hugging Neela and rubbing the top of her head in an affectionate manner as he laughed out some story, obviously at the young woman's expense as she blushed bright red.

It was the kind of bond Alex couldn't remember feeling.

She stared into Soren's eyes, feeling the question without it needing to be asked.

But she couldn't. Even as she thought about it, an overwhelming sense of something grew inside of her, reaching up and sinking its claws into her throat. Not fear, but something very close to it as she examined the scene around her. How could she take part in something like this?

The key points in her life, all terrible incidents, brought about by her presence. Either she was cursed, or she unknowingly brought ruin to all those who cared for her.

She had encourage Quiome to make the new friend in his city, back when she was 8. That had led to their secret being found out, and his death. That had caused fractures in their parents group. Concern over her future had led to the argument between her parents and the death of her mother. And it had been her blade that started the gang war that led to the increase in tension and the eventual arrest of Alfred and Joanna. All those close to her, dead or soon to be. Her own father had known enough to not seek her out, to leave her be. After so long in Andaris, Alex had begun to convince herself that it was all in her mind, merely a series of unfortunate events. She had immersed herself in what Alfred had wanted, ensuring, to her mind, that nothing bad could happen from her disobedience. Yet event that had withered and died like a water-starved plant.

How could she subject this crew to the same misfortune? They were happy, unified. Her life here could only cause them trouble. Besides, she'd be forced to wear Alex for the whole time, and she wasn't sure she could handle that. Val was far less emotional, and right now Alex could use that coolness.

"I appreciate the offer," she said eventually, so soft Soren would have to lean in to catch it. "but I cant."

She glanced away then and finished off the rest of her drink. This man had twice offered to spirit her away from her troubles, but Alex knew better. Running away was akin to sticking her head in the sand, pretending everything was okay. His words touched her though and she rose, slinging her pack over her shoulder.

"My lot is on the road alone, however, and I have learned better than to tempt fate. Thank you for the wine, and for the company. It was a better evening than I'd expected."

She strode a few paces towards an empty spot, preparing to set up her tent, when an impulse came over her. Unable to stop it, she turned and said,

"My thanks," in Ulehi, wondering if the man would recognize the chiming language.

She then continued to set up her tent, her back turned towards the heat, friendship, and happiness of the camp.