[center][h3]A Few Days Ago[/h3][/center] [center]____________________________________________________________________________[/center] The man grumbled, wiping off blood from his skin and spears. It wasn't uncommon for him to be covered in bodily fluids. Be it sweat, blood or even puke from over-exertion. Such things were all a part of his daily life now. At one point it was only during spars and hunts where this happened. He was at least cleaned and schooled during his younger days. One might even call him decent. Of course 'decent' in Baccum meant a hell of a lot of difference to other races... That became apparent very, very soon after his exile. He paused to be more gentle over a light scar across his lower abdomen. A new war-wound it would seem. Perhaps being alone for so long was finally getting to him, by Kalpii did he miss human interaction. Yet he more or less forced it all upon himself. He made it a strict policy on his own behalf not to speak to the people he saved. Sure he often gave looks of sadness, pity, happiness or whatever emotion he was feeling at the time - but nothing else. He made the mistake of doing so his first 'rescue'. . . . She was a small girl, only about nine winters. She had dropped the basket of mushrooms she once held out of terror. Ahead of her, three rather hungry gorrak. Of course they had come, she had been singing and humming as children did; cluelessly ambling into a well known section of natural caves for spontaneous gorrak attacks. Obviously she wouldn't know that - but her parents would. The noise drew them out to an easy meal. Meager but easy, no gorrak would complain. Cical had heard her too, singing a song in his tongue which even his own mother had all those years ago. It spoke of Kalpii, the figure of protection and health. Something well known which would grant safe-passage or good bounty. Whether or not it failed was up to debate. It drew in both the beasts and the man who would save her. He had been watching her forage for some time, leaping in between the two sides with his long spear already drawn. Each one of the beasts and their heads hissed menacingly, legs and heads spreading outwards into an aggressive stance, preparing to attack. While they were simply beasts, they had limited intelligence in what were and what were not threats. A man wielding a spear - filed into the latter section. With one hand on the middle grip, the spear rested with the shoe of the weapon near his opposite shoulder. Cool blue eyes flickered between nine snake heads, all eighteen fangs. Without waiting for the animals to strike first, the wild man lunged forwards. The tip of his weapon was a blur as it sliced through one thin knee of the right-most gorrak. The sheer suddenness of a lack in support toppled the creature to its now weak side. For the moment; it would be incapacitated. At the end of his strike, his elbow snapped upwards and the whole motion was reversed. The shoe - the bottom - of the spear struck outwards into the still agape maw of a gorrak head. The top half snapped backwards like a badly constructed hinge, falling limp off the side of the beast's body. It was only one of three, but that was better than none. With the bottom so far from his center of mass, he placed his second hand in a grip opposite to his first, curling his body with the motion of a downwards slash back to the right. The middle beast - one to the left of his legless pack member - had already begun reacting with its two remaining heads, beginning to coil so they could snap outwards only to be halted as the spear embedded itself in its body. The strike was far from enough to continue straight through, so it was stuck in the gorrak's ribs. One lung was totaled however, so it would quickly perish unable to do much more than drown in its own fluids. The third of the pack had already started looping around the spear-man's back, hissing sharply at its dead mate. Being halfway bent down to one side, he simply crumpled up further, rolling along the ground and pushing off with his arms to reset himself on his feet. Before he was exiled, he had been given an attachment of sorts to affix on his loincloth. On the back, were two small leather holsters which perfectly held the spears he used. One weapon was too short to see from the front, the other would casually stick out above his right shoulder when inside. That spear specifically was embedded within a gorrak however, so when one hand reached back and tugged up to retrieve the shorter spear, the holster was left empty. In his left hand now was a much shorter weapon. In one quick incomplete turn he inhaled sharply as the remaining gorrak charged in full force. "Sonofa-" He scowled. He leaned backwards to avoid the strike of a snake head. With the awkward angle, he tried to pull the spear upwards to try and attack the beast's midsection. It was incredibly misjudged, as it hardly struck just near the hind quarters. It was a superficial blow and did nothing beyond piss the gorrak off. By now, the still alive - but disabled - one had managed to clambered to something that could be called standing. It was more a sentry, as it couldn't move but could strike with its heads. It left retrieving the long spear an impossibility. The stable gorrak had reversed its charge, letting Cical move into a better striking position. His knees bent, body lowering to appear more like the feral animal some would believe him to be. When the gorrak moved within ten feet in its charge, Cical moved into action. Like a human sized guided missile, his legs shot out and propelled him into the beast's chest. The spear also shot forwards, striking the creature in the chest just above the large V shaped bone segment. This part was soft, and allowed the weapon to embed itself fully into the soft flesh and vital organs within. The full weight of the muscle-bound man was enough to actually lift and push back the gorrak. Blood coated the entire top of him, spurting out from the large wound freely as the now deceased beast crumpled almost on top of Cical. Saving himself from a faceplant - only barely - he got back up and took some time in trying to pull the short spear from its kill. It actually got caught on the segment of bone along the gorrak's chest, and he had to reposition the blade and pull several times until it got free. Cursing the ridiculous craft of the blade, he returned to face the last remaining gorrak who no doubt viewed the spear-man with sheer anger. It tried to hop forwards into attacking range, yet could only move an inch or two at a time and decided that was costing too much energy. With a sigh, he decided to look for the girl. "Hey girly, you're safe to come out now. This last beasty isn't going to hurt you any more so long as you don't get close." He explained, using as soft a tone as he could. Blood and sweat covered the majority of his upper body. Crimson marred the ivory blade of his held spear. From a bush near to where she had dropped her goodies a shuffling noise originated. Without really looking, he strode towards the last gorrak and gave its chest a poke with an outstretched weapon. He was confident but he was far from careless. One bite would probably kill him - he didn't know of an antidote. A trickle of blood gently began staining the feathers of the creature. Futilely, it struck out only to be inches short of his flesh. Pulling back, moving closer and placing the spear in his right hand he quickly slashed horizontally and removed all three heads in one swing. Three bodies now sat on the ground. "M-m-mister... Did you kill the baddies?" She asked in an adorable innocent voice. He almost felt bad that she had seen everything he had done. "Yeah, they're all dead sweetheart. You can pick up your basket and run along home." He explained, moving to his long spear while he replaced the short one on his back. "Y-you're the Prince, aren't you?" She said, causing him to freeze up. It had only been a week since his exile. Even so, that name seemed so foreign to him. He wished he could go back, to see his love once more, to continue his training, to defend his home. Regardless of what they did to him, or what had happened, he still loved Baccum. It was why he stuck around the badlands of his home. "Ah.." He paused, unsure of what he was saying anymore. "Y-yeah, that's right girly. Prince of War." He verified, returning to the task at hand and grasping the long spear with both bloodied hands. "Mummy said you weren't allowed to be with your family anymore because you did a bad thing." The girl rambled, crouching to pick up the basket and replace its spilled contents. "Something like that.." He mumbled, tugging and withdrawing the spear from his kill with a quick tug. "I can't imagine not coming home to see mum and dad... But you don't seem like a bad man." She carried on. "I think you're good... I hope they let you come back home again sometime." She finished her own task, eyes widening as he slowly moved towards her and crouched down. Then he smiled. "I hope so too sweetheart. Now run on home, let your parents know your safe and that you brought some mushrooms home. She'll be very happy." He explained, reaching up to her face with one bloodied hand. Along her cheek, he lightly ran his thumb along her face to leave a long blood smear. In her hair, she also placed a tail feather of one of the dead gorraks. It was considerably longer than the other feathers. At least six inches in mottled gray-black. Her eyes looked into his with such purity, he'd never forget that look of gratitude. She opened her mouth to say something, but seemed uncertain and simply took off and ran back the way she had came without looking back. When she had left, he took a moment to look himself over. "Mess" would describe him perfectly. Blood across his upper body and in his hair, spears dirtied as well... He'd need to clean. . . . Oh boy how the stories about the "Twin-Speared Savior" exploded. It was so rampant, those he saved recognized him instantly. He could see it in their eyes when he verified their safety each time. A glint, that faint smolder of recognition. "I know you, you've done so much" it said. For him, it was gratitude and recognition enough. The fact that people recognized him wasn't needed, all he needed was to save his people: It had been his job. After his nineteenth winter he had been instructed by the Shaman. Secure food, protect the people of Baccum. He swore an oath as a soldier to do both to the best of his ability. While he couldn't provide food without breaking his exile (a stronger rule imposed by the Shaman) he could at least protect its people. At this point, it was unlikely [i]any[/i] tribe [b]hadn't[/b] had a story or rumor of some savior who rescued an individual from certain death. While he couldn't hear the stories or rumors themselves, he knew by the simple way people began changing. They started mouthing his name, they started recognizing him, they even started to gape in awe like he was some sort of divine beast or rare occurrence. He still routinely avoided the hunting parties - they were capable of defending themselves - but he heard their conversations and they indeed spoke of him. Half the stories told of him, weren't even true. Without knowing and to his displeasure, his tale expanded greatly. Before he left Baccum's realm of exploration, he even heard the aforementioned hunting parties comment on how: Should they get into trouble, "the savior would come to their aid". What made it all worse, and finalized his departure was the simple fact that people from his tribe made [i]poems[/i] and [i]rhymes[/i] of him. It was the last straw, he was no martyr or prophet. He did no good, he was greedy and selfish, took advantage of an innocent woman and almost got her killed. It was his actions that orchestrated it all. He was merely attempting to reconcile for his deeds by keeping his oath to the people. It was all for naught. In his mind he was still guilty. Nothing would fix what he had done - but he preferred it that way. On travels he went, exploring north, east, south and west. He got lost the first time. He had no maps or cartography experience. A blind man sailing the sea he simply moved where the wind and weather took him. Eventually he learned that would simply get him killed and opted to sit down and actually learn something besides combat. He would admit to stealing a mapping set from a poor traveler. He would also admit said traveler was a rather wealthy looking merchant - so it was doubtful they would miss such common supplies. He would also admit to dedicated a whole week to learning what he stole was even used for. He did it all though and would admit if ever questioned. He shoddily marked Baccum (which could be off by about a mile or two) and set off to the west to see what would be. Eventually he found something, which was far from the greatest first impression. The woman - after her first horrified glance at the man - explained she was from a place called 'Roshad'. Little more was exchanged beyond that, since she fled as he turned his back and called him a wild beast. Nothing he hadn't heard before. A man from Mennon was similar, as were a couple from Silesia. The only difference in interaction was from an unknown band of men, or they hit like men at least. They actually attacked him on sight. They were strange, draped in heavy cloaks that concealed most of themselves, wrapped tight however to reveal the shapes of their bodies at least. They spoke, claiming he had gone feral before he could even explain anything. Regardless of what he said, they still claimed it was an honour to be put down by them. Whoever they were, they didn't fall easily. The few strikes they landed hurt intensely. Blocking and countering their blows shook his arms to their very core and hardly did more than stalemate. In fact, some even carried through his blocks and almost ended up nicking him. They all died, and he carried on. He never stopped travelling, it simply served to exercise his body even further than what he normally did. It left his legs unnaturally toned and actually opened up another avenue in his fighting style... If only he had a sparring partner to test it out with. [center]______________________________________________________________________________[/center] [color=004b80][b][center][h3]Now[/h3][/center][/b][/color] [center]______________________________________________________________________________[/center] With sheer rage he crumpled the parchment within his hands. Heroes. They wanted Uiyo damned [i]heroes[/i]. Heroes didn't exist. Heroes weren't possible, he knew of that first hand. Some - if they knew of his exploits - might call him that blasted name but to himself, he would always be a blight. Heroes were only from story books, they were perfect and without fault. People were unable to be perfect. It was simple fact. Great warriors would be a better word for it. At least that was being honest. Pah, he was being cynical again wasn't he? Oh, now he was talking to himself [b][i]about[/i][/b] himself. Gods, he was a mess now wasn't h- He caught himself, ending the thoughts before they could be continued. The parchment he crumpled was as he thought: A call to arms for everyone from everywhere that was anywhere. He had merely happened upon it, which lead him to believe they were truly everywhere. Through a scowl he viciously tore up the crumpled bit of paper. Fuming, he looked over his own maps and marked out where the meet up would take place. Even angry, he would still go. Don't get him wrong, it wasn't to follow the leader and become some 'grand hero' or something idiotic. His reasoning was much, much more simplistic. In the end, it was: "Kill everyone who claimed to be a hero", but after some time he reconsidered that heavily. Not only was it stupid, ignorant and selfish, it was just plain impossible. If even a dozen strong men signed up, he'd probably find himself on the bad end of several weapons and die in a bloody heap. Cical was strong, tactical and skilled. But a dozen decent men at once would more often than not slay any man. It was just too much to handle at once. Weak, clueless buffoons or children would be easy. But if they were alleged 'heroes'... It would take a day of travel. That was if he wasn't caught up in something on the way. According to the date, he'd make it in time. After much self-contemplation, he finally decided on a course of action. He'd get there, listen to whoever gathered them all spout quallin-shit, then challenge those selected to a spar. It wouldn't be to death, but they would be using very real weapons. In his mind he considered it a... "Trial of Heroes" as one would say. Something to define their right to a claim at a hero title. With a large sigh, he shut his eyes tight. He was no hero, there was no reason for him to be, he reminded himself. Looping in circles like he was, really wouldn't change a thing about any of it. He had a destination in mind and the task for his arrival, that was all. At the moment, he'd finish cleaning his weapons and body. Glancing over his shoulder and reopening his eyes, he scanned over the pile of bodies he made, smoldering embers of flame flickering in those sapphire eyes. At least ten men lie in various stages of mutilation and dismemberment. Sure a dozen men would kill a normal man, if they were expecting the attack. Those same dozen men if taken advantage of had the effectiveness of six should one move quickly. The few bodies which had large gaping holes in their backs were indication enough. A large jagged smile split across his face. He didn't mind killing monsters and creatures that preyed on innocent people. But putting down actual humans who strove to make their brethren suffer? That was a different story. The rush, the pure [i]satisfaction[/i] from slaughtering evil men and women was almost intoxicating. With a flourish, the white spear became a white disk, dancing in his hand and between his fingers in spins before finding itself nestled in his back. The display with the longer spear was more elaborate, albeit more labored with extra spins using his entire body as an axis. At the end of the dexterous display, the weapon made a low 'bonk' as it flatted across his shoulders. His wrists pressed down on the staff behind his head, giving him a relaxed appearance as he started walking. A body of water would suit to clean his body eventually whenever it was found. "Who knows, maybe this'll turn out alright." He spoke to himself, voice a smooth tone. Even from such a slight sentence fragment it was evident, a short chuckle followed. "In the end it will at least be interesting." . . . It took him a little over a day to make it to the outskirts of the village. He had taken periodic rests along the way so that he could be well prepared for the 'heroes' later. Before the noon hour, he stepped into the village itself and noticed something off immediately. Everywhere he looked, there was a distinct lack of life. That wasn't saying dead bodies piled the streets or blood rained from the heavens. It was just... Distinctly empty. No sounds spilled from the houses, nor the streets. Scant garbage littered the streets, nobody avidly walked the town. It was eerie and Cical himself was unnerved. Why it was, he had no clue. He wasn't up to date with the various 'wars'. Cical returned his mind to his original plan: The tavern. If he was honest, the entire gathering was a joke. He had everyone with the courage to court a woman to arrive, to try and throw their hat into the ring and venture for glory. Boy was he mistaken. Some old armless bastard gathered them outside a measly tavern and ran through his story. It was simple, identical to the order to come here to begin with. But apparently that simplicity was well rewarded. Only a handful of people arrived, not a swarming crowd like he expected. They seemed capable if rather dull. The only interesting thing was the large egg-shaped gem that seemed to attract even Cical's eyes. Without turning his head he glanced down to the two significantly smaller jewels on his hip. The power disparity between that gem, and his own two was impossible to comprehend. Like comparing a wooden raft to an aircraft carrier. There was nobody but rugged, hardened indi- Wait a minute, was that woman even wearing clothes? Besides the fact he was near naked himself, that level of indecency was disturbing to him. He tried to repress the fact they existed from his mind. To split the silence after the old bat's speech, Cical made a simple noise. [b]"Tsk"[/b] He flinched, arms crossing over his scar and tattoo lacerated chest. He paused then, shaking his head like the entire thing seemed ridiculous to him. "[i]Join[/i]you. Gramps you're asking us to do the work [i]for[/i] you. The only thing you can help us with is the knowledge of whatever the hell's in your hand. Besides that, you just solved your own problem. That egg is one of five, if this [i]device[/i] needs all five to power it, just destroy that egg and be done with it." He paused, looking upwards and tilting his head to one side like he was thinking. "Even if you could manage without one, then all we'd need to do is get another one that's easier than the rest and destroy that." He mumbled to himself, stirring from his thoughts with a shrug. "Better than travelling across the Cradle from Roshad, Baccum, Kothar, Silesia and wasting time." All Cical's voicing came from the back of the gathering, over top of the others. He preferred being in the background, but obviously did not shy away from bringing up topics he found faults in. His presence would come as a surprise, as he had wandered in behind the rest of the crowd once the movement died down just previous to the start of his speech. When people turned to look, they'd find a bronzed near-nude man with the tip of a spear peaking out over his right shoulder. He fit the 'Baccum male' mold extremely well. Scars, tattoos and all. His face and eyebrows were scrunched in a blend of curiosity, irritation and inquisition. The earring off his left lobe fluttered in a barely there breeze, dancing beside his neck like they were chasing and swirling an invisible target. Sun glinted off the polishes surface giving his eyes a soft glow. "You're leaving details out old man, othe'wise this'd only need a blacksmith with two arms to swing a hammer at ... No offense." He shrugged, leaning back slightly into a cocked hip. His words weren't very well put but the point still stood. If five objects were [i]required[/i] then they could break one and leave it be. The senile man made a story out of Swiss cheese. The wizard was either much more powerful than he lead on, the objects didn't really have much bearing on the object, or their place could be filled in with something else. If the last one was true, then only the sorcerer would need to be killed. Or so Cical argued in his head.