[hr]
[center][color=6ecff6][H1]Azariah Kravchenko[/H1]
[H2]The Bone Sea[/H2][/color][/center]
[hr]

[indent][indent]It would seem that some people in the area were not too pleased with the presence of the Exusians and their guests in the dusty hellhole of the Bone Sea, as one could guess from the Bone Clansmen that were pouring into the encampment, wielding swords and spears tampered by furious malice and hatred. These folks feared and hated magic in all of its forms; there was no greater exemplar of the arts of the witch as the Exusians, who had a whole city and society that revolved around magic. The Clansmen, it would seem, had enacted s raid upon the hated witches...

And whoever the hell would dare conspire with those that practised sorcery as freely as the wind.

Once the delegate was run through with a spear and her blood began to seep through the desert sands, Azariah drew his sword, entering into a defensive stance, his eyes watching the incoming shadows and silhouettes of those that sought to kill everything that moved in this camp. [color=6ecff6]"Unkempt barbarians, fearful and ignorant of magic..."[/color] Had he the advantage of distance and terrain, he would try to conjure a snaking bolt of lightning to strike down these disgusting, smelly, and foolish sand eaters, but the tent was soon to be an all encompassing melee; any second spared to speak the words of magic could be his last.

And so, as Artur told him and the 'spearwife' to rally by his side, Azariah put two of his fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. It was the kind of whistle someone made when calling a familiar or a pet to their side.

A few agonizing moments passed before there would be any response to the whistle of calling. In these seconds of truth, a Bone Clansman charged towards Azariah with his spear, perhaps recognizing him as a spellcaster due to the strange coloration of hair he had for such a young lad, or the slowly darkening hue of his skin. Wielding his sword of masterfully forged steel, Qzariah sidestepped to the right, dodging the charging spearman before delivering a strong punch to his face, sending him staggering backwards. Karlezek were deceptively strong, as their small stature held the supple strength that they used to build their cavernous halls and mansion etched into the innards of mountains. 

With the spearman dizzied, Azariah lunged forward, striking him right at the heart with his sword. However, another Clansman raised his axe above his head, preparing to bring his fury and hatred down towards the Karlezek... only for two sets of long claws, each with three razor sharp blades, to protrude out if his chest, taking out the life out of his body as he tumbled forward, landing dead and facedown on the desert sands. On his back, a certain devious creature; no, thing pulled out its claws. A small and nimble magishell, having been called by its master unto his side, had entered the fray, with a tear on the gent's fabric revealing from where it had entered. The magishell was seemingly proud of its bloody handiwork, tapping its sets of claws in front of Azariah.

[color=6ecff6]"Dasrovya, droogie."[/color] Azariah spoke to it in old Karlezekian... and it climbed unto his hands. Its joints glowed with the shimmering sigils written unto each and every one of its moving parts, turning an otherwise inanimate suit of armor into a deadly killing machine. Those who knew the Karlezek and their magic would know that the magishells were no little thing, even if they were small. They were often made from metal, wielding razor sharp blades that thirsted for blood. Karlezek magi always had one of these machines close by, ready to spring into action at their master's behest.

And now there will be a lot of killing.[/indent][/indent]