Member
Kefka Palazzo
Guardian Angel Haruki
Kaithe Dame
Ohm
Deadline
Gunther
Scrawl BandittaHe woke to the smell of dry earth, mold, and dust. So much of the latter than as he inhaled it tickled his throat. Expelling it with a quiet cough, he sat up, swinging his bare feet off the little bed upon which he lay. It couldn't be any later than a few hours before dusk. Something had woken him early. His eyes burned, and not just from the filthy chamber.
Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the dark chamber. It was no wider than he was tall in either direction, the bed no larger. If one could call it a bed. When the structure above collapsed, the chambers beneath crumbled. The three stone walls of this cell bore the scars; cracks that ran deep and deadly. Honestly, he was surprised this one cell had remained upright. The iron bars that made the final wall hadn't been so lucky. The metal was bent and mutilated under the crushing weight of the city above. The thing upon which he slept was little more than a chunk of mostly in tact wood with a blanket. The only one he could locate within the city that resembled a bed, and that he could reach.
Sitting on the bed as he was, now, he could lean forward and brush his brow against the metal bars. It called to him. As if to tauntingly say 'I'm so close to puncturing your flesh.' He stared at it, unseeing, wondering why he was awake at this unholy hour.
His answer came shortly.
He felt it again. The subtle twinge in the nape of his neck as the ruins were disturbed. He reached up and brushed his hand across the back of his neck, swiping away the wheat-blond hair that stuck to his skin. Cold sweat. Hint of nausea. Someone is here. Inhaling deeply, he craned his head back, as if he could catch the scent of the intruder from so far underground. Someone, or something, had crossed the border. Into the ruins of his city. Something with magic, otherwise they would not have triggered the wards and alarms. He bared his teeth and rose, grabbing his keffiyeh, bow, and quiver before he vanished in the blink of an eye.
Within minutes, he was crouched on the edge of what remained of the chapel. The once sunbleached terracotta of the holy building was now stained with soot and blood as high as the fires and the terrified people had been able to reach. It had remained unscathed, compared to the rest of the once crowded city, as a statement.
The Goddess of the Sun had abandoned them all, and left them to the mercy of the nightmares of the dark.
Only they had no mercy.
With an arrow nocked against the bowstring, his pale blue eyes scanned the lengthening shadows that covered the still-blood-stained streets. Rain never came here to wash it away. The desert streets were dark so much of it that flies, vultures, and coyotes had become the only things able to survive. Only creatures ably to withstand the overwhelming stench of carrion death. The bodies had been taken out of view. Not all of them, but most. Dragged into whatever dens the scavengers made in the remnants of the homes and alleys. Pieces of the Ziadin were scattered. A skull that was cracked and shattered, its fractures bright white from the relentless sun. A hand, the bits of muscle unable to be picked off dried to an inedible material. Clothing so stained and shredded it was hard to determined what they ever were, or to whom they belonged.
So very few had survived the Ransacking of Ziad. Nobles, vendors, elders, children.
None of them had expected the attack. So many had been unable to fight back.
Gritting his teeth, the figure on the chapel shifted his weight, finding a more comfortable position from which to survey. He was swathed in dark fabrics, soft greys, muted browns, deep blues. The only portions of his daark skin that were visible were his bare hands and feet. And the slit between the folds of his keffiyeh that allowed him to see. Clothing that, ideally, would make him harder to see in the darkness that covered Ziad once the sun finally settled beneath the distant mountains across the desert. Now, in the space between sunset and dusk, when the light was less cooperative, he wasn't sure it would work.
He spotted the intruder long before it spotted him. Unmoving, his eyes watched, observing, calculating. It wasn't one of them. He could tell that. Too short. Too small. Too ... feminine. Female, then. His nostrils flared beneath his face cover. He took a slow breath, keeping his heart rate slow and steady. Armoured. He couldn't tell who it was. Couldn't see if this intruder was familiar. See if it was her once more, returning to bask in the destruction she'd brought to his city with a smile and a soulless laugh.
She moved slow. Observing. Calculating. Much in the same way that he observed her. Wary of danger. Looking for answers. This was not a woman come to relive favoured acts of violence. This was a woman who had come into the wrong city. The wrong ruins.
"You're not welcome here."
His voice shattered the near-silence of the twilight around them. Her presence had silenced most of the scavengers, his deep voice chased off the braver ones. He watched her pause in her tracks and turn, her covered head pointing toward the source of his voice. Whether or not she'd spotted him yet, he didn't know. He shifted his grip on his bow, but didn't raise it yet, not quite ready to give away his position with movement.
"Go back the way you came. There is nothing here."
Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the dark chamber. It was no wider than he was tall in either direction, the bed no larger. If one could call it a bed. When the structure above collapsed, the chambers beneath crumbled. The three stone walls of this cell bore the scars; cracks that ran deep and deadly. Honestly, he was surprised this one cell had remained upright. The iron bars that made the final wall hadn't been so lucky. The metal was bent and mutilated under the crushing weight of the city above. The thing upon which he slept was little more than a chunk of mostly in tact wood with a blanket. The only one he could locate within the city that resembled a bed, and that he could reach.
Sitting on the bed as he was, now, he could lean forward and brush his brow against the metal bars. It called to him. As if to tauntingly say 'I'm so close to puncturing your flesh.' He stared at it, unseeing, wondering why he was awake at this unholy hour.
His answer came shortly.
He felt it again. The subtle twinge in the nape of his neck as the ruins were disturbed. He reached up and brushed his hand across the back of his neck, swiping away the wheat-blond hair that stuck to his skin. Cold sweat. Hint of nausea. Someone is here. Inhaling deeply, he craned his head back, as if he could catch the scent of the intruder from so far underground. Someone, or something, had crossed the border. Into the ruins of his city. Something with magic, otherwise they would not have triggered the wards and alarms. He bared his teeth and rose, grabbing his keffiyeh, bow, and quiver before he vanished in the blink of an eye.
Within minutes, he was crouched on the edge of what remained of the chapel. The once sunbleached terracotta of the holy building was now stained with soot and blood as high as the fires and the terrified people had been able to reach. It had remained unscathed, compared to the rest of the once crowded city, as a statement.
The Goddess of the Sun had abandoned them all, and left them to the mercy of the nightmares of the dark.
Only they had no mercy.
With an arrow nocked against the bowstring, his pale blue eyes scanned the lengthening shadows that covered the still-blood-stained streets. Rain never came here to wash it away. The desert streets were dark so much of it that flies, vultures, and coyotes had become the only things able to survive. Only creatures ably to withstand the overwhelming stench of carrion death. The bodies had been taken out of view. Not all of them, but most. Dragged into whatever dens the scavengers made in the remnants of the homes and alleys. Pieces of the Ziadin were scattered. A skull that was cracked and shattered, its fractures bright white from the relentless sun. A hand, the bits of muscle unable to be picked off dried to an inedible material. Clothing so stained and shredded it was hard to determined what they ever were, or to whom they belonged.
So very few had survived the Ransacking of Ziad. Nobles, vendors, elders, children.
None of them had expected the attack. So many had been unable to fight back.
Gritting his teeth, the figure on the chapel shifted his weight, finding a more comfortable position from which to survey. He was swathed in dark fabrics, soft greys, muted browns, deep blues. The only portions of his daark skin that were visible were his bare hands and feet. And the slit between the folds of his keffiyeh that allowed him to see. Clothing that, ideally, would make him harder to see in the darkness that covered Ziad once the sun finally settled beneath the distant mountains across the desert. Now, in the space between sunset and dusk, when the light was less cooperative, he wasn't sure it would work.
He spotted the intruder long before it spotted him. Unmoving, his eyes watched, observing, calculating. It wasn't one of them. He could tell that. Too short. Too small. Too ... feminine. Female, then. His nostrils flared beneath his face cover. He took a slow breath, keeping his heart rate slow and steady. Armoured. He couldn't tell who it was. Couldn't see if this intruder was familiar. See if it was her once more, returning to bask in the destruction she'd brought to his city with a smile and a soulless laugh.
She moved slow. Observing. Calculating. Much in the same way that he observed her. Wary of danger. Looking for answers. This was not a woman come to relive favoured acts of violence. This was a woman who had come into the wrong city. The wrong ruins.
"You're not welcome here."
His voice shattered the near-silence of the twilight around them. Her presence had silenced most of the scavengers, his deep voice chased off the braver ones. He watched her pause in her tracks and turn, her covered head pointing toward the source of his voice. Whether or not she'd spotted him yet, he didn't know. He shifted his grip on his bow, but didn't raise it yet, not quite ready to give away his position with movement.
"Go back the way you came. There is nothing here."
