================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Sun Oct 24 18:33:01 2004
Bree time: Midday 12:38 PM (noon) on Mersday of Summer - July 5,1433
Moon Phase: Waning Crescent Moon
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Breelands Weather
The midday summer air is very hot and dry around you. The day sky is cloud-filled and gloomy.

Road through the North Downs
As it rises northwards, the Greenway runs into a deep cutting here, a channel crafted by hands of old, no natural force of erosion. The handiwork of the ancient Men of the West is evident in the steep shelves of rock to east and west; the hills themselves were cut to build this road to Fornost Erain. Now all is desolate and bare; this man-made channel has long been reclaimed by Nature's grass and brush.

A cold wind blows down along the road from the North, and a name might spring to mind: Deadman's Dike. So is Norbury of the Kings called in these latter days. Does not the howl of the swift airs as they pass through the delvings of the road bear voices, and cries: the Dead unquiet?


It is oppressively hot. White clouds smother the sky, swallowing up shadows and turning the sun to brass. A man moves slowly along the road; his face red from exertion. Great drops of sweat slide greasily down his fat cheeks, and once, he pauses to wipe his forehead with an equally fat, equally red hand. A battered, dinged sword hangs from one hip, rattling as it catches the dry clattering bushes that bar the way.


Couched in the bracken, and tall weeds of the wayside, another observes this oily approach. Raven hair gleams blue in the hard sun, a pale jerkin plain against the vine-webbed stone. This man sits with an arm curled easily over his knees, resting, or waiting; he tips back a flask in patient silence.


A shape, neither brush nor grass nor good red fowl, bulks on the verge and Bartel's eyes snap to it as a fish rising to a lure. Wary, unfriendly, hard... the light glances flat off of their still depths as he pauses near the other man. "Hullo, hullo, hullo..." he says, in a cheerful fruity voice that very much belies the look in his eyes. "Hot out." His fat hairy hand hovers unobtrusively near the hilt of the sword.


"Quite," the seated man agrees, his mellow voice as liquid as the rolling heat. He drinks again from his flask, guileless black eyes travelling over the sweat-soaked Bartel. "You might do better with fewer threads on your back." His own dark cloak lies in a heap at his side, and his shirtsleeves are rolled back to the elbow.


Liquid sloshes inside the flask and the man's small dark eyes transfer their hold. "Perhaps," he says noncommitally, though a leap of anger bunches his jaw. "What do you here," he asks after a moment, "on the road going nowhere?" Swollen fingers fumble at leather lacings, a bottle is loosed and tilted backwards; and for several long minutes, Bartel's adam's apple jerks up and down as he swallows. Wiping his mouth with one hand, he belches and waits for an answer.


Black brows arch mildly. "I might ask you the same. Come sit, there is an angle of shade ... just there." Drystan reclines back onto his elbows, no hilt shining at his hip, nor threat in his sleepy manner. "There is no better spot to pause for half a league."


Sweat-stained and grimy arms swing carelessly in the overly hot day. Fat legs fold themselves down into cushiony bracken. Only the unceasingly watchful eyes betray anything aside from comfort and ease. "...Walking. Hither and yon. Coming from there and going thence." He waves an uncaring hand randomly. "Seeking my fortune, perhaps."


"May you find all you deserve," replies the young man, sincerely. A dragonfly drifts about his head, a brief, jeweled blur in the sun-scorched weeds. "You look a minute from collapsing," he adds, drawing a leather flask from the folds of his discarded cloak and tossing it to the other. "A sweet liquor - it turns my head. Help yourself, Mister ...?"


A beefy hand snatches the offered drink from the air, previous bottle discarded in an instant. Several more long moments drinking, and Bartel leans back a little. "Now that," he says with heavy greedy pleasure, "Is more that thing." It is warm, the drink pleasant, the company less objectionable than before. He scratches his stomach, its flabby folds all but bursting through its coverings and decides to answer. "Bartel. You?"


"Drystan," says the other, placidly watching the fat man drink his fill. "... Bartel, you say?"


Opaque eyes lift to Drystan's, then fall consideringly to the flask. Bartel shakes it a little, cocking his head, greasy hair shining in the light; and takes another swig. Another gut-rattling belch and he nods. "Aye. Been known as a few other things here and again." His gaze slides slyly towards the other man and he winks. "But ain't we all?"


Drystan chuckles, and tilts his head, black hair gleaming like water. "I cannot repeat mine in polite company." He studies his companion with curious attention. "Bartel. You are the one who tamed a pair of Bree brats, some seasons past."

"Am I wrong?"


Bartel hiccups loudly. "Bree? Dunno nobody from Bree." Red already from sun and heat, his round oily face glows still redder and snake eyes squint against the boiling light. "Found couple of kids wandering 'round while back... heading Dunland ways. Why, y'want a girl fer yerself?" A hoarse snigger shakes his flabby jowels and he shakes his head a little. "Hot out here... "


The words of the pair drift heedless upon the stifling air. Their voices are not loud, and there is seemingly no one about to heed them, so this would ordinarily be of little matter. Down the cutting echo their voices, softly enough, and the little stirrings of breeze bear whispers only of the grasses.

Against all the odds of geography and distance, however, their words are marked. A keen eyed observer, attending to all, might notice a glimmer of movement in the grasses at the top of the dike. One passing shadow and nothing more is the only hint of his presence that the watcher gives. No sound, no scent, and no further signs of movement are forthcoming. The idle language of brush and bird is not at all disturbed by his presence.


"You are in the shade." The young man rolls onto his side, dry grasses clinging to his nubby shirt. Black eyes half-lidded, he gives a faint, predatory smile. "She was a sweet little thing, was she?"


Bartel shifts, peering up at the flat white sky with its bronze sun, the sun that surely is several times larger than normal. His chest lifts and falls, lifts and falls; panting open-mouthed like a dog, he nonetheless manages a smirk. "Aye. Curly hair an' all. Right purty. No strength to 'er though, she never woulda made it to Dunland." He mops at his forehead and shifts again.


Unseen from below, steel grey eyes drink in the scene. Emotionless, their gaze- at other times felt as a palpable presence, but now as unfelt as the eyes are unfeeling- flicks idly from one form to the other, then up and down the deep cutting of the road, running over each gulley, each hollow, and peering deep into every shadow. Satisfied that no one else lurks close by these two idlers, they resume their silent watch.


"Lucky for her that you came along, then." Head propped in his palm, Drystan impassively drinks in the other's growing distress. "She's frightened of shadows, now. Did you know? You've cured her wanderlust."


Bartel shakes the flask. Empty. He tosses it aside with a curse and gropes through the tangled grasses for his own bottle, grabbing it and pouring its contents into his mouth. Brownish liquid spills down his cheeks and chin as he gulps it down. "Huh? Naw, she's dead." The fat blinking face with its grimy plastering of hair shakes ponderously. "Got anymore of that? M'thirsty." He rubs at his side, rumpling the dirty shirt.


"Oh no, she lives." The younger man's voice is soft, gentle in its way, as he lies stretched catlike in the sun. "Mostly. And you have had just enough to drink."


The creak is too soft to notice. It can barely be heard by the creature making it, and as such, the sound would die well before it reached the ears of the pair below, even if it had the advantage of the wind- which it assuredly does not. Likewise, the soft glide of wood upon wood is an unheeded murmur. Sunlight upon steel might be marked, however, and thus the flat, flaring wedge of the arrowhead is kept well concealed behind the grasses. Held flat, the telltale outline of the bow is lost in the gently waving grasses.


"Eh?" The fat man scrubs a hand across his eyes, and grunts. Tears seep unbidden down his flabby cheeks. "Hot. Need a drink." He lurches to his feet and groans, squinting into a world turned suddenly white wherein fire-rimmed shapes dance and flare. "Dead. She's dead," he repeats stubbornly. "Pity... wanted t'take her with me. Purty li'l gal... soft... Where's m'pack? Gotta have a drink."


The young man rises with predatory grace, laying a hand upon Bartel's chest. "You do," he agrees, dispassionately looking into the other's dazed and dilated eyes. "A pity your fortune has found you, instead."


The position of the two men changes, and the archer takes note. They have aligned neatly now in a sort of human eclipse, with Drystan occluding much of Bartel's form- but not enough. Being somewhat larger than the norm, Bartel's corona extends rather far beyond the smaller man's slender umbra. To strike Bartel now would be a daring shot for a skilled man- but this archer is not a man.

Rising to one knee, the elf lifts his form out of the brush like an ascending wraith. Grey cloak disguises his form still, and only the stark outline of the now-vertical bow can be seen with any clarity. But what eyes are there to see it? Drystan's back is to elf, and Bartel's attention is rather ponderously coming to grips with the threat posed by the lithe little man.

Still, the elf waits, watching. In his graceful hands the bow, with attendant arrow, likewise tarries.


Surprise, a flash of unbalanced rage blaze in the man's flat and glassy eyes, half-shut against the brilliant flame of the sun. "Take your hand off me," he hisses, his hand abruptly finding the battered sword's hilt and clenching there. Then his face collapses into a grimace of pain. "Whaddya mean, my fortune?" he manages after a bit, his voice turning hoarse - as if he has spent some hours screaming his throat raw. "Why y'so excited 'bout li'l girl - she was gonna die anyhow." No breeze rustles the bushes now, the grass hangs still and limp beneath the beaten sky.


"I take issue with the destruction of children," says Drystan, mild and detached, as his strong hand closes on Bartel's wrist and twists to the edge of agony. "Consider it a personality flaw. Now, shall this be swift or slow?"


Something stays the archer's hand. Fingers that were readied to relax their grip and let slip the arrow, which would then terminate its brief flight in either the back of Drystan or the chest of Bartel- depending upon the elf's whim- instead remain steady and curled. The arm instead relaxes, allowing the bow to unbend with another soft creak.

Lowering the weapon, the elf turns his attention to watching the unfolding scene. Still, the arrow is nocked upon the string, and the weapon can be raised, drawn and loosed in an instant.


Incomprehension. Complete and total bafflement, as if the words that Drystan speaks are instead the chirping of a bird or howling of a wolf. "Destru...?" Bartel is beginning, when pain shoots blindingly up his arm. His anguish echoes from the edges of the road. Knees buckling, he ends at last cowering on the ground at the other man's feet.


As the man falls, the elf rises. Silent strides carry him forward and down a little, into the cut. His form is ghostlike and unearthly, even in the full light of day. The background of grass, like a multitude of green brushstrokes, envelopes the slender figure, and the wrinkles and windblown edges of the cloak echo the green lines in grey. The bow rides at low-ready, the arrowhead gleaming like a meteor as the elf descends from above.

Halfway down the hill he pauses, kneeling behind a low bush. His face is impassive, almost tranquil. The grey eyes watch Drystan's back, attentively.


With neither pleasure nor distress, Drystan accepts the man's collapse. One pudgy arm remains extended, taut in the assassin's grasp. "Expressive, but no answer. Swift or slow? If you wish to plead or pray, I suggest you do so now."


Despite filth and flab, pain and blindness, he is not entirely without something that may masquerade as courage. His swordhand held in an unbreakable grip, Bartel breathes in in a great gasp and manages a tone that is almost conversational. "S-swift or.. slow, what?" His other hand creeps across the vast expanse of his belly and the dingy sword slides free. The faint ringing of the metal melts into a hiss as it slices towards Drystan in a desperate backhand; aimed at the watery fiery legs that waver through the molten air in front of him.


Drystan patiently watches the creeping of the hand, like a ruddy, swollen spider. The whispering sweep of unkempt steel meets air as its target steps swiftly opposite the arc and behind his captive. He faces now the hidden elf, if he knew it; but the cold lines of his face are downturned to the greasy head below him. "I will take your answer to be 'slow'."

With a sickening snap, the wrist breaks. "I have no compliction with taking you apart piece by piece. Do you care to reconsider?"


Bartel screams, short and hoarse. Ragged sobs shake the man; who suddenly doubles over his own stomach and screams again as the movement yanks at broken bones. "No..." he moans. And frantically, "Why? Never done y'no harm, don't even know you." Despite the heat of the day, his skin is gone cold.


"You know why." Dispassion unbroken, Drystan draws a dagger from his waistband, flipping it neatly over into his palm. "For what you did to the child," he says softly, in a voice like killing frost, "I call your life forfeit. Did she sob? Did she plead? I will allow you both. No more."


Watching with reserved curiousity, the elf purses his lips. He is kneeling again, and his bow is now bent for a second time. His right hand drawn back to anchor against his chin, the elf allows the point to waver between Drystan's chest and Bartel's throat as the events before him unfold.


Sobbing, he already is. Pleading, he begins. Tears of pain and fear course down brilliant red cheeks and drip from a scruffy chin. "No," he gasps, begging now, "Please no... I din't do nothing, I din't. Woulda took her with me, but she were sick and couldn't walk-like." Eyes blinded by a sun that has swollen to fill the entire sky are screwed shut in the blubbery face. Another spasm and a whimper that rises to a scream; but behind the pain, a thought has risen. "Were she yours? I din't know..."


Cruel and cold, the beginnings of a smile twist the elf's lips upwards. If either of the two could witness the expression, it might be described as 'unnerving.' More of a snarl than an expression of mirth, it disturbs the placid lines of his face like a rock tossed into a pool. The eyes, however, do not blink. The arrow is now angled for the lower of the two trajectories, and it does not waver from its mark- Bartel's chest.


In a single motion, swift and violent, Drystan steps between elf and man, sharply backhanding Bartel's flushed face. And then he is upon him, wrenching the sword from sweaty fingers and flinging it away. "If she were mine," he hisses, "you would not have the mercy of a bellyful of nightshade."

The dagger glints, a point of flame as the man lifts it for a killing stroke.


This would appear to be the penultimate moment; the last chance for the archer to act before the killing stroke falls. This killing might be branded a murder under the law of men, or it might be called rightful vengence. The elf is neither lawyer nor magistrate, but one thing is certain and clear- Bartel is at Drystan's mercy, now. This is no duel, no longer a fair fight. If the elf is to save the fat man's life, he must act now.

It would appear, however, to be no affair of his. The elf remains motionless, watching.


The slap sounds sharply in the still heavy air. Bartel's head snaps back, a handprint showing white against the fiery skin. "Plea..." he begins, his voice all but a whisper, wretched and dragged through sand, and then a scream tears from his throat again as shattered bones are wrenched. But all is silent. Only his stretched-wide mouth and the cords standing out like ropes in his neck tell of the cry that should be heard. The dagger glitters overhead, but he cannot see it. Thirst tears at his throat even as teeth knife through his gut, yet he cannot speak - neither to beg nor explain.


The blade plunges beneath the fat man's breastbone, and is wrenched upwards; a single, passionless thrust deep into the mute plea. Black eyes bright and feral, Drystan jerks his dagger free and steps back, his breath even.

There is a lot of blood in the body of a man. It stains the soil red, pooling out around a fat crumpled body and soaking into the thirsty ground.


The elf again rises as Bartel falls. This time, the man will not rise again, and neither does the elf crouch back down. He steps forward, his feet sounding softly on the uneven ground, for he does not care now if he is heeded.

In a enveloping whirl of grey cloak he achieves the bottom of the cutting, and strides evenly across the empty space towards the slowly expiring wreck of Bartel. He makes no introduction. He does not hail the surviving human. He says but one thing, the words ringing out of the silence like a carillon- unexpected, beautiful, and loud.

"What is his name?"


It is land fed to the point of gluttony on the blood of the Secondborn. One more body is hardly worth notice. One more breathing is another matter. Drystan is crouched over the fallen figure, coolly cleaning his dagger on the man's shirt hem when the elf's clarion voice pierces the heat-heavy air. He whirls to his feet, a point of blood beading in his palm where the blade slipped in his startlement.


(OOC) My part in the scene ended here; the rest was put off to be finished the next day.