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Post by Theodric Loganach on Jun 8, 2012 17:21:36 GMT -5
The morning fog still hung in the air as Theoderic rode his horse through the deserted countryside, his bow in hand. Hungry gnawed at the insides of his stomach, but his hopes weren't high for some self-caught meat. The young barbarian might have been a terrific shot, had he only been able to see what he was supposed to be shooting at. The world around him was forever fixed in a state of blur, his closest surroundings in proper focus, but everything further than two feet from him was blurry, becoming more intense the farther it was from him. His body had learned to compensate, for what it was worth; all his other senses were slightly stronger and he had taught himself to listen like no one else in his tribe.
He brought his horse to a sudden halt in the middle of the craggy deer trail, listening hard. Hearing nothing, he took up a expeditious pace once again and rode for another few minutes until he came to a small grove of trees. Dismounting from his horse, he carefully concealed himself behind a bush, listening hard. He heard a twig snapping. Taking care not to make a sound, he poked his head around the tree to see a blur that he knew to be a stag browsing on some nearby leaves. Silent as the grave, he knocked an arrow to his bow and drew the string back to his ear, aiming as well at he could at the vague brown blur and let his arrow fly. The thing started and began to run. Squinting his eyes, Theoderic was able to make out that the creature was limping and that meant that he had probably shot it in one of the legs. Leaping onto his horse, he set off to run his prey down.
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Post by Alearae "Jack" Constantine on Jun 8, 2012 18:02:32 GMT -5
The Erlingr Mountains. Jack couldn't help but grin. He was probably the only Amoraean since the fall of the Empire to dare to come here - now that the Cisalpine was free from the yoke of the Empire. Not that he looked stereotypically Amoraean, which was probably one of the reasons he even survived as long as he did. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he had a bit of one or more of the tribes of the Cisalpine Region in him in some shape or form. His lineage was very... Mixed. It was a source of insult and degradation over the years, but it had served him well in this new climate. He didn't look stereotypically... Well, anything. And due to his grasp of different languages, he could pass himself off as any number of nationalities - preferably one that wasn't overtly hostile with the country he was currently in.
He was on horseback - an ebony stallion of moderate quality purchased from a stable in Hjallstaat - the country he just got done leaving. Good people, and not nearly as monstrous and the Amoraeans would have you believe - but he unfortunately couldn't understand the local tongue, and he was sure it cost him on more than one occasion. Here in Cisalpine, however, while it would still be an issue with different dialects, he knew the main tongue of Cisal so it would be much less of an issue communicating and less things that could be communicated without his knowledge - which could be the difference between life and death for a mercenary.
Falcata sheathed on his left hip, he rode through the morning fog along this quiet countryside. He had been riding for more than a day without seeing another soul out here, so it came as a surprise when he saw a deer limping out of a nearby wooded area with an arrow deeply embedded in its leg. At the sight of this, he reined in his stallion and waited. He knew that going after the kill of a barbarian from this area was considered an insult - implying that the barbarian themself was unable to make the kill and unable to feed their own tribe - so he just decided to wait and watch. Perhaps he could find refuge for the night, at the very least. He rolled his shoulders back, alleviating some tension and shifting the weight of the chain mail he wore slightly as he leaned back slightly, his brown eyes surveying the area in front of him - curious as to who the hunter was and knowing he would find out any moment now.
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Post by Theodric Loganach on Jun 8, 2012 21:34:03 GMT -5
He kicked his horse repeatedly, asking for the speed and agility he knew his scrap of a mare could provide. She wasn't much to look at: a dingy little bay whose ribs showed a little, but she could run like no one else. More than that, she was Theoderic's eyes when he needed them. He couldn't see what hazards lay on the forest floor, but he trusted her not to fall or stumble. All he could do was stay focused on the fleeing brown blur in front of him, and indeed, the stag was already slowing, tiring. He kicked his mare again, asking her for an extra burst of speed as he swung off her back and fell onto the stage, both of them crumpling to the ground. Once Theoderic had risen to his feet, the kill was quick; he slit the stags throat and pulled his arrow out of his hock, slipping it back into his quiver.
He secured the carcass on the back of his mare using his belt and then jumped back onto her back in front of it, feeling incredibly pleased with himself. Finally, he could go home and people would actually think he was good at something practical. Between his sight and his love of ballads, Theoderic after lacked the respect of most of his tribe members. That and he was well...y'know that awkward moment when you ride back into camp and two guys are naked and throwing a plucked chicken carcass to each other over the fire and then one of them sees you and falls right on top of the other guy in shock and then calls out, "this isn't what it looks like"? Yeah, well, Theoderic was that guy. And he had a reputation by now.
But fresh kill would make everything better, at least, for awhile. It would make his friends and neighbors forget about his sight, or lack thereof, and his strange, unwelcome ability to nurture those awkward moments. He was riding out of the grove of trees, when he spied another man on horseback and he stopped, squinting, trying to make out whether he was dangerous or not.
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Post by Alearae "Jack" Constantine on Jun 9, 2012 11:06:48 GMT -5
The grace of these people never ceased to amaze him. Leaping from the back of a moving horse to a still moving stag, landing on its back, and slitting its throat. Not even the best cavalryman of another country would dare even attempt that, let alone do it in a day to day activity such as hunting. Jack knew for damned sure that if he tried that he'd be nursing a broken leg or be trampled for not jumping far enough, so he could only sit there in awe for a few moments at the deftness of the movements.
He attached the carcass to the back of his horse - and Jack still did not make a move. It was only polite.
He waited until the barbarian spotted him, and then dipped his head in acknowledgement - before saying quite clearly in Cisal - with only a tinge of an accent to it: "Just a drifter looking for shelter, if you'd be kind enough to offer any." He said evenly, taking care not to let his voice wander off-tone or raise his voice, and keep the impression of calm. He was alone, and appearing weak just increased the chances of getting your throat slit even more - and as appealing as that sounded, Jack wasn't into dying just yet.
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