The Trachadon became their target. No one spoke to the Jegers with disrespect, within their own territory among their own fortifications. They would damage him - that was the conclusion they all came to. Remind him of what they were, here, among their brethren: a coalition of the greatest.
Fridgar was impressive, regardless. As they aimed to lodge arrows into his eyes, back and shoulders, he disappeared in a flash. A ripple and tear resounded through the air, and before an instant, it did again. He appeared much higher in the air, plummeting straight to the ground. Alistair nearly had a panic attack, seeing Fridgar rapidly falling from the sky, but quickly pulled himself to the side of a high tree with a rapid and pin-point blink. After appearing, he lodged Shadowsong deep into the tree, holding onto the edge and attempting to swing himself forward. Pulling himself back, he used the momentum to curl his body over the spear, his chest now laying against the incredibly durable shaft of the weapon as he observed the commotion.
The Jegers had been knocked down by the massive boom, which sent the tree Alistair lodged into shaking and in danger of falling over. A Trachadon was a weighty beast, and Fridgar especially. The impact of him falling from so high had caused a shockwave for hundreds of meters around, and the nearest Jeger had only barely been able to recover from the impact. One of them held onto his brother's weight, seemingly unable to walk on his own. Did his ankles fracture? It looked like it, from where Alistair had perched onto.
Fridgar, in front of the gate, had pressed one of the Jegers against the floor with his tusks. It was the one who told Alistair to fuck off.
You shoot, he kill, he said. Alistair's Haltunga had gotten good enough to understand that, at least, though he wasn't entirely sure if such threats - or actions - were a good idea. This whole thing was turning into a mess; they couldn't make enemies with the Jegers, certainly not right outside of their doorstep. This was a group of the absolute best, and in the coming moments, they would show that.
From the trees, and seemingly nowhere at that, two Jeger leapt down from two branches on each side of the gate. Between both of them was a massive Submission Chain, which they flung forward in unison. As they hit the ground, the Chain slid inches from Fridadon's face before skidding along the tip of his tusks, centimeters from digging into their fellow Jeger. Once the Chain was in place, the two men - who had landed easily on their feet - pulled back and flung the Chain back against the creature's tusks, ripping into the bone and swiping the tusks clean off were Fridgar to resist. Other Jegers came behind him with two Shellshatter Harpoons, and flung both of them forward, each slamming into Fridgar's hind legs and crushing through the skin and bone. He would be totally crippled before long, as Jeger rushed from the gate with a metallic chain. It was zirconium, and between the six men holding it, would be more than enough to restrain the Trachadon entirely.
Restrain, though. Not kill. They knew it was a Becomer, not a monster. Fridgar would answer to them the way that men did.
"Soh kol visheny homan?!" one yelled. Where is the human?
Another pointed at Alistair, curled against his spear's shaft lodged into a tree. From below, one of the Lothar gestured for the man to return to them.
Alistair had two choices before him: fight, and get them both killed or worse, or be diplomatic to ensure the safety of his lover. The choice was as clear as day, and so he came. Gripping onto the spear, he blinked before them, his chest leaning into his spear with his knees pressed into the floor. Alistair lowered his head, taking a breath.
"I speak Common," one of the Lotharro said. He appeared much more imposing than all of them - he had dark brown hair in a top-knot, with a light beard along his jaw, tied into another knot of similar appearance to Fridgar's. His armor was a thick leather, and coated with a weave of Terrendyte chain. He was incredibly well-muscled, an athletic build complimenting his clear focus on mobility and agility. The man was tall, and along his armor were many weapons: Nirnbone Longbow, Terrendyte Sword, Terrendyte Daggers, Zirconium Arrowheads along his waist and more arrows in his quiver...
He was clearly a skilled warrior, and certainly high ranked. "My name is Roynar von Sidhe, son of the Jackal, Ganren. I am Packmaster of these Jegers, and the one who will be handing out judgment to the fallen warrior we see before us," he stated. "Since the beast is clearly free from reason, I ask you to explain why you came. From what I've been told, you came to speak, and after a few... insults... this creature here instigated an attack from our men. This is correct?"
"Yes," Alistair replied. The mage stood up straight, and buried his spear into the ground. "Let me emphasize, however, that it was your men that attacked first. Where we come from, bloodshed is not a punitive measure, it's a declaration of battle. He reacted the only way he could have, and did not kill your man when he was clearly capable of doing so. He wanted to cease the exchange of blows." That, to Alistair, seemed proof alone that they were in the right. They hadn't come to fight, but they were forced to do so.
The Jeger began speaking to his men, inquiring as to whether Alistair's story was accurate. They nodded, answering honestly.
"I see," the Packmaster spoke. "Well, I think the Becomer has suffered more than enough, then." He raised his hand, and within moments, all of the Hunters dispersed with their weapons and tools. Fridgar was left damaged and on the ground, but no longer restrained. "Why did you come?" Roynar asked.
"We were attacked by a Soraanar," Alistair stated bluntly. The Jeger's brow rose.
"And you lived?" he inquired, to a nod from the nobleman.
"We lived. In fact, we managed to injure him, and the spirit fled. But -- it touched Fridgar's back, and turned parts of it to stone, other parts stiffened flesh. He can't turn back from this form," the mage explained. The Jeger's thumb stroked his chin, genuinely perplexed, and deeply fascinated. He motioned again, and within moments, the Jeger were convening to haul Fridadon into the fortress.
"We will examine his affliction. We have heard of it before, to be honest. The last man was one of the Bonde, living in... Aedirn, if I recall," he looked upward, in thought. "He died from it. The petrification sent him into a state of sleep, one from which he never returned. After a few dozen trials, his heart failed to beat. It is lucky that your man was assuming the form of a great beast - he would have surely lost his life if not."
Alistair nodded, biting his lip. "I see," he replied. "This has only happened once before?" he asked, witnessing the Jegers bring his lover over to the gate. The mage was beginning to panic, witnessing his bloodied hind legs scrape against the grass and dirt. He had to remain calm, though. He had to be there when they examined Fridgar - there was no evidence that the Jegers cared primarily for his mate's best interests. What if they dissected him?
"Well, only once partially. Many others were petrified completely. It's the work of a particular Soraanar - we call him Kerad Reyn, Stone King. There are many others, with different skills. I--" he paused. "Look, I'm impressed that you managed to fight Kerad Reyn and survive. I'm skeptical, but impressed. However, you're not a Lotharro, not a Clansman, not a member of any Path, not marked by the Creator, and you don't even speak Haltunga. You're a foreigner. I can't allow you any more information, nor can I let you into the fort. I'm afraid you'll have to leave your man to us," the Jeger stated.
"No," Alistair replied, biting his lip. "I'll join you, if that's what it takes. I'm one of the greatest fighters you'll ever see. Just let me inside."
Meanwhile, Fridgar had been dragged through the gate. His small circular eyes would open to a vast community of Jegers, armorers and medics waiting patiently by the doors, whilst domicile training grounds and an indoor forest decorated the center of his view. There were many, many men, with many conversations. Most of them, though, were fighting. Sparring. Simulating.
"You," one of the Lotharro called to him. "You have Path, big man? Name? Clan? We'll have tell them if you die. Probably will."
