• Closed • And Then There Were None (Graded)

[Yanahalqah]

Ashan 85 Arc 718
Wilds around Foster’s

Vengeance was a curious thing, Yana considered.

Not the emotions behind it, but the concept itself. Someone did something ‘bad’ to you or people close to you, so you reacted in kind, often seeking the either the death of the wrongdoer, to do what he did to him or his, or to do something to them which would inflect equal pain to them as was done to you. An eye for an eye, so to speak.

There were people who realized that vengeance was a vicious circle, going on and on and on forever, where party A sought vengeance against party B, and if successful, descendants of party B would seek vengeance against party A or its descendants, et cetera. People who thought of it as a cycle wound up into two categories. The first gave up on vengeance, finding it to be futile, wishing to break the circle rather than to enforce it. They were the kind of people you read about in stories and fairytales. The great heroes who were too pure for this world.

Then there was the type of people who did not cast aside their wish for vengeance, and to stop the cycle to continue, they would eradicate any and all affiliated with the original wrongdoer. Usually, Yana would be a perfect fit for this category. However, she would have to travel all the way to Ne’haer to do so, and she would need to hunt down even more people. She had considered setting the entire city on fire, she had considered taking officials hostage to exchange them for her targets, and she’d considered using the favor Faldrun owed her to burn each and every person involved with her targets to a crisp. In the end she had given up on the idea. Not because it was the dying wish of her prisoner, but simply because it would eat up even more time. Time she’d rather spend in Rynmere, getting back into the swing of things, fulfilling her duties as a Steward. Something worthwhile.

Not this crummy quest for revenge that gave her no satisfaction, no peace of mind. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe her actions would change anything. She was only here because she had promised Quiome, not because she wanted to be.

Still, her own desires had no impact in how she approached this mission. As always, she had planned the best course of action, considered ways her targets might deviate from the ideal situation, and had devised a strategy that should give her decent odds at winning this. It wouldn’t be an easy victory, nor a quick one, and nothing prevented her targets to simply walk away, if they did show at all.

Yana was certain they would come, and would not back off. Contrary to her, they were driven by their emotions. Her prisoner had told her enough about the hatred they had for the Yludih, and she’d played into it. A letter to Ne’haer, claiming to have captured the Yludih once again. An open invitation for vengeance and cruelty. They had taken the bait, and when they had arrived in Foster’s, Yana had thrown oil on the fire of their hate. She’d sent them another letter, which came in a package with the severed head of their friend. Keeping it fresh had been a pain, but with the help of a shady taxidermist she’d managed to preserve it. The note she’d attached to it had consisted of a taunt, a sketched map, and a specified date and time. Yana trusted in their emotions to lead them right where she wanted them to. They had suspected a trap, an ambush, and as such they had elected to arrive several breaks earlier to set up an ambush of their own

Unfortunately for them, their actions had been predicted and accounted for.

The men from Ne’hear thought themselves too clever for their own good, not expecting the other party to have been waiting around for far longer already. . Three men armed with bows and a crossbow had headed for the treeline, entering the dense forest in which Yana lurked. As the snipers split up and moved to suitable locations, Yana had only to pick them off, one by one.

Target the first had passed her hiding spot with only inches to spare. A flash of a knife, a hand stifling the initial scream, the slit throat reducing what came next to a mere gurgling. After gently placing the body down, like a caring mother laying a newborn babe in its crib, she had stalked towards the next one.

She hadn’t been willing to sneak up on him, knowing full well her strengths lied elsewhere. Instead Yana had sent an arrow through his neck, destroying the voice box so they couldn’t warn the others. The last one had gone down in much the same way, except he’d just crouched when she fired, the arrow piercing the side of his head instead. The result was the same though.

Caution had urged Yana to take her time with this, and as she removed the quiver off the Ne’hearian body, she decided it was time for action. The specified time was still a ways off, but she never did plan to stick to it. Quietly, she moved in the position previously occupied by the Ne’hearian, and took a moment to assess the situation. Five more Ne’hearians left. One archer. That guy would go first.

Despite the eminent danger, the men appeared to be rather confident in their position. Misplaced trust in the abilities of their comrades. Misplaced trust in their plan. Misplaced trust in the coverage the small group of young trees on the plains provided. They weren’t nearly as thick enough to shield them, and though there were more than a dozen, there were enough gaps an arrow could fly through.

Yana took aim, adjusting the angle of the shot, calculating the change in trajectory due to the winds and the drop of her arrow, and fired. As soon as she released the bowstring, she knew it was a good shot. Like a flower the fletching of the projectile bloomed from the enemy archer’s socket, the others jumping up in alarm, drawing their weapons and following the shaft of the arrow to determine Yana’s location.

It had begun. The curtain for the last act had been raised.

[Quio]

73rd of Ashan, 718

"Tell me about the men from Ne'haer," Quio told the bartender.

Quio was in his third bar of the day. His search for the pirates who had attacked him in Saun had turned up little. He had known the people of Foster's Landing would not give up anything the pirates wouldn't want them to give. But he'd thought they'd give up more than they had.

So, Quio had thought to pursue a different line of questioning.

The bartender looked at him obliquely. It was a look that said never something for nothing, and Quio tapped the bar to order a drink.

When the bartend had poured it, Quio slid it back to him across the counter. The man took the glass into hand, though he didn't yet lift it. He fixed Quio with another long stare. Then, expertly, he knocked the drink back.

"The men from Ne'haer," Quio repeated.

"I know of 'em," the bartender said. It should have been a surprise that the man knew them, except that trial-last Quio had come across another man, another barfly, who had also known of the men. People in Foster's Landing, it seemed, were at least aware of them.

"And?" Quio said.

"Don't know nothing much. Know they lost their ship to the Bloodlass," the bartender said.

The Bloodlass was the captain of the pirates who had come after Quio in Saun, though Quio had never met her himself. Still, he had known that the pirates had taken the men's ship.

"Know anything else?" he asked. He paid for another drink. The bartender poured it, and again Quio slid the drink back to the man.

The bartend knocked the second drink back.

"Couple of 'em been 'round these parts since Saun, abouts. Don't know where they are now, just know they been around," the bartender said.

"How do you know of them?" Quio asked. After an inquiring tilt of the head, he took the bottle from the bartender's hand and refilled the empty glass again himself. He set out another couple of coins, which the bartend collected.

This time the man nursed the drink, trying not to drink so much so fast as to get drunk. It was midday, and the man still had to work, and no doubt he wanted to keep his wits.

"There was a woman looking 'round for them," he said. "Didn't tell her nothing, really, 'least not what she ain't already know."

"And the woman?" Quio offered to pour again, but the bartender held out a hand.

"Don't know 'er personally. Just know what she look' like and that she kept asking 'bout those men."

"And?" Quio prompted again.

"She were dark-haired and pretty," the bartender said. He paused to glance at Quio's face for a trill, judging him. "'Round your age. Human or mixed. Had a scarred eye and a stern face that didn't give nothing. Strong-looking thing."

"Anything else?" Quio asked. The bartender shook his head.

"Ain't gonna rat on the girl, 'least not more 'n I already have," he said. He finished the double Quio had poured him. "'Sides. We're done. I ain't want more drink."

With that the bartend started wiping down the counter. He cleaned the glass he'd used with a rag. He glanced back at Quio with raised eyebrows, and like the man had said, Quio knew the conversation was over.

He nodded his thanks, and stayed and had an ale. When the ale was finished he left the bar.

He headed to the next bar over for another round of questioning.

---

Foster's Landing had a lot of pubs. Quio heard many accounts in the pubs of the person they called the one-eyed woman. She had asked around for the men from Ne'haer up through Cylus. That was the only reason why the men were of any interest to anyone now. Then, abruptly, she had stopped asking after them.

Quio wasn't sure what he himself wanted with the one-eyed woman. It was clear that she had some connection to the men from Ne'haer, which meant she was of interest to him. He thought maybe if he could find her, if he could see her, he might recognize her. He guessed that if he did recognize her, it would be from Ne'haer. And if he did recognize her, perhaps he might better understand her motivations.

So on the 74th he set up a watch for the woman in one of the pubs he'd been told she had frequented. The deal was that if the woman was sighted, the bartend would send a runner to the docks where Quio had been working. Quio paid the bartend gold in advance.

A few days later, he got a hit.

The runner ran up to him as he was playing a man at the docks for more information. They had set up a game of dice and cards. If Quio's opponent won he got gold. If Quio won, he got questions answered. He set down the cards in his hand and listened as the runner, a kid just eight or nine arcs old, whispered that the woman had been spotted on the streets.

Quio ran from the docks to catch her, leaving the cards on the table and a handful of coin that his opponent would most definitely take.

The kid ran beside him. They hurtled crates in alleys and used a shortcut the kid knew. By the time they got back to the bar, the woman was out of sight. But, the bartender said, "She went towards the bay." Quio ran back the way he'd come, the kid on his heels, and caught a glimpse of her two streets down as she turned a corner. "There she is!" the boy exclaimed, and he made to follow her but Quio held him back.

"What the fuck," Quio muttered. He tried to get another look but the woman was out of sight again.

"What is it?" the boy asked. The kid still looked like he wanted to catch up to her, but Quio didn't let him.

"I recognize her." And she wasn't from Ne'haer.

The woman was a mercenary from Rynmere. "She's dangerous," Quio said. He grabbed hold of the boy and held him by the shoulders so the kid would be sure to look at him. "If you see her again, never approach her. Not ever without someone else." He made the kid promise. What Quio remembered of the woman was that she did beatings, robbery. She had threatened to chop Tristan Venora's fingers off. Quio looked down at his own three-fingered hand.

Rynmere happened to be the only place, other than Etzos, that the authorities likely knew that Quio was a yludih. And the woman was from Rynmere, or at least she had worked in Andaris, and she was violent. And Quio had crossed her in the past.

And somehow, she knew the men from Ne'haer.

Quio curled his damaged right hand into a fist and kept looking down the street like she might come back, though she didn't.

But what did she have to do with the men? he had to ask.

---

On the 77th of Ashan, Quio set up a new watch. He paid multiple businesses good coin to keep track of the woman. He wanted to keep informed of her activities. He wanted to know if she ever displayed any odd behavior. Anything out of the ordinary would be reported to him. In the meantime, he began investigating in earnest who the woman was.

In eight days he found nothing about her. He didn't give anyone the information he had, that she was connected to Rynmere, because he felt he had to be careful about it. No one else had any other information. The best he got was that some folks seemed to think she was foreign. There were rumors she was involved with one of the Black Guard, but those were just rumors. Rumors or not they made Quio apprehensive, considering that members of the Black Guard also knew what he was.

Then, on the 85th of Ashan, Quio got another hit.

He was at the docks again when a runner came bounding up and said, "The one-eyed woman has been sighted leaving the Landing in favor of the wildlands."

"Which way did she go?" Quio asked.

"North," the boy said, and Quio sent him away with a piece of silver for his effort.

Quio made sure he was willing to confront the woman armed only with the small pocketknife he had. If it came to a fight, he knew he would be at a disadvantage, but so be it. He wanted his questions answered. The best information came from the source, and since his investigations hadn't learned him anything, he needed to question the woman herself. He would determine if she was an ally of the men, and if she knew anything useful about them.

So he went to the gates and he waited. The woman had gone to the north into the wildlands. If she was heading towards Etzos, she would have gone along the road or the river to the west. She hadn't, and Quio knew from experience that Foster's Landing was the only thing around for days' worth of travel. All he had to do was wait.

He estimated that by the end of the trial, the woman would be back.

---

It was as Quio was watching the gates, waiting for the woman to return, that it happened. He saw a group of men leaving Foster's Landing. As soon as he saw them, all thought of the one-eyed woman fled.

Because it was the men from Ne'haer.

Quio was slouched against a storefront, catercorner from the gates. He made up his mind as soon as he saw them. He turned his back on the men in case they looked over. Then he pushed from the wall he was leaning against, and walked until he found a suitable place to shift.

A street down he stepped into a deserted alley. He shifted forms from Korim Nji'ra to Earnest Freeman. Then he went back to the gates and, carefully, very carefully, he followed the men.

They were going north from Foster's Landing, and it didn't even register that that was the same direction the woman had gone before them.

It was strange, but Quio felt nothing, really, as he followed the men with the intent to kill them. There was no anger or hatred. He should have been afraid. But he wasn't. Or at least if he was afraid, he was aloof from it.

Thirty bits passed and he continued to follow them. If anything, he felt as he did when he was netting a fish, or how he had felt when he had gone hunting as a kid.

He felt focused. White deer, he remembered.

The men came to a stop a break into the wilderness.

Five of the men stayed together; three others continued to the north. The five conferred with one another and with a piece of paper they unfolded-- Quio guessed it was a map.

The three who went north had ranged weapons. There was an area of thicker forest northward, and Quio thought that must be where they were headed.

He thought about going after the three, but Quio preferred to have eyes on the majority. He only had the pocketknife still, and as the three lost themselves from sight, he got it out.

He had always planned to make the men's deaths quick and merciful. He had thought he might even kill them as they slept. If he did that, if he killed them in their beds, there would be no fear and little pain, no realization that he had come for them; they just wouldn't wake up. The men from Ne'haer didn't deserve quick deaths, not any of them, but Quio was not like them and he killed efficiently when he could.

He didn't think of killing them as revenge, more as a preventative measure. If he didn't kill them, he was certain they would go on to torment someone else. The only reason to kill them slow was if he wanted information. For instance, the men had planned to sell him. Quio had always wanted to know who the buyer was.

But, he thought, as he watched the five set up an ambush, the men would die quickly today. He wouldn't be going after information. He hadn't planned for it, hadn't planned any of this, and he knew there would be little opportunity for it. Killing all eight of them would be tricky. Killing them without dying himself would be even trickier. Perhaps, if he made it that far, he could linger with the last man and have a nice talk. But making it that far was a big if.

His best chance was to pick the men off one by one.

Quio couldn't fight eight or five or three of them at once; with his bad arm, he thought it likely he couldn't even fight two. But he thought he could fight them one on one if he had to. If he managed to separate them and attack each man alone, he felt even with the injured shoulder that he had an equal chance of killing them. He was faster than them and, he thought, smarter. The men as far as he knew weren't big on skill or strategy; they relied on numbers. He just needed to separate them out, and--

--and as he was about to continue his planning, an arrow flew from the trees to the north and struck one of the men in the eye, and the man fell down, dead.

It was tumult after that.

Quio had a split-trill to think that one of the men who had gone north had seen him and shot at him and hit the wrong person. Then the rest of the men scattered, spooked like rabbits, and this was it, this was his best chance. Quio sprinted after them.

Two of the men ran straight north towards the forest; two of them ran to the northwest. The men to the northwest were also heading for the trees, but they would be out in the open longer, and Quio thought he would be able to catch them before they made it. One of them ran quite slowly, and Quio went after him.

Perhaps the man caught a glimpse of him in his peripheral because he turned towards Quio and let out a shout.

Quio closed the remaining distance to the man fast.

The pocketknife drove deep into the man's throat, literally cutting the shout off. With all his strength Quio brought the blade out sideways. The knife, small but sharp, ripped through airway and artery and nerve and vein, and the man fell first to his knees, then to his back.

The dying man brought one hand up halfway to his throat and then lay still. The one who had been shot through the eye before had instantly perished. That was two.

There were six left. Quio stepped forward towards the next man.

The two men who had run straight north had disappeared already into the forest. The man left with Quio had an ax. He'd stopped running when his buddy had fallen. He looked at the dead man, throat severed, lying in his blood in the grass, and brought his eyes up to Quio's face. "Who--" the man said, voice choked, unable to get the rest out. Who are you?

"White deer," Quio said.

OOC: -100gn for information on/keeping track of Yana. Totally worth it.

Also, just in case it's confusing: from Quio's POV there are six men left bc he doesn't know Yana already killed three (the three Quio saw go to the north). Really, Yana has killed four of them and Quio one. So there's only three left alive.

White deer is a reference to something the men called Quio as a boy when they were hunting him.

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

There was something satisfying about archery, as there was with any sport or physical activity. Not the tiring or the learning curve, but the feeling of getting better at it, of reaching new heights. The feeling of knowing you had improved, and when seeing a novice in action, getting that sense of familiarity at the sight. That smile-inducing reminiscence of “hey, I made that mistake too way back when!” or “Was I really that horrible at it when I first started out?” The mental comparison gave a real sense of growth, of actual tangible improvement.

But that was just one thing that made her willing to put in the work and practice.

The other was the sensation of a perfectly executed action. A trial where, in contrast to those trials where everything just felt off and seemed to go wrong, everything felt exactly right. The trials where it wasn’t just dumb luck lending a hand, but the culmination of breaks upon breaks upon breaks of relentless practice and training greasing the wheels. The trials where one was at their absolute best, where the full extent of their prowess was on display. Those trials where the body just seemed to work on autopilot, and yet the mind was aware of everything around it, coordinating every single motion in the background.

She had lined up the shot without hesitation, without second-guessing, arrowhead pointed upwards on an angle to counter the dip it would ultimately succumb to. The wind on her skin had made her adjust the aim a little. It had taken her no time at all, it’d all come so natural, so effortless. And then she’d simply let go of the bowstring, and as she saw the arrow speed away she already knew she would hit the target right in the spot she’d aimed for. The bowstring snapped back against her leather armguard with a satisfying whipcrack, and the Yludih didn’t bother to confirm the kill. Instead she rose and repositioned, knowing where the enemy would be heading.

Two of them arrived close to the spot she’d been in a mere bit ago, working in pairs now to up their chances of survival when walking into an ambush. Two pairs going in different directions, so if one pair was assaulted, the other could come back them up. A valid strategy, though ultimately worthless if one pair was killed before the others arrived.

They spotted the corpse, and in that lapse of concentration, of shifted awareness, Yana fired another shot. It whistled its shrill song of death, just barely missing the smartest-looking one as he stumbled over a tree’s root. Both Ne’hearians immediately put their guard back on, the opportunity lost. Her position was now no longer a mystery to them and she came out of hiding, allowing them the information they needed. They charged almost immediately, knowing they could close the distance quickly enough to prevent her from shooting. Still, they zigzagged to try and throw her off should she be faster than they had imagined.

She was, in fact, faster. Smarter too.

Her eye was locked on the two of them, following their every movement.

The zigzag’s weakness was the same as its strength: the change in direction. The moment where the vector’s direction was altered, some momentum needed to be nullified. A stop was never instantaneous. A change in direction wasn’t either. Moreover, Yana witnessed a pattern unfold before her during the first two zigzag’s. Her mind was working a mile a minute this trial, her focus at its peak. She calculated the steps needed for the front Ne’haerian to reach her. She converted that into time. Her hand grabbed some arrows from her hip quiver; she could make it.

An arrow pierced the furthest Ne’hearian’s thigh just above the knee, right when he was about to turn his zig into a zag. He fell, then cried in pain, and two more arrows sprouted from his body. One in his shoulder, the other right above his left hip. He plopped down into the dirt. Yana saw the other guy in her peripheral, shifting her attention to that man even when her body was already reacting the swing of his sword. The Yludih threw herself to the forest floor, sliding over the leaf riddled dirt, then quickly crawled back to her feet, using all available limbs to do so.

Despite having narrowly avoided the man’s blade burying itself into her side, she didn’t feel too different from before. Her breathing had quickened somewhat, but the calm concentration had remained. There were no unnecessary thoughts occupying her mind, no distractions to break her focus. It was just herself and her opponent who existed in that moment. Her immediate surroundings were secondary. They were things she was aware of with a second part of her attention. Stimuli more numerous and complex than those she received from the man in front of her, but were dealt with on a subconscious level nonetheless. Just like her feat with the bow, it took her no effort, did not distract her. In fact, it only deepened her concentration.

Yana undid the straps of her quiver and threw it a few feet away from herself, along with her bow. She drew her short sword and shrugged her Alder Wood shield off her back. Her stance was strong, honed with drills and experience.

The man rushed forward again.

Yana didn’t back down.

[Quio]

Quio saw recognition come to the man's face.

"White deer," the man repeated, blankly, and then all of a sudden he knew. He knew. "You piece of shit murdering filth," he rasped out, not in shock-- in fury. Face white and full of rage, he came at Quio with the ax.

Somehow, Quio managed to duck the first swing that should have taken his head off.

It was a small pocketknife against the ax, and obviously the ax had the advantage. Quio dodged again, dancing back, as the man came at him. The man was angry, so angry, and Quio should have felt something, fear at least, but he felt nothing still. The man swung wildly; in three or four swings he only managed to graze Quio on the forearm. Red blood ran from a shallow cut halfway up from his wrist, and Quio waited for the man to swing wide again, and then he lunged in.

The pocketknife hit something hard in the man's chest, collarbone or rib, and shunted to the side, cutting a wide swath. But the wound wasn't deep, wasn't deadly, and Quio leapt back. Just in time-- he heard the ax as the man swung and missed.

The man screamed out his rage and pain, blood coming in a sheet down his front. Full of pure fury he swung again and Quio turned and ran towards the forest. Again he heard the swing of the ax as it swept by, inches from his back. "Come back here you murdering dog!" the man screamed, and gave chase.

Quio could have run much more quickly to the forest, but he didn't. He paced the man, keeping just ahead of him, until he got within twenty feet of the trees. Then he put on speed.

Despite the bad arm, Quio was fast. In a way he thought yludih were made for endurance, for out-surviving and out-spiting and outlasting their enemies; but while Quio was a yludih, he could also sprint. He broke into a series of jagged sprints, left and right, just fast enough to lose the man behind him, putting trees and rocks and distance between him and the murderous man who followed.

Out of the corner of his eye Quio thought he saw figures --maybe three of them-- in the forest to the left. He didn't know if they'd seen him, so he cut to the right and kept going.

A bit or so later, he slowed and risked a glance over his shoulder.

Though he could still hear the man pursuing him, Quio could no longer see him-- which meant the man could not likely see him, either. Abruptly, Quio looped to the side and pressed flat to a tree. He held completely still, like stone, or crystal.

When the man eventually passed him by, he didn't see Quio, not at first. That was all Quio needed. He lunged again.

This time the pocketknife cut a matching slice down the back of the man's shoulder into the middle of his back. The man twisted and bent and flinched away. The knife hadn't hit spine, Quio knew that, and the man, still bent haphazard, swung the ax and missed. Quio stung him again on the backswing, this time slicing deep into the upper arm.

"Fuck you!" the man screamed, shaking, and Quio jogged out of the way. His adversary bent double, bleeding from multiple places now, and tried to catch his breath. "I will kill you," he swore.

Quio didn't say anything. He just waited for the other to gather himself. When the man finally lunged out for him, Quio turned again and ran.

The endurance of yludih came, Quio thought, from not needing to breathe; as the man panted and swung and wore himself out, Quio kept just ahead of him. He ran the man until he was fatigued, and the man grew fatigued easily because he was bleeding and overexcited and in pain.

When Quio had said white deer, he had seen recognition come to the man's face. Now he saw when the wooziness hit. The man stopped running and Quio stopped with him, still just out of range. He bent again and put his hands on his knees. "Fuck-- fuck--" the man wheezed out, but couldn't finish the sentence. Quio stepped close and made to slash at him again--

And the man sprang at him, in one final burst of energy, and caught him unawares with the ax.

The ax clipped Quio on the side and caught. With a grunt of pain he clamped his elbow down over it, pinning it in place. Before the man could yank it back Quio grasped the handle of the ax and ripped it from the other's hands. It came easily enough; the man's hands had gone weak.

Quio wasn't sure how bad the wound was. It was in his right side and it hurt, it hurt, but he was still on his feet. If he was on his feet then the wound must not be debilitating. He knew a debilitating wound would have dropped him.

Blood wetting his side he lashed out a foot and caught the man in the leg. The man fell to his knees, gasping, and Quio lashed out again and caught him in the belly and chest, kicking him to the ground. The man lay on his back, still gasping, and Quio stood over him to see if he would try to get up. He didn't, and so Quio simply stepped back and waited.

He had bled the man from many wounds that, if singular, would not have been deadly. But altogether they were too much for the man's body to take, and along with all the running, they had exhausted him. Quio could see the color draining from his opponent's face. The man's eyes rolled and fluttered as he tried to stay awake. But soon enough he lost consciousness.

Quio wiped the pocketknife on his shirt to put it away clean. With the man no longer a threat, he did a perfunctory check of the wound in his side, hissing at the sight of his own blood. He had always hated the sight of his blood, and he tried to appraise the injury without letting himself get woozy.

The wound was messy and bleeding, ugly, the skin cut from his ribs. But there was no shine of light from it. Quio was relieved to be able to look away quickly. No light meant that it must not be very deep. Still, he took a moment to make sure he was okay to go on.

Then, with one hand holding his wounded side, and the other hand on the bloodied ax which he rested against his bad shoulder, Quio limped very quietly back through the forest in search of the rest of the men.

Two of the men he found dead on the ground in the leaves and the dirt. One of them had been shot through the neck, the other through the head. Another man he found with his throat slit, staring up at the trees. Quio had incapacitated two men and four more had been killed by someone else. Two men were left, somewhere, though it was possible they too were already dead.

And, somewhere nearby, was whoever had been killing them.

Quio held the ax ready to attack in his blood-wet right hand. Very very cautiously now, he continued his search.

The next man he found was shot full of arrows. He thought maybe that one was not yet dead. But he wasn't able to check, because it was then that he saw the woman.

It felt like his mind did a backflip as he tried to reorient.

It was her, the one-eyed woman. The merc from Rynmere. The one he'd thought might have been working with the men. He thought she had seen him, too, and if not he didn't want to startle her to violence. So he didn't retreat or try to stealth, just stood where he was.

His mind was still flipping into place. All he could think was that she had killed so many of them. She had killed so many, and he hadn't seen it, and he hadn't heard it. Quio kept a tight hold on the ax, but held up his good hand. It was a gesture that said don't attack me and I won't attack you.

He didn't want her to attack him. Even armed with the ax, he knew that was a losing fight.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the woman, though he wasn't sure if he was asking or demanding it. He couldn't make sense of this. "Why--" He was almost at a loss for words, but he made himself ask again. "Why? Aren't you an ally of theirs? Why did you kill them?"

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

It soon became clear that though the Ne’hearian was certainly not lacking in strength and raw power, he did not possess the qualities an actual warrior would have. He had no concept of technique, no patience, and no discipline. He swung his large sword around like a club, his swings wild and slow. There was no subtlety in his attacks, no strategy behind his swipes. He just tried to cut Yana in half from different angles, giving away the target he aimed for with his eyes. He telegraphed his attacks with huge wind-ups, and when he missed he needed at least a trill to recover.

This man was no more than a novice waving around a weapon, expecting to hold his own against a seasoned soldier. Yana could tell what kind of fighter this man was by studying his build and the way he wielded his blade. This was a brute who relied on power to win his battles. There were no refined skills of war burned into his muscles memory. There were no strategies and battle tactics etched into his mind. He didn’t bother to observe his opponent. He didn’t care about Yana’s equipment. Power was all he used. With power he believed he could win any battle.

However, it remained true that the Ne’hearian was stronger than Yana was.

The blows he landed on her shield had an incredible impact. Each hit was certainly felt, the blow traveling into the Yludih’s arm when she blocked. She needn’t move her shield as the man kept hacking at the same spot, thinking he could cut through it if he struck it enough times. A normal shield could withstand a huge amount of punishment before that would happen though –they were designed for that purpose after all—but Yana’s shield was not ordinary. It was made from Alder Wood, and couldn’t be broken, couldn’t be split. He could hack away at it for arcs and it wouldn’t sport a scratch.

Still, there was no need to tank hits that could be evaded. With such a huge windup and blatant tell typical for a novice, that was no hard feat. Yana used another thing the man didn’t have to dance out of the way: footwork. Then man was full of openings, giving her every opportunity to get within range to deliver a swift strike with her own blade, then back out again. She did a couple times when getting used to his rhythm and way of fighting, before she got serious.

There were two more Ne’hearians left to kill. She couldn’t let them escape, nor could she allow them to sneak up on her while she was fighting this buffoon.

He swung again, and this time she didn’t dodge, nor did she block. Quickly she closed the distance between the two of them, and rammed the ridge of her shield into his forearm. The force of her strike combined with that of his, plus the relatively thin edge smashing into the limb proved more than enough for the intended effect. With an audible snap the man’s bone gave in. His hand released the hilt of the twohander, and the arm flopped against the inner side of Yana’s shield. She sliced through skin, muscle and tendons unchallenged, encountering no noteworthy resistance of human bone.

A gasp of pain rather than a scream left his lips, the severed arm dropped onto the floor with a wet smack, the blade following not much later when the grip of his other hand lessened due to shock. She kicked him square in the chest and he stumbled backwards. Once more she closed in, swiping at the arm that flailed in desperate defense. She used her forward momentum to plant her elbow right in his abdomen. He doubled over, and not a moment later Yana’s shield slammed into the side of his head. The man dropped face first into the dirt. His throat was slit immediately after. Best to be certain.

Two more to go.

She wasn’t sure if she heard him approaching or if her eye just stumbled onto his form by accident. There was a man a short distance away, more or less around the location of the second to last Ne’hearian she’d tangled with. For a moment she thought him to be one of the men, but she didn’t recognize him at all.

A hunter maybe? Unlikely; he had no bow on him. A poacher? Possible, but there was no game in his hands.

Lumberjack? The axe suggested something along those lines, but the blood on it told a different story. As did the blood on his hands and clothes, and the injuries on his body. She frowned slightly. He was missing two fingers on his right hand. It was something that struck her as familiar, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. She studied his face again, but once more she came to the conclusion she hadn’t seen this man before. Yet, he seemed to recognize her. Curious.

He didn’t seem hostile, though the tone of his words did carry the possibility in it. She wondered what he wanted from her, along with why he was here. By taking the direction he’d come from, the wounds and blood on him, and the axe which she thought she’d seen in the hands of one of the Ne’hearians into account, it wasn’t too farfetched to assume the other two Ne’hearians were already dead.

Her frown deepened as she cleaned her sword and gathered her quiver and bow. Her questions where the same as his. Only, her ‘you’ wasn’t as specific as his seemed to be. Who would have recognized her though? Someone from Foster’s? He lacked the accent however, and the mark on his face branded him as an ex-slave of Rynmere. Yana was certain she hadn’t interacted with a whole lot of ex-slaves in her Rayna form though.

It was puzzling.

“Who are you?” she questioned.

She’d sheathed her blade and pushed her shield onto her back, but her bow was now in her hands, an arrow on the bowstring. For now, it was just there. The bowstring was relaxed, the arrowhead pointed at the ground in front of Yana’s feet. Not really hostile, though still an unspoken threat. It would remain harmless until she could be certain of the man’s intentions. What happened with the arrow after that though, well, that depended on him.

[Quio]

The eighth and final man from Ne'haer lay at the woman's feet. Quio could see the man's throat was slit. One of his hands was separated from his body.

He was definitely dead.

The woman's good eye lingered on Quio's face. Her expression was flat, and as the bartender had said, her face gave away nothing. Even so, Quio thought she might be confused. He knew she didn't recognize him because, as far as he knew, she hadn't seen him in this form. He had been in his biqaj form in Andaris when they had met.

Usually he would have considered superior knowledge an advantage over a possible assailant. Against this woman, he didn't know if her lack of recognition would give him an advantage at all.

She was much better equipped than he was, and as she cleaned her blade he stepped sideways as if to circle her. He didn't step any closer, not until she put the sword and shield away, and reached for a quiver and bow. He made an abortive half-step forward then, not wanting to let her arm herself with a ranged weapon, knowing his chances of survival, should she fire at him, were slim. She was an excellent marksman. He had seen her work on four of the men's bodies. Three of them had been shot precisely to kill. The last had been peppered through.

But she looked up again, bow in hand, and he came no closer, recognizing an opportunity lost. He winced. That had been his only chance of catching her off guard, and he sensed from her stare that he wouldn't get another.

The woman fixed him in her gaze, the bow held loose but ready, an arrow nocked. If she didn't draw on him, Quio would continue his slow circling, watching her hands and face and feet, trying to resist the temptation to glance around and check for nearby cover. He didn't want to take his eyes from her, not even for a trill.

He remembered what he'd said to the boy in the streets of Foster's Landing. She's dangerous. She was more dangerous than he'd thought. She'd expertly killed six men, and had not, to his sight, earned a scratch. Meanwhile, Quio was hurt. He wasn't hurt so badly that he couldn't run, but he certainly wouldn't be able to run as fast nor as far as he normally would. Shit, he thought. "Who are you?" the woman asked.

"I used to have a shield just like the one you have there," Quio said, still circling ever so slightly if she would let him. He nodded his head at the shield she had slid onto her back. "Along with this--" he yanked the seashell necklace from his shirt and held it up so she might see, "--I recieved the shield from U'frek, nearly two years back." The alderwood shield U'frek had given him had had a specific design, which her shield shared. "But I don't remember you on that ship," he mused, looking closely at her.

If she had truly been working with the men, the shield she wore now might very well be proof of it-- it might be Quio's. The men could have gotten hold of it when they captured him, and she could have, in turn, gotten it from them. It wouldn't surprise him, had they taken it. They had taken everything else from him.

But if she had worked with them, why had she killed them? Quio kept coming back to that again and again. Why? He could only think she had worked with the men and that the deal, whatever it was, had gone wrong. But what betrayal would be worth their deaths?

Who are you? she'd asked him.

"My name is Freeman," Quio said. "I hail from Rynmere. I remember you from Andaris. You're a mercenary." She didn't seem surprised when he said he recognized her, though he was still confident she didn't recognize him.

"I had a grievance with these men," he said. That wasn't a lie. He held up his three-fingered hand. "They wronged me. Nearly killed me. Were going to sell me into slavery. I didn't let them." There was the brand on his cheek, and he didn't know if it would add any significance to what he was saying. He shrugged, the movement stiff because he could only use his one good shoulder.

"I have no quarrel with you," Quio said. That was only half the truth-- if she had indeed worked with the men, he would have to hurt her. Or he'd have to try. "You could kill me but I think we've spent enough time here, on these men. I've been in this area, and you never know when to expect the watchers in the woods."

The last time Quio had been north of Foster's Landing the pirates had come, and then Valance and his shadowhound Butcher, and then the Etzori escort Valance had meant to meet up with. He knew these woods were not as quiet as they seemed. If anyone was around, he didn't particularly want to be caught red-handed-- literally. He wouldn't be going into custody willingly.

"So if you don't mind I'll check the bodies and be on my way. I wanted one alive, but--" he shrugged again. "Most likely they're gone."

He thought the man dead at the woman's feet was Tedrik. Tedrik was the man who had had Quio's mother's ring --the ring made from the crystal they'd stripped from her before they'd killed her-- and Quio wanted that back, so he could bury it. He pointed. "If that man has a ring, I want it. It's mine. One of them might also have a pearl sea shell. That's also mine and I want it back."

"Other than that, you can have anything you find on them. I don't care about their blood money. I'm done." He realized, belatedly, that his hands had started to tremble. He tried not to let the woman see.

It was starting to sink in that it was over. The men from Ne'haer were dying or dead. They couldn't hurt him again. They couldn't hurt anyone. Quio let out a shaky breath.

"They're done," he corrected. Another shaky breath. "It's over, at least for them."

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

He’d begun circling her while she’d been taking care of her blade, and while she was aware that he was trying to give himself an advantage by exiting her field of vision, she did not turn around to follow him. Instead, she calmly continued cleaning her weapon, confident that if he were to try something, she’d be able to respond quickly. He wouldn’t be the first one to try and take advantage of her blind eye. If he’d try something it’d be from a location she couldn’t see, and knowing that, she could easily predict what kind of attack it’d be, and where it would be aimed at. His consistent speed meanwhile made it easy for her to keep track of him, even if she had no visual.

Additionally, Yana was showing the man she did not consider him a threat. There were many ways to intimidate an opponent, all of them carrying a risk in one way or another. One thing the Yludih had learned over the arcs was the sheer unpredictability of people. One could study them, make an educated guess to what actions they would take, but ultimately people consisted of too many variables. Some individuals backed off when frightened, others went for a desperate attack, and others still just froze.

In the Yludih’s assessment of the former slave, the man was not stupid, and his careful circling spoke of caution and cleverness. She doubted he was prone to attacking when fearful, but again, there was no way to be sure. However, he seemed intelligent enough to pick up on indirect intimidation. By seemingly ignoring him and calmly going about her business, she sent him a message. The corpse lying by her feet did too, as did those full of arrows he must have come across, judging by the direction he’d appeared from. A battle was decided before the violence happened, it was often said. Yana did agree with that. The mental state of both opponents, the terrain, the experience possessed, the information one had about their opponent, it all played part in the outcome. By manipulating these variables, one could alter the results of a battle, twisting it in their favor.

His body language had told her enough: he wouldn’t attack. Even if he’d figured he stood a chance by using the element of surprise, her own body language should be telling him how bad an idea that was. As did her equipment. She had a dagger on her hip, along with an odd-looking rod. On her back there was the shield, on the floor there was her bow and arrows. To top it all off, she was clad in armor. He was not. He couldn’t hope to win, even with an axe in hand. A slow weapon versus a quick blade, the outcome was clear.

No attack came even when she reached for her bow.

Gone were his opportunities to charge. She’d shoot him if he tried now.

It was no surprise when he did not answer her question, but went on a tangent instead. Somehow she’d expected this, as she had not replied to his either. While she usually would have interrupted and repeated her query, Yana listened to the new information he gave her. He’d been on that damned boat? She frowned.

“I don’t remember seeing you aboard the Tallship either,” she responded, hoping for a reaction she could work with.

Finally, he did actually answer her question from earlier, though it didn’t aid in jogging her memory. She’d never heard of a Freeman, and yet, he knew her. That in and of itself wasn’t odd at all. As she had done here in her quest for retribution, she had integrated herself in the mercenary circles of Andaris as to gain connections and, in turn, contracts. She wasn’t famous or well-known, but it was plausible that someone did recognize her.

He continued to clarify his motivations in regards to the Ne’haerians, his tone tinted with the desire for revenge. Same as her, then. He drew attention to his disfigured hand, and again Yana’s frown deepened at the sight. His story sounded very familiar to the one that had brought her here, though she didn’t think much of it. The dead Ne’hearians had seemed to be making some sort of out of this kind of thing. Another victim of their dastardly plans was nothing out of the ordinary.

That hand though… It bothered her.

Yana chucked as he spoke of the watchers and of killing him. The sound was right, but it didn’t reach her eye. “It wouldn’t take very long, I’m sure,” she said, though without drawing her weapon. One well-placed arrow in the heart or through the skull would do the trick. She needed but a moment to add him to the list of corpses in the forest. Even if he saw it coming, Yana was certain she could accurately predict where he’d dodge to, and put a dozen arrows in him anyway.

However, according to Fiona, she still had a bounty on her head here. It wouldn’t be wise to tempt fate and risk capture and recognition. “But indeed, I suppose there’s little point in spilling more blood, especially that of those not on my list.” She shrugged, gesturing towards the dead man at her feet. “Go ahead.”

In the meantime, she gathered her arrows from the nearest corpse, searching him for anything useful he might have on him. Except for some coin, she found nothing. She moved to the next, one of the archers she’d killed beforehand, but except for a nearly full quiver, he didn’t have anything she wanted either.

Her mind was not focused on the task though. In her thoughts Freeman’s hand kept popping back in, definitely holding some significance, but what was it? Other things too, things that made no sense in the current context. He had been on the ship. He was missing some fingers. He had grievance with the Ne’hearians. He’d been captured by them. She knew that story. It was so familiar, but it simply wasn’t possible. However, that was the only way this made sense.

To solve a mystery, one had to consider all elements, all possibilities, no matter how ridiculous. No matter how impossible. The evidence did not contradict. Everything did make sense this way. And if she was wrong? Well, he’d have been lying.

Yana balled her fists, clenched her teeth. How many seasons had she spent on this pointless quest? How much time could have been saved? How much trouble could have been avoided? How much trials had she spent in isolation, not wanting to be seen in her weak-minded state? How much pain could she have evaded?

She had mourned him, for fuck’s sake! Not just her either, EVERYONE had mourned him! They had gone through a ceremony of sorts, bawling their eyes out, a gathering of strangers united by loss. They had traded stories. Shared fond memories. They had gone looking for each other when they felt like they couldn’t handle it alone.
Before she knew it, she’d shot him. An arrow zipping past his head, burying itself into the tree in front of him.

The Yludih stood, furious, relieved, frustrated, glad.

“You couldn’t have popped in to come tell us ‘hey, I’m not dead, don’t worry’, could you? You Beqluh!” she said, voice oddly restrained.

[Quio]

That he had been on the Humble Son puzzled her, and he had to concede that she might, actually, have been there. It had been a tallship like she'd said, and the shield was proof of it, if it wasn't his after all. If she had been on the ship it also made sense that she didn't recognize him from there. She wouldn't recognize Freeman. On the Humble Son, Quio had been in his biqaj form. His biqaj form was the only form she would recognize.

He was doing his utmost not to look weak. The woman had a quick eye, and he was worried she would notice that he was having trouble controlling his breath. His side hurt, ached like fire and glass, and eventually he had to stop circling her or he would start limping again. Though he wanted to take a rest he knew he couldn't as long as she was there. She could kill him in an instant.

She had chuckled when he had said she could kill him, and it had been a dead laugh, empty-faced and --to his ears-- threatening. But something had stopped her. Instead of attacking, she merely motioned to the body at her feet, the one called Tedrik. Quio waited until she had stalked away, to another of the bodies to collect arrows, before he stepped over to the dead man's side.

He had noticed before that she had slit Tedrik's throat, and Quio could not help but remember that he had had the chance, as a boy, to kill Tedrik much the same way. But he had not. He had let the man go and it had been a mistake. Tedrik had been the worst of these men. A murderer and rapist. Quio knelt, breathing against the wet pull in his side, and riffled through the man's pockets --no shell-- before looking at his hands.

Tedrik only had the one hand now. The other lay severed from his body, and it was upon that pinky finger that Quio found the ring. He brushed his good shoulder against his face as if to wipe away sweat, and wrestled the ring from the man's finger. Like his breathing, his hands were quickly losing control. They were shaking very badly now.

His hands were shaking enough that Quio almost dropped the ring when he got it off, and his body rushed with some approximation of adrenaline, much much too late. He glanced up to keep eyes on the woman, and she was looking at him, and something about her posture screamed anger. Quickly now he got the ring in his pocket. As he did, he was distracted by another ring, this one on Tedrik's ring finger. He recognized it instantly, how humans would recognize bone from rock.

It was yludih crystal. Another ring made with yludih crystal.

They had shorn the fingers from his hand.

His stomach lurched and momentarily, he forgot about the woman's anger. He was trying so hard not to look weak and he didn't know what to do with this information. What was he supposed to do? Take the ring. Leave it. He looked up again for the woman, just so he could take his eyes away from the ring--

And saw her pointing an arrow at him. He stumbled up to his feet, off-balance, side pulling, and the arrow whizzed past his head and embedded in the tree next to him.

He was running.

Towards her. Quio was running towards her.

She had said something, and he swung out at her with his fist. He had dropped the ax when he had seen the crystal rings, and it was only the last word that broke through, beqluh. Stone man or stupid man, in the language of the yludih. He pulled the punch, and saw it probably wouldn't have landed anyway, and his fist met only air. He took a few staggering steps back. Trying to bring to mind what she had said in full. Snarling in reaction to the arrow she had shot at him.

"Who are you?" he spat out, in Ulehi, and then, like when he had first seen her in the forest, his mind jumped backwards and suddenly he knew. "Yanahalqah?" he said.

It was her.

She had shot at him. He had tried to strike her. There was a mix of emotions on her face that he couldn't read, and he had never seen her face before. He had never seen her face. He took the couple of steps forward and, if she let him, he would grab her into a fierce, one-armed hug, holding it for as long as she allowed. He hadn't seen her, hadn't seen anyone he trusted not to kill him, since Saun last year.

When he pulled back from the hug, he shifted to the form she would most recognize, his biqaj form. It hurt to shift when his ribs were cut up, but it was only right that she see the form she would recognize. His biqaj form was true to his age, a decade or so younger than the form of Earnest Freeman, and his hair had been shortened since she had seen him in Andaris. The short hair made him look younger still. His biqaj eyes swirled, red and purple and pink, startling in their intensity. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "How did you find me?"

She had said something before, you couldn't have popped in, and finally he responded, as if her words had only now caught up to him, "I'm sorry-- I couldn't contact you. I tried. I tried but something's wrong and I can't--" He shook his head. He couldn't get to the Uleuda, and he didn't know why. "I can't." And his damn hands were still shaking.

The ring felt heavy in his pocket, and the other ring was still on Tedrik's hand. Tedrik had worn a piece of him. They had crippled Quio, nearly killed him, and how many rings would they have made of him if he had died? Yanahalqah had seen him in the Uleuda, seen his suffering, and offered to end it. He remembered the spear of light in her hand. But he had gotten away-- from the despair that almost killed him, and from the men who had tried. And she had killed them for what they had done. She had come here, and she had killed them. For him.

"You-- thought I was dead," he realized. "I'm sorry." How many rings would the men have made, if something had gone wrong today, and they had killed the both of them? What if she had gone after them alone, and against all odds the men had killed her?

"I need to sit down," he muttered, probably not loud enough for her to hear.

Slowly, with a hand to his side, he dropped into a crouch. He had known her as the mercenary from Rynmere before he had known her as herself, and that didn't feel right. But it was her. Yanahalqah. She had been the Leader, and she had saved his life again today. How many times had she saved his life? Was that the third time?

"You came here and killed them," he said, and looked up at her. "Thank you. Thank you. I only wanted for them not to be able to hurt anyone again."

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

He charged at her. Of course he did.

She shouldn’t have shot at him. It had been a dumb idea. The Yludih hadn’t been thinking.

Yana knew her actions were irrational. She knew that the anger that had flared up was irrational. By all means, she should have been glad to see him, to witness his alive-ness with her own eye. And she was, but… but she was also furious. Furious because all that grief had been for naught, all the pain had been avoidable, this detour which had cost her so much time and effort—pointless! There was nothing to avenge, no job to finish. He’d been doing it by himself apparently. There had been no need for her to get involved. The promise she had made, the sense of duty that had come with it, the feeling of fulfillment of doing something for someone else—it all seemed so stupid and hollow now.

Futile.

If he wasn’t dead, was there meaning in her actions?

And before she’d cared to notice, the arrow had been released.

She yelled something at him, but it didn’t register in his mind. Of course. The safety he’d thought he had was broken, he had to fight for his life, unarmed or no. He was focused on survival only, everything else was trivial. Yana understood.

The punch was expected, its path predicted. She saw him gear up for it and saw so many opportunities to interrupt it.

A quick jab to the nose, then close in while he flinched—

Redirect the punch with one arm, elbow to the chest with the other—

Low kick to the shin while he prepared his strike, then capitalize off of his lost balance to knock him to the floor—

Sidestep to make use of the tunnel vision, grab and twist other arm, subdue with joint lock—

Sidestep, then stomp the back of the knee to make him collapse—

Sidestep, pin the outstretched arm with own arm, then strike the elbow from below to break it—

Weave body aside to dodge punch, then grab shirt and forcefully pull over her leg to make him fall—

Weaving, grabbing shirt, then floor him with a shoulder throw—

She did not act out any of her thoughts, instead simply evading the blow, watching as her words got through to him.

He spoke in Ulehi, confused, then uttering her name in realization.

As he stepped closer, Yana worried he might strike her still, and really, she couldn’t say it wouldn’t have been justified. Quiome pulled her in a tight hug. So tight, in fact, that it seemed as if he feared she would vanish if he didn’t hold onto her. She wrapped her arms around his torso, hands on his back. Her body trembled, her fingers clawed in his shirt.

Quio pulled away, and she reluctantly let go.

His Biqaj form was one she recognized, one she had run into aboard the tallship, among other occasions… She didn’t shift herself. While on the tallship she’d been an Eídisi, but he’d clearly recognized her human form, so there was no need to shift.

“I… I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head a little.

Yana wanted to say more, but he interrupted, apologizing for not being able to get in touch sooner. Her anger had dissipated already though, her expression softened a bit. Perhaps she should have said something, told him it was all right, even though it wasn’t. He’d clearly tried to reach out though, so that had to count for something, but part of her couldn’t get over the pain his supposed death had brought her. How she had clung to hope, against reason, that he might not have died. Trials upon trials upon trials—they’d told her to face reality. Eventually, she couldn’t even convince herself anymore. She’d accepted it, even though it only hurt more. For him then to be here, alive?

She said nothing. She wasn’t sure what to say. If something had to be said.

The Yludih man lowered himself to the floor, thanking her, expressing his gratitude with a sincerity in his eyes that was too much like his Uleuda self. She turned her head away under the pretense of surveilling their surroundings.

“I was only keeping my promise,” she muttered.

She allowed him to rest for a few bits, letting him recover from his fights as well as their reunion. In fact, Yana had to get her thoughts in order herself, feeling as if everything she knew had been turned upside down. The past few seasons had been completely dedicated to vengeance, after all, and there were too many conflicting emotions surfacing now this quest was coming to a close.

They couldn’t stay very long though.

“Have you reclaimed everything they took?” she asked, holding out a hand to pull him up if he wanted or needed it. “You’re right about the watchers,” Yana continued, thinking back to her life here, before she’d left, “we better move before they show up.” They weren’t very deep inside the woods after all, and murder was murder. She already had a bounty here, so keeping a low profile would be best.

Annoyingly, there were a lot of connections between a bunch of murdered Ne’hearians in the woods and a mercenary who’d been asking about them. She’d be more comfortable if they could get rid of the corpses one way or another, to at least stall until she could return to Rynmere once more.

Then again, it would take a while to find and dispose of the bodies, time they might not have. Besides, they were both Yludih. Yana could simply live as Saeri until she found transport to Rynmere, just to be safe. She didn’t expect the watchers to come to the city as they tended to mind their own business here in the wilds around it, but one could never be too careful.

Perhaps she should have dug a large hole a trial prior after all.

“Let’s go,” she said, heading in the direction of a different city gate than the one she’d come from.

[Quio]

As Yana looked away from him, Quio looked her over briefly, feeling as if he had missed something but not knowing exactly what he'd missed. His eyes swept Yana from head to foot as if to search for injury-- though it appeared that she wasn't hurt. Just in case he looked her over again, more carefully this time, trying to really see. Nothing. She was not wounded. Still, something didn't feel right.

She had been reluctant to let go of him before. As he'd thanked her, she had looked away.

She had muttered that she was only keeping her promise.

He could remember the last time they had met. It had been nearly an arc ago, and they had had to say goodbye. He could remember clearly because it had been important. I thank you, he had said. Thank you, Yana. This is twice now you have saved me. That meant it was three times, today.

This is it, then.

Yana had said, “And if you don’t get back… I’ll travel to Ne’haer and finish the job myself. And that is a promise.”

I was only keeping my promise. She had been angry, when she'd realized it was him.

Back then she'd said, “I’ll see you soon, Quiome.”

But he hadn't come back, he hadn't, and now here they were.

"Are you alright?" Quio asked, still looking up at her. It was clear she was not injured, and his eyes searched her face as if he would finally detect whatever it was he couldn't quite see.

"It's alright--" he said. I'm alright, he almost added, but didn't. Despite needing more time to properly recover he grimaced and, wobbling only a little, started to rise from the crouch. When she offered her hand he took it. Once he was on his feet he stood sturdily enough. His eyes continued to search her face.

She had asked if he had reclaimed everything they had taken from him and Quio didn't know how to answer. Finally he gave a simple shake of the head.

Wordlessly he offered her the crystal ring that had been in his pocket. As she looked at it, he headed over to Tedrik's body and removed the other ring from the man's ring finger. He walked back and offered that ring for Yana as well to see.

"My mother's," he said, indicating the first ring. When her gaze fell on the second ring, he held up his three-fingered hand. "Trophies," he said. "I'll be right back." After a hesitation he held out his hand in a manner that suggested she could walk with him if she wanted. Otherwise, he would meet up with her again in a bit.

Quio stalked from fallen man to man, moving as quickly as his hurt side would let him. None of the men had the seashell U'frek himself had given him, and Quio swore under his breath.

The man Quio had sliced up and bled wasn't where the yludih had left him, and Quio followed a trail of blood and mussed grass to where the man was slouched on the ground not far away, his back against a tree. As Quio stepped closer, though, it was clear that the man had perished. He didn't react when Quio hunkered down next to him, and there was no sign of life or breath.

Quio reached out and checked the man's pulse at his wrist, but there was nothing. He pressed two fingers to the man's neck, but there was no heartbeat. The man's eyes were closed, his chest still. His expression was peaceful despite the manner in which he had died.

For a moment the yludih could do nothing but look at him. Anger welled within Quio like hot water, but there was no use for it; the man was dead, and Quio could not hurt him more. He roughly searched his pockets instead. The man didn't have the seashell either, and Quio stood. The anger had worsened-- it radiated from him like steam. If Yana had come with him he would turn to her and nod his head that they could get going. If she had stayed back, he would return to her before doing the same.

He hadn't staunched the bleeding in his side or even managed to still the tremors that seemed a backlash of the fighting they'd done. But Quio had had worse pain, and had traveled farther than he needed to today under far more dire straits.

He was okay. Angry, so angry that he dared not speak, but alright to walk.

For a handful of bits Quio limped close by Yana's side, getting used to the horrible stitch in his ribs as he mulled over the men's deaths. He hadn't managed to collect any information from them, and he had thought he would be alright with that but he wasn't. He was infuriated. Worse yet, the peaceful look on the final man's face kept coming back to mind.

He knew it was stupid to be angry at dead men. He knew it, but he just couldn't stop.

Though he didn't want to, he made himself take deep, calming breaths. After a bit or so, his eyes, which had become near-black and wrathful, bled to brown and a softer, lighter grey. He looked over at Yanahalqah. For a moment his expression turned stricken, as if with great pain or sorrow. Then he took another deep breath as they continued to walk, and he began quietly to speak.

His voice was low but steady as he recounted everything that had happened since she had last heard of him. How he had escaped the men's ship, and washed up on an unknown shore. The hardships he'd faced trying to figure out where he was, and how he had followed a pair of ships --including the men's ship-- southward, where he came across Foster's Landing. How, outside of the Landing, a band of pirates had tracked him and how he had nearly been captured --again-- before the watchers had found and helped him. From there, the Black Guard had taken him north along the river towards Etzos.

Quio had come to the city of Etzos with little, in poor shape --wounded, marked, and outed as a yludih-- and with no money and nothing, no one. The kindness of a man he'd met in the mill town outside Etzos had allowed him to survive that first season, until he was healed enough to find temporary work. With one bad arm, though, and the mark of an immortal, finding employment had not been easy.

It was only earlier in the season that Quio had finally felt strong enough to go back to Foster's Landing. He had wanted to find the people who had wronged him. Both the men from Ne'haer, and the pirates.

"I hope it doesn't cause you trouble," he said, "But I had you surveilled once I started looking for the men from Ne'haer. I wanted to figure out your connection to them." It had only cost nearly all of the money he had saved up since coming to Etzos, but he thought it must be worth it. Had he not paid for the surveillance, he would not have met up with Yana again. "I'll call the surveillance off once we get back to town," he said.

He was quiet for a moment, then he added, "And should it come back on us, I'll take the blame for this. I'm the one who's been hurt; I'll say I went after the men on my own. If I tell them the truth about what they did to me--" The words caught. "Maybe they'll let me off for wrongs righted." He shook his head.

Should they come across a stream while wandering back towards the Landing, Quio would stop to clean his hands, arm, and shirt of blood as best he could. No amount of water, however, would wash the blood from his shirt completely, especially as he was still bleeding-- silver blood now, instead of human red. After a consideration he shucked the shirt and left it near the stream. He had picked up the ax and brought it with, and he rinsed that of blood-- and his pocketknife for good measure. He dried the metal very carefully so it wouldn't rust.

He thought it apparent that he and Yana would need to enter the city separately. Yanahalqah wouldn't need an excuse to get in, and it was better she not be seen with him. Quio was injured; he would likely be questioned at the gates. As they drew closer to the city he murmured, "I'll tell them there was an accident while I was out cutting wood. That I tripped and fell on my ax."

With that, he stopped walking as if to let her go ahead of him. It would be easier for her to get into the city if she went before him, especially if the guards stopped him. He didn't expect the guards to press, but if they did he supposed he'd figure out what to do as he came to it.

After all.

That was what he always did.

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"