Ashan 26th Arc 721
The hunter had become the hunted, and the hunted the hunter.
Upon returning from a quick check-up of his leg at Doc’s practice, Rokas had become aware once more of a figure lurking at the edges of his vision. Trailing his path, keeping a set amount of distance between them to ensure he wouldn’t notice. Earth and air did though, sniffing them out after a couple minutes.
It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed he was being followed. It wasn’t the first time he’d acted on it. While Rokas usually employed the help of the elements and his knowledge of the layout of the Oh’Pee to shake off his pursuers, the constant presence of people within his vicinity got on his nerves. Every single time he left his hideout they were there, stalking him, hiding in shadows and in the mouths of alleys and behind corners. With each venture into the city streets another straw fell onto the camel’s back until it finally broke, and Rokas decided he had enough.
Several times now, he’d attempted to corner his pursuers, backtracking in hopes to catch them unawares, force them to retreat further and further as the elements guided Rokas towards their position. He’d tried stopping in empty streets, only to suddenly turn and rush to the location of the stalker. He’d even entered abandoned buildings, using them to circle back in hopes of approaching the person tailing him from behind. All without result. At best he caught a brief glimpse of them, but not once had he managed to successfully chase them down. Often his pursuer mingled with pedestrians traversing the alleys and streets, disappearing from Rokas’s sight and the elements’ awareness.
But not today. Today was different.
First he’d practiced patience, leading his shadow away from the busier regions of the Oh’Pee, away from the Comm’See. Then, walking along a roundabout route, he circled back towards, putting his pursuer closest to the edge of the city. Only once he'd accomplished all that did he turn and dash towards the location the elements whispered about, using tailwind to increase his speed and letting the earth propel him for the first couple meters, kickstarting his sprint.
When they saw him dash in, Rokas’s pursuer turned tail and fled, rushing as fast as their feet could carry them. Yet, unlike the last few times, the distance between them didn’t grow. It didn’t shrink either, but at least Rokas could more or less keep up.
They zipped in and out of alleys, rounding corners at angles so sharp they nearly tore open their cheeks on the bricks of the buildings. The cloaked form of the pursuer cast a glance over their shoulder, then cut across a small square and squeezed into a tight space between buildings, sidling through to the other side. Rokas thundered to a halt, unable to fit even sideways. He growled in frustration, but the earth crackled, small rocks rolling to a building a twenty meters to the side. Empty.
He barreled through the window, quickly clambering, stumbling to his feet before his momentum was fully dispersed, and started running again. Bulldozing through the rooms, throwing and pushing furniture aside to get the fastest route to the back door, which he rammed open.
His cloaked hunter-turned-prey spilled out of the gap at that exact moment, wasting not a moment before rushing off again, paused briefly at an intersection, head swiveling left and right, then sped down the right. Rokas followed in their wake, huffing and puffing under his mask and heavy cloak, breath burning in his chest, yet determined and smelling victory.
The fleeing shadow had made a big mistake. Rokas knew these streets. Abandoned districts of the Oh’pee, where Lisirra’s disease had claimed the highest death toll. Did they think they could lose Rokas by cutting through the empty buildings? Poor choice, without any other people around to distract the elements it would be very easy to pursue even if Rokas himself lost sight of them. All he needed was to corner his would-be pursuer, which he could enlist the elements’ aid for. With no people around, using defiance wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention.
The figure darted around a corner, cloak trailing behind. Rokas rounded the bend a few seconds later, finding himself in one of the larger streets of the area. His target rushed to the end where a crossroads connected three streets together. Right before they reached the end however, the cloaked figure stopped dead in their tracks rather than slip into either connected alley. They turned, hand reaching into the billows of fabic to pull out a handheld crossbow. There was a mechanical clunk, the crack of taut string whipping back to a relaxed position. Wind whistled a warning, pushing at Rokas’s chest and tugging at his clothes. He slid to a stop, and from the dirt road sprouted a feathered bolt a few meters ahead.
“That’s a warning,” the figure spoke, voice high yet not shrill, but calm and controlled. “Stay where you are or the next one won’t miss.” She pulled the crank to draw the string taut without haste, taking her time reloading. Rokas shifted his weight, back leg tensing up. The packed earth beneath his feet softened, severely hampering the traction needed to push off. Air stiffened, then swirled upwards. A series of metallic clicks echoed from every direction, short and sharp and threatening. Rokas didn’t need to see the source of the noise to know what was happening. He recognized it all too well. The inner mechanism clicking into place as drawstrings were pulled as far back as possible. The sound of a dozen and a half crossbows being trained on his person.
Shit. He should have realized things were going a little too smoothly.
On the rooftops lining the street stood two times six thugs armed with actual crossbows, not the tiny version the cloaked woman he’d chased held. She placed a new bolt in her weapon just as two additional thugs stepped from the adjacent alleyways to either side of her. Behind Rokas three more filtered in, blocking off the other exit. All carried crossbows loaded and ready to fire, aimed squarely on his torso.
Don’t be intimidated. It’s a show of strength. If they wanted to kill outright, they’d already have fired the moment you entered the alley.
Rokas straightened up, releasing the tension in his thighs and calves. For a moment he wondered if he should raise his hands, palms showing, then decided against it. Unclenching his fists, he set his jaw instead, ignored the knot of adrenaline building in his stomach, and gave a curt nod by way of greeting in the direction the woman who’d led him here. She didn’t return it. Already said enough about the present company.
“So you’re the ones who’ve been lurking in the shadows and nipping at my heels,” Rokas said. “What’s all this about then?”
She scowled at that, mouth drawing into a thin line. “You’re the Desert Ogre, yes? Take off the hood and mask.” She gestured with her hand crossbow as she spoke, waving it around with the nonchalance of someone believing to be in absolute control of a situation. Looking like a cat playing with a mouse before biting through its neck.
Her confidence was not ungrounded though. Any uncooperative notions Rokas may have had were carefully reconsidered with but a singular glance at the multitude of crossbows aimed at his person.
Yet, the situation happened to be a little more complex than his ambushers might expect. For an ordinary mortal, being surrounded and having weapons of any kind pointed at you certainly was a desperate situation. For a Defier of considerable might, however…
To be fair, the attackers did have an inkling as to who they were dealing with, and thus knew the broad strokes of what favors the elements bestowed on him. No doubt the reason they stood so far away. It just wasn’t quite far enough; all of them still stood well within the elements’ sphere of influence.
But again, the situation wasn’t that straightforward. Adept Defier or not, Rokas couldn’t quite deal with all crossbowmen at once –they were too spread out, and he could only get a couple in his field of vision at once. Sure, he could direct the elements blindly, but they’d likely not hit anyone, even if he tried influencing earth or wind at a grand scale. Which would push him far past his limits anyway, leaving him afflicted and weak.
A stalemate then. One more skewed against him than he’d like. But no reason to roll over and present his neck and belly. Push back a little, sow the seeds of doubt to shake the ambushers' confidence. Keep them on their toes.
Seconds ticked away. Leather gauntlets creaked as the archers adjusted their grip, put some extra tension on the trigger of their weapon. The woman in charge raised a hand, fingers counting down from three to one.
Finally, Rokas gave an affirmative grunt, shrugged back his hood and removed his mask for a couple seconds before covering back up. Though exposed for but a brief moment, the thugs got a good look of his head and the layer of sand, loam, clay, dirt and gravel covering every square inch of it.
The woman unfurled her fingers, then lowered her hand. Her archers relaxed a little, bows dipping, though still at the ready.
“I've been called many things,” Rokas said, “Desert Ogre, Sandman, Giant of the Underground... But aye, I am him. What of it?“
“Bit far from home, aren’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes behind his mask, scowl deepening. He didn’t care for her tone, but then again, he didn’t care for the situation in its entirety. “Meaning?”
“This is Clan territory.”
Rokas shrugged. “Aye.”
“You are aware, it seems,” she said. “Then you should know only us Clansmen are welcome here. No other gangs permitted.”
“I’m no longer with the Fence. Tell the One-Arm--”
The woman gestured with her free hand, waving his words away. “Oh, Lord Barash is well aware. It doesn’t matter, you’re not welcome either way.”
“Not very hospitable of you, is it?”
It was her turn to shrug. “There’s no hospitality here for dogs with the froth. Your very presence breeds trouble. Lord Barash is a generous man, he gives you a choice. Leave immediately, or be put down.” The crossbowmen raised their weapons, the butt resting against their shoulders as they took careful aim.
Around Rokas the air quivered, the earth roiled beneath the surface. Sweat ran down the inside of his mask. “Not much of a choice as much as it is a demand.”
“Ain’t my problem.” Not a hint of compassion shone through in her words or on her face. Her expression resembled a crag, hard and unyielding and devoid of pity. Animosity burned behind her eyes. “It’s yours to make, and quickly too. Some of us are getting cramps in our trigger finger.”
Rokas licked his lips. Felt the grains of dirt, rough and dry and uneven against his tongue. Tasted salt and sand. Spoke slow and deliberate. “I’ve a strong dislike for being bossed around by people who’ve no business trying it. Makes me quite unwilling to cooperate.” He made a helpless gesture with both arms. It looked almost apologetic. Almost.
“I also don’t enjoy weapons being pointed at me. Gets me all itchy.” He lifted one hand, repeatedly balling it into a tight fist and relaxing it. “But that’s the least of your worries. What’s worse is that they don’t like it either. Makes them nervous. Makes them angry.” A gust snaked through the alley, winding around legs, dragging loose dirt and flakes of dried grime about. A ripple rolled across the earth, more felt than seen, a low rumble that could just as well be a figment of the imagination.
“Cut the chatter, Ogre!” the woman spat, patience giving out, arm up to signal her men. “What I want to hear from you is either ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Blabber on and get shot regardless!”
Rokas sighed, rallied the elements to strike, to catch the Clansmen by surprise. “Tell Barash he can go stick his demands up his a--”
She didn’t let him finish. Didn’t care to let his words grow cold, to let the wind embrace and treasure them, carry them away into the sky. Instead she brought down her arm and spoke a single word –“Fire!”— beating Rokas to the punch.
Several loud twangs echoed as the drawstrings launched their payload, wicked crossbow bolts left lines of nothing in their wake, air rushing in to fill it.
But earth already threw up a dome of rock, hard stone leaping out of the ground to Rokas’s defense. Thin and brittle at first, its priority on forming a barrier as fast as it could. Then, as it quickly thickened, bolts began punching through, the wall still too flimsy to stop them outright. Still, it killed most of the momentum, many of the projectiles plopping down harmless on a bed of soft soil rather than fly straight towards their intended target. A few stubborn bolts refused to be outdone by a wall, striking true against the odds. However their bite left Rokas with only shallow wounds, barely enough to draw blood.
The archers' barrage didn’t stop, crossbows spewing bolts continually, but less and less of the projectiles punctured the dome as it grew in thickness and durability. Every so often one of the bolts struck a weak spot and made it inside, but as before they didn’t have the power to do much else than simply fall to the floor or remain stuck in the earthen shell. Then the barrier grew too strong, stone compressing itself to eliminate pockets of air that made it porous, and while the rapping of bolts on stone didn’t yet stop, none broke through.
The woman’s voice rang out, sharp and sudden like a whip-crack. “Enough!”
The ruckus ceased, a final wave of bolts ricocheting off the stone dome, then dropping into the street with a series of dull thuds. For a moment Rokas tensed, half a whisper to the earth already formed, but he cut it off before the element could act. Not all crossbows needed to be reloaded. Some were just about prepped and ready to fire the moment he lowered the defenses, no doubt. And even if not, he was both too large and too slow to make use of the perceived chance, even with the elements helping out.
“Cowering under a rock, are you? I’d tell you to hide as long as you like. That we have all the time in the world. That you have the come out sometime, and when you do, we’ll be ready. However, it’ll get us no-where. Tell you what, I’ll give you a final chance. If you come out now, nice and slow, hands in the air, I’ll let you leave our territory alive.”
A tempting offer--
"No."
--if Rokas didn't have his pride as a bruiser. Never in two decades worth of time spent on the streets --be it as an enforcer of the Law or the Fence-- had he retreated without being ordered to. He was the type to fight until the battle was over, until either he or his opponent collapsed bruised and bloodied on the cobbles. Several people bragged about having beaten the Ogre, but none could claim they made him flee or surrender. This woman would not be the first.
Air heard her sigh outside the dome. "Suit yourself."
So he would. Even unhindered by pride and other issues, yet still finding himself in this situation somehow, and his mind set aswirl by a torrent of desperation and panic, he'd still refuse grabbing hold of the lifeline thrown his way.
Why?
Because Rokas wasn’t stupid. The moment he lowered his barrier, the moment he stepped out of the protective shell of stone, hands in the air in surrender or not, he’d get mowed down by a swarm of projectiles. These people weren’t story-book knights full of honor and chivalry, they were Etzori low-lives, just the same as him. Dirty tricks were to be expected. Honeyed words during battle were only meant to lower the opponent's guard. If an enemy extended a hand out of kindness, they often held a poisoned dagger behind their back with the other.
Which meant the situation remained unchanged, and Rokas needed to figure out how to turn the tables. Escape was made easy through Defiance, but out of the question. He'd rather get shot. No-one looked weaker when picking a fight only to run away or roll belly-up in surrender. Defeat didn't matter. At least you displayed a spine of bone rather than flexible cartilage. Principle, conviction. Or plain pig-headed stubbornness.
Still, that didn't mean he'd dismiss his barrier and let himself get peppered with crossbow bolts. So, how to fight back?
The elements would support him as much as they were able, but their help didn’t extend to proposing valid strategies. Rokas clawed in the dirt, letting it flow through his fingers. Perhaps if he shattered the dome and flung the pieces in all directions… They’d reach the archers on the ground for sure, strike some of them, force others to duck for cover. Create an opening. But the ones on the roof were safe, and would open fire the moment they saw him.
A tremble rippled through the packed earth, loosening the topsoil beneath Rokas’s hand. It traveled to the edge of the street, into the brickwork of one of the houses supporting the crossbowmen on the roof. The whole building sighed, stooped and aching. Weary and old --for a man-made structure, anyway—and dreaming of rest.
While he could help it along, it’d be loud, and he was supposed to be laying low. News of the house's collapse would surely reach the ears of those Rokas was hiding from. Which, so Milaq said, would lose him his shot at getting even, and he definitely couldn't have that. Not to mention tearing down a building, weakened or not, would drain his reserves to a significant degree.
What he needed was the protection of the barrier, but also sight and mobility to fight on his own and take out his ambushers without causing too much of a ruckus.
He needed a set of plate armor, really.
Earth hardened for a moment, then crumbled back into dust. It spiraled up his arm to mingle with the dirt already clinging to his skin, forming hard clumps. Rokas frowned at it. Now that is a good idea. You should have told me that sooner. Would have saved me some time.
* * *
The whole stone shell creaked like a squeaky hinge, irregular hairline cracks appearing, forking like lightning bolts. They grew longer and wider, the once-smooth surface now resembling a barren wasteland riddled with chasms. New fractures split off from the main ones, connecting up with others, creating the look of a vase that’d been dropped and reassembled.
Outside the dome orders were barked and followed. Archers prepared their crossbows, bolts primed. Muscles tense, throats dry. Sweat accumulating on brows, in palms and armpits. Adrenaline lighting fires within their stomachs, fueled with the anticipation of battle.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, with the high-pitched scraping of nails on chalkboard, the dome of stone began to shrink. Slow and steady, as if careful not to spook the man inside with the attempt to constrict him. And it did seem to bind him, wrapping around the whole of his body. Cloaking him in a mantle of rock and gravel, a crude statue made from loose yet matching stones, adding to his already excessive bulk. Wider, taller, heavier.
The bowmen hesitated, uncertain what to do. But then the statue took a step forward and the decision was made for them. A sharp word cried by their leader caused their fingers to pull the triggers, bows spitting forth their projectiles. Metal screamed, pointed tips hitting stone and glancing off, falling into the dirt. Some chipped the rocks, even going as far as prying off bits and pieces. Underneath the outer layer was another however, and the broken shards rolled up to cover the weakened spot almost immediately.
A second cumbersome step, foot thudding down heavy on the dirt road. Then another. And another. Ignoring the hail of bolts, Rokas cocked his head, listening, and nodded. He broke into a run, slow and thunderous, heading for the archers blocking the way out of the street. They retreated, backpedaling faster than he could run while weighed down by earth’s embrace.
Rokas grunted something and the dirt road catapulted him forwards, suddenly soaring through the air like a siege boulder. Bursts of wind guided him, altered his trajectory, aiming straight for the trio of bowmen. The archers pushed off against the road to dodge, but the elements were not on their side. The ground grappled them, holding them in place, and before the unfortunate souls had opportunity to curse, Rokas came crashing down and sent them sprawling like ragdolls.
Bolts continued to bounce off him as he got back to his feet, eyes locking onto a new set of targets. With a groan he began a sprint, running up the front of a building on all fours with surprisingly little difficulty. Gravity wrestled to keep him on the ground, of course, but the wall did not. It cooperated, willing and eager. His hands and feet sank into the bricks one moment and found purchase the next, and with some extra help of the elements Rokas bounded up the roof faster than even he expected.
Landing in a crouch, he threw his arms out for balance, blasting wind in all directions. The two closest archers were blown back like autumn leaves, the rest stumbled, feet losing traction on the smooth rooftiles. They fell almost simultaneously, toppling and rolling, then crashing down several meters.
Still the crossbows on the opposite roofs kept firing, bolts clattering into the stone plating on his back. The pieces ground and shifted, arrows dropping out one after the other. Rokas whipped a hand in the bowmen's direction, and after a couple moments a torrent manifested at the apex of the rooftop, right behind the them.
Though this amount of water packed very little punch, it tugged at the archers' legs, stealing their balance for but a moment. Combined with the slickened clay tiling, it proved sufficient to yank the thugs' feet out from under them. Like a cliff face eroded by the tides they toppled, crying in surprise and fear, hands scrambling desperate to grab onto something, anything. Some succeeded, but most didn’t and were washed over the edge. Rokas didn’t spend any further attention on the few wet and coughing bowmen still clinging to the roof; they’d dropped their weapons while slipping and no longer posed a threat.
Which only left the woman and two more thugs with crossbows. He scanned the alley below, and found his sight inhibited, foggy. Shifting in and out of focus. Strained his eyes to counteract it. Couldn’t find his targets. He stared into the streets beyond then, saw two shapes fleeing the scene, rushing down the abandoned streets as fast as their legs could carry them. Considering the distance they’d covered, it seemed they’d decided on a tactical retreat the moment Rokas had started his assault. When they'd realized the tables had turned dramatically.
Based on their garb and the color of it, as well as their respective heights, it seemed their leader wasn’t with them, though he didn’t spot her in the street either. With all the writhing bodies around, neither could the elements. The blurry vision didn’t help.
He leapt down, ground breaking down into soft powder under his feet to catch him, leaving a small crater. For a couple moments, he simply stood, breath labored, fighting off a burgeoning, unnatural exhaustion. Heating up his body and planting an ache along his spine. He ignored it as best he was able.
Head swirling back and forth, and his vison swam with the motion. But even with impaired sight he should still be able to find the woman if she remained in the vicinity somewhere. If he didn’t see her in front of him, then she had to be behind. Rokas turned around, a frown formed on his face, still didn’t see her anywhere. Where was she hiding?
Earth cracked in warning, something moved in Rokas’s peripherals. One of the cloaked bodies he’d mistaken for a fallen bowman jumped upright and rushed forth with surprising speed. She dodged a fragmented boulder rocketing her way, jumped over the claws of earth attempting to ensnare her ankles, and ducked underneath the sloppy haymaker Rokas threw at her.
Like coiling snakes her legs wrapped around his chest, and she flung herself onto his back, one hand grabbing hold of his forehead to steady herself. Her free hand unsheathed a dagger, with which she began chiseling and prying away at the armor protecting Rokas’s neck. He clawed up at her, but the armor of rock limited his range of motion, and she deftly leaned out of reach. So he rammed into buildings instead, hoping to smash her into walls and force her to stop, but sheer tenacity caused her to hold on and redouble her efforts.
After a few attempts, Rokas gave up on trying to get her off his back. Saved his dwindling stamina instead, crinkled his brow in concentration and asked a question. Though each word flowed languid as molasses and hammered a nail into his skull, the earth responded when the sound finally did reach. With a start, the whole of Rokas's armor shivered in waves spreading from torso to the extremities.
Noticing the danger, the woman stopped her stabbing and loosened the vice of her legs around his chest, but it was already too late. Gravel and rock detached from Rokas’s body, starting at his hands and feet, migrating up and up, clinging to the woman’s flesh and catching her before she could fully pull away.
She squirmed and writhed, falling to the floor, dagger abandoned. The shards of stone gave chase, mercilessly seeking out her body and attaching to it. The woman tore at them, hands working fast to remove the fragments as they rolled into place. But there were too many of them, and they came too fast. Covering more and more, piling up and fusing where they touched, though small gaps remained. Restricting her movement until it stopped altogether.
A few of the archers crawled back on their feet, responding to the cries of their field leader. Blades drawn, they approached regardless of the welts and bruises and broken bones they’d sustained. Resembling the risen dead with shambling gait and joints bent at odd angles, intimidation was the strongest weapon they possessed, but unfortunately for them Rokas didn’t fear walking corpses. He had a friend who’d gladly consume them, and its stomach couldn’t be satisfied.
Flame blossomed in one palm, licking its lips, the roar of its appearance giving voice to the pangs of hunger it felt. But Rokas hesitated, felt the drain too strongly, saw the blur before his eyes worsen. Realized he reached the limits of his endurance, knew fire required too much coaxing to engulf and devour a target. He apologized, and the flame winked out.
Rather than scorching the thugs, Rokas had them stop in their tracks with a blast of wind instead. Fierce and blinding, stealing their breath and throwing dirt in their eyes. Just for a moment, but long enough for Rokas to rush up and crack a boulder-sized fist on one's dome. Plant an elbow against the base of the skull of another. Shatter the nose of a third. Hammer the last one's jaw with clasped hands. Sent them all back to the floor. Though they still moved and groaned and pushed their beaten bodies off the ground with trembling limbs, the Clansmen did not get up again.
For a moment or two, he drew in deep breaths, bent forward hands on his knees. Fought against the blur clouding his vision. Blinking hard to try and get rid of it, to no avail. Clenched his teeth to combat the ache throbbing at the base of his skull and along the length of his spine. Did his best to ignore the pain where the blades of the last Clansmen had managed to cut.
He'd not quite come out as unscathed as he'd envisioned. If he had to deal with this every time he dared set foot into Clan territory, which he had to to leave his hideout... they'd wear him down sooner rather than later. Rokas could win some battles, but not a war. And knowing the One-arm's reputation, it would be a war. That'd not be very conducive to lying low.
An idea formed. He rose tall and proud.
“Listen up!” Rokas rumbled, words carrying far though he didn’t raise his voice much at all. “I’ll let you off the hook with just this, but let it be a warning. Next time I’ll not be so lenient. Tell the One-arm. And do make it clear that if he tries again, he may expect me to come visit.”
With a final glower, he turned his back on the broken bodies --some groaning and twitching, others lying very still-- and left. Though exhaustion sank its teeth into his soul and tore off its price, he did not hurry. Though his vision lapsed and his skull and spine screamed, he did not stumble or let his shoulders slump. Refused to let his aches show. The Clansmen would not consider it an overwhelming victory he if he did, and both his message and image would lose much of their power.