Long ago, in the ancient times of the Reptile Kingdom, the venerable Wyvarians and the mighty dragons had an alliance, an integration. The two were seen as equals, and friends. Together, they built a massive empire, the Schrade Empire. But not all was meant to be.
The Wyvarians began to look down upon their former friends. Dragons were seen as slaves, tools for their war. And finally, the Wyvarians committed the ultimate sin against the dragons.
Now, the old dragons still remember the bite of that sin, but some are more willing to reunite the two races...to forgive.
(I shall not be participating. Though I may give advice on setting info if I see a need. I would suggest looking into Dark Dragon Blades and Armor for this as they are part of what the Schrade Empire did that was so evil. The Fatalis, the eldest of elder dragons, hasn't been introduced so keep in mind that this isn't a major setting changing event. I'm gonna go silent now. I will be observing though.)
The smoke that bled out of the fallen caravan had attracted a couple of eyes here and here. Fleeting ones, at best. However, two pairs seemed, more than willing to risk a look, uncertain of the precarious path set about.
One had natural armor, bathed in crimson. Two game changing color at the opposite of the specter, as the crinsom tide came with the chips of azurite irises, edges and miscellancous ends. An elegant tail folded into itself, pristine.
Should one dare a smell from it, they'd be graced with the scent of a gentle distant vanilla distributed amidst its immediate surrounding...assuming the woman making use of said tail was in the tolerating department. Considering her disposition, piercing reptilian glare and fiery duality in the weapons she brands, both raptured in flames, from the blood red to the river's breath, perhaps asking now was nay the time.
Surely that had to do with the second one walking nearby. Or, directly besides her. A man, shrouded in a cloak, weaved in metal and silk. Silver and gray adorns his attire, a marriage of armor and ornate motives. Symbols litter his clothing, to the point where one might ask whether he was part of the Order.
One hand is wrapped in some amp, silver in nature, stone in cocoon. The other happens to carry a censur, dormant, yet prone to a sudden awakening. The man's face is veiled in a silver mask, doubled with a hood. He wavers his censur around periodically while the Glav glares over their distant surrounding, her nostrils awaiting any sorry man or beast bearing down the acts of an ambush...
One of the miners shakes his head and looks over his shoulder at the caravan. "Nah, ain't anyone inside, thank god. Thing's even more busted up than I thought." He turns to walk back and slams straight into the passerby. "Wha-maybe you oughta watch where you're going next time, mister."
The one in gray finds himself nearing by the cart wreck, followed by the crimson glav. Seeing the output between the wrack and the individuals aside, it was obvious it was not to battle it was sunken "Oh good, no battle-wrought aftermath".
"..." The glav finds no words to suit the current predicamment, instead opting to put way her twin blades, fanning their flames away.
The miner relaxes, cheerily slapping the man on the shoulder. "Nope, no-one was inside. At least, not when it ended up like this! I reckon it was taken down by Raptors, judgin' by the claw marks. Poor souls." He turns again to return to the caravan, and notices the pair. "Now who're you folk?"
The crimson woman takes a step forward, a regal bow forward to the inquiring one "I am Zafiah, one known as a hellblade. I draw my weapons in service to the weak and defenseless, in the name of the Lord of Ash and his covenant".
The gray one takes a more serene pace to be at sides with the glav, his gaze hindered by the merge of silk and metal, hood and mask. HIs greeting gesture take on the stance of a monk, hand on heart, a salutation done usually between brothers "Remy of the Ashen. A man proficient in mending tides. As you might have noted, seeing smoke emmited from nowhere...not a siight for either to ignore".
The miner nods, more for himself than the benefit of Zafiah and Remy. "Th' name's Ashton. I'm the oldest of these boys. Y'know, whatever took down that caravan's might be up ahead, where we're headed. And you fellas seem like the kind of people to have around." Ashton looked over at the currently inactive member of the conversation. "And I'll prob'ly have to take him along, too."
Zafiah takes a confident step forward, steep in caution. Her hands steady themselves, perpetually poised to spring their respective blades out. Her voice conveys safety to those behind, a warning to those forward "Then I shall take point, to warn of anything I might spot".
The gray man slumps his head down, further lowering his hood as his pace brings him a few centimeters behind the glav, taking on a more monastic stance. No word escapes his silver and silk.
Ashton nods gratefully. "Alrighty, then. Well, I'll leave you two at the front, and you, young man, can come take a spear and guard th' back." He turns and cups his hands to his mouth, "Ready up, boys!" He ambled back to the caravan and climbed into the shotgun seat. "All right, quick pace! I doubt any o' you wants to stick around here, so let's push through 'fore trouble stirs up!" The caravan starts off at a brisk pace.
Zafiah, as mentionned, takes the front, hands perpetually hunched over the hilt of her recently cooled blades. Her pace is slow and deliberate, ever watchful of her surrounding. Whoever or whatever was to try and ambush them would have their work cut out, her years of increasing repeats making her very hardened.
The caravan pushes on, out of the mountain pass and on into a light forest. The trees were thin, but plentiful. The procession continued down the path, and Ashton chuckles to himself. "Ah...look 'round you. I remember th' first time I led a caravan, went rollin' through a f'rest jus' like this. I barely had two coins to rub together, then." He pauses to survey the environment, then look back at the caravan. "An' now look! Got th' best set o' men I ever seen, good, hard-workin' lads. And on that cheery note, let's get out o' these blasted trees, and go do some blastin' of our own."
The caravan tensely keeps going, all hands poised to fight. The procession begins to take a bend in the path, and a rather thick pole of wood lances into the ground ahead of it, barring the way. At the same time, two groups of Raptors jumped synchronously from the sides of the road. Rather amusingly, one of the smaller ones at the back managed to flail hazardly for a second, but didn't stumble. The two biggest at the front looked over it...then grinned to each other and jumped forward.
With no warning, Zafiah's instincts kick in, prompting her to lunge forward, a singular blade in hand. Her motionless swing expels a solidified heat wave from her sundering sword, going between those in front, directly at the road block.
The wood gashes and reels at the heated touch, like butter under a smoldering knife, quickly turned to ash and cinders. The untouched piece is in no way spared, the heat sprung to life from the burnt wood spreading to the rest, burning just as well.
Pulling out her second blade, Zafiah takes on a overwatch stance, poised on a defensive manner. Her glare puts metaphorical daggers on each attacker present, a warning for those seeking to come all too close.
Behind her, the ash warden Remy spurns volatile ashes as he summons a censur. The tool irradiates with mana, gleaming from four faces, hanging down, almost touching the soil. His monastic stance is strengthened as he starts spinning it around, seemingly toying with it...
(Well, Spazerz's out. We might have to call Rep in, but most likely we'll need entirely different people. Jester, would you care to invite some fellow to this RP?)
The combatants at the rear of the group cringe a little from the attack, but the two main Raptors simply leap to the side to encircle the caravan. They let loose a shrieking, yelping war cry, rallying the others to break up back into the bushes.
(Unfortunately, from those I know around, all are either busy, featuring Hound or BTR, 'retired' from the rp theater all together, such as Doc or Flame to a degree or absent for the most part. I can't consider asking any to join this one)
The censur twirls in increased velocity under the warden's hand. It starts brimming the immediate area with ash. White in birth, gentle in purpose, the aroma quickly turns hostile to the attackers' nostrils, a scent of coarse and choking smoke about.
Under a simple gesture, Remy swings toward the caravan's overtakers, a motion seeming futile. Only, a concentrated den of smoke flees the thurible, hailed as a phantom version of himself running toward them, swinging the object non-stop. A hail of shackles bursting from the earth, drafted in silver follows beside, before and after the phantom, locked in their path. It gains momentum, jumping over the caravan and passing through them, projecting a hollow shriek and cacophony of seeping chains.
The chains, so close to the raptors, are redirected in a startling sense of sentience, wrapping and going through them. It is as quick as it is violent, the audible world assailed by the whispers and projected edicts. Ash follows soon, washing over the raptors bound by the shackles, soon revealed to be a product of the metal binds. Frozen in place, as if caught in a flash freeze...
In the meanwhile, Remy had already begun reciting a cantip as Zafiah had turned her attention to the two main raptors. Her attention springs to the nearest, crossing her blades in a initiative challenge before she fades away, found once more to the enemy's left flank, preceded by the heat. It has little time to react before her blade, already casting the swing, would meet its flesh in a fatal fashion...
Its propelling force meets the searing end of Zafiah's flaming tail, brimmed in the shine of its edge, mired in blue flames, like the blades she carries. The heat augments, spoiling the soil with molten sludges.
Her legs loosen just slightly, prompting her intercepting tail to bludgeon the floor at an angle, pushing her from the raptor's dead lock, separating the two. Zafiah twirls her blades once more, re-affirming the grip on them. Their shapes light up, now projecting flame overhead, scraped one against the other. Her tail follows suit, scraping itself on one of the sword. It burns in a bright blue, they wreathe in searing orange.
Her legs take a more composed stance, one leading the other by mere centimeters. Her stare simmers down, locked on the advesary before her but aware of everything else surrounding the two of them. her blades take a lowered position, twitching, ready. It was the raptor's move...
She stepped back a bit, establishing distance and beginning to circle the Glav. She stared Zafiah down...until her eyes flicked to the right. Barely half a second passes before she takes a leap at Zafiah, feet first.
Zafiah holds her stance, awaiting her enemy. The pommels of her blades flash for a moment. And then...
...she flickers out of sight.
But for a second. An unfortunate reaction from the raptor, to go for the direct assault. A plan, had she perhaps, one that Zafiah is none too welcoming of. She re-appears, her pommel aimed at the raptor's back, blinking in intensity. Infused with the flames of her swords. Her tail is adjusted as well, twitching all the more.
At the same time, however, Remy hadn't stood idly as his partner assumed the counter assault. Smoke begins to germate under his feet, clinging to his censur. Some of it, reaching for Zafiah's blades..
Assuming she failed to take judgement of the situation, the pommel twins would be easy to land, to send her crashing against the trunk of a tree. The smoke enveloped on her weapons' blade and pommels, robbed off in a small quantity to rub off on the raptor struck. More precisely, on the wound inflicted, being a blunt trauma.
Said ash, now wrapped tightly on it, would sear in a foul odor, erroding the strength from its victim. Whithering Resolve, a spell by the ash warden, to make an extra damage input as well as enfeebling whoever is struck with weapons blessed by it.
The Raptor comedically wrapped her limbs around the unfortunate tree, peeling off onto the ground. Her lesser counterpart burst out from her hiding spot and let out a yell...that very, very quickly subsided at the sight of her entire unit compromised. She turned tail and ran, not without grabbing the foot of the bigger Raptor and dragging her away in a rush.
The entirety of the attackers had stopped putting up a fight.
Zafiah immediately returns to the front of the caravan, once more taking a defensive stance. Retreating as they were, she was none the kind to abate her guard until satisfiaction.
Remy follows suit, swinging his censur in a different manner. A protective ward to surround the expedition team with a choking ash rising from beneath the ground, resonating with his tool of faith, glowing in a blinking pattern as it encircles the ground like a patch of salt. Anyone or anything seeking to enter the perimeters would be faced with blinding and delibitating ash, searing their eyes as well as their senses of smell.
"This conflict has been resolved in a rather benign manner" the Hellblade speaks in a focused tone, her azure eyes piercing the horizon.
"They must be aware of that fearsome reputation you carry still" replies the ashen warden, gradually halting his swing, the dialect shaped to fruition.
Ashton pokes his head out of the driver's shack, wielding what appears to be a tiny Gunlance (about as big as a normal sword). He looks around at the carnage, then slowly pans his eyes to Zafiah and Remy. "Th-thank you kindly, ma'am. We would've been lookin' sorry for days without you two."
Ashton shakes his head. "Nah, not a scratch. They was just about to put one through me, I reckon. Saved by th' ashy stuff. I guess that were your doin'?" Slowly, the men of the mining caravan relax enough to lower their weapons.
"Yes..." he speaks, the ground surrounding them all permeated with the faint scent of mountain breezes "...the beasts that dwell within and without are not all too welcoming of this smell. The smell of burnt ash and choking air. Though to you and your men, it will glide as a fresh breeze, so don't worry. I'm actually curious about what entailed here. I doubt they were the original responsible for thie wreck".
Ashton nods. "Sounds all right t' me. I doubt they'd wanna come back after that thrashin', so I reckon it wouldn' be too much to ask t' stay a while. I'll go look after my boys, point out where the doctor should go." The (relatively) old man went off, leaving the duo to do as they please.
A singular heavy breath phases out of Zafiah's crimson lips, Her rigid body loosens up, finally given to relaxation. Her tail stretches as far as it can. Once illuminated, now it smolders, cold to the touch, prone to attention.
It coils around her, to simply allow the Glav to inspect the tip. It has been a while since their travel. The metal that usually shine in its deep cobalt is dull, awashed by opacity, causing the fighter to look down at it with a slight disappointment.
Looking around, she spots a pair of rocks perfectly bathing in the relative sun. With a strong jab, she punctures the biggest one in a surgical manner as to avoid breaking the thing entirely.
As quick as she jabbed, her hand returns to her with the much sought bounty a cluster of pebbles. They seem to inhabit some basic ores, good eough for the Glav that starts chowing down on them. The sound of her teeth crunching down the minerals can be compared to one eating a cripsy dish.
As she nourishes herself on the stone diet, her tail, specifically the cobalt segments, start glowing once more akin to a furnace fed in an overdue manner with coal and heat. Steam rushes out of her horns as a chimney working overtime.
Remi, who by then was sitting over some more stone, noticed her bountiful feast. In a flash, his censur is present, by his side. A cycle the two had anointed themselves in, he awaits her finition.