Snaggletooth

Log Info

• Title: Snaggletooth
• Emitter: Vaera
• Characters: Skielstregar, Vaera
• Place: W02: Mictlan
• Time: Saturday, September 11, 2021, 8:31 PM
• Summary:

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* W02: Mictlan *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Located within the Deep Woods, and hours past Wilderness Pointe, in the heart of 
its northern woods, bones frame this hollowed-out space. Massive and heavy, they 
reach towards the sky, meeting--almost--in the center like great and worn 
stalagmites. Or giant teeth. After a few seconds--it's quickly evident that this 
is a space carved from a dragon's bones. A very, very large...dragon's bones. The 
air smells of ash, brimstone, and earth. Underneath the apex of the bones lie the 
workings of a central Fire. 

The grounds are run by shamans of the sith-makar, and the sacred space dedicated 
to the Death Singing Dragon, one of their names for the goddess, Vardama. There 
are always a number of them about, from a mixture of tribes. Formally, the sith 
use it to sing the souls of their dead back to the land of Wing and Flame, and 
celebrate the Memory of Blood. It was here that brave heroes stood, and 
vanquished the ashen warriors of old, thereby freeing the land from Thul's 
curse. Informally, it is a gathering place.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Mictlan, night. (All language sspoken isss Draconic)

A cloudless evening. None of the city lights allowed for a smattering of starry lights to paint itself across the sky, half moon casting the faintest of lights over Mictlan. The hunters are resting, enjoying their meals the caretakers made. At a small campfire away from the main cluster was a large, lone tarnished bronze scale. They themselves had a small selection of game; some he caught himself, others he traded (nervously) with the others. Even just being in Mictlan was stressful enough, but it set some ease in his heart to see so many other sith around.

He was lacking his armor and weapons, them being set aside as he gnaws on a piece of game.

Vaera was absent from the camp that day, even as the day was already finished, with only the light of the moon and many fires in the sky. Most were eating now, and so she felt somewhat dissapointed at how long it had taken. From behind, and slightly to the side of the bronzescale came noises of movement, of someone not concerned with being quiet, or wishing to announce their presence. The red Makari did not have their jacket on, instead wearing a leather skirt and armor more traditional to the settlement. She bows her head slightly once close enough, a bag slung over one shoulder.

"Peace on your nest, Skielstregar. I would apologize for my lateness." They greet.

The man's head swivels over at the sound, blocking out the campfire light to silhouette a fanged mouth partially open. Skielstregar blinks, a bit of what constitutes as a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, Vaera. Peace on your nest. Apology accepted, this one was late as well. This one acquired game, and spent some time trade around to have variety."

He gestures out to the fire, a spot cleared already for Vaera to sit. Around the flames were spits of smaller game; things he could not catch himself, with a smattering of elk here and there. "Are you well?"

The only sign of response from the redscale was the briefest flick of her tail, and she steps to sit down in the cleared area, taking her time to adjust the mechanical leg properly

"That is a good idea. A more varied diet is important for good health." She responds, taking a look at what was already there. The sack is set down, and from it she pulls a large pot, undoes the bindings, and sets it on a stone near the fire. Following this are several more skewers of meat which are set on a flat stone. "I am relatively well this day, but what about yourself? I would be more concerned with how you are doing, here."

Skiel helps set up where he can. "Exactly." He offers an appetizer, a skewer of hare.

The deathly scent tinges with embarrassment and worry. "This one is well. For the most part. Kin are a welcome sight, but I have warned them to keep their distance. This one is glad they respect it."

Vaera takes the offered skewer, sniffs at it a moment, before clearing most of it with a bite. She chews and offers a nod to the other makari. "It is good, thank you." Vaera responds. "Yet I am here with you. Would you wish for me to do so as well?" They ask, tilting their head.

"You're welcome." Skielstregar shakes his head. "No, your scent is not nearly as strong as others. It is tolerable."

He looks to the pot, him gesturing a long taloned hand towards it. "What have we here?"

"It is stew. Or will be." Vaera states after tearing more off of the skewer. She plucks another skewer of meat off the fire, and offers it to the outstretched hand after making sure it was cool enough. "Then there is some good to how I act. This is good." She says, more to herself than the other. "So, you are more welcome here than you expected, if you are having to tell so many to keep their distance, then."

"Ah." Dead eyes blink, him nodding in appreciation as he takes the skewer. "This one thanks you."

The man chuffs, though more of an acknowledgement. "Yes, this one is glad they are so welcoming. Though this one expected far worse treatment. So they are pleasantly surprised."

He holds the skewer in hand carefully, by the pads of his fingers and begins to nibble.

"You are welcome. Vegetables are still important, and adding them to meat, both taste better." Vaera notes, leaning to the fire to turn the skewers set on the rock over with a hand, not minding the heat. "Many here are welcoming. I understand, but I am sorry this is what you have expected. You are still kin, and as such, we look out for each other as best as we can. I understand the potential dangers, but not helping kin in need, would be far worse."

Skielstregar nods along, not refuting the idea of food tasting better. "This one understands as much. But some with the woes of the past may make snappy judgements upon the sight and scent of me."

He takes a bite. Pauses. "... errr... no offence."

Shaking his head, he looks up to the sky. "Regardless, this one thanks you for coming. They have started to get settled in and, after our couple of excursions, might start heading into the softskin city proper."

Vaera looks over at the pause, inscrutable as ever. She had taken out some fish as well, which joined the other cooking foods. "There is none taken. Thank you for being alright with my presence after how I acted. I can accompany you into the city, if you need or wish. Show you around some of the places."

She pauses herself, turning over the meat again. "There are Mul'niessa in the city, just so you are aware. Not many, but there are."

Skielstregar nods, nibbling on the next morsel. "And this one appreciates giving them a chance. If it is no trouble, they would enjoy that. This feels as if they can keep their head on straight there. It should be easier than here."

Though, at the warning, the tarnished bronze scale's empty eyes narrow. "... What is their purpose there?" he asks in a low rumble. Of course the literal half-forgotten would be wary of such a fact.

"You are still worried." Vaera responds, looking more fully at the bronzescale after turning the skewers a final time, now pleasantly browned on all visible sides. "This is good, but do not let it consume you. You need to be able to be happy, still."

The pot is opened, revealing a pleasant smelling broth filled with a variety of root vegetables, with the skewered meat joining the pot quickly. "Many are such as yourself, those looking for life an purpose. Many were slaves themselves, or those who do not agree with how Charn is run. That is not to say to lower your guard around them, as while their actions are frowned upon, Alexandria is not openly hostile. Some Mul'niessa are decent, others come from the place to do business. And killing them would cause strife for both Mictlan, and the city." She states, flicking her tail once against the ground, more of a slight agitation this time.

"As this one should be, considering their circumstances. They are at least faring better than some moments in the past."

The pot is opening, and Skielstregar inhales deeply. A satisfied rumble comes from his chest, though his tail slides from one side to the other, flattening the grass behind him. "Forgive this one for the observation, but it sounds as if you wish you could harm them. This one does not blame you. Though, mul'neissa slaves? That's ironic."

"Keep that going. Keep faring better." Vaera replies, unreadable save for another flick of her tail. At the comment though, she sighs.

"I am no speaker-caste, so I can not speak of the difficulties of relations, especially for a city the size of Alexandria. I will not lie. I would wish to see the entire nation razed to the ground for everything it has done and stands for. But there are good people there, usually those subjugated by those in power, or with the sense to keep their opinions to themselves while they oppose more discreetly. It is less a surprise than you would think. Most only have slightly more respect for others of their own race compared to outsiders, and would not hesitate to treat them the same way if it would be advantageous."

There's a low, rough growl in Skielstregar's throat. "This one... would be inclined to agree with you. Charn should be torn down from head to soil. This one will heed your warning, Vaera. Thank you."

Taking a breath to calm himself, he closes his eyes and raises the last of the skewer to his mouth.

A branch breaks off in the woods. Skiel's head turns that direction. And before his hand could pull away, sharp fangs dig into his skin and pierce.

There's a brief moment of stillness. A dumbfound look on his face and mingled in his scent. Blood slowly pools and drips off his hand, and dribbles over his chin.

The bronzescale trembles heavily. "... Vaera. D-Do. Not. Panic," he whispers, leaving his hand stuck there. "Do not. Let me. Smell fear."

Mana charged inchor slowly drips from his maw. Eyes glinting a hint red.

Vaera was about to respond when the noise made her tilt her head, but she did not look elsewhere when he did. Only catching the bite slightly.

"Let me bandage-" She begins to say, before she sees the look and trembling. She was panicked, but there was no scent. Only the tenseness and a movement of her tail. One of the sturdier metal skewers was still held loosely in a hand.

"Take the hand out of your mouth now." She asks in a neutral tone. "Stop this now, Skielstregar. As you did before."

For such a large sith-makar to shake and tremble, it was he who is afraid. He is still, unmoving, letting the blood and wafting mana ichor drool out and into the dirt in front of him. He dare not gulp. With a wet slurch and a wince of pain, his hand is pulled free of the now reddened fangs.

His uninjured hand plugs his nose with the palm and doubles over, supporting himself on the dirt with the pierced hand. "This.... this one did not mean to... to..." he shivers out. Like a creeping worm, every beat of the heart his talons and fangs slowly grew in length. "T-This one... is.. trying to stop... w.. water, give this one water..."

Vaera was on her feet after a moment, watching, unsure what to do that moment. At the request, she pulls a flask off of her belt, and crouches next to the doubled over man. "Calm yourself. This one has water." She states, remaining as neutral as she could manage, though she trembled slightly herself. Watching fangs and claws grow with every moment "What do you need to stop this?"

Skielstregar reaches over, the bleeding hand shaking as he takes the flask. He nods quickly in small movements, him taking a deep breath to steady himself. "This... this one needs to... not... s-swallow..." he mumbles out. The flask is placed near the back of his maw and tips it over. Flushing out the seeping mana ichor and blood that had got caught within. With a moment to steel himself, he closes his lips and imbibes a mouthful, swishing it around and forcefully spitting it out away from their campfire.

The growing pauses. "The... taste... is as rich as the most prime game. Perfectly seasoned... swallowing would be... you've seen it," he quietly explains, shameful.

He puts a hand on his scarred inner forearm.

Vaera waits. Watches, taking a step back. She shakes her head. "It does not." She states. A rag is taken from a pouch, used to wipe off the blood on their chin and face. The hand trembles, but she works quickly, not taking anything out of her sight. "That is what you are led to believe, to turn to that. But you are stronger then what it is trying to convince you to do. Do not be led astray."

The scent of fear almost doubles as Vaera comes closer, dull red eyes widening as talons dig deep into the earth. "W-What are you...-" He stills, letting them wipe his face off. He stops breathing for the time she's there.

Once she pulls away, he dips his head low. "It does to this one. Before it did not taste as such. But after..." He closes his eyes. Jaw tensing. "... thank you for thinking so. It... it is mishaps such as that which causes this one's... desire to keep distance."

Skielstregar opens his eyes, the crimson slowly fading. Though now replaced with dead sadness. "This one has been convinced before, so their tongue betrays them."

"This is what I mean. It does not taste how you perceive it now." Vaera says as she steps back, crouches down, and watches. "But that is little comfort, I know."

She looks to the talons in the earth, likely driving the dirt into the open wounds. The redscale chuffs. "Are you, in control of yourself now? Is it safe for me to tend to your hand, as I would not wish you to risk infection."

"This one is, this one is," he says both to himself and her, lifting the receding taloned and wounded hand over to Vaera. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. "It is moments like these that this one ponders if they should just be a hermit..."

Another breath. "There was a time where this one could not control it. It took many years."

"You are. This one believes that." Vaera says. She Takes the flask, and washes off the hand. Wiping away from the wound with another rag, before she bandages it. "And this one knows, being alone is no way for kin to live. It would eat away at you just as much. I am worried by the prospect, yes, but I am still here."

"Finished with the bandage, she holds the hand gently between her own. "And how will it be in years to come? You have many ahead of yourself. This one will believe it will get better from there, even more, as shaman Un'eth said."

Skiel doesn't fuss as he's looked over and patched up, a silent sigh leaving him. "It would have. This one nearly did. They lived alone for a number of years before living with some soft skins that were similar to kin, but... not entirely. The softskins taught this one how to keep one from losing their mind when drowning in it all."

Skiel lightly squeezes the hand in his, minding his talons. "And you saw as such from the bounty we tracked down. And yes, this one believes as such from shaman."

"If you believe as such, believe it until the thought of living as a hermit is outrageous to even consider." Vaera says, with a scent returning again, of reassurance, that things would be alright. "I am glad you are feeling better. At least physically. If you can keep your mind, then you can fight the feelings, and urges. Perhaps there is more to learn, like what the softskins taught you."

The man lightly smiles, a final shuddering breath leaving him as he lets go of the hand and places it on Vaera's arm. "Thank you," he says, grateful. "There is much more to learn."

Dead eyes glance over to the fire. "Ah... we should... probably continue our meal, lest it scorch." A weak chuckle escapes him, a cloud of visible cold air spilling from his nostrils. "Not sure how charred redscales like their food, no?" he playfully jokes, patting Vaera on the arm.

"There is, always something more to learn. But you have time to learn, as do I." Vaera replies, not smiling, but her tail swishes a few times behind her. "Thankfully, it is difficult to burn stew, but not impossible."

She reaches to gather the skewers, setting them down where she could. One is offered to Skielstregar, of the fish she brought. "This one likes their food hot, yes, but the food is not just for myself. Though I have never tried cooking with lightning, yet, you are quite cold, unlike your coloring." She notes, taking another look at Skielstregar. It was the first time she had seen him without the armor.

It was the first time she had seen him without armor. Skiel did not keep much on him under it, aside from a cloth shirt with a symbol of the Dragonfather dangling from his neck. All along his arms and bits of his shoulders, that could be seen, where tarnished bronze scales that overgrew in some places, and didn't grow at all in others. And it was not his armor that gave him his bulk, Skielstregar was just a large, muscular sith-makar.

The half-dead man coughs into a fist and looks off to the side. A bit of embarrassment in his scent. "... this one is actually a silver scale..."

Vaera picks up on the embarrassment, and she chuffs, reaching to pat Skiel on a shoulder. "Ah, that explains the cold. I am sure there is a story, but there is nothing to be embarrassed about. You still are, and can still be proud, yes?"

"Yes, of course, of course," he waves it off, rubbing his neck. "This one was... very close to dead, for a time. Before they came back to the land of the sane. When silver tarnishes it looks like... well..."

He gestures to himself with one hand, the other reaching over to pick up a ladle to carefully stir the stew.

"It looks like Skielstregar." Vaera notes with another swish of her tail, perhaps out of amusement. She takes the bag she brought with her, taking out a pair of large bowls with accompanying spoons. The stew smelled as good as before, and it seemed she had acquired beef in town, for the meat. "Perhaps you just need to give it some scrubbing? I do not know if silver scales work like silver. But they look fine now, anyways."

Skiel ladles out the stew for them into each of the bowls, him inhaling the scent as he did so. A chuckle left him, a deep rumbling sound. "To you this one does. To this one, they look far from it."

He sits down cross legged, bowl in his lap. "This one would have to sit in a chemical bath, and that does not sound to pleasant save for the insane alchemist that wishes to try it. Regardless, this one has tried scrubbing, and it does not go away."

Looking down at his meal given, as well as some of the game that he acquired, he looks up to Vaera. Gratitude nearly matches the deathly aura. "This one thanks you for joining them. As well as for the meal." He raises the bowl, and dead eyes squint in a hint of a smile. "To friends."

"If I were to look at myself from the past, I would probably say something similar." Vaera notes, looking down to her own bowl, and the wooden leg beneath it as she sat down.

"A chemical bath does sound unpleasant. Not worth it." She agrees. The redscale tilts her head, and nods, thumping her tail once against the ground. "... To friends, then. The meal was as much your contributions as mine, if not more. I did not make the fire or camp, after all. Have you ever had fruit pastries before? This one was given some from a tavern the other day, and they are still quite fresh. The sweetness is a pleasant change, as well."

Skielstregar looks down to her leg as she says that, a chuckle leaving him. Though he shakes his head. "And yet you brought variety, where this one just brought meat," he smirks.

Though, he does tilt his head at the offer. Curious, he taps his chin with his bandaged hand.

"This one has not..."