Forgotten Courtesies

Log Info

• Title: Forgotten Courtesies
• Emitter: Vaera
• Characters: Vaera, Stielstregar, Un'eth
• Place: W02: The Wilderness, W02: Mictlan
• Time: Saturday, August 28, 8:00 PM
• Summary: Vaera had been watching the inn where Skielstregar had been staying, from a nearby camp. This morning, she awoke to find them gearing up to going into town. And in excellent judgement, she decides to attempt to stop them from going by cutting them off on the road and speaking to them at arrowpoint. The commotion draws a curious swiftclaw over, who even more curiously steps in to defuse the confict by speaking to the both of them, suggesting they talk over their problems, leave and not fight, or if they must, kill each other away from the main road. Both sith-makar agree that they have no wish to truly cause harm to each other, and the swiftclaw changes back to introduce themselves as the Shaman Un'eth, who invites the two to Mictlan to speak. Skielstregar is surprised to hear about such a large Sith-Makar settlement so close nearby, and bothered Vaera did not tell him about it. The group departs on a trek to Mictlan, finding themselves there later in the day, but still with many fires cooking for returning hunters, to which Un'eth offers to share. With meals around the fire, they speak of finding themselves there, and Skielstregar's reasons for seeking out a shaman. He became a forgotten, or so he claims, but is no longer one, but still feels the hunger for flesh of his kind, despite how he dismisses it. Vaera listens, seeming quite interested in what is shared and saddened by a lack of a true cure, and Un'eth reassures the half-forgotten, stating that he is still kin that is cared for, and welcome. Though he still worries about the hunger, Un'eth tells him of one she knows who has gone through similar issues. This seems to put him even more at ease before the blackscale departs, with a curious youngling caught and in tow. Vaera apologizes for how she acted, and her and Skielstregar agree to hopefully look more past the differences, and more at what brings the makari together as a people.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--<* W01: Wilderness Pointe *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Wilderness Point is the last-ditch point of civilisation before the great northern woods. It stands as a last bastion of trade, and a hub of activity between hunters, traders, and townsfolk.

A fairly wide path, flanked on either side by shallow ditches and tall trees, makes its way into the village from the southern roads, whose borders are outlined by a low stone wall. Sections of the wall have fallen apart here and there. At this point, it's more of a decoration than anything else.

The largest building in the village is an inn, a sign hanging over its door reading 'Wayfarer's Inn'. Its stone chimney has a thin wisp of smoke drifting off into the sky overhead.

At the center of the town is the Hunter's Market, beyond which the town ends along the river's banks, with the ferry providing passage to the other side.

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Wilderness Pointe, Morning.

It's a warm morning at the Pointe, the small bastion of civilization just starting to wake up for the day. Covered in a large, large brown poncho with the hood drawn up is a figure with a quiver of spears on their back and a polearm strapped across it. They were quietly conversing with one of the traders that just set up shop, purchasing something in a small bag and turning away. He meanders towards the exit southwards, kneeling down to rifle through his pack. A long, cloud of visible breath comes from under the hood despite the heat. A large sigh.

The morning sun was barely starting to rise, but it was slower to do so than a certain dark red sith-makar who had been making camp a few hundred feet away from the inn. They were awake before Skielstregar had left the building, clearing out their camp and watching for when they would leave. When they were leaving southward, they too followed, keeping a distance, and trying to see what they were packing from the side of the road in the forest.

It looks as if he was rearranging his pack, making room and trying to make room for the small pouch he bought. There was nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps surprisingly to his watcher: some packed rations, a few spare clothes, tools to maintain weapons and armor. A too long talon dips into said pouch, him rubbing something under his nose before putting his new ware into the bag. With another sigh, he stands up and shoulders his bag, stepping aside to let a pair of hunters pass on by.

He looks up, gauges which way is what, and starts to head down the path. Unawares.

The Wilderness Pointe is a long-standing point of semi-'civilization' in the wilderness. It is a generally accepted part of the area, but that does not mean it is not still something of a curiosity. Possibly an occassional danger, depending on those present or travelling through. From one edge of the clearing, yet another scaled snout scents the air and surveys the surroundings. It seems that most things are quiet or sleeping as the sun nears peeking over the horizon, except for two other scaled ones. That is somewhat different, or interesting to one.

When the bronzescale continued on their way, so to did Vaera, who moved quickly through the treeline, keeping relatively out of sight to people that were not actively looking for someone. She passed Skielstregar, moving even farther ahead, where she stops near a tree, drawing her bow.

From said treeline, a familiar voice calls out loudly. "Skielstregar. Stop, now." it says firmly. <Draconic>

For the curious scaled one, there is a number of scents in the air. Food, morning dew. Death. Peop-. Death? No, more akin to decay. Yet it had other ones mingling with it. Confusion and fatigue, yet some hope. And it came from the one in the large poncho, an armored tail poking out from underneath as they walked.

The voice calling out made him stop, the tall sith blinking underneath his hood and looking around. A sniff. Nothing. "... Vaera?" he called out, raising both empty hands. <Draconic>

It could be simple curiosity that has the Swiftclaw moving to follow. The one in the foliage more than the one on the path, if just to keep itself also somewhat concealed in the underbrush. Stalking the stalker, as it were? The scents from the other are no less intriguing. Hunters, perhaps? The Swiftclaw is a hunter, and a pack one at that.

When a weapon is drawn, it could be confirmation of hunting... yet this one halts its stalking when the weapon is directed at the other scaled. Is it prey?

The scents from the one on the road were interesting, and also easy to follow. But the red sith-makar hidden mostly behind the trees was equally curious. For the opposite reason, a near complete lack of any scent. She stepped out further from the tree, so the one on the road could see her, and the bow drawn.

"You said you were in control Skielstregar." She says, loud enough to be heard, the bow nocked, but not drawn yet. "You were not. Why did you say so?" <Draconic>

Skielstregar, the large, cloaked sith-makar, lets out a long sigh and keeps his hands raised. "I did. And I was. And I still am," he reiterates just as firmly. Though he does stare at dirt below. <Draconic>

The Swiftclaw's head tilts at the exchange. One threatening yet not striking. One targetted yet neither fleeing nor fighting. Challenge and posturing, to protect territory? A mating ritual to determine suitability and virility?

Whatever the details of the situation are for the two more humanoid scaled, the dark Swift now creeps closer, even braving the lack of cover and camouflage. She still creeps in attempt to remain inconspicuous; moreso after breaking the treeline.

Vaera was still aware of her surroundings, and an unaccompanied swiftclaw leaving the treeline was certainly something that caught attention. She glances over, but keeps an eye on Skiel. One hand reaches into her coat, pulling out a handful of jerky, waving it in the swiftclaw's direction, before it is set on the ground and she takes a step away. Hopefully drawing closer, and not to the bronze scaled one.

"So you said, yet this one saw, and you offered no explanation." she continues, moving more onto the road now. She spoke loudly out of necessity from the distance. "This one saw what you became. How you looked at the man on the ground, the others, myself. You do not come back from that. No one does." <Draconic>

The appearance of the swiftclaw gives some surprise to the accosted man, him taking a step back and away from them.

Tinged in the death, was a hint of frustration. "This one. Was in. Control," he says again, dropping his hands to let them dangle to the sides. "Was this one going to tell you that they already walk with death, to one who already sees me as a wounded stray to be put down? No. This one understands the fear, this one's mind is strained during those moments, but they know what they are doing. They have been like this for some years." <Draconic>

Swiftclaw does not halt, this time, even once realizing she is spotted. The retrieved and dropped jerky is noted, receiving a brief glance and scent in its direction, but nothing further. Slow, steady strides take it nearer, though not too near the Sith-makar. In fact, it halts rather equidistant between the two, though not directly between them. Head and eyes pan to focus on one, thaen the other, then centered to have both in peripheral vision. The tail goes still. A typical call comes from the Swift, though the tones rapidly alter to become atypical.

"If you are here to share words, there are fires meant to share them around. If you are here to shed blood, reconsider, then go elsewhere if you must." <draconic>

"This one is trying not to see you as such. And out of no where, you tear into your own arm, and come back with overflowing magical energy and appendages like such. And what if the strain is too much?" She states finally, watching the swiftclaw who ignored the meat. Strange. And then they spoke, and her attention snaps to them. "Shaman?" They ask. "This one does not wish to shed blood." She continues, stowing the arrow she had out away. <Draconic>

He pinches the space between his eyes, another sigh billowing from him, another gout of cold breath rolling free. "Then put this one down. But this one knows what they are doing. This one apologizes you had learn in such a brutal manner, but this one does not like Magruim's presence, and needed to act quick." A gruff sort of chuff comes from Skielstregar, surprise almost overriding the scent of death. Coupled with Vaera's observation, and the words, the tarnished bronze scale, with too long fangs, too long talons and dead looking eyes, taps the tips of his fingers together. "... this one has no intention of bloodshed. But will defend themself should there be any." <Draconic>

Swiftclaw ripples and alters, gaining or retaining humanoid form, yet growing a muscular tail as her body smooths over in fine ebon scales.

Following her shift into humanoid, yet still scaled form, she thumps her tail once. "I am Un'eth, Shaman of the Tyrranik, Warder of Mictlan and Ea. As you both choose to share words, I invite you to do so in Mictlan. There is food, rocks yet warm from the sun. It is an appropriate place for words."

"This one does not want others harmed by you. But this one does not desire to put you down, as you say, either." She says. Vaera looks to the Shaman, listens, and they sigh. She walks over to pick up the dropped jerky, stowing it in another pouch of her jacket. And she walks closer, appraising the shapeshifted shaman.

"Peace on your nest, Shaman Un'eth. This one is Vaera, no caste." She greets. "Are you certain that he will be alright, going to Mictlan with you? This one worries the guards will attack him on sight." <Draconic>

At Vaera's words, Skielstregar pulls down his hood. Between the tarnished metal scales, his eyes lacking the luster of life, protruding fangs, and the constant scent of death around him, it was no hard assumption that they were naught but a few steps away from an abomination of a Forgotten. Yet.

"Peace on your nest, Un'eth," he bows his head, voice felt more than heard as he turns his hands palm up. "This one is Skielstregar. Warrior. Peace on your nest."

His head pendulums between the two. "Mictlan? What is this Mictlan?" he inquires, confused. <Draconic>

"Peace on your nests. All are welcome in Mictlan," Un'eth assures Vaera, "so long as one respects Mictlan and those present." Her next words are for Skielstregar as her snout swivels towards. "Mictlan is a sacred site and second home to many of The People away from Am'shere. There, long ago, the Great Green fell to protect Ea. It is a place of gathering, rearing of younglings, aiding of those who require it, and honoring of the fallen by those of the Death-singing Dragon. " <draconic>

"There is none." Vaera responds to the greeting, and the red makari chuffs. "You are kind to offer welcome, if you are certain it is safe. This one will defer to your judgement on the matter, but take responsibility if necessary. This one has not been, but will accompany, if you are inviting them to the village."

She looks to the bronze sith-makar, and chuffs again, shaking her head. "This one did not tell you, as this one was worried, and worried you may be attacked if you approached."

Skielstregar's gaze grows a bit distant as Un'eth gives an overview and small history of the nearby Makari settlement. Even so much that the constant decay abated a fraction. But only for it to come back, mixed with frustration and suspicion. To Vaera. "Forgive this one, but this one does not believe you are worried for their safety. This one needed to speak with shamans for obvious reasons, yet you did not tell this one?" His tail clanks against the ground in annoyance.

Another sigh. "If you would have this one, shaman, this one would gladly accept entering and promises to conduct oneself despite their... issues." <Draconic>

"Peace, both. All will be safe." Un'eth states the words firmly, directive and assurance. "Follow." She turns and begins to step north back into the treeline with unhurried strides, tail swaying. "If wish to speak to shamans, I or others will listen." <draconic>

"This one understands. My behavior has done little to inspire confidence." Vaera states, and chuffs again. It was strange how their was little emotion betrayed in their movements, and almost none at all from scents. "This one is concerned, yes. This is why I was seeking out others to speak to before, to determine how best it should be handled."

She looks to Un'eth, nods, and follows along. "Please, show us the way. This one thinks the path is known, but has not used it." <Draconic>

Skielstregar merely crosses his arms and gives a deep nod, turning northward to follow along. Clearly not in good spirits with the red makari at the present.

(Transition to Mictlan.)

---

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* 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.

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

(All ssssspoken language is in Draconic.)

The trek is not brief, but it is not trecherous. Paths are well-travelled, and any undergrowth that may have impinged upon them makes way for Un'eth and her guests. The first indications of near-arrival are, of course, scents; smoke from fires, meat roasting over the same, followed by the personal scents of residents and visitors. Most are Sith-makar, though there are others. Of those, most are some of the same individuals that visit the Pointe, or are very similar in appearance and posture. Next is the sight of the bones, initially resembling limbless trees, but revealed upon nearing by their shape and sheen in the firelight. Due to the hour, few younglings are visible, much less active, but a few may be seen dozing in the care of sires or -tenders. "Welcome to Mictlan," Un'eth turns to offer to her invitees, gesturing with claws to the grounds. "Be at peace, take your fill of the hunt, and we can share words."

Vaera folllowed along, keeping a few steps away from the bronze Makari, after slinging her bow onto her back. The scents are taken in, understood, even if they had none themselves. And the dark red Makari slows her walk, tying off a sash around the waist of her coat so it would not come undone. There were a few younglings around, and some curious even. The watcher looked up, and Vaera thumps their tail once against the ground as she pulls a few strips of the dried venison out of her jacket, offering it to the curious one before they ran off to enjoy it on one of the warm rocks. Not the meat that had been set down, which she would see if any true swiftclaws would have later.

"Apologies again, Un'eth. This one thought you may have been an escaped swiftclaw, and was seeing if bringing one back to the camps was necessary." She says. And then she looks to Skielstregar, watching their reaction to everything.

Skielstregar walks slowly, making sure he followed close to the shaman but in front of Vaera so they could see him at any given moment. He couldn't help but stop upon their entrance, dead eyes slightly wide as they swoop over a home away from home. Some faint memories resurface, knocking him out of his stupor and drawing his hook close against his head. No need to alarm any hatchlings.

The tarnished bronze scale gives a light bow of his head. "This one thanks you for your welcome," he says kindly, eyeing the hunt. It would be rude to not partake, and, he was peckish. He grabs a morsel, two, then rejoins the group with one serving held out towards Vaera.

The arrivals are, of course, noted by those around, but there are no signs of hostility towards the guests. Un'eth moves to a stone in the vicinity of a cookfire, using claws to trim off a piece of meat roasting en route. The meat is consumed as she settles on the stone before returning her focus to her guests. "Apologies are unnecessary. The lands are vast and I must travel swiftly to tend them all. It can serve well to do so unassumingly, as well. Now... how may I aid you?" Her snout shifts between them both.

With seemingly no concerns about open hostility, Vaera relaxes her posture somewhat as she walks along. Upon reaching the fire, she turns upon hearing the clanking bronze scaled one approach, only to cant her head at the offer. She takes it, turns to walk over to the fire, and carve off a particularly good cut of the roast, which she returns to offer to Skielstregar, before she returns to sit on the stone as well.

"That is good, then. This one has enough aid, being welcome here. It is Skielstregar, who likely has more to share, and a greater need to do so."

Skielstregar trades game with Vaera, a tinge of appreciation mingling with his usual. Back to matters at hand. He chews on his gifted food, using it to mull over the questions.

"This... one seeks guidance for their... condition," he finally says aloud, anxiety creeping in. "It is no secret as what has happened to this one, and this one seeks some way to... reverse it. Or, at the very least, have a better understanding."

Un'eth leans forward to better eye, and scent, the bronze in scrutiny. "You bear an unhealthy scent, yet you are not cursed wholly by death, nor an abomination that defies death. You are not maddened, reaved from The Blood. It may be no secret, but I have yet to hear your tale."

It was only now, after resting on the warm stone, and finishing her food that Vaera undid her coat again. It was pulled off and set aside. They did not look to be a completely healthy weight despite their size, and there were several scars where their arms were exposed, and scales that looked like they had not grown perfectly. They sat up, and began undoing numerous straps where the carved wooden leg attached.

"This one would also like to hear. If you would share." Vaera adds, looking back in his direction.

Skielstregar takes a seat on the stone as well, him folding his hands together and resting his chin on them. The sith-makar, Un'eth could tell from his his patchy and overgrown scales, vacant eyes and elongated features, and constant stench of death, had every right to be a Forgotten. Yet here he was, hale of mind, and eating normally.

He spent a long moment staying silent, glancing only towards Vaera's motions before finally giving a long, long sigh. "This one was mad. Once. This one cannot remember much of the details, but knew they were lifted from our home by them. And forced, like many others, to partake of the flesh and blood."

He shudders at the thought, a heavy tinge of regret able to be picked up. "This one was mad like many others. But this one did not die. This one awoke from a fight, barely able to remember much of anything, and pieced together some of their memories over many seasons."

He picks at an empty patch of scales. A rumble, quiet. "... this one still feels the craving, and can smell it. But does not partake. Aside from themselves when circumstances are needed." He lifts his head, pointedly looking at Vaera before going back to hanging his head.

Un'eth eyes Skielstregar as he shares words, and for several moments after. A sudden exhale is made in a snort. "What was and what is are not the same. You are not maddened. I am not maddened." Her snout flicks at Vaera. "She is not madded. You do not consume flesh for The Blood. I do not. She does not. Tell me why you believe you are different. Your form? Form and spirit are not the same, as I well know."

Vaera was listening to the story closely, with her wooden leg removed, and set into her lap. From a bag at her waist a set of tools were taken, and Vaera looks over the limb while she does so. They were unreadable as ever, save for a few movements of her tail.

And at Un'eth's comments, she chuffs, and bows her head. "No, he is not maddened. This is what this one does not understand. It is not supposed to be possible." She states, growing quiet. "But if there is still the hunger he speaks of. If that could be eliminated, it would be good, yes?"

Skielstregar gives a low groan, a hand covering his eyes before dragging down his face. "No. Not this one's form. This one thinks Vaera has the right of it. This one should not be, yet this one is. This one still... feels it. The hunger for it. The thought of acting on it fills this one with dread. But this one worries of it being too much one day."

"There is no return," Un'eth declares flatly while locking eyes with the bronze, pausing before continuing, "for those truly Forgotten. One bite, one meal does not do this. You are not this, nor are you the first on this path. One as a clutchmate to me suffers the same. It is like a poison. Time can diminish it, but you may be forever weakened to it. There may be ways to ease your hunger, but it falls to you to deny it." Her eyes then pan to Vaera, "And to us to bolster you. We do not stand apart and alone. We are The People."

Vaera listens, sanding down a band of scales around the top of the limb with a rasp. But at Un'eth's words. she pauses, and chuffs. There was scent from the red makari, sorrow. It passed quickly, and Vaera looks to the other two.

"Yes, you are probably correct. This one, should not give up hope, there are always new things to be learned. Perhaps whatever happened lessened the effect, and if that is the case, it can lessen further from there." She suggests as she turns the limb over. "This one, will try to be less wary."

The scent was caught, Skielstregar raising a scaly brow before turning back to Un'eth's prognosis. He sighs. No return. He figured as much. But it still could not explain how he had been full mad before.

"Perhaps you speak the truth. This is unsure if they would be ever free from the call. But they have lived with it thus far for some time. This one wonders if there are others like him; not fully mad, still themselves."

"There are," Un'eth assures the bronze as she rises. "My kin is one. He comes to Mictlan often, but does not remain long as he shares the same burden of urges and fear." Snout pans to Vaera as her tail flicks. "Your wariness is not shameful; the Forgotten are horrid, twisted creatures that would consume the younglings here. We would all gladly kill or die to protect them and each other... but that is only needed when it is needed. I must tend the fires, other guests, and those who may be awake long past when they should be..." as she states the last, her eyes flick to another pair, near the ground, peeping from shadows. They then flick back to the invited pair. "Remain and rest, as you will. You are safe here." With that, she snaps into a turn to leap at the spot in the shadows, vanishing into them with only a surprised squeak from her 'victim.'

Vaera looks over to where Un'eth looks, and her tail thumps one time against the stone. "Listen to Un'eth, her words are wise. The sooner you are off to bed, the sooner you can rise rested, to make the most of tomorrow." She offers, turning back to the black makari. "Thank you for the offer of welcome, and clearing concerns bringing Skielstregar here. Peace on your nest." She offers in parting.

"This one hopes it will lessen with time, then." She says to Skiel. "And apologies, this one has been too preoccupied with your state to think much of the kin. This one has failed to make you feel welcome."

There were. Skielstregar finally sighs some relief, him looking down into his palms. "That brings this one some calm, thank you for your words, Un'eth. Peace on your nest," he waves farewell before turning to Veara.

The man bows his head, nodding. "And this one had been away from kin for so long they fret about welcoming them." He holds out a hand towards her, the too long talons clanking together. "Perhaps we could start over, with less bows being pointed towards this one?" A tinge of amusement laced in with the rancor of death.

"Less hostility, would be good, yes. Outside of the appearance being unsettling, you are kind." Vaera nods to the makari next to her. She looks to the hand for a moment, hesitating, before she takes it, holding a moment. "This is a much better welcome than this one provided, for certain."

Skiel's hand was cold to the touch, and where the talons were too long, he tried to avoid scraping them along red scales. His free hand scratches at an empty patch on his neck, dead eyes looking away. "... this one thanks you for you kind words. Perhaps we can find more common ground rather than differences."

He pulls the hand away and stands. "This one will explore Mictlan some. It had been too long since they were away from The People."

With that, he gives a small bow of his head, pulls his hood back up, and ambles off. Quietly taking stock of the place, and avoiding most of the residents.

Where Skielstregar tried to avoid scraping the scales, Vaera gently squeezes the hand. The people were present. But before he could pull away and make to leave, her other hand reached into her coat, pulling out a roll of bandage and some form of antiseptic. They wash their arm where they tore into it the other the day, and wrap it up where it was healing.

"This one would join you, but that would not be possible at the moment, without slowing significantly." She replies, gesturing to the leg she was holding. "And this one has likely tailed you for long enough today. If you are welcome here, this one will not argue that, and I do not wish to."

With that they waved them off, before the continued work on their leg by the fire. They felt genuinely at ease in the camp, and it was a pleasant evening.