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Treason and Betrayal
You say to Sergeant Jibreel Fahd, " Pleasant sort of morning, wouldn't you say, Sergeant?"
With a slight nod, Sergeant Jibreel Fahd says, "May Fire light your path and engulf your enemies, friend."
You have emoted: Trager dips his head solemnly before replying, "And yours, brother." He moves up beside a catapult, running one of his broad palms across the finished wood with an almost wistful countenance across his features. "Ever seen these things in action?" he asks Sergeant Jibreel Fahd curiously.
You touch the bell tattoo.
Someone is spying on you.
Equilibrium Used: 4.00 seconds
You have emoted: Trager chuckles under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Do come out, little brother. Spying is so very unbecoming." He speaks to the air around him, giving no special attention to a particular spot.
"The light has ever been worse for such things," Rashar rumbles quietly, stepping out of that rapidly expanding mote to approach you. "What're you doing here, -brother-?" His eyes, the color of ashes, are intent, gleaming in the afternoon light. His hands are free of weaponry, but the way he walks carries all the tightly coiled violence in the world.
You have emoted: "Simply admiring the woodwork, brother," Trager replies cryptically, his head beginning a slow shake back and forth with a musing visage. "How is she?" comes the question that must surely have roiled about his mind this entire time, a very solemn edge coiled around the words.
"She lives," Rashar states flatly. "She speaks." He moves slowly, bare feet padding with nary a noise on the stone of the wall beneath him. Pacing. He's pacing, five steps forward into a smooth turn, five steps back. Never do his eyes leave you, and his expression is profoundly neutral, almost apathetic. "Long have you been a woodcarver," he states eventually. "And never once have I known you to care about such a defense." Unspoken, the word lingers in the air, felt perhaps, or implied. Offense. Threat.
You have emoted: "Thank Gods for small victories, then," Trager murmurs out softly. He turns his back to Rashar, once more running a palm along a catapult. "Call it a passing fancy," he rumbles out absently. "A newfound... Interest." His head cocks slightly to the side curiously, examining each apex, each and every point in where the wood comes together. "I would love to be able to mimic the design, to be certain."
Rashar pauses now, reaching up to drag his hand back through his hair. "That'd be a good second best, wouldn't it Trager?" His own hand comes out, touching a nearby portion of the weaponry. "It would be quite difficult for you to pull this thing out of the city, were you so inclined to take it somewhere." Still, more is being by the words unspoken than by the sound spilling from the Yeleni's lips. His voice is edged, razor-sharp, and to any who know him there's an obvious tension.
You have emoted: "Truth," Trager relents calmly after a time. Despite the neutral tone in his voice, underneath his form carries a very taut sort of readiness, and if his eyes were visible, surely there would be a sort of apprehension, even wariness, there. "But alas, even if I was so inclined to rob from the city so graciously took me in..." A derisive sort of laughter and reaches down a bit, tapping a single finger against contraptions fixing it firmly to the stonework.
Rashar's gaze follows your point, and his lips curl into a sneer. "Save your bullshit," he spits. "As if a bit of iron would keep you from a thing you wanted." His shoulders roll, forward and then back. There's a pregnant pause, a remarkable stillness as the sun settles over the wall, before the man quietly asks, "Why?"
You have emoted: "All in the name of retribution, brother," Trager sighs out absently, finally giving up on whatever ploy he might be attempting. "All in the name of family..." He turns away from the catapult, revealing his features finally. "What happens now, then?" Both arms come out beside him, a disarming, relenting smirk pulled across his lips.
"What happens now," Rashar agrees quietly, turning his head slightly. He steps forward, smooth. Graceful, too fluid for such a large man, and then his palm is blazing up, whistling through the air with every intention of striking you across the face. "Godsdamn you," he growls, his face twisting into a mask of fury that seems pronounced even for this severe occasion.
You have emoted: Trager reacts but a fragment of a second too late, and ultimately, it leads to his demise. The blazing ball of flesh and bone connects against the side of his face as he attempts to roll into the bunch, but it does little good. The man is sent slamming into the catapult, nearly turned around with the force of it all. A moment passes, burnt hair now permeating the air around the pair. "Think before you do what you might be planning, brother," comes his voice, low now, whispered. A very malicious tone is edged within the words as he continues. "Whatever would the precious Beacon think of their Vanguard's, my brother's, passing fancies of late." Still his back is turned to you, his weight laid heavily against the contraption. "I had such an enlightening conversation with our mutual friend Mister Aarbrok."
Rashar's gaze narrows, and he rocks back on his heels. Not in any shocked way, but as if recoiling from the sheer absurdity of a thing. He studies you for a time, looming now over the hunched man. His step forward is menacing, promising violence at the blink of an eye. "You fool," he states, words dripping with derision. "Did Aarbrok tell you that I haven't spoken with him in.. a decade, or longer? I wasn't even living in the Beacon, last time I saw his face for anything other than to remove it from his head." He reaches out, snatching your cloak to pull you up. "Are you fucking threatening me, brother?" Those words. So quiet.. the dropping of a needle would resound over them, drowning them with all the force of a temple's bell.
You have emoted: Trager evacuates a thick glob of blood, spittle and charred flecks of skin from his mouth before he hastily jerked up once more. "Yes, dear brother," he manages to gasp out as he is forcibly dragged upright. "Guess we are about to see if brothers can keep a secret - though I imagine you will lose so very much more then I will. Particulars do not matter to those already seeking your demise, but that one, blatant fact will be all they need." One arm comes up suddenly, lashing back both in attempt to dislodge Rashar's grip and strike the man who holds him.
Rashar takes the blow across the nose with a crack and an immediate spray of blood strikes the nearby catapult. Crimson rivulets run down his lips and drip in rapid tic, tic, tics onto his bare chest, staining the already brightly emblazoned scar that rests there. It is an eerie filling that occurs, that blood seeming to soak into and settle over the hand-print as if coloring onto paper. Though his eyes water and his hand falls, the Yeleni stands firm, implacable before you. "Idiot," he murmurs almost absently, his voice slightly twisted with the obviously broken nose hindering much of it. He blows out a quick puff of air, spraying blood at you. "I've not lied about my actions, you fool, and I keep no secrets. Attempt your blackmail if you will. If your honor as a man has fallen so far, but you'll find it to be nothing but a failure." Sneering, he shakes his head. "As was your attempt at deal-mongering."
The stomping of feed can be heard, iron-shod boots and soft slippers. Within moments, the area immediately surrounding you is filled with guards of various positions. One steps forward, a smartly dressed man with a brightly shining breastplate. Slamming a salute to his chest, he reports, "Vanguard."
You have emoted: Trager slumps back against the bloodied catapult, smearing a mess of the crimson fluid deeper into the wood. There, his injuries are revealed. The near entirety of the left half of his face is charred, left burned with little to no trace of normal skin left to witness. His eye, thankfully, appears to be well in-tact, though swollen shut from the force of the blow. A shit-eating grin plays easily at his lips, as the man that appears to have nothing more to lose rumbles out, "You're lucky I love you, brother." He spits out once again, covering Rashar further with the claret liquid.
Guards file in from the northern and southern branches of the walltop, assembling in a loose circle to observe the Vanguard.
Rashar reaches up to wipe the spit from his face, and his hand trembles visibly. For all that he appears unflinching in this duty, there is a painfully evident part of him that is torn, pained. Agonized even, if the lines that slide into the corners of his eyes, or the faint tilt of his head, almost a weak sag, are any indication. "You threaten my home," he declares quietly, voice accusing. "You threaten -her- home. You threaten everything I am charged to protect." A pause, six heartbeats. Maybe seven. "I DON'T GIVE A GODS DAMN WHY!" roars the abruptly furious Yeleni, clenching both fists. His eyes slam shut, and a deep breath expands his chest only to be released very, very slowly. "Do you leave on your feet?" he rumbles now, voice grown cold. Hard. It is no longer the brother before you, no longer the lifelong friend, the companion. The protege. The Vanguard continues in a voice laced with steel, "Or do I throw you from this wall?"
You have emoted: Trager drags the back of one arm across his lips, smearing but more of the rapidly flowing fluids across his face. "I did not think your ego had anywhere higher to go, brother," he spits out derisively. He straightens himself, a rather dramatic show given to straightening his attire in a useless fashion. "We would both fall from this wall," he finishes simply. "With me shouting of your own betrayals all the way down." With nothing more to say, he pushes past Rashar, shoulder-checking his brother, his one, true friend, before making his way down the ramparts.
Rashar brands you a traitor to Enorian and casts you out.
*******************************************
From Rashar's POV, after:
Sergeant Jibreel Fahd hesitates - and then, with an instinct for trouble, he turns away, pretending to busy himself with counting his coins. The other guards file away, managing all of a sudden to not look like a massed group but individuals on patrol.
You have emoted: "Follow him," Rashar says quietly, his gaze scanning over the wall, as if finding the answers to the west somewhere.
Silence meets your order. <- Wasn't talking to you, random @god. But you're awesome anyway.
Roux ripples into existence before you.
Roux's arms are wrapped about herself, and she shakes her head, looking thin and waifish there on the wall. "<b class="Bold">He's gone already."
You shout, "Keep him, Jensen. I give him to you, in return for one catapult."
Ishin's voice resonates across the land, "We'd rather have the catapult."
You have emoted: Rashar grunts, "Foolish motives. Foolish actions, all in the name of love." His lips twitch, and his eyes are thin as they regard Roux. "I know something of it."
With a slight nod, Sergeant Jibreel Fahd says, "May Fire light your path and engulf your enemies, friend."
You have emoted: Trager dips his head solemnly before replying, "And yours, brother." He moves up beside a catapult, running one of his broad palms across the finished wood with an almost wistful countenance across his features. "Ever seen these things in action?" he asks Sergeant Jibreel Fahd curiously.
You touch the bell tattoo.
Someone is spying on you.
Equilibrium Used: 4.00 seconds
You have emoted: Trager chuckles under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "Do come out, little brother. Spying is so very unbecoming." He speaks to the air around him, giving no special attention to a particular spot.
"The light has ever been worse for such things," Rashar rumbles quietly, stepping out of that rapidly expanding mote to approach you. "What're you doing here, -brother-?" His eyes, the color of ashes, are intent, gleaming in the afternoon light. His hands are free of weaponry, but the way he walks carries all the tightly coiled violence in the world.
You have emoted: "Simply admiring the woodwork, brother," Trager replies cryptically, his head beginning a slow shake back and forth with a musing visage. "How is she?" comes the question that must surely have roiled about his mind this entire time, a very solemn edge coiled around the words.
"She lives," Rashar states flatly. "She speaks." He moves slowly, bare feet padding with nary a noise on the stone of the wall beneath him. Pacing. He's pacing, five steps forward into a smooth turn, five steps back. Never do his eyes leave you, and his expression is profoundly neutral, almost apathetic. "Long have you been a woodcarver," he states eventually. "And never once have I known you to care about such a defense." Unspoken, the word lingers in the air, felt perhaps, or implied. Offense. Threat.
You have emoted: "Thank Gods for small victories, then," Trager murmurs out softly. He turns his back to Rashar, once more running a palm along a catapult. "Call it a passing fancy," he rumbles out absently. "A newfound... Interest." His head cocks slightly to the side curiously, examining each apex, each and every point in where the wood comes together. "I would love to be able to mimic the design, to be certain."
Rashar pauses now, reaching up to drag his hand back through his hair. "That'd be a good second best, wouldn't it Trager?" His own hand comes out, touching a nearby portion of the weaponry. "It would be quite difficult for you to pull this thing out of the city, were you so inclined to take it somewhere." Still, more is being by the words unspoken than by the sound spilling from the Yeleni's lips. His voice is edged, razor-sharp, and to any who know him there's an obvious tension.
You have emoted: "Truth," Trager relents calmly after a time. Despite the neutral tone in his voice, underneath his form carries a very taut sort of readiness, and if his eyes were visible, surely there would be a sort of apprehension, even wariness, there. "But alas, even if I was so inclined to rob from the city so graciously took me in..." A derisive sort of laughter and reaches down a bit, tapping a single finger against contraptions fixing it firmly to the stonework.
Rashar's gaze follows your point, and his lips curl into a sneer. "Save your bullshit," he spits. "As if a bit of iron would keep you from a thing you wanted." His shoulders roll, forward and then back. There's a pregnant pause, a remarkable stillness as the sun settles over the wall, before the man quietly asks, "Why?"
You have emoted: "All in the name of retribution, brother," Trager sighs out absently, finally giving up on whatever ploy he might be attempting. "All in the name of family..." He turns away from the catapult, revealing his features finally. "What happens now, then?" Both arms come out beside him, a disarming, relenting smirk pulled across his lips.
"What happens now," Rashar agrees quietly, turning his head slightly. He steps forward, smooth. Graceful, too fluid for such a large man, and then his palm is blazing up, whistling through the air with every intention of striking you across the face. "Godsdamn you," he growls, his face twisting into a mask of fury that seems pronounced even for this severe occasion.
You have emoted: Trager reacts but a fragment of a second too late, and ultimately, it leads to his demise. The blazing ball of flesh and bone connects against the side of his face as he attempts to roll into the bunch, but it does little good. The man is sent slamming into the catapult, nearly turned around with the force of it all. A moment passes, burnt hair now permeating the air around the pair. "Think before you do what you might be planning, brother," comes his voice, low now, whispered. A very malicious tone is edged within the words as he continues. "Whatever would the precious Beacon think of their Vanguard's, my brother's, passing fancies of late." Still his back is turned to you, his weight laid heavily against the contraption. "I had such an enlightening conversation with our mutual friend Mister Aarbrok."
Rashar's gaze narrows, and he rocks back on his heels. Not in any shocked way, but as if recoiling from the sheer absurdity of a thing. He studies you for a time, looming now over the hunched man. His step forward is menacing, promising violence at the blink of an eye. "You fool," he states, words dripping with derision. "Did Aarbrok tell you that I haven't spoken with him in.. a decade, or longer? I wasn't even living in the Beacon, last time I saw his face for anything other than to remove it from his head." He reaches out, snatching your cloak to pull you up. "Are you fucking threatening me, brother?" Those words. So quiet.. the dropping of a needle would resound over them, drowning them with all the force of a temple's bell.
You have emoted: Trager evacuates a thick glob of blood, spittle and charred flecks of skin from his mouth before he hastily jerked up once more. "Yes, dear brother," he manages to gasp out as he is forcibly dragged upright. "Guess we are about to see if brothers can keep a secret - though I imagine you will lose so very much more then I will. Particulars do not matter to those already seeking your demise, but that one, blatant fact will be all they need." One arm comes up suddenly, lashing back both in attempt to dislodge Rashar's grip and strike the man who holds him.
Rashar takes the blow across the nose with a crack and an immediate spray of blood strikes the nearby catapult. Crimson rivulets run down his lips and drip in rapid tic, tic, tics onto his bare chest, staining the already brightly emblazoned scar that rests there. It is an eerie filling that occurs, that blood seeming to soak into and settle over the hand-print as if coloring onto paper. Though his eyes water and his hand falls, the Yeleni stands firm, implacable before you. "Idiot," he murmurs almost absently, his voice slightly twisted with the obviously broken nose hindering much of it. He blows out a quick puff of air, spraying blood at you. "I've not lied about my actions, you fool, and I keep no secrets. Attempt your blackmail if you will. If your honor as a man has fallen so far, but you'll find it to be nothing but a failure." Sneering, he shakes his head. "As was your attempt at deal-mongering."
The stomping of feed can be heard, iron-shod boots and soft slippers. Within moments, the area immediately surrounding you is filled with guards of various positions. One steps forward, a smartly dressed man with a brightly shining breastplate. Slamming a salute to his chest, he reports, "Vanguard."
You have emoted: Trager slumps back against the bloodied catapult, smearing a mess of the crimson fluid deeper into the wood. There, his injuries are revealed. The near entirety of the left half of his face is charred, left burned with little to no trace of normal skin left to witness. His eye, thankfully, appears to be well in-tact, though swollen shut from the force of the blow. A shit-eating grin plays easily at his lips, as the man that appears to have nothing more to lose rumbles out, "You're lucky I love you, brother." He spits out once again, covering Rashar further with the claret liquid.
Guards file in from the northern and southern branches of the walltop, assembling in a loose circle to observe the Vanguard.
Rashar reaches up to wipe the spit from his face, and his hand trembles visibly. For all that he appears unflinching in this duty, there is a painfully evident part of him that is torn, pained. Agonized even, if the lines that slide into the corners of his eyes, or the faint tilt of his head, almost a weak sag, are any indication. "You threaten my home," he declares quietly, voice accusing. "You threaten -her- home. You threaten everything I am charged to protect." A pause, six heartbeats. Maybe seven. "I DON'T GIVE A GODS DAMN WHY!" roars the abruptly furious Yeleni, clenching both fists. His eyes slam shut, and a deep breath expands his chest only to be released very, very slowly. "Do you leave on your feet?" he rumbles now, voice grown cold. Hard. It is no longer the brother before you, no longer the lifelong friend, the companion. The protege. The Vanguard continues in a voice laced with steel, "Or do I throw you from this wall?"
You have emoted: Trager drags the back of one arm across his lips, smearing but more of the rapidly flowing fluids across his face. "I did not think your ego had anywhere higher to go, brother," he spits out derisively. He straightens himself, a rather dramatic show given to straightening his attire in a useless fashion. "We would both fall from this wall," he finishes simply. "With me shouting of your own betrayals all the way down." With nothing more to say, he pushes past Rashar, shoulder-checking his brother, his one, true friend, before making his way down the ramparts.
Rashar brands you a traitor to Enorian and casts you out.
*******************************************
From Rashar's POV, after:
Sergeant Jibreel Fahd hesitates - and then, with an instinct for trouble, he turns away, pretending to busy himself with counting his coins. The other guards file away, managing all of a sudden to not look like a massed group but individuals on patrol.
You have emoted: "Follow him," Rashar says quietly, his gaze scanning over the wall, as if finding the answers to the west somewhere.
Silence meets your order. <- Wasn't talking to you, random @god. But you're awesome anyway.
Roux ripples into existence before you.
Roux's arms are wrapped about herself, and she shakes her head, looking thin and waifish there on the wall. "<b class="Bold">He's gone already."
You shout, "Keep him, Jensen. I give him to you, in return for one catapult."
Ishin's voice resonates across the land, "We'd rather have the catapult."
You have emoted: Rashar grunts, "Foolish motives. Foolish actions, all in the name of love." His lips twitch, and his eyes are thin as they regard Roux. "I know something of it."
9
Comments
ETA: The plot thickens!
Steal a catapult, EVERYBODY LOSES THEIR MINDS.
Nice double standards, Aetolia >:|
OOCly though, I love the dynamic ...the similarities and stark differences between the brothers, you both play off each other quite well, and I love it so much to watch this...