Hunter or Prey? (Jeral Ahan Intro RP Attn:BB and friends)

[Sherper]

Hunter or Prey?

Absent mindedly twiddling the stick he held in his hand, Jarel eyed the soft patch of ground he was kneeling beside. Yesterday’s rain had turned the forest floor into a mushy layer of mud, leaving behind the foot prints of woodland creatures. There, he saw the distinct paw prints of a hare, heading south about an hour ago. He could determine the size of the animal or more specifically ‘their weight’ by the depth of the holes they leave in the soft mushy ground. He could also tell the different species just from the size of the imprint and the different gauges in the animal’s stride. The more he knew about his prey, the more likely he was going to have in catching it. But Jeral was careful where others are not, he was a man of the forest and a man always knew where he may step and where he may not. There were no definitive hunters here. They were both Hunter and Prey.

 

Brushing away loose strands of long black hair, the skinny Tairen teenager looked for all the world like a piece of shrubbery by the camouflage cloak he wore. Sure, the effects were somewhat ruined by the span and a half hunting bow swung around his left shoulders, not to mention the quiver sitting snugly around his other hip; but It was sufficient enough to fool unsuspecting animals and on occasion - man hunters.

 

The simple fact was Jeral Ahan was a poacher. Why that had to have such a negative connotation, Jeral could never fully figure out. He did a job just like any other man in the world, only perhaps his line of work tended to step on the nose of a few country lords.
So what? To Jeral all nobles were the same.

Rich, spoilt, and full of themselves, they were more than a bit arrogant on most matters, yet they seemed to have one thing in common. They hated people like Jeral with unnecessary passion.

 

He made himself spit on the ground to get rid of the bitter after taste in his mouth.
First off, he thought. It wasn’t strictly their forest - not really. And secondly, it wasn’t like his activities were hurting anyone. Forests didn’t change around people – people changed around forests. What’s planted here today will still be here eighty years from now, or even eight hundred years. That fact was nearly as guaranteed as much as to say, the sun would rise or that the wheel would turn.

 

He chewed on his lips as his thought drifted back to the present. Fingers running gently across the squishy bed of mud and quagmire, he smiled as the minty scent of pine filled his nostrils.  Mud really did make tracking easier. Coming to the Two Rivers had been a fine idea, despite there being a lack of interest for the furs he brought to the local merchants. This secluded part of Andor offered more than enough for him to eat and sleep on.

 

Straightening from his crouch, he cast away the small branch as he propelled himself to both feet. If it hadn’t been for the light grey rain clouds overheard, he would’ve probably judged the sun to be just past noon. Still plenty of time for him to do something with his day. His eyes caught the edge of a set of foot prints that stood to odds with the rest.
Boot marks. He recognised them without even having to bend like the rest.  He had spotted similar prints before, but that had been closer to the main road and…

 

His ears pricked suddenly, as a six senses told him something was amiss. Something just wasn’t right. Feeling danger, he made very slow and deliberate movements and un-swung the hunting bow from his shoulders.  He selected a goose feathered shaft and placed it gingerly on the taut bow string, as both feet shifted to take up a defensive position.   

 

Could it be Bandits? Unlikely. None would be fool hardy enough to venture this deep into the forest. But If not Bandits, then what? Perhaps a wild boar, a deer, a particularly rowdy Tomcat or even... A bear.

 

Jarel gulped and tried not to let the tightening in his stomach distract his concentration. He didn’t think he could take on a bear. Eyeing his surroundings, he consciously tightened then untightened his grip on the small hunting bow, feeling the perspiration build inside his palm. Moments passed in complete silence, say for the wind and swaying leaves. Jeral stood and waited, pacing the centre of his small clearing as he eyed his surroundings.  

 

He was beginning to think he might just be paranoid, when a sudden rustling of branches directly behind and on top of him, galvanized him into action. Eyes wide and inhaling air, he raised the bow and had fletching to cheek in the space of a heartbeat. Without hesitating a moment, he released the tension on the bowstring and felt the familiar *thump* of wood as the arrow left his grip, spinning towards its target...

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

traveling Poacher

Edited October 13, 2013 by Sherper

[The Bard Babe]

Arkin cocked his head to the side as he watched the skinny boy crouch on the ground before him. Arkin had always been more of a city rat, his forests had always been the rooftops and carts and the tables in inns, all the things he could jump on or over and swing from. He had spent more than enough time in the forests to understand what the boy was doing, however. He was a hunter of some kind. By the look and age of him, probably just looking for his next meal, but Arkin had been wrong about such things before. Following him silently through the trees, Arkin watched, intrigued, as he tracked some kind of animal further into the woods, getting ever closer to the Citadel.

 

As the boy crouched to inspect something, Arkin climbed up into a tree so he could keep an eye on the boy from above. What a skinny lad like him was doing in the woods so near to the Citadel, Arkin had no clue. He was well-camouflaged, his steps stealthy and his eyes keen. He already had the makings of a good scout in him. Grinning at the thought as it came into his head, Arkin put it to the back of his mind for later. He didn't even know what the boy was doing yet. He knew he would have to confront him eventually, but sometimes following someone though the trees was all that broke up the monotony of the day. Taking a drink out of his flask, Arkin grimaced at the burn in his throat, but grinned as the boy took off again. He was pretty good. Arkin's time with tinkers, Master Gabbon and most recently his patrols with the scouts, had taught him forest craft, but this boy obviously made a living out of it, either selling or eating whatever he caught. Either way, the prey he hunted was Band property. Arkin only felt a little guilty for having to confront the kid, and those feelings faded as he swung through the trees, with quiet strength and ease borne of practice. Acrobatics were Arkin's strong suit. Negative feelings, on the other hand, had never suited him at all, and his optimistic outlook banished his guilt before the boy knelt down again.

 

Then something changed. The kid saw something. A print. A bootprint. Arkin scowled for a moment. Who had made that print? His scouts were supposed to be unidentifiable in a forest. Someone had made a mistake. Looking down, Arkin's sharp eyes spotted the other scouts closing in on the boy in a loose circle around him. The kid's bow was right on the edge of being raised. The sharp change in his demeanour intrigued Arkin. He wondered how often the kid had to deal with real danger. He didn't look at all comfortable with the possibility of imminent attack over his head, even if he didn't know where it was coming from.

 

Refraining from giving the bird whistle that he would normally use to signal the other scouts, as he thought there was a chance the boy would recognise it as out of place or out of tune, Arkin merely decided to do his usual trick. Moving smoothly over to another tree, Arkin allowed the last branch he touched to snap back into place. The boy's reaction was quick for a kid. Not much for a soldier, but Arkin had seen infantrymen with slower reactions.

 

The boy's arrow sailed safely through the space that Arkin had just vacated, and the scout used the time to drop to his feet behind the boy, his usual charismatic speech ready on his tongue. "Hello there, and who migh-"

 

Arkin ducked with reflexive speed as the boy swung his bow like a club. Arkin instinctively flipped backwards, out of the boy's range. He didn't want to be in a fight unless he had the upper hand straight away, especially if he had a knife on him somewhere. He didn't doubt that he could easily deal with the kid, but he didn't want to risk it if the boy happened to be a genius with that potential knife he might have. Knife wounds could be a very big deal-he ought to know, he'd doles out enough to be an expert on the matter.

 

Arkin's eyes widened as the other three scouts in his patrol converged on the boy in a somewhat shocked state.

[Sherper]

Jeral knew the arrow had missed even before it thudded noisily into the tree trunks of a nearby pine. Shifting his back foot, he adjusted his orientation and was about to draw a second arrow from the quiver when-

 

“Hello there, who migh-“

 

He gave the voice no chance to continue. Instincts honed from years of being on the run, he pivoted on the balls of his feet and swung the ends of his bow like a club in a horizontal arc. His opponent ducked and he was greeted by nothing but air, as he nearly lost his balance overshooting his strike. His opponent was fast, too fast. And a wave of panic swept over him as he saw how easily his adversary had avoided the blow. This wasn’t the first time he had found himself caught in a tight corner. Man hunters, soldiers and even bandits had seen their fair share of the end of Jeral’s fists and knife hilt, but no one moved like that. He was in trouble and he knew it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see other shapes appearing and closing in, perhaps to seal his doom. 

 

Quickly regaining his balance, he cast away the hunting bow and swiftly drew his heavy bladed hunting knife. There was no doubt left in him – it was die or fight. He was surprised when he focussed his vision and saw the youth in the face staring back at him from across the clearing.  The man looked no older than he! But he wanted to kill him, and that left him with no option.

 

Face twisting into a snarl, he charged with a wordless roar which filled his mouth at the shape of his opponent. Knife held backwards and over his head in an overhead strike, he quickly covered the ten paces that separated them. A sudden surge of hope rushed through him as he saw surprise cross the other man’s face, maybe he still has a chance.  His boot soles crashed through the forest floor sending water sprays parting, as he committed himself towards the death charge.

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

traveling Poacher

Edited October 13, 2013 by Sherper

[The Bard Babe]

Arkin was shocked. The kid was running at him with his arms over his head, leaving everything vital completely exposed. Arkin could have killed him twenty ways before he'd even made it halfway across the clearing. The other scouts appeared to be just as shocked by the kid's action, but Arkin supposed he wouldn't know better. He'd probably never been trained in combat.

 

The other scouts weren't helping at all. Seeming to have been too late to intercept his rather noisy charge, the scouts had obviously decided that the kid wasn't worth chasing. Apparently he was Arkin's to deal with now.

 

Rolling his eyes at the other scouts, Arkin resisted the temptation to gut the boy with a flick of his wrist. That would be all it would take to send a knife to spill his intestines or impale his neck. He could have disarmed him or killed him with a throwing knife at any distance. The kid wouldn't have had time to deflect it, not with his arms and weapon so far away from all of the bits of him that needed defending. Arkin did none of those things, however. The boy was wild and flighty, but Arkin doubted he knew what he was doing. To the kid, they were definitely the bad guys, and he probably feared for his life. Arkin wasn't there to kill him.

 

It didn't take long for the boy to reach him, but Arkin was more than ready for his desperate downward stab. Resisting the urge to hold off his blow with one hand and stick a knife in his gut with the other, Arkin drew both of his knives and went into a defensive stance. Catching the boy's arms before his blow could land, Arkin held them there just long enough for him to slam his fist and the blunt end of his other knife into the boy's stomach with enough strength to double him over and wind him. Releasing his arm quickly-Arkin tried not to rely on his strength if it was possible to avoid it; he was a scrawny thing-Arkin stepped back and avoided the desperate lunge that came his way, instead catching the boy's knife in between his two and flicking it out of his hands. That was Arkin's signature move, a quick trap and flick of the wrists to disarm his opponent. He usually followed it with a swift stab, but he restrained himself this time, instead flicking the boy's knife to the floor, where another of the scouts picked it up. Arkin was glad. He didn't want anyone else to pick it up. While the boy's hands were still trying to figure out where his knife had gone, Arkin grabbed one wrist and did a quick, nifty spin, trapping the kid against a tree trunk with his arm twisted painfully behind his back and his face grazing against the bark.

And with that, it was really over. Knife fighting was short and sweet. Well, it was rarely sweet. In fact, it was often quite sour...Shaking his head, Arkin continued, holding against the boy's struggles as he tried to escape. "Right, well, that was fun. Now, I was going to ask who you are and just what you think you're doing in our forest, but I get the feeling you aren't going to cooperate. Do you have any suggestions of your own?" he asked brightly, feeling the presence of the other scouts around him. Two had spread out a little to continue watching the forest, but Fraider was there beside him, watching and waiting. Arkin wished it was Fraider holding the kid to a tree, not him. Arkin dodged things, he wasn't used to being the aggressor.

[Sherper]

The long bladed hunting knife was large and unwieldy when held backwards, but it was too late to change now. A frenzied gleam crossed Jeral’s eyes as he hurled himself towards his adversary, the full momentum of his charge behind the blade and the stab. His right hand stopped suddenly in mid swing; just when he was expecting to feel the sickening sense of tearing flesh and to hear the blood curdling sound of his opponent’s scream.  Instead, all he felt was a grip that clutched his wrist like iron.

 

He had no time to feel surprise, as the other man dealt two swift blows to his middle, sending all the breath in him flying in one agonized gasp. Darkness set in as his world was turned upside down and he felt dizzy from the lack of oxygen in his brain. The world became a perplexing mix of shapes, his eyes bulged until he thought they were going to pop.

Panic and fear both set in as thought of death and defeat settled into the deep recesses of his mind. He fought desperately to hold the darkness at bay and to stay standing upright, for he knew if he let either slip, than it would all be over for him. Suddenly feeling his knife hand come free, he lashed out like a wounded animal only to yelp with pain as the knife sailed blade over hilt away from his hand and into the grass a few feet away from him.

 

Screaming with another jolt of pain, he felt his wrist bend backwards and before he knew it, had a face full of tree bark pressed against him. Eyes watering with tears that were equal part frustration and equal part resignation for ever ending up in this situation, he squirmed and tried to escape from his savage captor.  But every time he moved he always found that hand bent backwards, controlling him like a lever.  A small part of him was surprised he was still alive, considering how easily the other man had dispatched his frantic attempts to break free. He realised the other man was talking and had his good ear, that wasn’t pressed against the trunk of the tree, perked to listen.

 

“Right, well, that was fun.” The other man said in a tone that might have belayed amusement.

 

The man was mocking him! He realised, and anger boiled inside him. Trying once more to wiggle free from that death hold on his back, he groaned as his action earned him another jolt of electrifying pain. The man didn’t even seem to notice Jeral’s struggle as he continued talking.  

 

“Now, I was going to ask who you are and just what you think you’re doing in our forest.”

 

Their forest? Their Forest was it?! My great auntie’s flaming bottom, Their forest. He thought dully and growled as the salty odorous smell of blood filled his nose from the cuts he sustained crashing into the tree trunk. The stinging feel of splinters on his cheeks felt numb compared to the rest of his pains, but he forced himself not to think of either.

 

“-I get the feeling you aren’t going to cooperate. Do you have any suggestions of your own?”

 

Damn straight he wasn’t going to cooperate. He thought. Not if he’s still got breathe in him.  He’s seen wolves bite twice as hard when they're cornered, and more than one careless hunter has fallen from under estimating its quarry. At that moment, Jeral knew he was definitely not the hunter, but maybe this particular man will be blind to the nature of his prey.

 

“I’ve got a suggestion for you.” he growled, breathing bark in the process. “Why don’t you bloody let go of me, you flaming pig headed wallop?! And for your information, this is no body’s bloody forest you addle-brained lummox!” Back home, when he still had a home. His mother would’ve probably rinsed his tongue out with a cheese grater if she ever caught him using such language. But in that instance, Jeral didn’t care what his mother would’ve thought. He wanted his adversary angry; he wanted himself to be angry. Anger kept him going, anger and a burning desire to live.  Anger also makes men who do not know how to control it make mistakes. He needed to find an opening.

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

traveling Poacher

Edited October 13, 2013 by Sherper

[The Bard Babe]

Arkin grinned massively. The kid had a foul mouth on him! His squirming struggles and efforts to get free were rather useless and all the kid had left to do was swear at him. Arkin grinned. Fair enough. He'd done the very same thing many, many times when a guard or an angry shopkeeper had caught him. He, however always tried to get out of the situation first with some honeyed words. When that didn't work, and he knew he was in for a beating anyway, belting out every curse you'd picked up in your traveling youth could be oddly satisfying.

 

Tutting, Arkin cuffed the boy's ear with his free hand, quickly returning his grip. "What a dirty mouth you have. You'll fit right in."

The other scouts grinned in agreement.

"And yes, I suppose that technically you're right, according to law no-one owns this forest, but really...we do. Believe me, we do," Arkin promised. It was true. Technically no-one owned the forest, but it was most definitely on Band territory. The boy stopped squirming for a moment and Arkin shot a grin back at Fraider. "I can feel your curiosity from here. Who are we, you ask? We are none other than the Band of the Red Hand, I hear myself announce."

 

Usually, the scouts refrained from giving away their identity, but after the fuss he'd put up, the kid was coming back to the Citadel with them...the boy squirmed again and Arkin shoved his shoulder into his back for extra hold. At this rate, the kid was getting to the Citadel tied up in a bag. "I think you'd better see for yourself, kid."

[Sherper]

For a moment, Jeral thought his temper was going to explode beyond all control as the shock of the slap to his left ear began to set in. He wanted to rip this man’s throat out, wanted to make him scream and suffer the humiliation he was causing him by holding him there. Only a last minutes save by his rationality restrained him from making another useless flurry of squirms and grunts. It would’ve come out as a childish tantrum anyway, he thought grimly and eased the pressure building on his arm. This isn’t working.

 

“What a dirty mouth you have.” The other man said, still with that bemused tone lingering on his voice. Thought that was the point, he thought gloomily.  He had used the vilest curses he could think of to try and get the man’s anger up - to force him to make a mistake. Yet the effects seem to be counterproductive and if anything - he was amusing the man!

 

“You’ll fit right in.” the last words caught his attention. Fit in to what?
What was this man thinking of making him do now?

 

“And yes,” the man continued. “I suppose that technically you’re right, according to law no-one owns this forest, but really… we do.” Earlier thoughts of outlaws and brigands flashed once again to the forefront of his mind. This could explain why they’d be rightfully annoyed at someone stealing from their land, poaching from their forest. Light, he had to get out.

 

Being caught by soldiers or the town watch had always been unpleasant, but at most meant leaving with a few bruises and maybe a day or two on the insides of a cell. But outlaws, they were different. They have no obligation to act proper, or are restrained by anything. Maybe playing rough wasn’t the smarted idea to start off with, he thought to himself. Loosening the tension further, he tried acting what he thought was a meek obedient demeanour, hoping the man takes it as a sign of him giving up.

 

“I can feel your curiosity from here. Who are we, you ask? We’re none other than the Band of the Red Hand!”

Jeral would’ve smiled if the action didn’t cause more splinters to become lodged in his face. The man had taken him to be curious, good enough. Perhaps he would let his guard down now Jeral wasn’t struggling as hard. What was this Band of the Red Hand group anyway? The manner in which the other man used ‘none other-‘in his sentence sounded like he expected Jeral to recognise the name. Maybe it was a paramilitary force, or some local militia of some type. Was this man expecting him to join them?! Ha. Fat chance.

 

The hold on the back of his arm was tightening again; he shifted in a vain attempt to stabilize the pressure but was met by an even tighter grip that nearly sent tears flowing out of his eyes again.

 

“I think you’d better see for yourself kid,”
This was probably his last chance to escape. If they marched him to this…citadel, he’d probably never see the light of day again. He had another knife tucked just under the folds of his boots, which he might be able to go for if he found an opening to break free from. A small sgian-dubh whose blade was barely two inches long, he generally used it for skinning small game or as part of his eating utility. Now, it may be his last chance at salvation and freedom.

 

 Trying not to feel the numbing lump of pain that was his bent arm, he sagged once more to convey to this brigand leader that he had been subjugated and was compliant.  

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

traveling Poacher

Edited October 13, 2013 by Sherper

[The Bard Babe]

Arkin felt the kid slump in his grip. He wasn't thick enough to completely believe that that meant that he had relented and was giving up, but it was a positive step in their working process. He wasn't about to let him go, but he figured it was about time to get going.

 

Gesturing for one of the scouts to bring him some rope, Arkin tied the boy's hands together behind his back, speaking as he did. "And for you to see for yourself, you're going to have to come with us, and I apologise, but you're too flaming volatile for me to trust you with your hands free."

 

His job done, Arkin grabbed the boy's collar and turned him away from the tree. He pointed at the scouts out further into the trees. "You two keep going, I'll take Fraider and the poacher and head up to the Citadel."

 

Generic goodbyes floated back to him and Arkin grinned at Fraider. "You sure you don't want to take the kid?" he asked as they started back through the trees towards the Citadel.

 

Fraider's scoff was all the answer Arkin needed. Grinning, he walked with his catch and the other scout, wondering just what to do with the boy.

 

They weren't very far out; Arkin had found the boy relatively early in their shift and would have to head back out as soon as he'd palmed him off to someone else. Arinth seemed like a good option. He was a sergeant, he could make some kind of decision, and hopefully scare a little submission into the kid. For all his many skills, Arkin wasn't the most intimidating being.

 

Reaching the edge of the Citadel after a few scuffles on the way there, Arkin watched the boy's eyes widen. He obviously hadn't expected anything like the Citadel. Then again, no-one ever did. Heading straight for Arinth's tent, Arkin went alone with the kid, leaving Fraider to go back to the other scouts.

 

Pushing open the tent flap, Arkin stepped inside with the poacher in hand. "Sergeant," he began with a grin, "We found this goat kisser poaching in the woods. He's a bloody squirmer too," Arkin added as an afterthought, still grinning at calling Arinth by his rank. Arinth shot him a look, but Arkin ignored it and kept going. "And now he's your squirmer."

 

With his final words, Arkin released the boy, though his hands were still bound, and shut the tent flap behind him, folding his arms over his chest and settling in his usual position on a stool so the boy couldn't make a dash through the flaps.

 

(ooc: Sherp, feel free to rp the 'scuffles on the way there')

[Sherper]

He could’ve groaned out loud if he knew it wouldn’t give the game away; the other man must’ve called one of his cronies for a rope, for a moment later Jeral felt something loop around his back and begin fastening itself around his arms. Fear and panic gripped him as he realized his plan was falling into shambles - they were taking him to their citadel, with his hands tied. His mind raced frantically to compute another solution to his problem – but ideas were shot down faster than they could be formed and he soon realized he was rightfully screwed.

 

“You’re too flaming volatile for me to trust you with your hands free,” he heard the other man say as he finished tying off the rope.  He then gestured to the two other men who were standing guard just outside the clearing. “You two keep going, I’ll take Fraider and the poacher and head up to the Citadel.” At least they didn’t tie him to a rope leash, he thought as they marched him away from the small forest clearing. The shame would’ve crippled him if they’d thought of it.

 

 They led him in a direction which he thought might be westerly, though he couldn’t be sure as the sun still wasn’t out. He was glad when he saw the man that had assaulted him earlier, was carrying his bow and quiver instead of discarding it. This was the first time he had a chance to get a good look at this man which had subdued him as easily as if he was a new born kitten. His earlier surprise still held when he saw the distinct youth in the other man’s facial features.  He couldn’t have been much past twenty, yet he also definitely held an air of authority over the other men. Not very surprising, Jeral imagined. Anyone with such skill and agility deserves the obedience and respect of his subordinates.

 

The man wore camouflage clothing not very different from his own, but held a definite flamboyancy which Jeral certainly lacked. He wore black hair in long thin braids which hung all the way down to his shoulder, with tiny bells and cotton wrappings tying the ends like a Cairhienian.  The face that gave him a casual sideways grin when he saw Jeral watching, definitely looked pale enough to be Cairhienian. Whoever these ‘Band of the Red Hand’ were; they’re definitely weird to have picked someone like this as their leader.

 

He eyed the ground in front of him regretfully, seeing just out of the corner of his eye the sgian-dubh tucked into his socks. It was so close, yet the rope ties prevented him from getting to it. Few words were exchanged between them, but he did catch snatches of conversation between his two captors as they walked. From the little he managed to piece together, he gathered the name of the man he had grappled with was called Arkin. It also appeared the band of the red hand was bigger than he had first imagined. It must be if it had to organise into ‘divisions’ of scouts, archers, cavalry and infantry.

 

They walked for nearly an hour before the man called Arkin, called for a halt to the party beside a small stream bank. The two appeared to be breaking for lunch. One of them began untying the knot behind his back and for a moment, Jeral thought they were going to allow him to walk around without any restraints. His hopes were quickly dashed however as the bigger man, placed a massive hand on one of his shoulders and promptly plopped him down at the base of a sturdy oak. The rope came regretfully back, this time wrapping around his middle so he couldn’t move.

 

When they saw he was secured to the tree, their leader looked over at his companion.
“I’ll go fill the water bottles; you keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t bolt.” He gave a mischievous grin which was partly directed at Jeral. “Knock him over the head if you have to.” Jeral found a lump forming in his throat as the bigger man eyed him and gave an even more mischievous grin if that was at all possible.

 

The one, who identifies himself as Fraider, is indubitably keeping watch over Jeral. But thankfully he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to what Jeral was doing with his hands. When he was sure the bigger man had settled down comfortably beside his own tree, he tucked his left leg over beside his hand and plucked the small knife from its holster. He hid it from sight and gave Fraider quick nervous glances. The man didn’t seem to have noticed the tiny movement - good.

 

Despite the blade being only five inches long, the sgian-dubh was sharp and kept at a razors edge. When he felt the first strands of rope fibre snap, the rest followed suit easily. He was careful not to let the broken rope fall to the floor when the last strands of pressure fell away from his middle. The man might not look too attentive, but Jeral was sure he’d notice his prisoner simply stand up and walk away. No, he had to confront him. The skinny teenager might not have stood a chance against the bigger man one on one, especially when tired up around an oak tree. But Jeral now had one card up his sleeve he could play that the man would not know until it was too late. Putting on his most irritating and sulky tone, he called out.

 

“I need to go pee!”

 

The man rudely ignored him, seemingly oblivious to his cries. He held the small knife behind his back and just out of sight, the other hand holding together the broken rope. He repeated himself, only this time loud enough so he couldn’t be ignored.

 

“Blood and Ashes,” the man threw up his hands, after Jeral made his fourth call – each getting squeakier and more annoying than the last. He grudgingly got up on his feet and walked over to stand next to Jeral.
“What the flaming hell were you doing when we were walking?” He stooped down to fumble the ropes and his hands found the wrist of Jeral’s right hand. He let go of the rope, which promptly fell to the ground.

 

Jeral had originally intended to stab the man with his knife. They sure deserved it. But Fraider was pining his right hand when he had reached to untie his ropes. Instead, Jeral tightened his left hand into a fist and thrust all his upper body strength into an upward jab – right into the man’s lower jewel.

 

He would’ve squealed in delight at the satisfying impact the fist had on the other man’s groin, had he been less worried about what the man would do if his initial strike had failed. For a second, Jeral really thought the man was going to kill him – what with the furnace like glare he shot in his direction. The man took one step forwards, then abruptly clutched his thigh with both hands and toppled over face first into the ground. Jeral exhaled a breath he didn’t even realise he was even holding.

 

Hopping over to the place where the two had left their packs and his small stash of belongings, he quickly gathered up his things. Belting on his hunting knife, he looped his hunting bow and the quiver over one shoulder before picking up his satchel. He was just about to step away from the river bank and into the forest, when a familiar voice drifted up behind him.
“Going somewhere?” It said in a casual, yet deeply amused tone. Jeral groaned loudly and he didn’t even bother keeping it to himself this time.  

 

Much later, after Arkin had found fresh strands of rope to tie Jeral with, they were moving through the forest again. He kept giving Fraider nervous glances, as Arkin quickly bound both hand and feet. They were definitely not taking any chances with him anymore.
Fraider gave him such a vexed looks, Jeral was sure if it had not been Arkin standing there beside him, the man would’ve not hesitated in strangling him.

 

The look did not waver as they continued walking through thicker and thicker foliage. The occasional backwards look he braved himself to do, only resulted in another fistful of angry stares. Arkin however, seemed highly amused at Jeral’s failed attempt at freedom, perhaps even more so at Fraider’s rather ungraceful fall after being – ‘neutralised’. He made humour of the subject on their way to the citadel, much to the growing displeasure of the man in person.

 

 ______

 

 

The citadel was nothing Jeral could’ve imagined. Tents, cook fires and stone walled barracks were neatly planned and arranged to a strict military precision. Columns of soldiers, marched in even formation whilst still more lounged around cook pots, chatting or caring for their weapons. His eye widened at the sheer immensity of the settlement as they made their way slowly towards it. The band of the Red Hand was definitely not some rag tag militia, he thought as he was led inside. They were an army!

 

The other scout that had followed Arkin walked off as soon as they were in the camp perimeter. Jeral caught the man muttering something about bars and sitting down, which produced another round of stifled chuckle from Arkin.

 

They walked for a few more minutes deeper into the camp no - a city. They passed blacksmith forges, hammers ringing and men busily making every day utilities as well as swords, halberds and spears. Jeral even thought he caught out of the corner of his eye, what looked like a financial district lined with craftsmen booths and workshops. They stopped in front of a smallish tent which was slightly larger than the ones neatly lined up beside it. Arkin went inside, gesturing for Jeral to follow after pushing open the tent flaps.

 

He was in an office of some kind, with a decent sized wooden table being the centrepiece of the room, along with two stiff back stools. But the main attraction was not in its furnishings, nor perhaps from the alarming mountain of paperwork piled to one corner of the desk. The Main ‘attraction’ came from the occupant of the establishment.

 

“Sergeant,” Arkin gave the man sitting behind the table a crisp salute, before continuing. Jeral was surprised at the ease and precision at which his captor had performed the action. He would’ve never figured the man was capable of such discipline from the way he carried about earlier in the forest.

 

“We found this goat kisser poaching in the woods. He’s a squirmier too.”  He gave the ropes a tug and Jeral backed away from him, but not before giving the man his best glare.
“Now he is your squirmier.”  

 

He knew he had no chance of escaping out the tent; he would be caught before he took two steps. So he tried a different tact.

 

He turned to face the officer, who had not moved from his chair since they came in, and was about to demand in his most dignified manner his immediate release - when his eyes widened in shock at the sight he beheld before him.  

 

“I errr… I…” the words caught in his mouth as a corner of his eye give an involuntary twitch, at the man’s flat eyed stare. He didn’t know what to think.  An awkward amount of time passed before he composed himself enough to produce understandable sounds.

 

 “I’m Jeral.” He finally managed to spit out. “Nice to meet you?”

 

He might’ve accepted going ten rounds with Fraider, if it had meant he could slip away from the Sergeant’s hard eyed stare.
Oh light, what has he got himself into? He wondered, for the eleventh time that day.

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

Seriously Screwed Poacher

 

OCC: I really need a drink. Writing two thousand words in one day and then editing it, really isn't healthy for my eyes.

Edited October 13, 2013 by Sherper

[Arinth]

Arinth was busy grumbling over the mountain of paperwork on his desk when Arkin popped into his tent with a young man tied up and then quickly disappeared, leaving the man behind. It was not normal for a man to be tied up. The wild look of the young man was troubling. That combined with the fact that he was tied up and Arkin had just dumped him off meant he was going to be a handful. Oh and of course Arkin had mentioned something about poaching. The scouts weren't very found of people poaching in their woods.

 

He folded his hands together as he looked at the young man and waited quietly. He wasn't really sure what he was suppose to do with him. Arkin hadn't stuck around to be helpful. He was probably off with that girly book. Maybe he could read but he just pretended not to so that he could carry the book around. Now that was interesting thought.

 

The boy interrupted his thoughts. “I am Jeral. Nice to meet you.”

 

Arinth turned the words over in his head as he looked at the boy. “Well Jeral, it seems somebody didn't find you nice to meet. Your hands are tied.”

 

Arinth slowly rose form his chair to his full height and leaned forward with his hands on the desk. “You have three choices the way I see it. The first is simple really, all you have to do is pay for what you took from our forest. The second is a little more unpleasant. If you do not have the means to pay you may work here in the citadel. There is always someone needed to clean latrines, shovel out the stables, clean pots and such. The third option I do not believe suits you but it is an option none the less. You can join the Band of the Red Hand and your past offenses will be forgiven.”

 

Arinth sat back down in his chair and leaned back. “You have about five seconds to decide before I cut you lose and tell the scouts you've escaped. They get terribly bored.”

[Sherper]

Taking deep calming breaths was all well and good – if only the calming part could take effect sooner.  His bonds itched like crazy and he was beginning to sweat heavily, with open perspiration threatening to turn into a downpour on his forehead. Jeral was not happy with his standing predicament, not one bit. The sergeant continued to give him that look, and never showed any outward sign of emotion or reaction to his statement. Finally, after a long pause he said in a flat tone that made his stare seem jolly,
“Well Jeral. It seems somebody didn’t find you nice to meet; your hands are tied.” 

 

Had the man just made a joke? The intervening stare the sergeant gave him seems to disprove the theory, but Jeral could’ve sworn he detected sarcasm, or humour unearneath that bloodless chill of a voice. His hands were tied, and there was not the tenth part he could do to break free. The man slowly rose from his chair, leaning close with both hands resting on the table top to come face to face with Jeral. He looked to be a leopard about to spring for the kill.

 

“You have three choices the way I see it.” He said coolly, perhaps even icily. “The first is simple. All you have to do is pay for what you took from our forest.” A corner of Jeral’s mouth gave another involuntary twitch. He definitely did not have enough coin to pay for the game he caught in the woods – if they really thought it was their wood. He almost dreaded hearing the other options though, and his suspicions were soon confirmed.

 

“The second is a little more unpleasant.”
If you do not have the means to pay, you may work here in the citadel.”
Jeral was surprised and eagerly perked up at the suggestion. It didn’t sound so bad.

 

This wasn’t the first time he’s had to find ‘honest’ employment in order to pay for past debts or scrounge a living. He was eager at the prospects, until he heard the rest of the words leave the man’s mouth.
“There is always someone needed to clean latrines, shovel out the stables, clean the pots and such.”

 

 Not for the first time in a long while, Jeral wished he could’ve shown a little more discretion when showing his emotional feelings.  He let out a soft groan, which he was sure the other man heard. The final option then.  

 

“The third option I do not believe suits you, but it is an option none the less.”

 

Jeral was inclined to disagree. What can be worse than digging latrines and being a washerwoman for light knows how many months?

 

“You can join the Band of the Red Hand.”

 

He gapped. Not what he had been expecting at all.
“Join the Band of the Red Hand?!” he blustered out, then hastily decided to not include the next part of his sentence, which would’ve went something along the lines of ‘Are you crazy?’ He somehow didn’t think that would improve his situation.

 

The sergeant calmly ignored his outburst and went right along, slowly settling back to his chair. “You have about five seconds to decide before I cut you lose,” he said.  “And tell the scouts you’ve escaped. They get terribly bored.” The grin that accompanied the statement was really not a grin at all, and Jeral seriously didn’t want to test the man’s sense of humour at the moment.

 

“Wait, this isn’t fair. I wasn’t doing anythi-”

 

“One.” The man cut him off, and began calmly counting.

 

 “Now, you look here.” He said, putting on his best firm and responsible tone.  “You have no right to detain-”

 

“Two.” The man almost looked like he was smiling at him, though Jeral did not believe it possible coming from the man.

 

“Just wait a minute; you can’t force m-”

 

“Three.”

 

Panic seized him, and if it not been the paralysing stare and the rope bonds he would’ve probably hopped around the room like a startled rabbit.

 

“Oh light, please don’t make me-”

 

“Four.” The man unsheathed a long wicked looking knife from underneath the desk, and rose as if coming over to fulfil his promise.

 

Blood. Blood and bloody flaming ashes. He thought; sweat now openly pouring from his head.

 

“Fiv-“

 

“Alright! Alright you win you hear?! I’ll join your bloody band of the bloody red hand.” He snapped at the other man, nostrils aflame with exasperation and indignation.

 

Only after another length pause, where only the distant ringing of hammers could be heard, did the full implication of what he’d just did, hit home in his head. The Light protect, and the creator have blessing on my soul. What the hell had he just done? 

 

 

~Jeral Ahan

A poacher that I won't go as far as saying - is currently peeing his pants. But I think we're close.

 

 

OCC: Hope I didn't make you sound too much like a stone cold cave gorilla Arinth xD

Edited October 14, 2013 by Sherper

[Arinth]

Arinth did his best to hide his surprise at the man's decision. He had not thought from the wild look in his eyes that joining the band would appeal to him. It must have been the thought of avoiding cleaning out stables and scrubbing pots that got him to join. Well the joke was going to be on him. Arinth was going to send a letter to his commander recommending that he do just that. He realized he was grinning at the young man.

 

“Well well. You've got guts. I'll give you that. I like that. The band isn't for everyone but you are welcome to try your hand at it and see if it suits you. Its not so bad. A place to sleep, training, and food so bad you wish it was poisoned. You'll be paid too, at least enough to drink and gamble away.”

 

Arinth paused for a moment as he looked the boy over, weighing him with his eyes. “The only question now comes down to which division you should join. You are young still and will have some growing to do, but I'm not sure if the infantry is your best position. And the cavalry well, you don't have the frilly, prancing look most of them carry around.”

 

Arinth scratched his beard. “If you like healing you could join the medics. We always need those and it will keep you out of most fighting. The archers are another choice. You might have a hard time drawing a two-rivers bow if you haven't tried one before.”

 

Arinth chuckled to himself. He couldn't shoot a bow to save his life. He'd tried when he was drunk one night. It had been at 15 paces and it gone well wide of the target causing spectators who may or may not have also been drunk to duck quickly.

 

He brought his attention back to the present. “Oh and there are the scouts. If you find you liked the man Arkin that you met today you can join the scouts. Or burn me, if you find you despise him you can join just to try to find a way to make him miserable.”

 

Arinth started sorting through his papers. “Just tell me where you want to go and I'll give you the form to take to your commander to get settled in.”

[Sherper]

He knew he had really gotten himself down the deep end when the other man began grinning at him; the look suited him no end, and made him all the more menacing as a result. Jeral tried to swallow the lump in his throat but it refused to budge even an inch; like a rock clogging the drainage pipes, it made it very hard for the light headed poacher to breath. He was glad for the chair, for he wasn’t entirely sure if his legs would hold him upright.

 

“Well well. You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.” Jeral winced at the comment. If there was anyone in the world he’d bet at having the most guts - it won’t be him. Even if the odds were a hundred to one.  “The band isn’t for everyone but you are welcome to try your hand at it and see if it suits you.” The man continued, settling back down to his seat again.

He shot the sergeant a glare, regaining some of his earlier aggression – and dignity. He couldn’t believe the man had said that. Had he left him any choice? The man sounded like he might be making a joke again.

“It’s not so bad. A place to sleep, training, and food so bad you wish it was poisoned.” A distant look slowly passed between Jeral’s eyes as he listened. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to sleep without having to keep half an eye open; ho not know for sure where your next meal would come from. He had grown accustomed to resting with the stars, seeking his supper and generally watching his back every few minutes for any possible threat to his safety. Meals, training, a roof over his head, and did he hear pay? The idea of joining the band didn’t seem like a terrible prospect afterall. But then again, he would be seeing that ratbag, Arkin over and over again in camp.

 

“The only question now comes down to which division you should join.” The man said, leaning back on his chair so it only stood on two legs. He examined Jeral still bound by the rope, from head to foot then back again. “You are young and still will have some growing to do, but I’m not sure if the infantry is your best option.” He was inclined to agree; standing stock still whilst every other troop type on the battlefield get free reign on you doesn’t particularly seem like a pleasant prospect. The man discounted him joining the cavalry too, saying he didn’t look ‘frilly’ enough, whatever that had meant. Then he moved on to the medics and the archers, which sounded like a much more pleasant station. Jeral enjoyed having to not fight with men who were usually taller than him, and most of the fighting he did do, were usually in the opposite direction – away from the scene.

 

“Oh and there are the scouts.” The man added as almost an afterthought. “If you found you liked the man Arkin that you met today, you can join the scouts.” Jeral’s eyes gave another involuntary twitch. He really needed to stop doing that, he knew it made him look stupid not to mention plastering his opinions right across his face. Liked, was perhaps the wrong word to describe Jeral’s opinion for Arkin.

 

“Oh burn me; if you find you despise the man, you can join just to find a way to make his life miserable.”  

 

The inward grin the man produced made Jeral feel the other man actually wanted him to do just that. Perhaps the two never really got on. In any case, he actually quite liked the idea. Before he had left his home, his mother had always told him what an insufferable little wretch he was. Now, perhaps Arkin will get the same treatment. Jeral could’ve rubbed his hands in glee, had they not been tied behind his back. He also wanted to learn that disarming trick the other man had used on him. It looked fancy, and Jeral was sure the man was obliged to teach him.

 

“I think I’ll join the scouts.” He said, returning his gaze back to the man who was now sorting through the papers.

 

A few minutes later, holding the filed out form that detailed his placement into the Scouting division, he strode out and through the tent flaps. Night had truly fallen and the military settlements erected in the clearing, drifted the hot spicy aroma of food as well as the sound of singing and merry making.

 

He spotted Arkin walking across the clearing, both hands tucked in coat pockets, with his mouth whistling a toneless song. He wasted no time and strode towards the man, who instantly spotted him approaching. Eyes scanning wearily, Jeral saw a small twitch of movement in those two gigantic pockets; no doubt fingering one those knives he carries.

 

“I’ve decided to join the band.” He said, and the man brightened instantly. “In the scouts.” He glared at Arkin, laughing gleefully inside in knowing the other man must now be regretting bringing Jeral here in the first place. He was startled when the other man only shrugged, “I’ll be seeing you on the grounds then – tomorrow for training.”

 

He gaped as the man strode leisurely off into the distance, as if the prospect of having a live ferret under his coat sleeves didn’t bother him at all. Jeral shook his head as he looked around the camp site. People here were mad.

 

After a moment’s contemplation, he decided he better find the scout captain and give him his form. He smiled to himself; at least he didn’t have to be digging latrines.
Walking light heatedly off towards the campfires, Jeral Ahan set out to join the Band of the Red Hand with no clue on just how much poop shoving and pot scrubbing awaited him in the years to come.

 

 

~Jeral Ahan
Scout in the Band of the Red Hand

Edited October 17, 2013 by Sherper