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fr-blackiebelle · 7 years

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The Sunrot Resurrections: Part IV - The Chieftain and His Games

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And so, all of Virulent came clawing out into the light.

They came blinking in the sun, red eyes wide with fear, tears, or, at the very least, alarm. They saw Aramis, the Chieftain reborn, standing tall and proud with his bastard son at his feet.

Some fell before him, swearing their allegiance and loyalty. While he was taking Ivarr’s oath of service, Damaris came shoving past with pledges of his own. He had finally received iron limbs in place of his own, and lost his balance in his urgency to bow. He patted his shoulder with one hand and helped him up with his other, accepting his promise.

The flax-and-grey skydancer gave him a shaky smile, and Aramis saw that his shoulder had blistered gold.

Slowly, slowly, every dragon came to him just to see it for their own eyes. Some gaped, shaking their head in awe, others looked at him with distrust. Many would produce their weapons and lay it down before him, either for him to bless them or swear them to his service.

A growing mass of guards grew at either side of him. Those who were unsure would now approach.

He was sure to touch them. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to sting. Enough to mark their skin. To brand them as his.

He did not recognize many of them, but those who did were eventful.

Two red skydancers approached, looking worn. It was Naomi leading Arnett, clutching his forearm and letting him lean on her for support. He walked funny, like he had been injured. When they got close enough, he could see that former priest’s eyes were glazed over. He was lost in another world.

Naomi trembled, making a muffled wailing sound, and then Arnett gave the oddest look. His glazed eyes snapped with realization, snapped into clarity, and he jerked back suddenly enough that he toppled over, nearly bringing Naomi down with him.

Then he was clawing at his throat, clawing at where Aramis had tried to strangle him with prayer beads years ago. Naomi was on him now, trying to catch his wrists with her lumpy gembond hands. He watched the spectacle for a moment, before he had to turn back to the rest of the dragons.

There was a group of medics, who Naomi had come out with, standing in a bunch. There was old and diseased Silberfuchs, gembond-ridden Kauyti, a few young pearlcatchers and a leering spiral. And Bastian, one of Naomi’s liver-red sons.

More importantly, behind him, was a mirror, red as the Waste. She was not one of Virulent’s.

She would not look up, and kept her head down. One of her hands was extended to grip the back of her mate’s clothes - she was practically hiding behind him. This was the Hellreek girl.

A skydancer pup had its head over her shoulder, from where she had it tucked in a shawl. Another pup, this one a mirror, stood at her knee. Five eyes were in his head, no doubt because of the . . . things in his mother’s blood. They lived far too close to the Wyrmwound, they were all tainted.

Bastian moved closer, and gave him a cold look. He did not bow, but instead said, in a low voice. “I ask for your permission to treat the Lor- Ives. That eye’ll go bad in this heat if it isn’t looked after.”

Aramis let him do as he wished, sure to touch his forearm as he brushed past. His hand jumped to grasp it, and Bastian gave him a sullen look over his shoulder.

He called over Silberfuchs from the rest of the medics. The pale pearlcatcher looked even worse from what he remembered, though perhaps that was because he was in the sun.

“In the back of that cart is my granddaughter, Juarve. See that she doesn’t die. Amputate as much as you need, but see that she lives. If she dies, I will investigate. Don’t use any of those Farm sedatives on her, I know how you are with them.”

He did not turn as the pearlcatcher investigated, but he heard the sharp intake of breath. “My lo- your gra- boss. I am a accomplished surgeon, but this . . . she would not survive the week. What have you done to her?”

“Someone other than I threw her in the Wyrmwound, so I fished her out,” He turned now, leaning very close to the old wyrm. “I was under the impression that you were one of the best surgeons in Sorneith, and a pioneer of amputation technique. I saw that you finally got around to fixing Damaris’s legs. Have you fallen back to your old habits, or is your age getting to you?”

Silberfuchs was quiet for a long moment, answering neither questions. Finally he said - “Very well, I will do what I can. Please send for my kit, an assistant, and a dragon named Ragbala.”

Aramis sent off a blue-winged mirror - one of Ives’s countless hostages - to this task.

As the pledging slowed and stopped, he decided that this would have to be a night worth remembering. He told the guards to open good casks, and the cooks to prepare a half-decent spread.

Rugs and blankets were brought from the cavern, aswell as benches, trestle tables, and cups. Soon enough, a small camp had been erected before the cliff. He noticed that the items came from distant parts of the realm, including his favorite set of fire-made silver cups. He filled one with a thin ice beer, and drank from it as he watched his clan.

In the back of the cart, the surgeons had begun to operate on Juarve. He could see red running through the wooden cracks, dripping into a collection bucket. The air smelled of blood.

Arnett was still sprawled in the dirt, but now laid moaning and sobbing while Naomi retched off to the side.

His grandchildren were gathered in a group of black, not speaking to one another. The red great-great-granddaughter stood rather conspicuously among them.

The cooks had stacked up a army of barrels, and were now setting up spits laden with boar.

Damaris, his silver-and-iron legs clicking and hissing, came to his side in a hurry to spill a wealth of information.

Bastian had just kissed his wife farewell and hurried her off into the Waste. One of her children, the skydancer, was strapped to her back. She had left the five-eyed monster behind.

He poured the last of his drink to the dirt, and went to find the medic.

True to his word, Ives now had a white bandage wrapped around his face and eye. The golden handprints shimmered like embers on the black of his face. There was a flask in his hand.

At his approached, Bastian had produced a smoking stick and was now lighting it, forgetting of the one already in his mouth. His hands were shaking.

Aramis squatted down to his level, looking at the traitor with his mismatched-eyes. The stick in his mouth fell out, and began to burn a hole in the rug beneath them. There were tears welling in the skydancer’s red eyes.

“My dear Bastian, where is your wife? I heard that she was staying in Virulent, and I would very much like to meet her.”

The skydancer hung his head. His five-eyed son hid behind him.

He reached out, and put his hand on his shoulder. He held it there, and the flesh under his touch began to smoke faintly.

“Gone,” he choked out, jerking away.

Turning to the guards behind them, he smiled. “Ivarr, gather a patrol of dragons hardy enough to travel to the Rim at a hurried pace. Make sure that they have ties to Virulent, such as a mate or a child, that will ensure that they return home. Make sure that their blood isn’t valuable, if it is spilled.”

The ridgeback considered it for a moment, then slowly said. “The gunslinger, Revoiste. The once-slave, Wrench. The tracker, Asiedu. All of them have mates within the lair, none of them are from an alliance, and they have proved their worth in raids. I suggest that you send the imperial, Dana, as well for intimidation.”

“Good. Supply them with waterskins and rations. They are not to kill Razor, but will escort her to Hellreek, making sure that she or the child doesn’t come to any harm. They should trail her at a distance, but make sure that she catches a few glimpses of them. To put some speed in her step.”

Ivarr nodded, and called for the guards in question. They all bore his golden Mark on their bodies and steeled determination in their eyes.

“Catch up to her before she reaches the edge of Hellreek’s territory. Make sure that she doesn’t enter the lair until you have Gloria safely with you. If they refuse to give Gloria back, return with Razor. If they have killed Gloria, kill her. May the Waste spare you.”

“May the Waste spare you,” they whispered in response, soft against the harshness of Bastian’s cries.

Ives handed the flask to Bastian, standing and stomping on the smoldering rug as he did so. He would not look at him, and sulked away. The five-eyed monster wormed his way into his father’s lap, and stared at Aramis with wide eyes.

He knew what he had to do.

“Gather all of the hostages,” he said to Ivarr. “Make sure none of them run off or send any messages. I want the Hellreek boy, Akeelah’s son, brought to me. Have him cleaned up.”

Toril escorted him back to the tables. The cooks were now carving up the honied boars, and the air smelled of the cooked meat. Dragons were inching closer, eager to partake in the feast. Bowls of peaches and trays of scorpion-and-pepper were set out. The barrels were being tapped, and ale was being poured.

Ivarr was sitting the hostages at a table, almost twenty of them. Many were dressed in armor, and most were already marked with gold. Cosette was among them, and didn’t look too happy at the arrangement. They had the table closest to the high table, to recognize their importance. His loyal ridgeback broke away from them, leading a grey tundra with bright orange wings.

This was the Hellreek boy?

The tundra scarcely looked like one, with his oily fur and lithe muscles. Bright cyan spines spiked up through his greasy mane, on his cheeks and following the path of his spine. He had big red eyes, and two smaller ones underneath them. It looked as if his jaw had been ruined, for it sat crooked, with its teeth spilling white past his lip. Every time a little drool escaped from his mouth (which was often), his hands would immediate leap up with a handkerchief to wipe it away.

“Pluto, I would like to give you the seat of honor during tonight’s feast. It is only fitting.”

He kept all four eyes low, and mumbled in a thick-tongued way. “It would be an honor, Chieftain.”

And so, the feast began. All of the hostages had been seated at one table, and all of his bastards at another. The rest of the raiders milled as they pleased, dining with whoever they wanted.

Aramis sat in the center of the high table, with Toril to his right and Pluto to his left. The boy didn’t seem to be the violent type, he wore only soft red robes and ate a bizarrely wilted salad. He kept flashing nervous looks at everyone around him.

Toril didn’t talk much, and instead glowered at the crowd. Damaris sat to her right, and often leaned forwards, one of his silver-and-iron elbows in her dinner, just to continue telling him of gossip.

He pointed out his grandchildren, and named them. “That one’s Kivka, out of Amiria. He was sent away to a nature clan on an alliance, and came back of his own accord. He’s ambitious, and I’d bet my hat that he’ll kill his nieces and nephews just to get in your good graces.”

“Iliutas? The bluish guardian, yeah the one talking to Calana. She’s the best fighter of the lot, and the best raider out of them. Real noble, that one, but she can still get dirty if she needs to. Had to fight to get everyone to remember her name.”

“See the red one? That’s Raukte. One of the sent-off kids had a kid, and that kid had a kid. That’s why the girl’s red. The clan sent Helysine home, and she went ahead and had her own kid with the gunslinger’s mate. Before Revoiste joined the clan of course, otherwise she’d be dead.”

Aramis was eating cubes of sugarmelon with a knife when Ives decided to come out of sulking. He stood in the space between the high table and the lower tables, unsure of where to go.

“It’s just like you to name yourself a Lord. And you had everyone calling you it, too. If I had a coin for every ‘mi’lord’ I heard today, well. . .”

It was growing dark. Lanterns were blazing to life throughout the feast, and the golden embers on Ives’s face were smoldering with light. His remaining eye was sullen.

“Taking hostages? Half of them are from peaceful clans that’d be crushed in any real conflict, the rest are from tiny groups that fancy themselves clans. Were you trading with them? Were you warring alongside them?” He leaned a elbow on the table, waving the knife as he spoke.

“I don’t know why you bothered giving away your own children, most of them should have been good strong warriors. It’s not like they have any claim to Virulent or anything. At the rate you had Cosette laying nests, you could’ve fielded the Plaguebringer’s army by yourself.” He paused to nip the sugermelon cube from the tip of his knife.

“You know, marrying her was about the smartest thing you’ve done, though I suppose her blood’s worthless now, since Vogelzang’s fled and you took in her parents. Never got ahold of one of Humboldt’s kids, did you? Do you think he still lives? I heard that he was overthrown, just as I was. One of his hostages did it.”

Ives was looking at the ground now. He rubbed at his eye with the back of his fist.

“Enough of this. Ives, go on and join the feast.”

His son moved to circle around the high table, and put a hand on a vacant seat.

“Ives,” he chided. “That’s not your place.” He pointed the knife at his grandchildren. “Your place is with the rest of the bastards.”

The look he was given could have soured milk. Ives went back to sulking.

Aramis enjoyed himself for a little while longer, sampling sugared maiden’s blush and candied butcher’s fig. When he finished his cup of wine, he called for it to be refilled. He motioned for Pluto’s cup to be filled aswell.

If Akeelah would already know of his return, why not get a step ahead of her?

Cup in hand, he rose to his feet. “I propose a toast, to our dear Pluto.”

The subdued talk rolled into silence almost immediately, and dragons rushed to grip their own cups. The crooked-jaw tundra looked almost afraid as he held up his. Rightfully so.

“May your marriage be endless and fruitful. May your children be healthy and strong and plentiful. And may the Plaguebringer allow you a long life,” he held his cup high. “To Pluto and Raukte!”

The echo from the clan was slow, confused. Beside him, the son of Hellreek mouthed the words as if he couldn’t grasp the meaning. Raukte, red among the black bastards, was the first to stand. She screamed.

And then, a explosion of movement. Kivka lashed out and grabbed her by the antlers, retching her head backwards. Then Zaibana leapt from the hostage’s table, slamming into her to pin her between his chest and the table. Kivka had one of her wrists, while Ilgeslys had the other.

Besides him, Pluto was standing. His red eyes were rimmed white with terror. Aramis took a moment to sip at his wine. It was a good Ruin vintage.

Then, mid-sip, he dropped his cup to lunge at Pluto. He had turned, trying to flee. The guards were already boxing them in. Aramis slipped clawed fingers under the color of his red robes, and yanked backwards.

Pluto choked for a second, then was pulled into the Chieftain’s grasp, where he had one arm wrapped across his chest, the other across his throat. A long, wordless wail tore out of his throat as he kicked at shins, smashed his hands uselessly at the Chieftain’s armored chest.

They carried the couple, screaming, to the caverns.

Down one stone passage, down another tunnel. Deeper and deeper they went into the catacombs. The air was cold as the grave. Then they finally came across a simple pine door, reinforced with iron studs. The Chieftain turned to kick it in with a iron boot. Inside was a simple bed, laden with quilts and blankets. They shoved Raukte, crying, onto it. Her nose had been broken, aswell as half of an antler.

As a last resort, Pluto jerked around his oily head, pursed his lips, and spat. It struck the Chieftain through the eyehole of his headdress. He recoiled, disgusted, and threw the grey tundra onto the bed besides his wife.

The wedding party stopped breathing as their Chieftain pulled on the beak of his headdress to rub the spit off his face. He looked throughly displeased, but unharmed. “That would be the second time today I was spat on. Don’t make it a habit. Bar the door.”

With a thud of finality, the door was braced.

#Virulent Lore #Clan Lore #Flight Rising Lore #Aramis #Toril #Silberfuchs #Damaris #Kivka #Ilgeslys #Zaibana #Pluto #Raukte #Ives #Cosette #fun fact: that's ives's room #that's not a fun fact at all #this is bad™

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