RP:Meat

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: Krice is targeted by a band of mysterious cross-dimensional interlopers, prompting a life-or-death struggle in the Northern Highlands.

The Northern Highlands

Krice wore his usual garb as he ventured southward away from Frostmaw; black button-down, collar open and sleeves rolled to his elbows, with that customary katana strapped to his back. The silver-haired male crossed over uneven and snow-capped terrain without difficulty, ambling along at an unhurried rate to leave the frozen landscape behind in favour of the more temperate climate of Kelay. His visual focus was ahead, but as always, each of his senses was attuned to the world around him, listening for anomalies in the cacophony of his surrounds.

Lionel | In the Shadow Plane, the world’s appearance is primarily dictated not by time but by location. The neutral lands, with the most passive shadows, will often cast a slick grey hue upon everything. In the Northern Highlands, wars have been fought between rival nations for millennia. The Shadow Plane projects this, or perhaps it would be fair to say that it senses it, and so in that otherworldly dimension skeletons lay sprawled in great and terrible heaps in every visible direction. Worms writhe between ribcages, plucking the ground for nutrients it does not possess. The worms themselves are fatter than they ought to be, and with gleaming golden eyes that should not be there. An icy mountain mist seethes through the area. With the powers of Kahran’s ancient artifact, cross-dimensional awareness can be achieved so that the actions of a person on the opposite end of the spectrum can be faintly discerned. Thus, an echo of Krice’s southbound stride ripples through the Plane like a see-through silhouette. The slaad emerge from the Shadow Plane’s mist to hunt in a pack, massive blue-scaled beasts with heads the size of a horse and jaws like a saurian. They resemble giant humanoid toads, but their fangs are sharp and their claws are sharper. They observe the wandering silhouette impatiently, dripping saliva from their mouths and letting their arms and legs dangle with a readiness to strike. Krice will not see any of them, for they exist on that other side of the spectrum, but Krice is unlike the majority of Kahran’s prey this fortnight. Perhaps he will detect something, in some distinctly Krice-like way, which will alert him to impending danger. Or perhaps he will not. For now, the slaad will only watch.

Krice slowed across the distance of three steps, pivoting on the fourth. He stood still for reasons that were purely instinctive, reasons he could not yet identify, and turned his head to scan the eastern horizon. Silence enveloped the immediate area, giving rise to an amplification of the winds that howled between the mountain tops at higher altitude. The warrior had heard those winds before so they shouldn't have unsettled him, but they did. Lacking the Divinity and power that guided people like the High Priestess Leone to awareness of otherworldly planes, he could not properly discern what it was that touched the hairs on his nape; gifted the naturally evolved sharpening of senses as had served him throughout the entirety of his life, the enigmatic swordsman knew at least that -something- was amiss. He turned his head further, sweeping a speculative glare from the east to the north over a shoulder, searching for something, -anything-, in the vision of his surroundings, a predator intent on locating--and perhaps destroying--his competition.

Lionel | The mist behind the gathered slaad wafts an opening in opposing directions to portend the arrival of Reyv’kla, their brood-lord. The creature’s face is a medley of color, from sapphire blue to mossy green to gaudy yellow and maroon. Unlike its soldiers, Reyv’kla adorns itself in garments; a silvery silk overcoat slashed with cloth-of-gold is matched by tight-fitting white trousers. It would be comical to see the four-meter anthropomorphic amphibian so stylishly dressed were it not for the serrated malachite-hewn scythes held forth against each forearm. Nor would it be wise to openly mock Reyv’kla’s several broken teeth -- not when all those teeth still intact look sharp enough to cut through the scales of its hardy brethren like a knife through butter. With Reyv’kla’s arrival, the five other slaad bow their big heads and snarl. A kind of speaking begins to emerge from Reyv’kla’s terrifying jaws, so guttural it could give an orc a headache -- and has, numerous times. It’s a mouthy, throaty prolonged squeal, blended with harsh notes. Then its followers inhale with unconcealed anticipation and pace back around to face the silhouette. Only… it has stopped. The yellow slinted eyes of the slaad blink, one and all, as they sniff and search the area for other things that might have slowed Krice down. Reyv’kla sneers; it has realized there can be only the one cause: themselves. It’s not ideal, but it will suffice. Surely the sweet-meat cannot actually -see- them. The slaad are not known for their patience, so Reyv’kla orders the attack, and all at once the beasts pop into reality in such an alignment that they will seem to cover the east-to-north gaze Krice has taken. The swordsman will have only seconds to react, as every slaad save Reyv’kla itself suddenly leaps with its claws straight ahead to pounce flesh and tatter.

Krice 's left hand twitched and then rose from his side. Bending at the elbow, he slowly angled his forearm over his shoulder, curled all fingers around the hilt of his back-mounted katana, and waited. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't -see- anything, but he -must- have known that something was on the cusp of revealing itself; something sinister. It was by the grace of his supernaturally heightened instincts and senses that the warrior had any forewarning to the incoming attack at all, but still the sudden appearance of five large creatures--he'd probably later muse over the fact that they were frog-like beasts; hell, he may even find humour in it--from a crack between planes caught him not off guard for he had expected -something-, but by surprise. Crimson eyes widened a fraction before his mind moved him into auto-evasion and he stepped forward. Typically, going forward -into- an onslaught wasn't the best course of action, but given the size and width of each toad-warrior and their inward charge toward his much smaller frame, doing so would undoubtedly draw them closer to -each other- and thus create the problem of maneuverability amongst themselves. It was to the center slaad that Krice sprinted, fleet of foot and agile under the arc of the batrachian's clawed swing. Past the center slaad, he caught sight of another some paces back but his focus was divided by the quintet closing in. It was mere seconds that he had to slide on foot, bent knee, and hand beneath the focal point of his attackers to come out on the other side, with his katana drawn and hopefully covered in frog-blood; an upward swing in passing aimed for the frog's flesh, gut or thighs. Whether or not this attack was successful, the silver-haired enigma immediately advanced upon the silk-dressed idler, perhaps privy to his status as their leader, each stride swift but long to quickly cover the distance between them. He moved with too much speed to be human, yet there were no defining characteristics about his visible parts--normally curved ears, absence of fangs, creamy skin-tone--to refute it. The speedy human feinted on his left foot and then pivoted right, throwing a similarly-angled of attack across the belly of the brood-lord; to slice his katana through silk, multicoloured skin, and amphibian blubber with the intent of catching vital organs. If he could fell their leader, perhaps the other five would lose at least -some- of their desire to spill his blood. Krice's movements were efficient, swift, and pointed - though he had yet to learn the full extent of the batrachia's abilities.

Lionel | Trained from three weeks of age in filthy swamps filled with carnivores and carrion, the slaad are thick with the belief that battle comes head-on. It is their way to assume any assailant will ever flee or foolishly strike without deceit, and nine times out of ten this means an easy combat with which to shred slender prey into ribbons. Either the prey will run or it will stand its ground, and if it runs then the slaad -- bred for feats of stamina -- will maintain the hunt for days if necessary. Surely it would be a jester’s errand for the prey to slide underneath. At least, that’s the thought process of those slaad present here today who are capable of even dismissing the notion out-of-hand. The rest of them, their wits all-the-duller, take an inordinate amount of time to comprehend Krice’s evasion. As it happens, the dumbest slaad of them had been charging from the center, and it pauses in disbelief that the sweet-meat should elude it so. That pause is most unfortunate when it prohibits the creature from avoiding a katana’s elegant slice to its groin. It howls most distastefully even as its slammed-together companions attempt to bounce back from their blubbery bobble and catch Krice by his shirt, ripping into the flesh of his upper back. Should any of their grasps prove successful, they will squeal with the scent of their prey’s blood and give chase. Should they all fail, they will growl in anger that the only blood they smell is their companion’s. In any case, they will follow, be it swiftly with the belief that victory is near or more slowly with irritation. Given Krice’s trajectory, the slaad will be moving toward their brood-lord, Reyv’kla, whose mouth appears to have twisted into something like a grin. It watches in wait, seemingly unfazed by the supernatural speed Krice displays, and it doesn’t move a muscle but for its arms as the enigma closes in. At the last moment, Reyv’kla’s left eye flinches with calculable anticipation, and it swings its arms down hard so that the dual malachite-hewn serrated scythes swoop in defensively over its belly and with their blades aligned to cut Krice’s arms off if fate should be so kind.

Krice felt the tug of claws through the back of his shirt, but his velocity was such that he was slowed only a fraction - and the claws didn't make his flesh. With a brow slightly furrowed in exasperation at the close call, he moved in to attack their brood-lord and found himself needing to defend midway through his offensive. These frogs were faster than he had anticipated, their size and mass belying their skill. With black fabric flapping behind him in tattered streaks, the man lifted his katana from its belly-aim to deflect at least -some- of the blow from those large scythes. The brood-lord's size and weight pushed Krice down onto a knee but his musculature kept him steady beneath the twin weapons, his arms pulled inward under the curved length of his katana. Though his own sword had been crafted with high quality materials by a highly skilled blacksmith, he must have feared the possibility of steel stressing beneath steel because he dropped lower and scurried across a metre of landscape to distance himself from Reyv'kla's attack, leaving the scythes to descend the remaining distance into the dirt in his absence - unless Reyv'kla lifted them as the warrior moved. Under an arcing handful of silver hair, the man aligned his focus with the renewed charge of the quintet and positioned himself behind their leader with another slicing swing aimed for his side. Later, the warrior might ponder the oddities and potential humour of/in a frog dressed up in silk clothing, better bedecked than some humanoids, but right now, his focus was strictly on felling these creatures before they could spread and do more harm - and maybe also on surviving the onslaught, himself. Whether or not he managed to draw blood from Reyv'kla, Krice stepped away to distance himself from those dangerous scythes and ran northward at an initially exploratory pace, perhaps testing the pursuit speed of the frog-beasts.

Lionel | Reyv’kla’s scythes dig into the snow-capped grass and it howls manically, boiling with a burst of anger that this tasty morsel should elude it so. Again, the guttural sounds of slaad language are spoken: “Angh arak’kha, kh’va L’io’n’k’el!” The other slaad, hot in their pursuit of a man who has begun a northward, uphill trek, all bow their heads in subservience at the command and take off in a gallop. But the gallop is slower than anything Krice can achieve, and one of the slaad stops and jerks its frog-like face to its brood-lord at the sight of fresh-drawn blue-black blood trickling down Reyv’kla’s side. Krice’s second strike has proven more fruitful than his first. This observant slaad, twitching to determine the extent of Reyv’kla’s injury, has made a potentially fatal error; Reyv’kla hisses at the blow to its pride and drops its scythes in order to scoop up the slaad. It panics and flails, but its superior’s strength is unparalleled among the pack. It cannot escape Reyv’kla’s grasp, nor can it prevent Reyv’kla from tossing it many meters to fall like a blubbery blue boulder upon Krice if he isn’t quick to evade. Reyv’kla growls again, collects its scythes, ignores its wound and charges ahead with legs so strong that it breaks past the four other slaad still giving chase. In fact, it meets and exceeds Krice’s exploratory pace, gaining with enough haste that it readies another swing for the nape of the man’s neck. As the climb grows steeper and steeper still, however, those other four slaad just cannot keep up. They wheeze and claw at the snow, prying themselves onward in what is becoming more of a trot than a hunt.

Krice had put enough initial distance between himself and the brood that he could look over a shoulder and slow down to observe the interaction between Reyv'kla and its unfortunate underling. That wasn't expected, but it didn't surprise him. In the short time he had to watch the ensuing confusion, the warrior noted that his second strike had proven true, that the remaining four slaad were in fact slow and sloppy in pursuit -and Reyv'kla was head and shoulders - and drool and scythes - above them. Their leader was his truest threat. Rather than running at a pace that put him in harm's way, the warrior quickened to continue northward but had to parry from his original trajectory to avoid being crushed in the descent of that slaughtered batrachian. It landed with a notable squelch in a spray of snow and wet soil, which dusted the warrior's left side. He could feel the impact of Reyv'kla's advancing footfalls through the earth and knew that the brood-lord was leading. With the other four gone from the fight for now, Krice attuned his focus most predominantly on their stronger, faster lord. Air howled behind him, protesting the violent swing of Reyv'kla's scythe and further alerting the enigma to an incoming blow. He dropped and pivoted right, movements exceeding his usual evasive width to compensate for the toad-master's size. A quiet grunt from behind Reyv'kla would let it know that Krice had not only made his way around to the rear with immeasurable haste, but that his strike had at last drawn blood from its prey. Crimson speckled the snow from a gash in the warrior's upper arm, the scythe blade cutting through shirt-cloth and flesh as he evaded. The wound could have been worse, but it didn't slow him. He continued to move, ever-quickening to see just how insistent this hideous, sentient blob was - and to test the limits of its speed. Clearly Reyv'kla possessed formidable strength.

Lionel | Reyv’kla snorts, its lips twisting into an impish grin again as it examines the running man, its multicolored head bobbing with the motion. If Krice wishes to know how insistent the brood-lord is, he’s not likely to find an end to that insistence anytime soon. It lurches forward, splattering blood from its right-handed scythe as it takes off in a sprint again. The earth protests those big, bulbous legs, snow and grass and dirt flung to and fro. The creature passes the corpse of its own murdered lackey, the poor inquisitive amphibian face distorted into a pulp of blue-black liquid. Reyv’kla’s speed is impressive not only for its hulking frame but by any other metric. It keeps to the chase, although Krice may observe the fact that whilst it had once moved its thighs at a conventional pace, it is now leaping like the toads in its apparent biology. It leaps to a jagged rock, then leaps across the icy pass to another, as if they were lilypads in some pond. All-the-while, the other slaad watch their leader and emulate, leaping at a slower pace and with considerable distance to cross if they should ever hope to reach their prey. It won’t be easy; Krice is, after all, quickening the tempo with each passing second. Perhaps it is of more immediate concern to note the approaching of various fauna upon the pass: Lithrydel is alive with wildlife, even in these higher elevations. A pheng swoops low from its mountaintop roost, its autumnal feathers in full reveal when it spreads its six-meter wingspan and screeches. It’s encircling the bipeds down below, examining them with a predator’s eyes. It sees Krice, it sees Reyv’kla, it sees the other slaad; to the pheng, they’re all meat. The only question in its primal mind is: how much risk does a taste entail? The pheng’s screech has alerted an elk, which stops in sudden disarray as it sees the quickening Krice coming closer. This blunder costs it its life, for the alpha male in a pack of winter wolves leaps onto the elk and rips its throat out. The rest of the pack pauses and tenses, ready to pounce if necessary, as Krice and his pursuer come upon their territory. The pheng swoops lower still, talons outstretched, and begins pecking and slicing into the lagging slaad underlings...

Krice had a lot to look out for, but so too did Reyv'kla. This was -Krice's- domain, filled with wildlife with which he was far more familiar than the toad-lord giving chase. He remained ahead of Reyv'kla and understood that it wasn't likely to give up any time soon. Who had more stamina? It was a question that likely wouldn't be answered in this pursuit due to the interjection of a hungry draconid swooping in from the mountaintops. His lips pinched together in some unspoken apology for distracting the cervine and ultimately causing its death, but at least it served as distraction for a previously unannounced pack of wolves who loped onto the scene. Just one went in for the kill while its pack looked on, and Krice subconsciously thought back to the echoing howl of a canine cry that he had heard a minute or two before the arrival of the frog-squad. That had been their announcement. In the ensuing battle between the warrior and his batrachian foes, his senses had drowned out all sounds not associated with sloshing flesh, drooling jaws, and swinging scythes. Whether for fear of his own health or that of the wolves, the silver-haired enigma pivoted to run back at the leaping Reyv'kla, seeking to pass just a few metres north of the brood-lord. He closed the distance too swiftly for a blinking eye to track and sought the mountain path once more, reaching the frosted highlands with Reyv'kla in tow, the slaad slaughter at their backs - presuming Reyv'kla had not moved in such a way as to intercept him.Once in line again with the north-to-south path between Frostmaw and Xalious, Krice would skid to a halt and turn to face his single pursuer, wolves distracted with their elk-meal and pheng entertained by the slower frog-beasts further downhill. Snow sprayed outward in a tight arc from the side of his stopping boot, blood dribbled through the fabric of his shirt to run in thin rivulets between his knuckles, and he readied his sword for another dance with the towering mass of silk-clad flab.

Lionel | Here upon this snow-soaked path, Reyv’kla and Krice would have themselves a duel. For all the chase, all the leaps, all the cuts and all the furor, it has come down to this thin stretch of land. With its pack jumping upon the pheng’s wings, sustaining grievous wounds as they bring it down and bash it, Reyv’kla is alone. They’re dozens of meters downhill, their shrill cries of pain and bloodlust muffled by the billowing black wind of soot and ash traveling down from the mountains. The wolves devour the elk, as Reyv’kla will soon be devouring Krice. The savage thought flickers through its head, steeling its bulging nerves against the pain in its side. Another thought flickers: the gorgeous silver overcoat, with its slashes of cloth-of-gold, has been ruined. This elicits a fierce and haughty growl. Blood drips down the torn fabric as Reyv’kla breaks the stalemate with a direct charge, holding its left scythe horizontally to skewer through Krice’s neck whilst its right scythe is held diagonally to rip sickeningly through flesh from shoulder to hip. Reyv’kla’s sizable jaw opens, too, spewing saliva this way and that. If the scythes don’t do the trick, a nice clean oral decapitation might.

Krice would try to remember to thank Lithrydel Nature after the battle for her timely involvement in his battle. Though he could have found a way to handle all six batrachia on his own, be it by killing them all or killing only a few and needing to avoid the rest, he didn't shirk the unintended assistance. He flexed his right hand's fingers, testing the strength and endurance of his injured arm, and seemed none too bothered by the gash pervading the sinew of his bicep. In the short time allowed by Reyv'kla's pause and consideration of his damaged attire, the silver-haired enigma flicked goop and blood off his katana before sheathing it once more. Quite an odd maneuver right before the charge of a hulking monster wielding two scythes swung to deal mortal damage, but there it was. Crimson eyes moved left and right at subtle but quick angles, scanning Reyv'kla's technique, his pace, his skill, in his advancement of the warrior's location. Krice remained right where he was, waiting for the toad-lord to bridge the space between them. As Reyv'kla drew back his left scythe to swing for his neck, the warrior displaced snow and soil in a timed lunge with both arms outstretched to grip the staff of that deadly weapon. This negated the frog's open maw, as well as the swing from that secondary scythe. Momentum swung him around its lengthy structure and he angled himself over Reyv'kla's shoulder blades to land on his left shoulder on one knee with his right leg dangling behind him, boot-tip seeking purchase somewhere amid the silk-covered flab of the brood-lord's back. His right palm, still mostly dry despite bloodflow from the wound above it, gripped at the beast's collar and then for something more substantial; a fold of flesh in its nape, if available. With a guttural grunt announcing his malicious intent, Krice procured a dagger from its midriff-holster beneath his shirt, flipped it in his fingers, and drove it down in an attempt to pierce the large toad's throat, doing so as quickly as his superhuman musculature allowed to avoid further attacks at such close proximity. If successful, Krice would twist the dagger hilt-deep and drive it through perceived vital arteries in Reyv'kla's throat, seeking the death-blow. If not successful, well…

Lionel | Reyv’kla rages and raves, clawing around itself in a feckless bid to skewer this… this parasite that has latched itself on top! What a vile sweet-meat, using Reyv’kla’s own weaponry and bulk against it! The sweet-meat’s boot is well-struck, and with such sturdy scales it can do no more than agitate, but it is very successful at agitation! Reyv’kla snarls. “Ahg or’rak, L’ion’k’el!” Its slurred, garbled speech is demanding. It demands that the orders its Master Kahran had provided be followed through to the letter. It demands that this parasite be slain, as Master Kahran demanded. Reyv’kla is filled with demands, and it drops one scythe and clutches the other with both grips now, and it leaps with reckless abandon. And then it leaps again, each leap full of feral force in a bid to remove Krice from upon its back. The leaps come erratically, and numerous times Reyv’kla slams into rocks and rubble. Then, Reyv’kla’s perspective distorts; it sees the world through the Shadow Plane’s prism, then back to this one, then to the Plane again, and on and on it goes, and the Plane’s skeletons with their thousands of ill-feeding worms flash through Reyv’kla’s optics, and Krice will see this too, for they are both of them warping in and out of that slate-grey abode. “Ahg or’rak, L’ion’k’el! Ahg or’rak, Lionel!” The last words Reyv’kla speaks are the only time it manages to overcome its poor tongue and say the name correctly. And then Krice’s dagger strikes true, and blue-black blood sprays like a geyser, and the brood-lord collapses in a heap, dead.

Krice liked the scales. They provided the perfect purchase for his booted feet, keeping him mounted atop Reyv'kla's shoulders. When the brood-lord maneuvered in violent, high-leaping motions in a bid to throw him, the warrior gripped tight and stood atop his shoulders and back with a bend-and-stiffen rhythm to his legs, similarly to a jockey on horseback; deadening the blow of impact, lessening the likelihood that he would lose his grip. With a blue-black spray of blood, and the feel of flesh depressing beneath and then giving way to his dagger, Krice knew that his strike had been true and he followed up with a twist and jagged jerk of the blade through blubber, to make -sure- that Reyv'kla would fall dead. The warrior fell with it, rolling off its hulking back with the impact and grunting onto his hands and knees shortly after. He coughed once and lifted his head, too tired - perhaps from blood loss? - to immediately rise from the ground, in search of the remaining slaad. Had the pheng dispatched them all? After a moment spent to gather himself, Krice pushed to his feet and returned to Reyv'kla's carcass to retrieve the last-wielded scythe from its flabby webbed fingers, ready to strike, just in case. He blinked hard, once, clearing away the imagery of that odd in-and-out warp-vision between his realm and the other.

Lionel | Krice will not find the remaining slaad. Down the trail, a heap of feathers and flesh and bone and beak marks the corpse of a fallen pheng, but none of the slaad are anywhere to be seen. This is peculiar in that they had all been wounded, all of them. That they should all live, and live to make such good speed elsewhere, is unlikely. Confounding matters, their footprints are all concentrated in that singular space where the pheng’s remains can be found, and the only path taken beforehand is the one full of leaps leading from their place of origin. Even their blood is hard to spot, although a few stray drops can be seen. Just not enough. Not by a long shot. Beyond the pheng, snow-sprayed open ground marks the whereabouts of the dead slaad flung like a boulder, but it, too, is missing. Should Krice turn around quickly enough, Reyv’kla’s corpse will seem to shimmer faintly in a reddish haze before vanishing without a trace. One of its scythes is gone, too, but Krice can keep the other; perhaps in holding the scythe, he has unwittingly prevented its departure. The Northern Highlands go cold and quiet again as a pack of wolves nibble on their elk, but their eyes are enough to plainly see that they’re disturbed by this as well. When they’re finished feasting, they return to their den with a caution.

Krice flexed his fingers around the scythe and his mind belatedly moved to the odd language spoken by Reyv'kla. In amongst that guttural drivel was a familiar sound: 'Lionel'. He squinted pensively and looked down at the felled brood-lord, his expression one of tired bemusement. Now why would an oversized amphibian from another plane be interested in a human--granted, legendary in these parts--from -this- plane? Right before his eyes, the once materialized beast shimmered and then dissipated from view, and the warrior drove the butt of the scythe into the ground where once the beast lay, as if testing invisibility versus actual disappearance. The latter seemed most likely. He scanned his surroundings, noting the pack of wolves several metres away feasting on their kill, the dead pheng a few metres -south-, and nothing but feathers and sparsely-dropped blood to indicate that there had been a battle here at all. What the hell? He turned his head again, looking at the staff in his hand. Did it exude any magic? He could sense something emanating from the weapon, buzzing beneath his fingers, and he winced - likely at the discomfort in his opposite arm - before releasing the scythe to clank on the ground. And clank it did, not disappearing like its twin, or the horde of ghastly frog-beasts that came with them. Peculiar. He looked around, scanned his surroundings through dwindling vision for any sign of the squad. Nothing. It was all clear and quiet as it had been before the battle. -Very- peculiar. He would need to speak of this soon to the man whose name Reyv'kla had finally been able to enunciate: Lionel.