Finders Keepers

[Arkash]

69th of Ash, 120

Of all the times Arkash could've gotten off at the wrong stop, it had to be during the stretch of endless wilderness. How was he to know where to go? He'd never rode a train before. Hell, he'd not even been beyond Nivenhain's neighboring forests before, but there he was, trudging through knee-deep snow in the middle of nowhere. The leather boots that wrapped his claws proved to be a worthwhile investment, as Arkash surely would have perished already without them.
The frost-laced winds battered the sack of goods, treated hides, and the sling that adorned his back, and threatened to creep beneath the fur trims that framed his sleeves. Arkash wrapped his one arm around his chest to further preserve his warmth while he walked. His steel prosthetic dangled from its strap over his shoulder. He couldn't wear it because of the metal that made its body. Whenever the steel was saddled on his stump, he found the metal grow warm while his body turned cold. It must have been something to do with how the heat moved through contact.
The fact left Arkash armless in the frosty winds while his one eye scanned the speckled gray landscape for cover, for some sort of cave or a ledge to crawl under. Of course, there was always the possibility that he found the city before he found cover, too. All he had to do was follow the rail from a distance. Hollows and oversees maintained the rails, and shoveled the snow from the tracks to allow the train safe passage.
That didn't work all too well for Arkash, as he was made to follow the ridge of the shoveled snow in place of an actual rail to guide him to the city. The terrifying thought that the rail might fork and guide him deeper into the frozen wilds clung to him like a shadow, but like all things, Arkash suppressed his fear and pushed on. All he could do was hope that he would find the city or some cover soon, as he couldn't last in the frigid fields forever.
Unfortunately, Arkash's paranoia followed him even to the snowy wastes, as he considered the possibility of being followed. A glance over his shoulder caught a faceful of snowflakes and biting cold air, but he saw the trail, the rut he made as he pushed through. It wouldn't be hard to find him if some madman wanted to. That led to yet another fear, as Arkash wondered if he could somehow step on some trap and lose his leg. The thought brought him such dread that he slowed to a halt in the snow. What would he even do in such a situation? If he were to suddenly feel iron teeth cut into his flesh and squeeze his shin, how would he escape? He wasn't strong enough to open such a trap, regardless of whether he had two arms or one. Would he have to chew his leg off?
Sense returned to him, and he found himself standing in the frosty winds. With a gasp, Arkash steadied himself, swallowed hard, then continued to walk. The cold had a habit of stopping and starting his brain, and he'd forgotten his anxiety and caution, only to recall the moment he drove his toes into something hard and cold. A muffled clank rang out as his foot met the steel object below, and Arkash leaned forward in an effort to stay his cry of pain. A low hiss left his lips as he lifted his foot, and squeezed it with his one claw. What idiot had left a piece of metal buried under the snow? His one eye widened as he realized; it must have been a trap, but... why hadn't it set off the moment he kicked it? It couldn't have been that good of a trap, evidently.
Still, Arkash's curiosity got the better of him, and he ducked to give himself a brief and minor respite from the billowing winds to inspect the supposed trap. With his one set of claws, he brushed the snow aside and found... some sort of metal egg? Arkash furrowed his one working brow, then gripped the egg and pulled on it, immediately he encountered far more weight than he was expecting, as it prevented him from standing with a sudden tug on his shoulder. After a brief, muttered curse, Arkash bent his knees, then pressed into his heels to lift the heavy egg, only to find some sort of metallic plate attached. As he pulled, a layer of the snow on the floor peeled away to reveal the circular plating, and arkash strained to lift it to his chest, where he held it for a moment.
It must have been his lucky day: As a general rule of thumb, if it was heavy and made of metal, it was probably expensive. The strange egg plate he carried was both metallic and weighty to lift, but he could carry it fine so long as he paused every once in a while, he reckoned. So, Arkash placed the flat side on the snow, then slung his backpack from his shoulder and opened the lid to undo the wide opening on the ground. Inside were a number of things he'd gathered for the job ahead, but they'd be fine, he trusted. With the use of the claw on his de-saddled prosthetic, he held the bag open and eased the strange egg plate into its cover before he tied the bag shut, then hefted it onto his back. Once he was secure, he proceeded through the snowy wasteland with a wider gait, as to not kick any more eggs.

Minutes later, Arkash happened upon a shallow cave in the ground; more of a pit with a roof. Tired from the weight of the plate egg and the merciless wind, Arkash made a bee-line for the natural shelter and slung his bag to the floor. There, he began to rip up exposed roots with his claws and gathered them into a pile. They were dry enough to ignite, he believed, so he produced a piece of flint from his idle bag, and struck the hook of his saddled prosthetic to fling some sparks into the floor of the pit. A nod relayed his approval, and he reached into the bag again to fetch his tinder box.
The cold had started to impede him, both physically and mentally. He needed a fire while he rested, or it would be for naught. So, he set up a small pile of tinder and pressed it with the hook of his prosthetic, and struck it with the flint again to fly sparks at the dried leaves and grass. It took a total of three tries to ignite the tinder, but he got there in the end. Using his hook he gently eased the burning tinder into the roots he'd piled. Immediately, there was no reaction, and Arkash cursed. The roots were too wet to ignite, he believed, only to be proven wrong a moment later when they caught fire and began to burn.
A smile pulled at his features as the amber flame shined in the back of his round pupil, and he removed his prosthetic to gather up more roots to burn with the use of his dagger.

[Taelian Edevane]

"The Beacon's been moved," the woman said. She wore black attire -- Noble-like, with a fur trim around her collar -- and had her hair woven into shape by clips of pearls. Surrounding him were mages, of all breeds. Most of them were from Lorien, though their backgrounds varied; Celebrant, Argent, Lustrian, Savant, some even less. His own peers, the auxiliary force from the Covenant, were scattered through the number of the Pact as they briefed one another on their missions and other ongoings.

Taelian -- Stephan Lange to them -- stood quietly as he stared to the map of Lorien, spread across the surface of the table. Ash was soon coming to a close, with Frost coming before long. He had been warned that the worst of the Kindred's assaults would come then -- he wondered if they were beginning to, as the cold intensified, act now. Jeddoth had died only a few days prior; what a better time for retribution?

"Stephan," Eloise called to him. "You will go to the point where the Beacon was carried from. It appears, from Hagerd's observation, that it has not gone very far."

"Alone?" he clarified. Immediately, the Sil'norai's features took on a more skeptical gaze.

"Yes? Is that somehow concerning to you? You are among the most qualified; resistance to cold, a master in Transposition..."

The mage bit his lower lip. "What if there's a Kindred there? And the Order? It could be a... a trap," he anxiously reminded her.

"You are a Thespian, Taelian," she whispered. "I did not make you one of the highest among our Covenant for your cowardice. You are an incredible warrior and mage alike, and I believe -- and you should as well -- that you could handle even one of them. You've faced them before, just not alone. The only thing that has changed since then is your experience."

And, his alternatives, he supposed. If his fears were true -- and he had to imagine they were -- he could at least form a Lychgate and escape. Due to Stephan's mutations he was perhaps the most qualified for these successive, long-distance jumps, as forging portals and traversing through space was far less detrimental to him than others.

"Alright," he whispered. The space before him opened in the shape of a porthole, expanding outward to a circle lined with a running vortex, taking on the appearance of the wind as his Rune gathered the natural energy around it to power the portal. He viewed the mapped coordinates, closing his eyes. Stephan performed Farsight, then, reaching out with his mind. From an overview he looked upon the barren fields of snow, projecting his aether through his sight as the two Nodes collided from across the distance. Both sides of the Lychgate were formed. Without resistance, the mage stepped through, surrounded by that same plain of snow.

He frowned, grimacing. Taelian wore regal attire, the simple satin garbs of a Nobleman, with only a decorative layer of fox-fur around his neck. His chest was slightly open, revealing the edges of his upper torso and pectorals. The man appeared woefully underdressed for the East End's bitter chill, yet he was not so concerned. He had his own Beacon, firing through the tattered shell of his soul.

The Sil'norai drew Ard Fuil, with the molten-ember of Sigilic Pyromancy bleeding through the blade as a single line through the center. With his offhand, he drew yet another Enkindled blade, and five more Enkindled daggers began to dance around his lower side, withdrawing seemingly telekinetically from his satchel. The appearance of a dark, reddish amber flame appeared around the hand that gripped his secondary sword. The Sil'norai looked around for any Specters or Shades, only to spot one not too far in the distance, among the falling snow. He zipped to it with Reverb, and let go of his blade, the weapon also beginning to levitate around him as if anchored. Taelian gripped the fragile, dissipating skull of the Shade.

"Who took it...?!" he yelled. The Ebon Knight appeared enraged.

"I... I don't... I... I don't..." the Shade mumbled, repeating the same words thrice again. "I-I saw a beast... a beast take it within his maw... a beast of black feathers and dark desires... to the pit... there," it pointed. Taelian's eyes followed the ghost's shaky fingers; he could see the earth rising from above the snow, in the near-distance of his view. Acknowledging the information, the mage nodded, and destroyed the apparition. He turned to the direction of the pit and quickly performed Reverb once more, zooming towards the entrance at incomparable speeds. If Arkash did hear him, he would perceive a strange blast of movement against the snow, the mage making his own windfall.

He immediately opened a Window into the pit, by the ceiling, projecting his energy behind the initial mound of stone. Within, he caught view of... a man, it appeared, and one who did not match the description offered by the Shade at all. Though that was commonly the case.

The Window closed. Beneath where it was -- and Arkash would surely see it -- a secondary portal opened, a small vortex of swirling air that seemed to puncture reality. Taelian connected it to one before him, and peered through to see exactly where the man was. With his fist, he aimed at the center of the Lychgate, and fired Glare from his knuckles, a laser-like red beam of compressed fire moving through one end of the portal and out of the other, via Aetheric Redirection.

The rapid, rail-like beam would quickly fire into the cave, Taelian intending to kill the man instantly. Only... it missed. The mage cursed what he perceived as a fault in his aim, and straightened his fist, only to fire again.

[Arkash]

Arkash was indiscriminate in his cuts. One swipe of his knife carried no more weight than the next, and the rest that followed flowed with incredible ease. His victims were nigh indistinguishable from one another, except in size and weight, but they all served a purpose. Arkash's preservation came from their sacrifice; it was the burning of their forms that fed him the life-sustaining warmth that steadily filled the air of the ditch he'd crawled into. When at last his task was done, Arkash sat beside the fire and extended his claws.
A sigh left him, and he began to relax as the flames warmed his body.
His yellow eye showed a shade of gold in the amber light while his dead eye stared on motionlessly. There, Arkash considered the task ahead of him: The journey through the snowy wastes, the murder of a noble, then the trip home which would be... difficult, if he was caught. All of his efforts for the past few weeks had been dedicated to seeing his task through, and until that day, Arkash had encountered no major or hard stops. Granted, the fact that he'd gotten off the train too early was quite a hurdle to overcome, but so long as he found the city or another pit to hide in before he ran out of warmth, he would be fine.
A boom sounded above when Arkash's leather clothing had grown warm to the touch. Naturally, he looked to the clumpy earth that made the ceiling with mild concern. What had caused such a noise? Some animal? A hollow? Arkash's heart sank, and he pressed his claws to the ground when he considered the possibilities. Were the Argent after him? He'd not encountered a knight in battle before, but he'd heard tales of their prowess. Arkash held completely still in the amber light of his root fire and listened to the howl of the wind beyond the cover of his hidey-hole. From there, he tried to discern what was happening.
He didn't have to wonder for too long, as some sort of hole appeared before him. Arkash looked with his one eye and gripped the ground with his claws. He'd never seen anything like it before, but through it, he saw the sky, the rush of the blizzard, and some tall man aiming his fist. The uncertainty and mystery welled his heart with fear and panic, and he found his mouth filling with venom. The urge to run from the alien situation, the construct that he didn't understand weighed heavy in his mind, but his body just became tense like a coiled spring. The moment red light appeared, Arkash was flat to the floor. Over him, a searing hot beam of power burned through the ground and blasted the earth above with such intensity that the stone itself seemed to melt. Arkash hissed in pain, as the radiance of the strike alone burned his exposed scales with heat akin to long days in the sun, and steamed his leathers.
Arkash found himself panting; he was too hot. Such a thing had never happened before, not in the likes of Lorien. Even in the season of Searing, on days where Arkash spent the entirety of his time beside an open fire, he'd never been as hot as he was in those moments. Every breath that left his lungs was a large cloud of condensation, and smoke appeared to flow from his dried-out, burned form. If that beam had struck him, he would have died. Hell, Arkash wasn't sure he couldn't have been much closer without suffering serious life-threatening burns. The moment it stopped, Arkash rolled over his head and landed on all threes with his body poised to leap. A dash at his prosthetic arm saw him slip the appendage on and briefly fiddle with the straps before he took his bag at the hook and dashed for the exit.
His whole body steamed as he entered the cold wilderness, and the leathers that adorned his overheating form cooled quickly. He dove across the ground to evade a second laser whether it came or not, and he rolled down a slight slope out of the line of fire from the beam. His prosthetic barely clung on, but the bag was still in tow. From his knee, he tightened a few of the support straps and lifted his head to pull his face into the frigid air, which rapidly cooled him. With whatever time he had, he adjusted the support bracer of his prosthetic arm, then made a mad dash across the knee-deep snow. He ran in a wide arc while he tightened the straps of his prosthetic, and spied his attacker from the corner of his vision. The man was giant; like no height he'd ever seen on any human, except on elves and... Argent.
Venom poured liberally from his crooked lips and tears welled in his eye at the realization: The Argent had come for him at last; the legendary warriors he'd heard so much about, one of them was there to kill him. How could he fight a man that could melt the earth? He couldn't! The argent must have also been a mage, as he knew of nothing that could open holes in the world, nor blast the ground with such heat that it burned him from a distance.
Everythign stang, but the cold numbed his scales and adrenaline kept the pain at bay. If he was going down, he at least wanted to leave a mark. So, he readied his hook, then turned on a dime by gripping the ground with his claws, and made a mad charge for the Argent with flecks of drool flying from his lips.

[Taelian Edevane]

As the creature escaped his hole, the Argent frowned. He had managed to evade his Glare twice, but did not appear to be particularly special; a lone, strange and desperate thing, escaping the fiery grip of death by running into the icy one. He evaded, his bag in tow, but before long he appeared to turn and catch a glimpse of Taelian, and Taelian caught a glimpse back. Though he wasn't so clear from the snow, he did not appear to be a man. What sort of odd creature he was, though, was not of whole certainty...

Until he began to charge at him, some foreign liquid dripping from his maw. Considering the circumstances -- the snow and the winds -- he ran quickly. Taelian immediately moved the daggers around him, launching them towards the strange, dark-scaled beast. Each of the four daggers quickly surrounded the other man as he ran forward, blocking his way by fanning out before him. If Arkash ran through them, he would be gashed across his shoulders and thighs, while the Argent lifted his offhand blade shortly after and flung it towards the lizard's neck, ready to cleave.

He bade for him to pause, raising his fist and aiming it towards him. Now, he could see him clearly enough. He was a Rathari... and a damaged one at that. Injured in so many, different ways. He was alone; no Order, none of their garbs, no Kindred. A desperate wanderer who had taken refuge in that pit with a small fire.

The Sil'norai almost felt bad, nearly killing him. If the Rathari looked to him at the moment of his realization, he would see a deep frown overtaking his expression.

"You're a Rathari, aren't you?" he asked. Taelian remembered the words that Queen Luteria had told him: that the Rathari were their kin, separated by mutilation and pain. That, in truth, they had been Elven once like them. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to mean anything now, but seeing the mangled man filled him with an odd, wrenching dismay. An unexpected empathy.

"You took my Beacon," Taelian informed him. "That metal stand with the orb -- it belongs to me. That's why I'm hunting you; I thought you were with the Omen. We've been using those things to..."

He paused, uncertain that he should reveal so much. He was not aware of the man's affiliation, not yet. "Never-mind that. Why are you out here, alone, in the snow? This land is Kindred-roamed. The best you'll find out here is laboring Hollows; the worst, Old Knights, those fucking ravens, or a Blightborg. There's nothing to scavenge. Even that Beacon would probably just get you your head lopped off; it's an object of treason."

The mage's brows furrowed as he examined the other man more. He was a lizard; he must have been cold, out in the snow. Then again, Taelian had no concept of how the Rathari even worked. Whether they were cold or warm blooded... he did not know that it changed based upon their form, and had no concept of the science in general. He only knew that he needed to get back his sodding egg.

[Arkash]

Arkash ran at the knight with deadly intent. The contents of his bag rattled and bumped against his back with every step, as he moved with reckless abandon without concern for the state of his back or his belongings. For him, it was a suicide charge, his final act of defiance against the world's will. Arkash had asserted time and time again that he would no longer follow the path fate laid for him. Submission and relent were lost to him, he'd make the world bend before he did. That was until the Argent's daggers flew toward him, and Arkash's nigh-iron will broke in the face of the threat.
The rath leaned back and dug his claws in to hold his momentum, and bared his teeth as he came to a pause right before the burning, enkindled blades. They were of a similar appearance to Asmodei's sword when he used his magic on it. Could it be that the Argent attacking him was a sigilic pyromancer? Was that what caused the supernatural beam of energy? Could Asmodei perform such a feat? All those questions remained in the back of his head, as far more pressing thoughts took the forefront of his mind.
The fifth dagger came to rest before his neck, and Arkash stared through his teary eye at his attacker. Rage and spite filled him in the face of his demise, but he'd been ready to go for a long time. All it would take was one more step to puncture his jugular and end his pitiful story by drowning in his own blood. The thought to do it himself crossed his mind; he wanted to fall on his own terms. But, the part of his broken psyche that still clung to sanity and reason whispered the possibility that he wouldn't die there that day, that the knight could have easily killed him already if that was his intent. Hope remained in his heart.
The burning hate in his eyes met Taelian's deep frown. What was that in the Argent's gaze? Pity? Arkash's blood boiled at the thought, but the excess heat in his steaming body didn't help to stay his anger. The argent had no right to pity him; it was their kind that left him crippled and alone, their oppressive hold on the nameless and their use of hollows. Everything Arkash had suffered was partly their fault, so why did the Argent stare at him in that way?
You're a rathari, aren't you? he asked. Why? The argent knew who he was, didn't they? Something even more confusing was the man's accent. What part of Lorien was he from? He certainly wasn't from Nivenhain. Perhaps that argent didn't know of his wanted status? But why had he attacked Arkash? "Wha's i' to ya?" he spoke through the flow of venom and spit that hung from his crooked lips. His body was fully ready to bite and inject his venomous payload into whatever threat he perceived and his palette ran dry; thirsty for the taste of liquid copper. It was a self-defense mechanism, one Arkash often obliged. But that wasn't an option with the knives separating him from his attacker.
The enigma that was the Knight became clear as he explained himself to the rathari. He wasn't attacking Arkash because he was a criminal, but because of something the rath had taken. Arkash furrowed his one brow while the other remained still, dead in the sideways snowfall. The orb? part of him didn't want to listen, his body was still on edge, ready to face his meaningless death, but he recognized the Argent's words, the object he sought. Arkash had stolen his egg, but how was he to know it was important? He'd just thought it was some treasure some expensive broken trap someone had discarded, buried under the snow.
The knight went on to explain his mistake. He'd thought Arkash was Omen? That made the knight... part of that resistance. He was one of the people hunting the kindred, so not an Argent? Arkash said nothing on the subject, and maintained his rage-fuelled gaze. The emotional high he was on was difficult to come down from; preparing one's self for a suicide charge wasn't something Arkash did often.
Nonetheless, the knight went on to ask what Arkash was doing there in the snow, and the rath held his stare. His labored breathing slowed, and the puffs of condensation that ran from his partly-open maw ramped down. The land he was on was apparently dangerous. In a way, he was lucky that the knight had found him instead of one of the kindred, or a Blightbog - whatever that was. His throat burned while he reviewed the events that had lead to his near-death experience, and he finally began to come down from the heat of his charge. A hard slurp saw him draw the freezing cold streaks of amber venom-laced spit that dangled from his lips into his maw, where he swallowed. "I jus'... gorrof the tre'n att'a wrong stop," he explained with misery in his tone.
"I wus tryi'na getta Lienburg, but I've neva rode th' tre'n before, neva been to th' East End an' I didn' know what t' do..." he trailed on, then motioned to the heap of shoveled snow far in the fog of the whiteout, where the rail was. He sniffled a little, and choked before he continued "I couldn't just we't for th' tre'n agen, so I started walkin' an' kicked ya stupid egg an' hurt me foot - i' still hurts - an' decided t' taek i', an' then 'ew started shootin' me an' I though' I was gonna die...!" His sniffling and choking had built to full sobbing and tears, which ran down the side of his face while he pathetically slurped his running venom and spit.
He cried a quiet sob and lifted his claws to his eye to wipe the tears from his scales, then moved his hand down the length of his muzzle to wipe off any stray streaks of venom while he swallowed the flow as it poured. "I dun' even wan' youer stupid egg," he added with a breath of composure, though he was still fairly upset.

[Taelian Edevane]

If Taelian wasn't looking to him with pity before, he was now. Crying, fallen, held back by his blades and burying his feet in the snow -- defeated. He was ready to fight to his very last in that final moment, speaking of a desperation the Argent had not often before seen. It reminded him of his fellow Ebon Knights, how they would charge so sorrowfully at the Dranoch, witnessing so many of their peers die. Ready to join with them, perhaps abandoning living hope of the revolution, and yet... chasing after a better fate in death. Muid. Something more.

His frown widened, as he eyed every corner of the man's frame. He was missing an arm, or rather; he had replaced one with a mechanical sort of limb, the work of a standard smith, unimaginable to Taelian who knew men capable of making much better. The pity became clear in his stare, until he lowered his gaze so as to not demean the other man. The Sil'norai huffed a soft sigh, before pulling away his daggers and blade, returning them to his side. He allowed the wretched lizard to speak.

And to his curiosity -- and even dismay -- the man had a thick, class-coated accent, of a caliber Taelian had not yet met in this land. He almost had a difficult time understanding him, particularly with the roar of the winds and their relative distance from one another. That, and... the accent was such a clear divergence from all of the daffodil-lipped Celebrant and underlings he'd met since coming here, the contrast was almost repulsive for a moment. Then, he remembered: long ago, before Aldrin and Vendrael had beaten it out of him, he spoke something like that. Like a rat in the Elainian streets, without a home. He stayed any judgments, and sheathed his final blade, only in time for the man to sob.

"Listen--" he paused. The man was excreting some strange liquid; he couldn't even tell what it was. He was drooling and mewling both as he spoke, getting out his mash of words -- already through his thick tongue -- but with a cry shattering his words' continuity and making him further difficult to listen to. Still, Taelian tried his best to understand him. He got off on the wrong stop with the train, likely having come from Nivenhain on the viaduct. He couldn't just wait, so he decided to walk...

The mage shook his head. "You can't just do that, my scaled friend. You have no idea how dangerous these frozen wilds are. To be frank, I don't either. I only know that I've been advised ad nauseum not to explore them on foot, or alone."

He supposed he'd already proven himself right, firing Glare repeatedly at a stranger. Now, he only felt rotten. He could've easily killed this poor man for nothing but his own jumpiness; that was not the sort of person he wanted himself to be. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to attack some stranger -- I was told that the Beacon must've been taken by the Omen. You must understand; the odds of your foot hitting this thing in a thousand-mile snowy wasteland... it's infinitely small. We had to assume its magic was tracked and it was retrieved by the enemy. And we have to strike first against the Kindred, or..."

Perhaps the other man would see his words as a plethora of excuses, but he knew -- as apologetic as he was -- that he did have his reasonings. He only realized that he should've investigated further before firing his first shot. If he had watched Arkash for a while longer, he would have realized that he was no member of the Omen.

Taelian released a warm wave of ether towards the Rathari, trying to relieve the man as he stood in the wintry cold. It would feel like a summery climate, elsewhere; a bubble, insulted from the frost. It was... a show of good faith, hospitality for the serpent, though it wouldn't persist nearly so long as he would stalk these snowy fields. "What's your name?" he asked. "Mine is Taelian." He wasn't supposed to tell people his real name, but -- given they were hundreds of miles from Brandt, he didn't mind. "Why don't you let me help you, yeah? I can get you to Lienburg; I have portals, I can take you anywhere you want in a mere moment. Why do you want to go there, though? I've heard that the Kindred are clamping down on the East End. They killed a number of Baringers recently; they're enforcing their rule. I can't imagine wanting to get nearer to the heart of those monsters and their den," he spat.

[Arkash]

The danger he'd been thrown into receded as the foreigner withdrew his knives, but it made little difference to Arkash. Did he care that he'd nearly been killed by some sort of god mage? Evidently enough to cry. Regardless of his disposition, the shock of something so severe was enough to bring him to Tears.
He must have looked pathetic; he certainly felt so. He'd been so ready to die, ready to finally see his struggle end. But when it came down to the threat of the blade, he froze. He couldn't face his death with courage; he couldn't accept the end, even if some part of him wanted to end at last. So, he cried. His one eye shut and streamed tears while he worked continuously to swallow his venom before it spilled from his lips. He wasn't so much sobbing anymore as he was working through his panic attack, but it still left him short of breath and wet of cheek.
He was made to feel like a victim again. Whether his feelings were warranted or if they were born of self-pity, he wasn't sure. Even if he hadn't really been hurt, aside from some mild burns, he still found himself at the mercy of a bigger fish. If the Knight really wanted to end him, nothing was stopping him. He hated it. Regardless of how strong he got, there was always someone stronger than him. In that sense, his pride was hurt also. No matter what he did, or what he overcame, he fell short at the next hurdle.
You can't just do that, my scaled friend, spoke the Knight, and Arkash shook his head while he composed himself. "I didn' 'ave a choice. I can' last in th' cold." If he had waited for the next train, stationary in the howling, frozen winds, and knee-deep snow, he would have died already. He had to keep moving. Besides, if he came in contact with some beast in the wilds, he had a plan: he would have kited it to the rails, where he'd trick it into attacking a hollow. If that hadn't been an option, however, he still carried his gun.
He still carried his gun; his last resort. In the heat of his panic and his rage, he'd forgotten about it. Could he... His eye lifted to the knight again. Was there some way he could turn the situation around? Turn his pistol on the Knight, kill him, and regain his lost pride? The thought weighed heavily on his mind. It was selfish, evil even. He'd be taking someone's life just to feel better. But as low as he was, what did he have to lose? Morality?
An apology interrupted his thoughts, and Arkash looked to meet his eye and found more of that pity, that downward look that plastered the faces of humans. Was it? No, it was similar, but not quite. Remorse painted his face; he genuinely felt bad for attacking Arkash? The rathari hesitated as he continued to explain himself. Most people didn't care when they wronged him; he was just another pebble in the pavement they walked on; he didn't matter. That didn't seem to be the case with the rebel, who made an active effort to amend what he'd done as if it mattered how Arkash felt.
A wave of warmth washed over his sore scales, the warmth of the sun on a hot summer day. A final sniffle sounded from his nostrils, and he bowed his head while he soaked in the heat. It was nice, if not for the fact that he'd already been topped up on his gauge of warmth. Even so, it wasn't anywhere near as unbearable as the cooking he'd received from the ambient heat of the laser. That, coupled with the fact that he knew Taelian was trying to make things right was... heartwarming.
Was it really so new and Alien to him to be so flattered by someone caring? Cyrus cared about him, he believed, Mannon too. But that was different, it was only after he'd proven himself to them that they treated him nicely. The knight was... just a good person? He couldn't have been born in Lorien.
The knight posed his next question and asked for Arkash's name shortly before introducing himself as Taelian. Definitely foreign, Arkash thought. Had he calmed enough to offer his name to the man that had tried to kill him in moments prior? No, he still felt the squeeze of anxiety in his chest; the pull that made it hard to breathe. Even so, he swallowed hard and pushed through his discomfort. "Arkash," he replied with his head low in a forward slouch.
Taelian's next question came: Why was he going to the East End? Oh, you know, just to assassinate a vassal to house Baringer. he couldn't answer with the truth, that much went without saying. "....Lookin' for work," he replied given a moment. But why in the East End? As Taelian had said, it was wrought with the Kindred. Arkash grinned a little when something witty crossed his mind. "Can' be worse 'an Lowa' Nivenhen," he offered with an uncomfortable smile. "A few o' me frien's was maed Savan' 'ere; hopin' to ge' some rights o' me own." While it was true that he was looking for work, to some degree, he had no intention of joining the pigs in their delusional superiority.
To emphasize his point, Arkash began to unstrap and loosen his crude metallic prosthetic, then slung it over his shoulder when the stump of his arm became exposed. "I can' keep workin' for the overseers. No' with 'iss..." he lifted the inch or two of arm that stretched from his elbow to the gnarled blindside of his face. Indeed: he was in no condition to work the fields, the mines, or the lumber mills anymore, he could never earn his ten farthings an hour, not at the pace, he would work at with his injuries... That was ignoring the fact that he was wanted for murder, of course.
Taelian offered him a free trip to the city, through some method of travel that he called 'Portals'. Arkash squinted. Was that how he traveled so fast? Using his 'Portals'? Arkash was skeptical, to say the least, but if Taelian was so inclined to treat him to a free trip through the snowy wasteland, who was he to refuse? "I won' seh no to a lif'... Bu' how's i' werk?" Arkash perked after he posed his question, then cleared his throat with a hard rumble, and wiped the last of his tears from his cheek as he rubbed at his eye. Talking had calmed him down a lot, it seemed. He'd never considered just how therapeutic words could be. "I s'pose..." he wondered aloud. "'Ew want youer egg back, ye? I gorri' in me bag."

[Taelian Edevane]

Arkash. It was a guttural, brutish name -- and it didn't sound remotely Rien at all. Somehow it fit the man, who was as rough around the edges as his name. As scarred and worrisome as the sounds. The Sil'norai took to averting his eyes, off to the distance, as his own state of contemplation consumed him. He mentioned being from Lower Nivenhain, which explained his dialect and desperation. Taelian had heard of many people desperately fleeing to the East End from there; Koltoskan refugees by the hundreds of thousands, even other Nameless. The Baringers were far kinder to the underclass than most, and in that underclass they had cultivated a loyal demesne of subjects. Not enough to outnumber the native Rien people who despised them, but enough to fill their ranks with proud immigrants, consolidating their structure of power.

The longer he had stayed in the Kingdom, the more he began to appreciate the complexity of its politics. Though not for what those politics did to its people: leaving others like Arkash in this state. Taelian brought himself to look back at the other man, sighing. There came, throughout the duration of their talk, a heavy weight upon his heart. The more he spoke to Arkash, the more he was reminded of the Pyred Bedlam, the starving Dal, the scourge of oppression that followed his gaze wheresoever he went.

"Are you... Nameless?" he asked. He did not need the question to be answered -- or to be answered honestly. He knew. Arkash wasn't a human, he didn't have class, he didn't have belongings. He was just... desperately seeking some purpose, some way to survive. He longed enough that he was willing to cross tens of miles of snow on foot, in the East End, the Kingdom's most frigid land. Moments later, he effectively answered: some of his friends had been made Savants in the East End, meaning they had been nationalized by the Baringers. He was seeking the same fate. Taelian now wondered how many had died in the fields of snow making that journey.

The man showed him his mutilated arm; his stump. It was, again, as he suspected. "Ah..." he quietly replied. "Have you heard of the Pact-Covenant?" he asked. Taelian almost held his tongue, for a moment; he had to debate whether or not to say what he was intending to. It was a lot to offer, but... somehow he felt crude, not doing so. The mage nodded his head, and spoke. "I'm a high ranking member of the Covenant, the foreign mages who have come to help with the rebellion," he told him. "I could easily leverage a favor to have Wylen, a master Necromancer and Artificer in my organization, build you a proper arm. It would be a lot better than... that, Arkash," he called him by his name. "It would feel like before you lost it. Better, even. Proper mages can do a lot."

Then the next query came; how he could take him to the city, how it worked. The Sil'norai blinked, standing quietly for a moment as he contemplated a response. It was... sort of complex, and it would not be easy to offer the other man a dignified answer. "Ah--erm, well... it's sort of complicated. Ether creates Nodes, Nodes connect with Streams, and the streams collide to create the actual Portal. I have a sort of anomalous type of portal called a Lychgate; it's my own mutative variant. I operate a single door, one bound to my Rune and soul. I can conjure and move through it with ease, yet I cannot have two or more portals open at once."

The mage cringed at himself; he over-explained. Arkash didn't need to know about his damn Lychgate... Taelian awkwardly grimaced. "Ah... err, as for the... 'egg," he called it with a reluctant emphasis, "...sure. You can give me my egg back. But I'll need to take it back to Brandt. Why don't you come with me there? I'm sure there's work there, too. We've gone and started a war, after all; plenty of jobs come with that. And perhaps, chances for citizenry as well."

[Arkash]

Was he nameless? If the Knight couldn't tell by Arkash's dialect and race alone, he was certainly a foreigner. Both his name and his lack of deductive reasoning implied so. The question felt as though it held an obvious answer to Arkash, though he held back his sarcastic 'duh' in favor of remaining on good terms with the man that could end his life in less than a second. A simple nod followed the question, and as always, he kept his thoughts to himself. Honesty was a one way gate to hell, and so, he lied about his reason for visiting Lienburg.
Taelian seemed to believe him; it was a realistic reason to hazard such a journey. His life meant so little without citizenship, and that went for all the nameless wretches in Lorien. Most people in his position would kill to live a night of comfort, but Arkash couldn't care less for something as menial as comfort. He couldn't care less for making a name for himself or forming hollow relationships. He'd spit in the face of any celebrant that offered him such a status. But that was the excuse he'd made, and it wound up trapping him. His way out? More lies.
He nodded a little to Taelian's question; he'd heard of the pact covenant. Who hadn't at that point? The rebellion was all anyone talked about, from the celebrant high to the nameless under their boots. Arkash had never thought he'd somehow wind up getting mixed into the mess of royals and pompous pricks, but there he was, meddling in the affairs of the rebellion. The odds of it happening? As Taelian had said, infinitely low. Of course, he would be the one to kick the egg in the middle of a snowy field. Why would it be anyone else? Why would he ever accidentally step over or around it? It was just another example of how the world hated him, how the powers that be wanted him dead.
Or was it? Arkash had survived with minor burns after all. What was more, the rebel apparently felt so guilty for attacking him that he offered to replace Arkash's arm? The Rathari stared in silence at the offer. Necromancy? Like what Cyrus practiced? Taelian would do that for him? Someone he'd just met? Arkash was still emotionally tender from the near-death experience; the offer nearly brought him to tears a second time. He parted his lips after a hard swallow, then drew a deep breath through his mouth to steady himself.
Gods did he want his arm back! He'd not really considered how much he took having two limbs for granted. The unspeakable urge to scratch his wrist, along with the strong need to open his eye was almost maddening; it took so much effort just to ignore those desires, but they never truly went away.
He wanted his arm back, almost more than anything, but was it a little too good to be true? It all hinged on Taelian, a kind stranger, keeping his word. Sure, he didn't know what the knight could want from him; he wasn't good for much. But that went two ways: he didn't have much reason to trust Taelian aside from the fact that the knight chose not to kill him. Then again, what did he have to lose? A long silence followed Taelian's offer, where Arkash seemed to stare for a long moment. "D'ja mean i'?" He asked at last, and the yellow of his one working eye laid squarely on the half-elf. "Ew'd gimme a new arm? Really?" It was hard to believe, but despite his doubts, he found himself inclined to believe such a thing. Perhaps it was his exhaustion, or a baser need to find something worthwhile, something positive and light in the dreary darkness of his life. "...A lift's plen'y 'nuff t' ge' square. 'Ew dun' 'ave'to... But I won' say no if youer shuer."
Then the topic of portals came, and Arkash stared blankly with pursed lips as the mage explained the likes of nodes and... Something else. He knew what Ether was; Asmodei had explained it to him. But Lychgates and Mutative Variants? It didn't confuse him, the information imparted upon him was simply too much to sink in and slid off his form with little weight and none absorbed. While the mage cringed at himself, the howling winds filled the silence between the two, and Arkash nodded after maybe an uncomfortably long pause. "I... I kno' abou' Ether n' Souls," Arkash spoke affirmatively in a desperate effort to add something to the topic, but Taelian didn't mention the likes of his magic corroding his soul like Cyrus's. "An... Tha' fia magic 'ew was usin'... Wassit Sij'lic Pyremancy?"
All of Arkash's smarts were in practical tasks and jobs. He was a miner, a lumberjack, a farmer, and a baker in some parts of his life. It wasn't as though magical theory was something openly discussed in Lorien, either. Despite those facts, he still found himself incredibly ashamed at his lack of knowledge and imparted everything he knew to the god mage. It was but a puddle at most to Taelian's vast ocean, but if nothing else, the rebel knew where Arkash stood on his smarts for the subject.
Taelian did want his egg back, as was the point of the entire attack. Arkash bowed his head a little, then lifted his prosthetic from his shoulder, and dropped it to the snow with a muffled fwump that left it half-buried in snow. With that strap out of the way, he removed his backpack and placed it before him in the snow before he knelt to open the lid, then peered into its contents with a squint. Taelian went on to offer that Arkash went to the north with him, but how long such a journey would take was still a mystery to him. Taelian returned to Arkash's lie, and offered him a possible job, and a chance at citizenship, too. Anyone in his position would have jumped at that chance, so why didn't he? Spite, prejudice, rage.
All of a sudden, the offered arm seemed to come at a price. He had to go to Brandt with Taelian. That would mean that his mission, the power he was promised, it would be forfeit in return for both of his limbs. Was it worth it? The power Malafor promised him - he needed it. His experience with the knight was a testament to that fact; he would keep losing until he found power of his own, power enough to trump whatever the world threw at him, god mages and all. Maybe he could do both? Perhaps a short detour to the north would be good for him? But would it be acceptable to leave after being given something of such worth?
Arkash hadn't replied to the offer yet, and it was because he considered the third option while he stared into his bag. Sat there, beside the egg, was his gun. His bid for control over the situation, the power to take fate into his claws rested there. He didn't dare look up or give himself away as he reached into the bag and wrapped his claws around the handle. His index digit came to rest on the trigger while he felt its weight.
Did he want to hurt Taelian? The half-elf had attacked him, blasted at him with a laser, and burned his scales. He'd robbed Arkash of all control and threw his mind into discord. The illusion that he had some sort of power, some sliver of control over the direction of his life was lost, and he desperately wanted it back. Even at the price of hurting someone that had been kind to him? Maybe. He'd forgotten it for a moment, but his pride was hurt. He'd allowed someone to cow him into submission with the threat of physical harm alone. Was he really so scared of pain? Though he tried to convince himself he wasn't, his claws still shook around the handle of the gun.
Arkash drew a shaky breath as he stood with his pistol in hand, then raised it to aim the barrel at Taelian. "Don't," Arkash spoke in the best common he could. "'Ew really think I'd go wiv 'ew afta' shootin' at me?" The gun rattled audibly in his claws while his body shook. Some part of him felt as though he was making a mistake, that he was letting his emotions get the better of him, and he was. He actively tore up whatever chances he had of forging something positive with a kind person, and for what? His pride? His dignity? "'Ew think 'ew c'n jus blass' me aroun' like I won' care?!" Taelian cared though, he recognized that. "Well fack yew!"
His breathing picked up in frequency as he kicked his bag hard, and his drooly lips parted a little as he stepped back. It might have been hard to tell, but his cheek once again glistened in the snowstorm; wet with tears. The situation was his to decide; he was in control. "Taek youer fackin' egg an' ge' the fack aweh from me!"

[Taelian Edevane]

The truth was, Taelian was sure. Of course, a part of that was that it would've been wildly easy for him -- trading in some of the favors he'd gained through the Covenant in exchange for an arm, and an eye as he shortly realized, for the man -- he wouldn't need to do much but ask, then stand by and watch as the procedure went on. Though he understood how most non-mages might have been skeptical of such kindnesses, he had become so immersed in the arcane world that the promise of a new limb was as if a trinket to him. Necromancy could do much, and a Master could mend such life-altering wounds as if nothing had happened at all. Such was the providence of the divine, and the arts they gifted upon mortal-kind. In many cultures, Necromancy and its gifts were the one thing tolerated by many. Healing was a gift best not taken for granted.

Fortunately, Arkash appeared equally as grateful -- as much as he was hesitant -- as any other man offered the gift of a better life. Taelian smiled as he nodded his sincerity, before quietly saying: "Of course. You have my word."

They went on to speak about more magic. Arkash did not seem incredibly bewildered, though it was clear he did not recognize many of Taelian's terms. Surprisingly, though, he professed to knowing about ether and souls -- an unexpected response. Taelian assumed no Rien to know anything about the arcane, particularly not a Nameless with few prospects, nor access to education. The man only surprised him again, though, and the second time... much moreso. Not only did he know of ether, he knew of--

"Wait... you know what that is?" the Ebon Knight questioned, bewildered. Sigilic Pyromancy. He had never met anyone outside of Sil-Elaine who knew of the magic. It was profoundly rare: perhaps a few thousand wielders in the world, and that was being generous. They were all locked to the same region, too; most scholars of magic outside of his own home still labeled it a 'Lost Art'. Something no longer alive in the world. They were wrong, and -- shockingly, this Nameless wretch knew that they were.

The mage's interests were immediately piqued, going beyond pity to that of curiosity, and even wonder.

But then, a long silence formed between them. Arkash appeared to be contemplating; perhaps whether he would go to Lienburg or take the offer to go to Brandt, choosing a promise -- that of the Baringer's nationalization of the Nameless -- over another promise, Taelian's offer to return him to his prior state. It was a lot to weigh, and he understood. The mage eventually decided he would speak up, as if to influence the Rathari's decision: to inform him that he did not have to choose, only to come to Brandt first to receive his new limb, where Taelian could then take him to Lienburg anyhow. The best of both worlds, he thought. As he pressed his hand forward and took a step, though, beginning to form the words -- the man drew a gun and pointed its barrel at him. He froze in place, fixating on the weapon as his eyes darted back and forth between it, and the man.

He frowned. For a moment, he resigned his thoughts to the situation, believing that Arkash had made his choice. To go to Lienburg, to not trust him, to doubt his intentions. It felt like a sort of penance, considering he had nearly -- only a moment ago -- delinquently cost a supposedly innocent man his life. And perhaps Arkash was still innocent. Certainly, he seemed to have a kindness burrowed deep into his soul; he saw it come out in the face of Taelian's own kind words, the generosity he was willing to give to him. He felt the tremble and saw the tears, or at least, so he perceived. But the man was -- literally -- a wounded animal. Hurt, harmed, reluctant to trust again. Damaged and lashing out. He could understand that feeling so well.

But there was not enough kindness in his heart to risk his own death, in the face of this man's volatility. The Rien revolution be damned; he cared more for his own people, those suffering in Sil-Elaine, who needed him once he was ready to return. Taelian believed in his heart that he was destined to be a liberator, to be a man who would save millions and bring them towards the sort of prosperity that would prevent such damaged souls like Arkash from being made to begin with. He wanted to eliminate this sort of desparity in Mornoth, and even in the world.

And so -- he was not going to risk the man's ire, or let him hold control, or let him fire at him. Taelian's hand surged with energy, and he created a portal between the two of them almost instantly, preventing a stray shot from landing on him. The air around them began to darken; the surrounding light began to fade, as if being consumed. A great darkness emanated from the mage's body, billowing outward until it would completely blind the other man. The warmth around him receded until he was surrounded only by a dark, bitter cold, unable to see the mage. Taelian, however, could see him just fine. His eyes had mutated to see even through the darkness of the Stygian Grave. They had begun to glow a dark violet shade, though it was indiscernible through the pure shadowy fog encompassing them both.

The mage found himself frowning, trying to make his own decisions. To fight back, to threaten, to try and disarm the entire situation... then, a last possibility that came into his mind, ultimately the one he decided to choose. The mage closed the one portal he had formed to block any fire, opening another directly in front of him. It led back to Brandt, away from it all. He still needed his 'egg'.

He summoned a Marghozad into the darkness, calling on it from the Outlands. The black, sleek creature scurried forth, moving hastily through the dark before attempting to steal the beacon from Arkash's bag from under his nose. If he managed to succeed, he would bring it back to Taelian, and the two would step into the portal together and away from the frost.

As his features nearly grazed the outline of the portal, he would look to the other man with sorrow and remorse. He felt wrong, not trying more, not making an effort to defuse it all. At the end of the day, though, he had his mission. Taelian wouldn't extend another hand only for it to be bitten. Through the snowy vortex before him, he escaped the field, leaving nothing behind. Even the darkness quickly receded as he traveled through, Taelian himself being the epicenter of it. The portal, too, would -- after only a moment -- quickly fade, collapsing into a wisp of stray winds.