31st of Frost, 4621
The early morning light cast its long shadows across the packed earth and wiry fields of yellowed grass and matted autumn leaves. Though the first rays fought the long-set chill of the night, the Rathor's breath still formed clouds with every exhale. Birdsong sounded above the distant, echoing call of marching drills, which was almost drowned by the crunch of leaves beneath his wrapped feet.
The crisp freshness of the morning air stung his lungs with every draw of breath and left a dull ache in the back of his throat. In his humanoid form, Arkash didn't mind the chill of the morning's fresh air. If anything, the cold helped maintain his body temperature, but the bright sun was something of a problem.
Bared to the light, one or two things were a little plainer to see. The touch of sickly paleness to his skin, and the violet undertones that accompanied his mutated blood. For that, he tried to remain in the shade for as much of the trip as possible.
When he arrived at the Barracks, he beheld a grand building of simple, but well-maintained construction. It wasn't like most military bases he'd seen, especially when he had Lorien as the foreground to his experience with such things. The colors that made up the structure were bright, almost alabaster in their tones. A slanted roof topped the building, though that in itself was framed with a polished stone, and supported by pillars that he failed to find so much as a blemish upon.
Arkash briefly wondered if Daravin's military spent all its time maintaining and cleaning its barracks, or if the upkeep of their equipment was part of their military training. A shrug saw him surrender the thought; he didn't care what the nobility's dogs did with their time.
All of what he saw, was, of course, hidden beyond a tall stone wall with a polished steel gate to guard the entrance. Coordinated spikes pointed outward from the tops to guard against jumpers. Arkash furrowed his brow, then shook his head again.
His stomach began to churn again, and the 'guised Rath reached to hold his stomach while he looked about the scene.
The only other people there were the gathered Halamire in the cleared dirt yard, all stood in formation, marching too and fro at the command of their leader. Arkash rolled his eyes, then shut his eyes to listen. He sifted through the thud of metal sabatons, the rustle of a breeze through the grass, trees, and leaves. A draw of breath through his nose filled his mind's eye with nearby scents, and though he searched for the familiar scents of others, he could not find them.
Perhaps he had trouble focusing on something that wasn't the barracks? They were all new smells to him after all, and with so much on the menu, how was he supposed to focus?
As his abdomen writhed and twisted, Arkash produced a small brass box from his pocket, lifted the lid, and spoke into it. "Taelian," he steeled his voice against the Resonator, a small gem that glowed on the inside. "I'm here, at the barracks..." he spoke with a brief pause and swallowed to keep it down. "I don't think anyone else is here... But there's a bunch of pigs in the yard, stomping up the place and making a fuss. Are they expecting us?"
As the saliva in his mouth turned watery, and his lungs tightened, he spoke a quick "see you soon" into the gem before he shut it, leaned his free hand against the wall, and lurched forward. His lips pressed hard as he tried to fight the sensation, but to no avail.
When he realized that he didn't particularly want to keep whatever was in his stomach, he let it go. All at once, thick etheric bile forced its way from his gut and dropped to the grass from his mouth while he gagged and retched, heaving out the accumulated corruption.
He held against the wall for a moment longer, just letting the vile fluid drip from his lips before he spat to cast the last remnants of the foul substance from his palette. It had been three days since the last time he hurled corruption, which was longer than the last interval. He was getting better? It was about time, he thought. To him, a month without eating properly was more than long enough, he was prepared to return to normal and overcome the constant cap to his stamina.
Sickened, he wiped his lips clean with his fingers and smeared the mess against the wall that guarded the military encampment before he straightened up, spat again, and returned to the road that led to the gate.
The early morning light cast its long shadows across the packed earth and wiry fields of yellowed grass and matted autumn leaves. Though the first rays fought the long-set chill of the night, the Rathor's breath still formed clouds with every exhale. Birdsong sounded above the distant, echoing call of marching drills, which was almost drowned by the crunch of leaves beneath his wrapped feet.
The crisp freshness of the morning air stung his lungs with every draw of breath and left a dull ache in the back of his throat. In his humanoid form, Arkash didn't mind the chill of the morning's fresh air. If anything, the cold helped maintain his body temperature, but the bright sun was something of a problem.
Bared to the light, one or two things were a little plainer to see. The touch of sickly paleness to his skin, and the violet undertones that accompanied his mutated blood. For that, he tried to remain in the shade for as much of the trip as possible.
When he arrived at the Barracks, he beheld a grand building of simple, but well-maintained construction. It wasn't like most military bases he'd seen, especially when he had Lorien as the foreground to his experience with such things. The colors that made up the structure were bright, almost alabaster in their tones. A slanted roof topped the building, though that in itself was framed with a polished stone, and supported by pillars that he failed to find so much as a blemish upon.
Arkash briefly wondered if Daravin's military spent all its time maintaining and cleaning its barracks, or if the upkeep of their equipment was part of their military training. A shrug saw him surrender the thought; he didn't care what the nobility's dogs did with their time.
All of what he saw, was, of course, hidden beyond a tall stone wall with a polished steel gate to guard the entrance. Coordinated spikes pointed outward from the tops to guard against jumpers. Arkash furrowed his brow, then shook his head again.
His stomach began to churn again, and the 'guised Rath reached to hold his stomach while he looked about the scene.
The only other people there were the gathered Halamire in the cleared dirt yard, all stood in formation, marching too and fro at the command of their leader. Arkash rolled his eyes, then shut his eyes to listen. He sifted through the thud of metal sabatons, the rustle of a breeze through the grass, trees, and leaves. A draw of breath through his nose filled his mind's eye with nearby scents, and though he searched for the familiar scents of others, he could not find them.
Perhaps he had trouble focusing on something that wasn't the barracks? They were all new smells to him after all, and with so much on the menu, how was he supposed to focus?
As his abdomen writhed and twisted, Arkash produced a small brass box from his pocket, lifted the lid, and spoke into it. "Taelian," he steeled his voice against the Resonator, a small gem that glowed on the inside. "I'm here, at the barracks..." he spoke with a brief pause and swallowed to keep it down. "I don't think anyone else is here... But there's a bunch of pigs in the yard, stomping up the place and making a fuss. Are they expecting us?"
As the saliva in his mouth turned watery, and his lungs tightened, he spoke a quick "see you soon" into the gem before he shut it, leaned his free hand against the wall, and lurched forward. His lips pressed hard as he tried to fight the sensation, but to no avail.
When he realized that he didn't particularly want to keep whatever was in his stomach, he let it go. All at once, thick etheric bile forced its way from his gut and dropped to the grass from his mouth while he gagged and retched, heaving out the accumulated corruption.
He held against the wall for a moment longer, just letting the vile fluid drip from his lips before he spat to cast the last remnants of the foul substance from his palette. It had been three days since the last time he hurled corruption, which was longer than the last interval. He was getting better? It was about time, he thought. To him, a month without eating properly was more than long enough, he was prepared to return to normal and overcome the constant cap to his stamina.
Sickened, he wiped his lips clean with his fingers and smeared the mess against the wall that guarded the military encampment before he straightened up, spat again, and returned to the road that led to the gate.
