Barely was the right word. Zache hit the ground with as much grace as a lumbering troll, boots sliding on the sand. His ears are ringing in pain yet, somewhere mixed in...the sound of bells?
In any case, he is is soon distracted because the rope in his grip suddenly goes limp. Ewahee, now in the relatively calm of the outcropping's wind shadow, starts to fall. Still dazed Zache preps himself to catch the falling, injured woman. Dust is still spraying around him, making his eyes blur with tears. What if he missed, what if-
Zache pauses. How does he have so much time to think? He looks up and sees Ewahee is falling with a gentle grace, far slower then gravity usually allows. The Shoanti woman touches down so lightly, her boots barely make imprints int he sand.
"Feather fall." She says, shakily with a brittle smile. Then the Blood Watcher falls to her knees and retches. This goes on for awhile but eventually she wipes her mouth and looks up.
"Tramp went around, I think, with the others." Then she pauses, shakes her head, "Thank you, Zache. I thought I was going to fly off into...that." She points to the raging storm around them, coursing streams of smoke, ash and sand. 'The spirts are with you."
Then she gives a bit of a crazed laugh, "But not with me, it seems!" The woman seems a bit punch drunk, which is fair enough. It was not every day one got to be a kite.
But they have survived. For now.
Zache doesn't even hit the ground, instead falling into endless darkness. Down, down, his entire body loose and limp. Utter blackness.
Except, wait, he isn't falling. He is flying, soaring through an endless abyss. The swashbuckler feels light and carefree and, suddenly, very much alive. Yet, at the same time, he feels ethereal, as if the trials and tribulations of the flesh no longer concern him. This doesn't seem to worry him. Indeed, his mind feels awake and fresh.
And it is not all dark around him. Slowly, as if a veil is being pulled back, stars appear all around. Pinpricks of light, soft and distant, in ever greater numbers. Every color that Zache can imagine, and more besides. Azure, crimson, gold and emerald. It is a dazzling display, a majesty far greater then even the finest night sky Golarion could produce. It is as if he is flying through the heavens themselves.
Maybe he is?
He is not alone, the swashbuckler finds to only mild surpise. Close at hand, like a school of fish , are swooping butterflies and moths of soft silver and periwinkle. They glitter in the starlight, shimming as they effortlessly keep pace. A great cloud of them, swirling and dancing in unfelt breezes.
Ahead there is a dim light and Zache feels drawn to it, welcomed by it. He swoops closer, the stars blurring around him. Then, somehow, words come to him. Not through his ears, or even his body. It is like suddenly remembering a half-forgotten dream, somehow coming from inside himself. They have no accent, no inflection like speech yet Zache gets a sense of...wry amusement and interest.
I am pleased.
When you are ready, seek out the House of the Moon.
I will be watching.
The light grows brighter, and the stars start to fade away. The moths and butterflies fall back, diving and swooping. Their wings seem to shine brighter in the growing light, reflecting. The soft noise of their flight seems to say something...something on the edge of hearing-
"Zache! You are awake!"
And indeed he is. The swashbuckler blinks and he is looking up at a rocky ceiling of red stone. It is dark, with dancing firelight glittering on the surface. Into his vision Ewahee's face swims, battered and badly bruised. Still she smiles at him. "Good!"
His whole body hurts. He feels like someone ran him over with a cart, and maybe ordered the mules to back up over his lumped corpse. His arm burns from the destrachan bite, and his skin itches from abrasive sand grains.
Yet, he is alive. Very much so.
'Oh, thank the spirits of the past." Ewahee says, quietly, 'I was...worried."
'I told you he was alive." Tramps gravel voice breaks in, the bandit still unseen. "He's tougher then you think, I wager. Anyone who crawled out of the Flesh Block in one piece won't wilt at a little sand in his eye."
Zache props himself up slightly, feeling an aged man. His joints creak slightly and his head spins a bit, but then his vision clears. He is back in the small bandit cave, although it isn't quite the same. All the items are smashed or disheveled, crushed into corners or the floor. Worse, everything seems coated in a fine layer of black ashy dust.
Still, all four bandits are here and alive. One seems to be nursing a battered leg is healthy enough to meet his eye and nod. The air is full of the scent of brimstone, sweat and some other rank alien odor Zache can't quite place.
"It's early evening." Tramp says, and the middle-aged bandit is sitting close at hand, tending the fire. "You've been out for awhile. The storm blew itself out after about an hour after your little adventure. I'm sorry I missed it."
Ewahee doesn't look quite so blasé but she says nothing, instead handing Zache a dented tin cup full of brackish water. It tastes like old sand.
"After the wind stopped, we waited a bit then came to see what survived. The destrachan holed up here during the storm but left as soon as it cleared up. It smashed up all of our stuff though." The bandit looks sadly at the shattered remains of an already pitiful life. He sighed but went on, "Still, you saved us. If you hadn't fought it, the monster would have entered the cave sooner and killed everyone inside." A pause here, and Zache sees nods from the other bandits.
"Anyway, after it left, we dragged you in here and waited. It is getting dark outside. Well, it would be except the ash is still thick in the sky. Won't be much of a sunset or sunrise, I think, before it all clears up."
"I wish we could do more."
The group listens to his words, faces drawn with varying amounts of pain, confusion or simple despair. This is a hard group treated to a hard life. Not for the first time Zache realizes this could easily have been him. If the Freemen had been a bit less kind, or less able, Zache would have been a nameless street urchin barely clinging to life. Or worse, still a slave forced to escape under the worst conditions.
Bones in the sand.
Of all his words, it is the last that seems to break through. To his surprise it is the woman who he disarmed that speaks first. Lessi, tramp had called her. "He has a point there, Tramp. I'm all for freedom but starving in the rocks hasn't proven so well." A ghost of a grin crosses her hard features, "And besides, the lad can fight. Even someone like Vakk Zush might think twice in crossing him."
Zache looks to Ewahee and she catches his eye. She nods a bit, waiting her turn to speak, understanding the delicate balance here. These were proud people, those that held their own fate in their own hands.
Tramp looks hard at Zache, "I have never been one for handouts. That is always the mark of the slave. Cast-off clothes, leftover scraps from the master's table. We earn our own way." A murmur of assent, "What could we do for you, either here or in Urglin? If anything, we'd be a noose around your neck, consorting with escaped slaves."
"Formerly escaped slaves." Ewahee corrects them, speaking for the first time.
Tramp laughs, "Once an escaped slave, always one. It wasn't as if Vakk Zush gave me freedom papers." Rasping laughs.
"But I declare you free." Ewahee said simply, looking suddenly older then she normally did. Her bruised and battered face belayed her rock-steady voice asserting some authority. "All know that whoever fights in the Көрәш is free, if they survive. For many that is the point of the Көрәш. " It is clear the word means nothing to the others. Ewahee goes on. "You fought the beast, the destrachan in view of a Blood Watcher acolyte. You fought well and bravely, with honor to yourselves and each other. As such, you are free."
She pauses and, for the first time, looks a little doubtful, "At least as far as I see things."
Outside it seems like true night now, a black wall. Tramp takes Zache's words in silently, face lit by the firelight. The playing light makes his worn face look even more gnarled and worn, like an ancient tree wracked by endless storms.
"Perhaps." Tramp says, "And perhaps not. Who can say? In any case, nothing needs to be decided now. You say your trail lies west for a bit. Perhaps when you return, we can discuss such things." He glances at the rest, "Give us time to decide things amongst ourselves."
He shakes his head, but then shrugs, "You will both stay the night, of course. We have little to share though."
"We are fresh from the city and your guests." Ewahee says, somewhat formally, "Allow us to offer at least a token of thanks." She grabs her pack, which is sandblasted and dirty but still in one piece. The Blood Watcher pulls out a block of rations. Zache notices it is much the same as the food in his own pack. Dried jerky, preserved fruit and the ever present hardtack (memories of the caravan float in front of his eyes).
From the look of the bandits, this is better fare then they have eaten for awhile. Ewahee catches Zache's eye and subtly motions toward his bag.
The bandits eye the food and take is closely. Not out of fear Zache guessed, but pride. How far down has one slid when hardtack and dried jerky seem a luxury? All the jokes around the caravan campfire ring slightly differently.
Before they eat, Tramp takes a cup of water and pours it out on the ground with some formality. "To Cayden Cailean, breaker of bonds and lover of freedom. May we have beer to offer soon." It is a slightly sad prayer, far too knowledgeable of how feeble it is.
Still, the atmosphere does thaw. The fire is stirred up (the bandits seem to have plenty of wood at least), and some water boiled to soften the hardtack. The jerky is chewed thoroughly and even the fruit is masticated enough to yield a trace of sweet juice.
Ewahee fades to the background, yielding the floor to Zache.
At his questions however there is there is a moment of silence before Tramp speaks. "We do not go very far west. There are no travelers that way, after all. We've never into a hag but..." he trails off, looking at Lessi who says, grimly, "Drecklan."
Tramp sadly nods and goes on, "Drecklan was one of us. He was the one who knew the wilderness the best, his father had been a poacher or something. He did most of the hunting and gathering for us in the early days."
The older man pointed out the cave entrance. "To the west there is a small stream and then a forest. Dry woods, true, but far more fertile then this waste. We all made trips to gather wood and wood but Drecklan when the farthest and most common. One day he went out and simply...never came back. We found his clothes and bow piled in a neat corner. We don't know what happened, but maybe a hag would explain it."
Lessi shook her head and muttered, "Bad luck."
Tramp shrugged, "He knew the risk and at least he died a free man, instead of under a lash." He turned to Zache, "That is all we know of the road. The volcanos are much farther to the northwest, miles and miles. The eruptions usually don't happen close together, so you should have a safe spell to travel."
'There are beasts, but not many as dangerous as the destrachan. The stream is pretty small, but we have seen a few oozes around it. The forest has desert lions but they usually keep well clear of people. Easier pretty out there, I guess. Still, it is the wild."
The bandits (like nearly everyone else) do not count things in miles. How could they? It wasn't as if Urglin had surveyors and engineers. But Zache does get the feeling he is about half a day's brisk walk from the city walls. Not bad considering they left at noon in the high heat and then had to deal with a volcano. Perhaps his stride is quicker then most. Tramp indicates the stream is about half a day's march further down the Ash Road....assuming they can still find said road after the storm.
In a quiet moment the swashbuckler asks Ewahee if she has more healing. He gets the feeling Ewahee was waiting for him to ask. The Blood Watcher nods slowly, "Yes, but it'll be my last spell for the day."
As for watches, there is an embarrassed silence at his words. Lessi breaks it by saying, ”Sometimes.’ And Zache knows discipline among the bandits hasn’t been high enough to maintain watches as he imagines. Still Tramp interjects, ’We would tonight though. Who knows what the volcano kicked up.”
He looks at his fellows for confirmation before adding, ”Youa re our guest and just rose out of a sick bed. We will keep watch, you sleep. It is the least we can do. I insist.” And he does indeed insist.
Zache sleeps like the dead, his battered body eager for the break from the swashbuckler’s antics. Volcanic eruptions, destrachan attacks, jumping down off rocks…it was enough to tire anyone out. Not to mention the fear of what lay ahead. Hags were not known for being kind hosts.
He rises late the next day and soon discovers why. The world is a gray haze, the air still filled with fine particles of ash and dust. The sun is merely a slightly brighter spot in the east, and Zache could stare right at it. The world seems still and quiet however, as if recovering from the fiery explosions of the previous day. The bandits report no beasts or animals of any kind.
Tramp suggests the air will clear through the day although the sky above will probably be dark for a while. Zache believes him and is happy to find the morning air cool on his skin, and hopes it remains that way. He has no desire to reenact his walk through the furnace.
Zache set a fast pace, eager to reach whatever lay ahead. The faster they traveled, the sooner they would be done. The weather and geography were with him (for now). The air was cool yet dry, wicking away his sweat as fast as any towel, while the ground was flat and level. The road was slightly harder to follow today however, covered in rippling bands of dust and piled ash. These puffed into white clouds if they chanced to step on them. Zache had never seen snow, but he imagined this was what it was like in northern climates. Except colder, he guessed.
The sky overhead was a thick gray haze, the color of old wood ash. Their ad-hoc masks helped with the unpleasant fog at ground level. As Tramp said however, this slowly settled throughout the day. The sun however, never grew much brighter.
Ewahee took his question seriously, although not as one who knew the answer. Instead she approach it as a student who had been given many such puzzles before.
"My father is a subtle man." She admitted, looking proud and a bit embarrassed. "I would imagine this quest fulfills many of his goals. Some of which he told you, of course. My last bit of training, or example. A gift to you, for another." With gifts like these, Zache hardly needed dangers.
"But it is not all about you, or what you say, of course. This is about proving your worth to the Blood Watchers and those overseeing the Hakimlyq. Not just yours, but for each possible entry. Their initiation reflects what concerns the Blood Watchers. The Taldane they see a lack of dedication, the paladin a absence of humility. In you." She pauses, considers and then says, "One fear is a lack of strength."
They pass more knife-edged stones near the road. They glance but there are no signs of more bandits or destrchans.
Ewahee's voice hurries on, "Just one of many, of course. I suppose we shall see, perhaps, if we find the hag. Perhaps you should be happy the bandits were not the test however. According to many who follow the Көрәш you would have failed utterly."
At his face, a quick smile flickers over her features but her still injured face grows more solemn again, "They were unrepentant criminals, who broke their bond and place. Worse, they turned to a life of treacherous ambush and plunder, attacking the weak and unprepared. You did not even rebuke them for such choices, indeed, perhaps even agreed with them."
'To your credit, you do seem to be offering them higher ideals but that would be a thin reed for many of the Blood Watchers." Ewahee said casually, as if such harsh judgements were a natural part of life.
And perhaps it was?
Ewahee shakes her head at Zache's first objection that surely any petty test will be endured by a would-be challenger. 'You do not understand..." She doesn't sound upset or frustrated...well, maybe a bit annoyed. There is a trace of condescension there though, as of course an Outlander would not understand.
"It is not success that matters. It never is. A warrior can uphold the Көрәш while failing in the ring. Indeed sometimes Көрәш demands, insists on such a defeat. It is how and why we act, that's what matters. Actions and meaning. Not results." She subsides into silence, shaking her head slightly, clearly unhappy at how unclear she is. 'I am no teacher.."
The Blood Watcher acolyte seems unbothered by his other tack. In fact Ewahee looks a bit confused when he speaks of justice. "I am not the one who set the task, or the one to judge it. I am merely here to observe, to record, to report. To see rules followed and Көрәш upheld. The bandits did as I said, and I simply stated those facts as I saw them. It is not for a Blood Watcher to make the facts. When lighting strikes, does it decide what is just? Does it weigh good and evil? No, it simply does as it must, as the law that guides it dictates. My father decreed you seek out the hag and thus you must."
Not the deepest philosophy and yet...
"As for struggle.." She touches her face, where the wind had left harsh bruises just now flowering to full blossom. "I believe we will both have our fill before this is through. Do you not?"
"I am not your teacher." Ewahee says again, petulantly. Zache gets the sudden sense that the acolyte is used to hearing reasoning, not arguing it. Perhaps Annawan is not one given to instruction through debate?
In any case Ewahee falls into a slightly disgruntled silence and refuses to engage on any more talk on the matter. The ways of the Көрәш will go unexplained...yet again.
The unseen Sun rises higher and the day grows both brighter and warmer. While the dust has died down, it has still left both Ewahee and Zache coated in a final layer, turning them the color of weathered stones. The swashbuckler starts to dream of the upcoming stream not simply to re-fill his canteens but to wash off the clinging dust. They walk on, the road winding ever so slightly over the uneven desert floor.
Then they hear it, the rushing sound of water. Yet...something was off. For one thing Tramp had said it would be low water this time of year, little more then a trickle. Yet the sound was loud in their ears, echoing off the rocks and sand. Worse, it sounded....wrong. Thick...muddled somehow?
The answer is revealed when they crest a low rise. In the distance Zache can see the vague black outlines of trees, surely the forest he expected. It looks oddly stark and menacing, dark against the featureless sky. Worse however are two barriers.
First is a cliff wall, perhaps one fifty feet tall, leading up to the trees. It is smooth and sheer, and even glitters in the hazy light. It would be an imposing climb, but Zache's eyes are drawn instead to the stream.
Or what had once be a stream.
But instead of trickling or even rushing water, instead the swashbuckler is confronted with a wide expanse of swiftly flowing mud and ash. It must be at least forty feet wide, hiding whatever banks of the natural stream below the coursing surface of rippling gray-ish ooze. Tree trunks float downstream, presumably ripped free by the deluge. Thick rafts of pumice stone float like foam on the torrent, breaking on exposed rocks into gritty rapids. The mud makes a thick slapping sound as it washes over sand and rock, bubbling like a noxious witches' brew. The wet and rather unpleasent scent of ash and smoke fills his nose.
No one would be bathing in this.
Zache's reconnoiter reveals a few interesting find. While there is nothing on his side that is as high as the cliff opposite, he does have somethings to work with. This was, after all, once a somewhat well-watered area near a stream. There are quite a few trees, if spaced out. Many have been destroyed by the rampaging mud, but snags and stumps litter the area on both sides of the lahar, some of them quite tall.
Also, farther downstream an impromptu natural dam has formed, as the mud has stacked trees and other debris. While clearly quite unstable and covered with slippery, oozing mud, it does provide a possible bridge over the bubbling mass.
At his question, Ewahee thinks for a moment, staring out over the imposing feature. "I have a few spells that would help if it was water. I have a spell that makes us float very easily in water, like corks in a cup. It would probably work in mud even better. I can also make it rain, hard, for a half a minute or so. Although that might make the problem worse." Her finger taps her side, a tic Zache has noticed a few times already on their journey. He idlily wonders if a tell is allowed for a Blood Watcher.
"I can make something waterproof, and presumably mudproof. Not much else I can think of. Any of them help your plans?" She sighs, "I was really hoping for some clean water. This is so...." The young woman waves a hand at the unwholesome river of ash. 'Unclean."
The dam is not very stable, Zache can feel branches and entire tree trunks shifting under his weight. Slippery mud greases every footsteps, seeming to do it's best to tip him into the gray slurry below. In some places the mud is even oozing upwards, the current welling up only to pour out and slither back down. All in all it is a total mess.
Still Zache is nimble, careful and holding a rope. He manages to get three fourths of the way across before trouble.
Out of the corner his eye, he sees something in a pool of mud near him. A shape emerging from the swirling current. An arm, a head...a person. Well, sort of a person. It is an animate pile of sludge in a crude form of a human being crawling up out of the lahar. Surely an elemental of some kind, drawn by the raw primal forces of the volcano and lahar.
No wait, there are two of them! One ahead and one behind, cutting off retreat. They squish aggressively toward the precarious swashbuckler.
The elemental ahead of him takes a sloppy step toward him and swings heavy fist right at his head.
Zache dodges the somewhat clumsy blow, although it flicks a spray of wet nasty-smelling mud into his hair.
The other mud elemental seems more focused on destroying the dam itself however.
The elemental slams down two heavy fists on the ramshackle collection of tree trunks and branches. The entire thing shudders and shakes, threating to tumble Zache off.
The swashbuckler remains upright but the structure seems looser now, and more mud pouring through. Another blow or two like that, and they would all be sailing downstream.
Zache's razor blade glints in the haze, for a single moment the only clean thing in the world. With a hiss he stabs at the muddy creature in front of him. To his surprise the blade not only sinks in, it simply lops off a whole arm. It splatters to the dam with a sticky splat. The mud elemental doesn't seem to feel pain, but losing a limb seems to disrupt it's actions.
Seeing his plight, Ewahee moves. She may not be perfect but no one could fault her bravery. Carefully, she edges out onto the rickety dam, doing her best to not slide on the slippery mud. After ten feet she pauses and, to Zache's mild surprise, raises the flute to her lips. A musical tune rises above the thick slop and bubble of the lahar. It is a slow gentle music that reminds Zache of a lullaby perhaps. The mud elemental closer to the bard turns toward the noise, confused.
It sits lowers itself onto the muddy dam, and quietly listens to the music, lumpen features in a sort of trance.
Meanwhile the other elemental, missing an arm, tries to attack.
The disarmed mud creature moves with surprising speed, clearly unbothered by the slick terrain. Still, Zache is used to fighting humanoid foes and manages to divert most of the blow with his blade. A spray of ash fills his face, but not nearly as much pain as he feared.
Zache has trained for many things but even Mistress Zalaria neglected to teach him to fight while holding a rope. It threw off his balance entirely. The mud elemental was hardly an impossible target but his stroke goes wide. Still, he re-centers himself and readies to counter attack, if the thing pressed.
Which it did, wading forward with its one good arm. Ashy water dripped from it, coating the dam in yet more slimy mud. A backhand came his way, wet and heavy.
Zache saw the opening as only a duelist could. He slapped the arm aside, cutting it at the wrist. The muddy hand went sailing into midair, but Zache was already moving. He stepped in and, quite simply, decapitated the monster. For a moment it stood there, missing all of it's various parts, like a slick statue under construction.
Then it fell apart with a disturbing plop, tumbling down to the rushing mud below.
He glanced back at the fascinated elemental and Ewahee still busy playing. She waved a hand and pointed at the thing, obviously asking what to do. Zache has a feeling attacking it would break the spell.
The spell breaks and Ewahee's final notes linger int he air for only a moment. The mud elemental stirs, looking surprised. It clambers to it's muddy feet, and gazes around for it's ally. Seeing none it gives a wet shrug and attacks the dam.
The part under it's body gives way, a network of branches and limbs jostled into the current. A cresting wave of pent up mud washes through the dam, sweeping the elemental away, it eagerly vanishing below the surface. It an instant the creature is gone, leaving only a partially deconstructed dam in it's wake.
The structure is still there, just with a ten foot gap along the center crest where mud and ash flows freely, forced into a strong current by the narrow gap.
Ewahee looks at it, obviously concerned. Still she raises her eyes to Zache and shouts over the roiling bubbling lahar, "Now what?"
Ewahee doesn't look too enthused. Just loud enough to be heard over the rippling mud the Blood Watcher mutters, "I'm starting to hate ropes." Clinging to it, she makes her way out over the dam. The Shoanti woman doesn't have forever however, as the dam is now quite unstable. More branches and trees are sloughing off as Zache watches. The mud elemental's attack has clearly undermined it. The lahar greedily grabs everything it can, tugging it downstream.
The whole thing starts to shake and shift.
Ewahee reaches the gap, which seems wider and faster then ever. Sprays of ash fly up, tossed by the quickening current. There is a loud cracking jostling noise as the entire dam starts to move, pushed by the heavy force of mud.
Zache sees the woman's foot slip on the muddy detritus at the start of her jump. The mistake steals most of her momentum and she shorts the distance. With an almighty plop she hits the raging mud, more slapping into it then falling in. Desperately she reaches for the far side but her mud-slick fingers slide right over the branches and limbs.
In a second the rope grows taut in Zache's hand's as the woman is shot off the dam to the mud below.
The swashbuckler manages to hold on, and once again, Zache is keeping Ewahee from flying off the end of a rope. Except this time instead of flying a kite, Zache feels like an angler with a fighter on the line. The lahar pushes Ewahee with surprising force, trying to rip her out of his grasp. The swashbuckler has to set his feet and use all of his might to fight the current.
Slowly, slowly, he manages to reel her in. Sweat mixes with mud and ash on his brow, as he laboriously pulls in length after length of rope. Finally Ewahee is close enough to grab a bit of the dam. Like a bedraggled rat the entirely mud encased woman crawls out of the lahar's grasp and lies panting on the pile of broken and soggy limbs.
Ewahee at first doesn't reply and focused on merely at least getting her eyes, ears and nose clear of mud. Her mouth seems a lost cause because she spits ash for a long time. With that finally done, she clambers onto dry ground and sits for a long while in silence. The mud starts to dry into a hard carapace the color of old cheese. It smells like a firepit, acrid and sulfurous.
"I agree." She finally says, mud cracking along her body. "I think they just wanted to destroy the dam and you got in the way. Attacking something with it's back turned..." She shrugs, creating more cracks.
She eyes the containers and her own mud encrusted form. Sighing she stands, and whole chunks of mud fall off, plopping to the ground. Ewahee' hair is more like an earthen helmet, plastered to her head. 'As much as I'd enjoy washing off....that will be my most powerful spell of the day. Do we really want to use it now? It's barely noon." She glances meaningfully at the dark forest looming above them.