Party Soup

Log Info

• Title: Party Soup

• Emitter: Skielstregar

• Characters: Skielstregar, Aelwyn

• Place: Am'shere Wilds, outbound from Prion Prison

• Summary: Aelwyn checks on Skielstregar after the harrowing experience of the Blood Prison.

Am'shere, Camp, Evening

It's the night after the raid on Prion Prison. The nefarious Charnite research lab having been cleared out, their research destroyed, kin rescued and Forgotten kin having been given mercy. What was experienced in those lava-filled halls was nightmare fuel.

Night in the jungles are never silent. Insects buzzing, nocturnal animals howling, wind constantly making trees shift and shake. A clearing has been found for camp, offering a reprieve for the return trip for all those that was part of that horrid endeavor.

One of the Warriors, a silverscaled makari, sits by himself at the edge of camp, a small campfire crackling in front of him as he hugs his knees and tail, staring at it as the plethora of wounds he endured are covered in bandages and bruises. He had been distant, physically to ensure potential disease wouldn't spread, and mentally, spaced out and absentminded the entire way back. A growl cuts through the background chaff. Not one of anger. Skiel tightens his hold, squinting at the fire. He hasn't eaten at all since the raid.

It was nightmare fuel indeed. Footsteps approach the silvery Makari, steady, but lazy in their approach. Finally, a hand slowly lifts a bowl of soup towards the tallest sith. "Silver should not stay all of the journey." Aelwyn says, tilting his head up. He was leaning sideways against his glaive, otherwise dark and inert except for the few spots of deep ember, pulsing with inner fire. "The food carries spice, the fires are bright, and our wounds remind us of who we are. Why not be in this moment?"

Despite the wide grin on his face and with the ignorant flair Aelwyn carried his bruised body, there were certain sights floating in his mind that even he could not hide.

Skielstregar blinks, clearing his distant gaze as his head lifts to spy the ruddy makari. A tired, appreciative sort of smile crosses his features before he eyes the soup. "... despite being assured this one is not a carrier," he says slowly in his native tongue. "Food is... difficult to consider at present."

He eyes the glaive. "This one has not complimented your weapon, it is very fitting for you. Would... you like to sit? This one is..." he trails off, not entirely sure what he was doing. Perhaps that is an answer in of itself in regards to Aelwyn's queries.

Aelwyn rolls the bowl about at the tips of his fingers, sending it spinning but still somehow containing its contents. "It is not food. It is party material." Not alcohol. "Besides, it is liquid - it seems a lot of people have lost their taste." He flicks his tongue out, before laying the bowl down in front of Skielstregar.

At the compliment, he bows his head deeply. "This one's blade would thank Silver, if it could. Yet this one is very satisfied with it." The blade would carry draconic script; but the word was obviously some native dialect.

"... shocked, this one presumes." Aelwyn finishes, as he sits down in front of the fire. "It was where Silver died, was it?"

Skielstregar weakly rumbles a chuckle at the display, him relenting and reaching for the bowl. "Very well, party material is certainly different," he bemuses, taking the soup and, quite literally, pouring half of it down his gullet. A shiver runs through him, smacking his maw. "Thank you."

Gaze lingering on the script of the blade, his attention slowly slides back to the campfire. His hands fold across his knees. "... sssa. Shocked. Afraid. Angry. So much anger."

He shakes his head. "No. That prison reminded them of how they themselves were changed. And those... /cravens/-" he spits, nostrils flaring with a gout of frozen air spilling from them, "-those were the same ones that did turned this one."

Aelwyn lays his glaive across his legs as he crosses his feet. He makes a slow nod off his head. "What other emotion would one feel?" The Dragoon asks, tilting his head. "Yet this one hopes it is not all directed at the fire." He reaches out and gives the fire a bit of a shake, sending sparks flying.

The Dragoon then turns his head and tilts his horns, hemming as he rocks a little on place. "This one does not understand Am'shere politics. Why would they try to do all of this? What are they trying to gain?"

Skielstrear sighs, unable to help but rumble at Aelwyn messing with the fire, similar to how Skiel is fine with shoveling handfuls of snow barehanded. "Far too many emotions to put to words. This one knew what we were facing, but they were not... prepared fully."

He watches Aelwyn sway. "Am'shere politics matters little. It is Charn. Charn is evil and cruel. Trying to turn us into their mindless, hungry servants. They were one once. They care little of our lives."

The silverscale's attention dips to Aelwyn themselves. "... and you? Are you well?"

Aelwyn tilts his head towards the side slowly. "... hmmh, a strange way of acquiring-" There's a foreign word there, before the ruddy sith-makar catches himself. "Acquiring slaves." He raises his shoulders. "Definitely one of the cruellest." He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a wineskin, taking a deep sip.

At the question, the ruddy sith-makar spreads wide his lips, showing off his teeth. "Ego aside?" He rumbles in amusement. "This one would have thought the lava would limber limbs!" His tail sways - but then he looks aside, hand over his shoulder. "Did Silver ever feel that... disease?"

"Soldier slaves," Skiel amends bitterly. "Viscous. And if they can spread that disease to other makari, then its just an easy way to cripple entire regions. Regular folks, even Warrior caste, would be hard pressed to stop even them."

The silverscale isn't buying Aelwyn's wide grin, concern plastered on his face for his friend. "Even for this one, there is such a thing as too much cold." He drums his fingers on the bowl. "... no, thankfully," he murmurs. "If this one did, we would have a very, very large problem on our hands. Have... you?"

"Ah, tch." Aelwyn rumbles, then shakes his head. There's a moment of rocking, before he admits, "This one did feel a pang, after the teeth sank." He rolls his shoulders, and flashes his teeth. "Yet this one feels like that every time a blade cuts near him." Tail flop and thump.

"They will be stopped. This one cannot imagine them withstanding the fury of Silver for longer than it takes to swipe a coin off one's palm." The ruddy sith-makar then rumbles.

Skielstregar rumbles quietly at the little joke. But his words belie a quiet seriousness. "Please ensure the Shamans see you over, just to be sure. This one does not want one of his friends to befell what this one has been through. That pang... is what this one feels all the time. Imagine that disease added on top of what this one feels." He gestures wide. "This one would have to be locked in steel room and given nothing until cured."

At that, he sharply nods, huffing. "This one will purge them with the Dragonfather's fury. This one does not like bloodshed without purpose, and this is /very/ purpose filling." He smiles lightly. "And you- this one has noticed you have gotten very in stride with your dancing."

"Hmmh, this one used to slide around swings of blades as if they were nothing but air; this one must have gotten comfy in the city." Aelwyn flashes his teeth. "This one was warned that cities are like oasises - vital, yet one will be trapped if one never forges a path." It was obvious he basked in the compliment, though. "It is strange to fight with so many strange blades around this one."

At the other, more grave topic, the ruddy sith bows his head. "This one shall. Tch, should have been able to evade their sluggish bites." Annoyed flick of his head. "It was very fortune the clerics were there."

"Perhaps too comfy in the city. This one too, has gotten too comfy with the city. This one forget that kin here spar with all their might, and suffered some injuries to body and reputation," Skiel bemuses. "Teeth are an odd blade, but can be very useful one in a pinch." He clacks his maw, showing those large, unnatural fangs.

A shrug leaves him as he finishes the rest of the soup, the spice getting him to cough a little into a fist. "This one took a bite to their leg. Sluggish as it may be, the chaos of a fight makes it hard to pay attention to everything."

He waits for a beat, then asks. "How have you been with kin from Am'shere? This one knows you grew up outside of the jungles. This one hopes it hasn't been to difficult to navigate our customs?"

"Hmmh, customs are like any other movement - each with their own rhythm and dance. If this one does not move in wrong step - usually this one survives without knives." Aelwyn wriggles his tongue in playful manner. "Yet it is strange, when one is expected to be here as kin, yet this one is not in the way they think." He gestures with his hand. "Lava wanted to know this one's caste. What could this one say, if not Dragoon?"

The draconian then clicks his teeth. "Less of chaos in fight, but charging head first into anything that moves, heedless of what is around him." He rumbles. "This one is surprised he only got bitten."

Skielstregar bobs his head. "Ssa. This one understands. This one has to learn oruch and Alexandria customs. Only a knife occasionally," he chuckles, sticking his own blackened tongue out in retaliation. But his shifts to something more thoughtful. "Mmm. That is why this one asked if you are adjusting well. Dragoon isn't a caste here. But castes are varied between tribes, even within tribes. This one would say your are Warrior, easily. It would make more sense to others. Dragoon sounds like duties of a Shaman. Or Lore-Keeper. But a caste is a statement of your duties, and your pride. If you are Dragoon, you are Dragoon."

"And getting bitten when charging in is the best outcome for this one. Usually it is far worse for this one."

Aelwyn rocks towards side and clicks his tongue. "This one felt as if Lava did not understand or accept Dragoon. A knife this one would dance away, even if it were relinquishing this one's claim." He takes in a deep breath, rolling his head with a light grin on his face. "Customs are so meaningful, yet one has to be in the center of the fire to feel it."

Then his orange eyes fall back onto Skielstregar. "... has Silver ever thought of, not getting bitten upon? This one is certain those feet could easily sway and confuse the enemy, without having to stop the run."

Skiel lets out a small breath. "This one, to be honest friend, does not understand it either," he admits. "It is of a different tribe of thought, far removed from what this one is used to knowing. Time, though, could provide understanding."

He pushes a stick on the ground around with a finger. "And it is up to the one in the fire to actually throw themselves into it to get meaning. Take Warrior Rune for example. She partakes in our rituals, our customs of paint and rain dances. Speaks our tongue. Knows our greetings and well wishes. She is Kin, even if she lacks tail and scales, in this one's eyes." He looks at Aelwyn. "It is up to you if you wish to dive into said fire or not. Regardless if you wish to or not, this one still considers you as of the People."

The silverscale smiles cheekily. "Usually things do not live long enough against this one to get a bite in. There was too many things to swing at last time."

"Ah, tch. And she told this one she cannot dance. What cruelty, that this one has not witnessed her." Aelwyn laments -loudly- before he lets out a deep rolling rumble. "This one understands. It is why this place is so strange - so calling, yet this one feels as if their calling is elsewhere." Roll of his shoulders. "Or perhaps here."

There's tilt of the horned figure's head, but then he moves to a stand, and he walks over Skielstregar. "Hmm." There's a ruminating rumble, as he moves to touch the taller makari on the side. "This one feels as if he could still see Silver rolling to avoid the teeth - a charge done right can undo the momentum of one's opponents, a blade that is swung yet fails to see the real path."

Skielstregar laughs quietly at Aelwyn's lamenting. "She is good at the ritual dances, outside of that, this one does not know." He gestures out to the wilds. "Am'shere is large, wide, and wild. Perhaps such calling is here. People and tribes here to help understand such calling. It can point here, find what calls, maybe it points someplace else? A stop on a road, in a way."

The silverscale watches Aelwyn amble over, him tilting his head up slightly to watch him. There's a light wince at the touch. He is still bruised after the whole endeavor, after all. "Maybe this one can do that when their mind is clear. But when they are... occupied-" he taps his head, "- it is hard to think of anything other than the simplest path forward: rip and tear. Perhaps we can practice that at a later time, for now, we rest."

Skiel thinks for a moment before grunting and getting to his feet. "Perhaps we should get more of that party soup, no?" he suggests.

Aelwyn flashes his teeth up at Skielstregar. "Yes. Let us. The heavy thoughts can burn in that fire for the night." He taps the taller makari's calves with his tail, before he walks forward with the said cheeky appendage swaying.