Roleplay

@Mypilot ((here we go!))

The rain and cold, and brutal, and cuts deep into Israfil's skin where it pokes between his hood and cowl. It turns the morning's snow into gritty slop that makes his boots slip, although still silently, upon the rock and thawing dirt.

Israfil scouts North, until the trees can no longer sow themselves into the inhospitable ground, roots looping awkwardly among the ice and stone. The tracks of the cloven-hoofed animal he had been tracking are washed away by the needles of rain, and any scent he could have picked up, by his nose or another forms, is stamped out as well. Israfil stands in the rain, disgruntled, waiting until the setting sun's chill begins to bite at his nose and his fingers begin to feel the first threads of water caressing his skin through his gloves.

The trek back to his partner is harder than the journey away - the snow is looser, and footholds give under his boots. He's never done well by the elven grace stereotype, unless actively on a hunt, and he slips and as to grab a branch a few times to avoid an unpleasantly wet and chilly fall more than once.

He finds Nyna not far from where they split. He raises a hand in greeting, tugging down the mask covering his mouth with snow-soaked hands.

"I can't pick up anything in this weather," he says, his native elvish rolling off his tongue like the rain off the leaves, "I suggest going further North, past the treeline. At least then we could at least see something. No trees in the way."

He pulls the drawstring on his bow a few times absently, before shooting Nyna a little grin.

"Have to fill our quota for the clan, you know. And the trigger finger's getting awful itchy."

@Incalyscent

Nyna had been watching the forest, just listening. She could hear Israfil approaching and hid a smile. She turned, watching him make his way towards her through the loose snow. He was dressed warmly, but if Nyna was feeling the cold then no doubt her friend and companion was just as chilled.

"Fine," she conceded to his remark. She'd never been too comfortable near the town of Rivi or the humans. She preferred her trees and her rocks. Her voice took on a teasing tone as she continued, "We best be quick. I'd hate for you to lose your trigger finger to the cold."

She picked up her own staff from where it leaned on a nearby tree, the end stabbing into the ground below. When she wasn't fighting, which was most times, it served as a useful walking stick. Not that Nyna needed it; she was quite capable maneuvering in the snow on her own.

She made a soft trill, a call to the owl that had become one of her closest companions over the years. The forest was silent for a bit, the snow muffling most sounds, but a call came back to her. Not too soon after did Othello come darting through trees, swaying between outstretches branches and ferns.

He landed on the hand that Nyna kept out to meet him and trilled in her ear, a gentle sound. "Not much movement in the forest," she told Israfil. It was to be expected, given the season, but Othello had a much keener hearing than the two elves. North it'd be, then.

The town of Rivi was known for it's dominating human race and unkindness to their kind, but if luck was on their side then perhaps they needn't get too close. Mice and other creatures made their homes in the roots of the trees. If they waited long enough they'd be lucky to stumble upon a burrowed animal.

@Mypilot

Israfil grins at her comment, a flash of jagged teeth before his mouth is covered once more. He plucks the draw of his bow again, feeling the stiffness of his joints in the cold. He begins back on the trail he had blazed before, checking over his shoulder for his companion. He smiles when he sees Othello, and nods at the information is relayed from the bird to him.

"Ah, you and me both know I could still shoot with the other nine," he responds, mock arrogance in his tone. He promptly caught his toe on a root and stumbled, boots sliding through the slush. He clears his throat.

"Don't say a word."

The rain has washed the snow from the rocks that the dirt crushes into. Roots curl up from the ground, and Israfil picks around them carefully until he breaks through the barrier of bark and the North opens up in front of him, wide and yawning.

The wind is harsher here and it cuts through him, making him bow his head against the icy water that assaults his face. He shakes his head, taking in the tiny shrubs and lichen that peek from underneath his feet. When the breeze subsides he looks out over the landscape, tough and rocky and far away, unexplored mountains loom.

To the West the glimmer of Rivi's walls glimmer, pristine and white and glimmering with torchlight, entirely out of place in the squall of the North. Guards look like black ants patrolling the borders of the wall, on its top, and Israfil snorts despite himself, returning his gaze to Nyna.

"As much as we both love that city," he says, "let's agree to keep a healthy distance away, unless we'd like to have an extended stay, yes?"

@Incalyscent

"Oh, absolutely," she replied, her voice taking on faux seriousness at Israfil's crowing over his talent. When he nearly took a spill over the wet snow, she wasn't able to stop her restrain her laughing. Not paying attention, she ended up doing the same he had done. After catching herself with her staff, she righted herself and sent an apologetic look to Othello who had taken to the air after his perch was disturbed.

Taking more care with her steps, Nyna tread after Israfil. She peered past him at the icy plains spread out before them, the snow smooth and undisturbed. It was painful to look at; the snow a mirror for the sun as it blinded her. She cast her eyes upwards where the blanket turned into climbing mountains. The peaks were white, but nearer to the base she could see the grey stone where the clifface was to steep for snow to catch onto. She wondered if there was a Dward peering from their cave home at her, across the way, but doubted it.

Israfil tore her from her thoughts, the laughter in his eyes making her smile in spite of the aching fear she always had this close to the human city. She'd heard of the slave traders of Rivi. Cruel men who treated her people like cargo. She avoided looking at it and instead turned East, following the treeline.

"Perhaps we'll spot a winter rabbit returning home with some food. I've heard they live along the plains where the roots grow without restraint," she calls back, using her staff to hold back branches that would otherwise smack her in the face. She kept her eyes to the ground, looking intently for any animal tracks. If the animals didn't hide from the cold, winter would be the best to hunt in since the tracks would lead them directly to their prey.

She thought she heard a sound in the woods, her ears instinctively flicking to its source while her gaze followed. She saw nothing, but drew her arms closer to her just in case. It would do nothing, but she always liked keeping herself small in the hopes that nothing would see her.

@Mypilot

"Clan Inacan's hunter protege's, trip over roots," Israfil mutters, mouth smiling under it's covering. As Nyna speaks his eyes scan East, his vision picking up the brown of roots becoming uncovered by the rain. He grinds his teeth together, thinking.

"Alright. We should walk in parallel though, so we're not out of each other's sight. Should be rabbits. Squirrels. Further out in the North they'll be elk, but that might be too much for us to carry back," he muses out loud.

There's a crack from back in the Green, like a twig being snapped underfoot. Israfil draws on arrow in a silent fluid movement and knocks is, whirling to point it into the faded dark of the forest. The string is pressed against the corner of his mouth from where it is drawn, his heart hammering in his throat but his breathing even.

Moments pass, and with a glance to his companion he lets the tension bleed from his frame, arrow still pressed to the bowstring between loosened fingers. He swallows his nerves with a breathy chuckle.

"Probably just an animal," he says, directing the words at Nyna while allowing them to sooth him as well. He doesn't suggest going after the sound, even if they were hunting, and even though it was probably just an animal. Something about it seems wrong, and his skin prickles with something that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

"Come on. Let's go."

@Incalyscent

Nyna forces her grip to relax on her spear, soothing the arcane blood that beats in her ears. Israfil was right: it was just an animal. It had to be, anyway. After only a moments hesitation, she followed after him and joined his side.

"Hopefully the sound didn't scare away any other prey," she mused aloud, her eyes watching the snow again. She peered forward, squinting her eyes at a large set of tracks ahead. Two legs, even gait, a group of three. "Israfil, I think-"

Noise burst from the trees and Nyna whipped around to meet it, already summoning up a gust of air to shove back whatever was lunging towards them. Othello tore himself from her arm, his call angry and venomous.

Humans. Not three, but four, all armed. She had shoved one back, but he quickly caught himself against the trunk of a nearby tree. He uses it to push himself off and Nyna was too focused on him to notice the other man wrap his arms around her waist to hold her in place, arms pressed to her side and his gloved hand over her nose and mouth.

I can't breath, she shouted in her mind to the only being that could hear her. Othello swooped to strike at the man, but he dodged and struck the owl down with the blunt side of his sword. Othello!

Her vision begins to fade as her struggles tucker her out. She tries to find Israfil with her eyes, but only sees a fifth man emerge from the trees with an angry expression and a sword in his hand. Did he hit the other human? No, he would never. He's a human himself. Nyna slumps against her captor, her mind going from fuzzy to black.

@Mypilot

The arrow lodged in Israfil's fingers isn't there for long, and the man who Nyna had thrown against the tree finds himself pushed back and pinned there with an arrow through the shoulder. Israfil's sight is bright and sharp with adrenaline. He sees the man's blood spatter the snow, sees another grab Nyna.

Enraged and protective, Israfil urges his bones to shift with a growl, eyes trained on his partner's assailant. He forgets about the other two, and it's a mistake. One comes up behind him and bludgeons him with the hilt of his sword, sending him sprawling to the ground before his skin even begins to stretch.

Israfil goes to spring up, another arrow in his hand, and when a foot steps on his chest to keep it down he rams the arrowhead into the offensive limb and the man jerks away with a yelp. His victory is short lived as a fist crashes into his nose. His vision spins, his ears ring and he tastes the coppery thickness of his own blood in his mouth. Through his daze, he thinks he hears one of them talking about not harming the cargo.

Cargo. They were going to be things.

Fear kicks his already racing heart into a further tandem, and he allows himself one cry, quiet and restrained, as he stares up at his captors, only barely registering a new foot placed on his chest and the way the wet snow seeps through his furs and makes everything cold and hopeless.

@Incalyscent

The fifth man hadn't been expecting to stumble on such a...scene. He hadn't expected much of his morning walk, really. So to hear the sounds of fighting through the thicket and to see four men lunge and attack a couple of elves, he was enraged.

The fifth man is named August. His hair is a muddy brown and just reaches his ears, feathery waves licking at the side of his face. His eyes are much the same colour, but there's an alterness to them. He carries a sword, and that alterness is explained.

He throws his weight on one of the attackers right as he sees the female pass out. Her head lulls back against the chest of the one holding her and he watches the man slacken his grip to drop her, unflatteringly, on the ground while he goes for August.

But August is quicker.

The sword in his hand rings in the air, cutting a clean arc through the breeze and across the chest of the approaching man. Not enough to kill him, no, because August isn't like that. The man whom August chose to ride like a mule has the good sense to finally shake him off, but August is hard-pressed to catch his balance and counter the hit that was sent his way. The attacker fights with only strength, this August notes.

"It's no wonder you travel in packs," he taunts, "since your skills alone would have you dead at my feet." The man responds to the goading with as much force as August had expected: a mighty swing of his sword, his whole body in it. August dodges to the side easily, the man losing his balance and stumbling forward.

Ignoring him, August turns to the one pinning down the male elf and, with a quick check on who has weapons and where, August swings at the man. When the blow misses, he kicks his leg out to knock the man off balance and it hits it's mark: the man stumbles and falls and the other goes with him like a couple of felled trees. The male elf is now free and hopefully will prove more useful than the unconscious woman.

@Mypilot

There's a clamor somewhere behind the blood rushing in Israfil's ears, and his daze clears slowly as the sounds of swinging swords and bodies thumping against each other in the familiar clash of battle. Then the weight is gone from him and he springs to all fours, eyes searching out his savior. He blanches.

Another human. Potentially another slaver. But for now, an ally.

Bow discarded on the ground, Israfil ducks his head, and with a shift of bone so quick it's only a loud crack, a massive deathclaw stands in his wake, deadly and gleaming white like the snow. His head snaps back up with a guttural snarl, golden eyes locking on the slavers that had attacked him.

With a roar he turns and lashes at the one that held him down, sending him cartwheeling through the air and back into the Green with a sickening crunch. He leaps for the remaining, uninjured straggler, pinning him as he screams. Israfil's serrated fangs bite into the meat of his thigh, and the slaver wails as he shakes his head, bone and flesh breaking. He thumps the man with the arrow in his foot for good measure, rendering him unconscious. This all happens while the shock of his change held his adversaries immobilized.

Blood dripping from his maw, Israfil moves to stand between August and Nyna, teeth bared, shoulders hunched in a ready position, his tail flicking. His heart thrums with adrenaline and apprehension. His claws bite the rocky ground and he waits for the other to move.

@Incalyscent

August would've helped, was eager too really, but it was clear that the elf-turned-deathclaw was more than capable on his own. He glances at the flying body of one of the men, flinches at the sound of him hitting a tree, and turns just in time to see the last standing man get an arrow in the thigh. The muscle would be torn and he wouldn't be able to use that leg for quite some time, if ever.

To say August was satisfied to see justice brought to the slave drivers was an understatement. But that satisfaction was short lived as the deathclaw turned to him, teeth barred and claws just as sharp and deadly as before.

"Woah," August said, raising his hands up. He glanced at Nyna, whom the deathclaw/elf was protecting, and turned back towards him. "I mean no harm. Really." He hoped he didn't sound desperate, but he didn't exactly want to die. He wasn't sure what he expected when he attacked the slavers, but it wasn't to be turned against by the elves.

To show he meant what he said, August lowered and dropped his sword on the ground. It was a bit of a gamble since he didn't know what the intentions were of the elves, but he hoped the male only wanted to protect the female. If they were one of those clans he heard about where they loathed all humans, than his gamble would certainly kick him in the rear.