Absolution Ch. 02

Still warm. Jolen withdraws his palm from the ashes and coals left in a shallow fire pit, sitting on his haunches as he studies the trampled grass and upturned soil; the dying embers indicative of a recent camp. Flattened greenery mark the places where the camp's members lay out under the night sky, three distinctive spots with scraps of food, oil stains and the occasional black feather collect in small piles at the ends closest to the hastily constructed fire pit. Curled wood shavings mark one of the three sleeping areas as different. And as expected, another stretch of crushed grass encircles the partially shaded copse; a track where a lookout strolled back and forth for hours on end as their compatriots rested through the night.

The scene speaks clearly to the practiced eye drinking in the details; a patrol of no more than four men, kestrels by the discarded plumes found about the camp. Barely disciplined, they have left many clues as to their actions over the night, making no attempt to hide their passing. He considers them armed with passable weapons for no one would waste weapon oil on poorly constructed arms, no matter how cheap the gritty oil is that has pooled in some places. Weapons of metal. Perhaps swords and maces. An axe. These things do not capture his attention long, not the same with the shavings of wood. At least one of the camp's former inhabitants can handle a blade well enough not to lose a digit or marr themselves horrifically.

Certainty rears its face in the bearing of the patrol and their camp's remains: they are confident in their mastery of the area. They patrol as ordered, part of the day's work for anything more complex than a band of brigands, but do not feel as if such precautions are necessary. This theory becomes ironclad as Jolen traces the direction the patrol took late in the morning, to the southeast. In the her direction. This realization brings fire, then ice to his veins, his knuckles glowing palely as he grips the shaft of his javelin tight.

Shouldering his shield, he takes the javelin in both hands, broad, leaf-shaped blade pointed low as he crouches and glides through the undergrowth, into the forest after the confident patrol. He moves wordlessly, pulling his breaths through his mouth and out again to lessen the noises he is making as he pursues his quarry. Only the tattered hem of his cloak makes a sound, betraying him nearly inaudibly as he moves, snapping as he strides further into the wood. Masked by the noise of forest life, Jolen presses onwards.

The hours pass, two, three and finally four before he smells and hears the signs of another camp ahead. Perhaps a couple hundred feet, the patrol has stopped for a late afternoon rest and meal. Coneys roast over a fire, fat spitting and hissing and throwing the savory scent of meat, catching the forest breeze and carrying it away. Their laughter even at this distance leaves no doubt as to the raucous nature of these men, livened in all probability with wine or other alcohol.

The cloak's hood is pulled up as he crouches closer to the ground, knees bent as the javelin is held before himself, shifting and sliding closer to the camp. Leaves whisper below his feet, crunching quietly as he carefully makes his way, his gaze scans his surroundings, hunting the lookout he knows is present. Pausing, Jolen closes his eyes and casts about himself psionically, the varied pulses of life blooming in his mind as he seeks his prey; four barely sentient minds coalesce out of the teeming multitude of the forest's natural denizens. Three are clustered in the direction he believes to be the location of the camp, while the fourth moves away from the others, eventually pacing around the forest. Coming towards me, he realizes with a slow smile. He readies himself, ducking near the semi-exposed roots of a centuries old tree.

A full fifteen minutes passes before the sentry comes into view. Raising a leather flagon to its mouth, the guard does not see Jolen watching him drink and almost stumble through the forest. Dressed in black, stained clothing, a simple leather breastplate is the only discernable armor the kestrel wears, his wings emerging through the back of his garments. At his side, a scabbard and a short sword hang carelessly, a hatchet hooked over the front of his weapon's belt, also appearing worn and neglected.

Jolen grows cold as understands what has truly happened to the mother of his children and one-time consort: Karsh.

The realization snaps him into action, the psionic energies pent up focussing and then releasing in a murderous and brutal thrust into the mind of the unsuspecting sentry; blood pours from the sides of his head, spraying violently from his mouth and nose as he dies in an instant, back contorting and breaking with a sharp crack of bone and ligament. Turning his attention back in the direction of the camp, its continued noise and laughter do not betray alarm or realization of the sentry's demise. The hatchet is ripped from the dead kestrel's weapon's belt and his held in his fist as he rushes quickly towards the encampment, his passing barely stirring the bushes and vegetation of the forest floor.

Again unnoticed, he finds the men at camp, cooking and chattering to one another in thick accents, "Fuckin' show dat were, eh? Boss knows how ta throw ah party for 'is boys." A rude gesture is shared and the laughter erupts again. "Wonder if lieutenant got 'im a whole piece offa dat bitch dancer. Fuckin' psycho bitch were a piece o' ass, e'vn fer a older whore." Snickers are shared, Jolen's grip on the hatchet grows tenser as he listens, the understanding deepening.

"Heardtell tha' whore be boss' own dau'hta."

Adianna. He knew her father to be a cruel chieftan among the Karsh, described as a sadist and maliciously petty man who saw women as cattle for breeding and not much more. The hatchet left his hand in a nimble throw, his steps following closely behind it, body flushing with biological chemicals and stimulants as he slung off his javelin and charged into the camp.

One of the soldiers was mid-laugh when the hatchet blade caught him, burying itself through the right side of his face, splintering bone and cleaving flesh. The impact of the nimbly thrown weapon picked the already dead man and threw him backwards, away from the fire. The distraction prevented the remaining men from drawing weapons to ready before Jolen's cloaked form swept into the camp, the broad blade of the javelin thrusting clean through the sternum of the closest man, tearing through in a fountain of blood. With a twist and a jerk, the second kestrel hemorrhages blood and gurgles a pathetic cry, bringing the final man out of his stunned state, drawing his dagger and rushing his unknown assailant.

Pulling the javelin head from the ruined chest of the Karsh warrior, Jolen parried the first attack and followed it with the snapping of his wingtip in the face of the final patroller. Both men circle one another, one glaring murderously at the other; the other bewildered and shaken at the quick deaths of his fellows. His eyes glance away into the trees quickly, loathe to leave the short statured demon before himself. Gothen must have heard that, he thinks, confident that he could still survive the attack.

"The skirmisher is dead."

The warrior blanches at the words, shuddering at the apparent reading of his thoughts. Desparate, he attacks with another series of thrusts and cuts, crying out with each strike. Several times he is certain he has the stranger, only to miss by a feather. Jolen smiles to himself, flushed with the adrenaline and sensation of hot death at his hands, parrying and dodging the comparatively clumsy attacks leveled against himself.

Slash, thrust, slash, slash. The attacks come more slowly as the strength drains and is replaced by weighty sensation of exhaustion and fear. Jolen's eyes narrow as he decides the encounter is over and parries hard, throwing the younger Karsh warrior off balance. With a clean thrust, the javelin spits the skull at the temple, killing before the ichor covered tip exits the other side. With another twist and jerk, Jolen pulls the javelin free from the twitching, dead Karsh. He observes the devastation around the camp, everything sprayed with blood, its smell mixing with that of offal and innards. He sets to work policing weapons and obscuring the traces of the fight, this too performed with a well-practiced hand.

Later on towards the evening, Jolen pulls his pack off, opening it and preparing a cold meal. His mind processes the events of the day, the understanding at the true situation Adianna is in and how short the time is before he finds her. It will not be a simple matter; much danger lies ahead as the presence of her father can potentially precipitate a large gathering of Karsh warriors and camp followers. Perhaps this is too much for the lone Sparra, as experienced a warrior and as powerful a Psion he may be.

A presence, he decides to himself. He must cut an impressive figure to shock initially. Perhaps this would be enough to buy precious moments with which to rescue her from bondage. He preens meticulously through the night, deciding on a change of plumage, as well. His birth plumage. The violet feathers dull quickly and soon are pushed out as soft, shiny bold brown feathers take their place across his body and wings. He gathers up all of the plucked and fallen feathers and shoves them into his pack, but not before removing one of the few things he had brought on this journey.

Silver glimmers in the night light, the metal inlaid carefully into stiffened and hardened black leather. Shaped carefully and fitted to his head, Jolen's war helm is turned over in his hands. Decades have passed since he has laid eyes upon it, much less handled it or worn it. His hands rake the flowing crest of red feathers, taken from the wings of many Shoku warriors in the wars of his youth. He produces a small jar of thick oil, fragrantless but potent as he daps a little onto the leather and begins to work it in. Signs of use become more apparent as a healthy lustre is returned to the helm, scratch and nicks adorning the brow of the helm, the vertical slits like lightning bolts available for his eyes frame the extended leather beak that is intended to cover his own; too embossed completely in silver.

Once satisfied, Jolen dons the helm, the lower half exposed to the world. He has already removed the majority of his garments and has hidden them with the rest of his pack in the roots of a tree near the scene of his recent fight with the patrol. Now he refastens his belts and cloak securely, his loin cloth of black tied tightly about his groin and waist. He admires himself briefly in a shard of mirror before he picks up his javelin and shield, his belts laden with confiscated daggers, knives, shortswords and hatchets.

He cannot be more than half a day from the main camp of the Karsh. No more than a handful of hours before finding her. A relative moment in his long life until he can face his regrets.

He does not sleep that night, awake with anticipation. Finally napping before high-noon, Jolen deadens himself to the world for no more than two hours before rising once more. He sets off in the direction he last sensed Adianna and is soon rewarded with further tracks made by other Karsh patrols. A grim smile creases across his thin lips as his pace quickens, onwards towards the coming dusk.

***

Cold...so very cold. Her arms clench around her body as she tries to suppress miserable shivers. With her inability to connect with her psionic powers, she cannot even use that to warm herself. Adianna lowers her forehead until it rests on her knees, naked body hunched over to conserve what small amount of heat she can. The dank stone beneath seems to leach it away as fast as her metabolism can produce it. Fingers feel stiff and wooden with the cold, and legs have long since grown numb, as she lay through the night . Events of the previous night play back to her over and over, a lurid, painted scene splashed across the back of her eyelids.

The message from Jolen...he was coming, but why? How had he known and why did he care? It had been years since they last had any contact. His face rose, unbidden, in her mind -- the lines well-known to her as she once traced them nightly in her dreams. The strong curve of jaw and beak, thin lips and his blue eyes beneath a low brow. The world where he walked beside her had been one of safety, justice, harsh...but Adia would take harsh over cruel. She raised her head long enough to glance around at the empty stone chamber, silent but for the occasional drip of water from the ceiling overhead.

She had danced, lost in her memories of him, remembering a time when dancing had been a pleasure...her movements intended to arouse and excite. Last night was no such time. The kestrel warrior's talons had left bloodied furrows on her ribcage and back as he ripped silk and skin indiscriminately. Their fiery touch overlaid the barely healing wounds from the whip's caress. Looking down, Adia eyes her worn body, noting all the signs of ill-use and neglect. She wondered idly what Jolen would see when...and if...he arrived. The slender build from her youth had filled in a bit after the birth of the twins. Her plumage lost a bit of it's lustre from weeks spent hidden in the forest. Scars and wounds latticed the flesh of her legs and back. With a snarl, she pulls her mind from the trivial thoughts and focuses it sharply on her rage. Rage at Jolen for deserting her to raise their children alone...rage at his easy change of heart as he took a new mate with her place in his cot barely cooled...rage at the lies and blustering that had kept her in Sable while Karsh raided her home and stole her children...anger for the long years that had passed without a word from him or any attempt to locate her...fury for the current situation that brought him riding in like a white knight...humiliation that she would need his saving. Saving...

She closes her eyes once more, seeing Khor's face, his eyes blazing as they had when he had ripped the warrior off her last night. A vicious blast of mental energy had laid the kestrel on his back, unconscious. She couldn't help but smile slightly, a bit of pride rising in her at the skillful display from her son. He had protected her. True there had been no touching reunion. Khor threw a cloak at her and ordered her to leave the room. Adianna shudders slightly, recalling the look of fury on her father's face at Khor's defiance. Would he have Khor punished for the actions? No...Adia grimaced bitterly. He would not overlook an opportunity to involve her in the proceedings. If Khor was to be punished, he would ensure she was there to witness it.

The click of a taloned foot in the stone passageway drew her from her brooding thoughts. One of her father's bodyguards entered and crossed to drag her up off the stone floor by the her crest. Her snap of beak was half-hearted retaliation, he released her to stand on her own and she collapsed again, her legs unable to support weight. The guard yanked her upright once more, waiting while she stamped her legs to return blood flow. When she was able to limp along after him, shuffling her feet on the stone, he brought her to an open chamber where her father waited, reclined with a number of his war council. The others he dismissed when she arrived and the guard deposited her before disappearing as well. A crackling fire hissed and spat in a brazier by the wall, and she huddled close to it, urging warmth back into her limbs.

"You ha' been fa' mo stubbo'n than I had hoped. Yo know I looked a long time fa' you afta' yo motha' ran off an' took you with ha'. It was na' a life you eva' had ta lead. A' wanted ya hea', beside me in comfo't, guiding a' people in battles. The blood voices spoke ta' you, an' we havena' had anotha' seer since you left. Let us fo'get all o' this anger and unpleasantness. Come back an' it will all be ova', you will be Karsh again."

Adia's sneer is quick and mocking, "You think I would return ta' guide yo' bloody wa's an help you spread the misery ya' inflict upon all the peoples you ha' conquered? Slaves, that's what all o' us a'. An' my motha' was Kishvite, have you fo'gotten that? Na' I'm done bein' a piece o' yo army."

Akmah nods slowly as he watches his daughter, seemingly unconcerned by her rebellious reply and continued refusal. "Alright, then ya' leave me na' choice. Khor is a fine warria', his mind powa's were an unexpected talent, but he canna' commune with the blood voices...but maybe his sista' can." Adia's eyes flash open wide, "Yes, a' hadna' fo'gotten about yo daughta', we took her along with him. O' she is vera' much alive. An' if you willna' stand as seer...p'haps she will."

Adianna's scream of rage is shrill and savage as she launches herself at her father where he is seated. The bodyguards arrayed beside him subdue her with some difficulty as she lashes out with beak and talon. They finally manage to drag her to the ground and clap manacles around her wrists. Akmah watches in mild amusement, "If ya' feel that strongly about it, daughta', then dunna be sa' stubbo'n, dunna fo'ce ma hand this way. "

Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she murmurs, "Alright. You win."