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Old May 5, 2019, 09:56 PM   #1
Conan mac Chulainn
Join Date: May 2019
Posts: 7
Conan mac Chulainn is an upstanding Citizen
[Xet Alliance] Flight upon broken wings (Straylor)

Spring, Era XXVI PF

Pounding... like drums... so loud as to drown out the world.

Pounding... syncopated, the throbbing of the blood in his ears intertwining with the thudding of his feet... frantic, desperate, faster and faster.

"Go... Go... Go..."

Breath coming in short, harsh bursts. Lungs aflame, legs numb, heart fluttering like a caged bird. Still... "Go!"

A crevasse in the uneven and jagged rocky ground ahead...


Powerful muscles tensed in thighs as thick as tree trunks, launching the sprinting figure over the fissure. The figure, a large and heavily muscled man, landed on the balls of his feet with a guttural grunt of effort and never broke stride. Panic, awful and ugly, could be inferred from the frenetic nature of his flight across the unforgiving Daruuk Mountain landscape. He did not pause to look back nor did he cast his gaze from one side to the other. The man's face was fixed forward, his dark eyes wide and frenzied as they saw nothing but the path before him. Calling it a path would be a stretch of the imagination; it was barely a game trail, a narrow and winding avenue that led down the southeastern most edges of the Daruuk range above the River Vssk. Of course, the man did not know the name of the river, nor did he know the name of the mountains he traversed. For all his Era of life, he had only ever called the region home.

No longer.

Now... now it was death. Death had waited nearby, ever present, always waiting for a moment of weakness, but the man had defied it thus far.

No longer.

Death... Fionna... the Xet slavemaster...


Conan, son of Chulainn of the Linn Faenii people, was dead. He died the moment he forgot his place in the world, the moment he let his simmering anger and outrage finally boil over and culminate in the most unforgivable of crimes. He had committed murder, daring to cause harm to one of the Xet overlords, and in doing so, had places the lives of his enslaved brethren in jeopardy as well. Their eyes when they looked upon him... terror-stricken, judging, wet with tears sprung from the knowledge of their impending doom... at his hands.

He could not bear it. He had fled in panic, tearing into the unforgiving depths of the mountains. His mighty body, forged by ceaseless labor and honed by the wheel of the inhospitable environment, carried him swiftly across the steep and craggy terrain. His great lungs worked like enormous bellows and his massive limbs pumped with machine-like rhythm, fueled by a flood of adrenaline and the horror from which he fled. How long had he been running in this fashion? How long had it been since he had watched his world shatter like glass in an instant? He could not discern time, not now, not with his every thought focused on escape. His muscles, though powerful and well adapted to unspeakable exertion, had long since stopped screaming in protest and had grown numb and heavy, promising a world of pain to come. He could handle that pain, however. Pain was a constant companion, his oldest friend. His only friend. It reminded him that he was alive, that he had endured, that he had survived. The man indulged himself in his pain now, mired his mind in it, let it give him strength until his body succumbed to fatigue.

Across and down the mountains the man continued, fleeing like a broken wing'd bird that knows the predators are closing in from behind.
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