Aletrayu Habretta's Story

Yonder the amber dance, and into the deep thicket of the forest belly, the Monk drew into her soul the peace and tranquility of all that encompassed her this night. The left toe of her maleable boot was plastered upon the blanket of flora, and her right foot gently and featheringly was placed upon her left calf muscle with the seemingly akward bend of her knee. A neck, softly sun-kissed and slender, was elongated as her chin tilted towards the heavens above. With eyes closed, and the silently perfected animation of her hands, she whispered from her rose red lips winds of orisons to flutter into the still of the night air. Neither the phantom gusts of frigid gales, nor the pitter-patter of wildlife could thwart such a mind void of pensiveness, and emptied into complete and utter concentration. When the cool atmosphere danced upon whatever flesh was bare, she let it flow from the canals of her mind; when a twig would snap, she would allow that, too, to wash away from her thoughts. In her head right now was nothing short of a void - there was nothing there but peace and the complete connection of her soul. Basked in light violet robes with silver trimmings and a flowery decor, she seemed at complete ease. To get to this state had been an endeavor that held both its merits and its dangers. Yet, at the same time, as pointless as one may deem this relaxed state, it was also a danger to her enemies. To have the influence over every movement, every fiber of sinew, and every thread of bone, was something that could prove fatal in battle. Without weapons Aletrayu, the Sun Soul Monk, could be easily mistakened for a doe. Such a display of paragon glinting and sparking when engaged was a great sight to see, but its system was extremely flawed. Nothing - nothing could compare to the sheer ability to accomplish great feats unarmed. It was a true skill of combat, tact, and self-control.

This female had been in this same state for a few hours; sleep attempting to interlope when it was not welcomed. This journey would be one that was tasking, arduous, and dangerous. There was no turning back from what was destined. When the last shiver of troubled thoughts abandoned her mind, those soft fleshy curtains fluently peeled open to divulge that envious shimmer of a clear mind through the mingling of canary and chestnut orbs. When Aletrayu was at peace in mind and soul, it was transparent to others. One could see no wrath, fear, or tremoring thoughts wrinkled into the skin of her facet. Everything about her would somehow turn into a bright lustre, and she was neither content nor anything negative; it was almost like a limbo of her emotions.

Pivotting upon her heel seconds after placing her wayward foot upon the ground, she moved towards that distant campfire. That halo of silk, inky and soft, drenched over her crown and down to her midback. However little she thought of herself in regards to her appearance, to be untidy was unbecoming of her person. She went to great lengths to take care of herself, for she thought that in order to tend to the soul, one must always render careful aid to its shell. As she neared the cannibal element of fire, which she enjoyed thuroughly, the muscular figure of Caleb was caught in the snare of her eyes. Drawing closer, it was by no hint of power that the distress of the woman was imprinted upon her face. Honestly, the fiery knight starkly contrasted that clean look in this elder cast of night. Caleb was never a sight for sore eyes, but it was not usual to witness her neglect to care for herself.

It could not be said that what fell across her lips was a smile, but the ghostly curl of of being rid of all things troubling and bothersome. Fingers, thick with trained musculature, yet long at the same time to stave off a masculine appearance, entwined at the lap of her attire. "Troubled?" The Monk did not know Caleb all that well, and would not deny her well-deserved space and silence if that was what she wished at this moment. Many, much like the turbulant mind of the woman before her, would always inquire as to just how Aletrayu could maintain such an uncaring state in the face of what could be certain doom. She would always reply with the same thing; it was being one with yourself and fate. It was trust that your deity would carry you upon the wings of their embrace. It was knowing the peace and harmony of yourself, as well as your capabilities and fears. Then, lastly, it was having the intestinal fortitude to dismiss all that will make you tumble and fall, and rise with a courage that has always been trapped within. The emotions of fear, sadness, and pain were always deviling within her core, but she had faith - and that was unable to be maimed no matter the damage to her person.

Taking a moment to flit her eyes over the scenery that surrounded them, she figured that everyone else was still pleasantly lost in their slumber. She couldn't blame them. Something about careful meditation made her mind feel free, and her body being depraved from the burden of nagging sleep.

Torrential waves of flames drenched the village in vibrant shades of crimson, orange, and amber, giving the sky an almost hellish sheen as coal black smoke continued to rise over the heads of panicked villagers. Homesteads were quickly reduced to ashen ruin; choruses of screams filled the air like a symphony of chaos written by the most demented and depraved souls to have ever walked upon the Abyssal planes. Families fled with children in their arms, others stayed a safe distance away as their souls were wrenched in sorrow watching their childhood homes burn to the ground. Amid the roiling chaos, one man surveyed his work proudly with his hands at his waist cackling in triumph.

His dark eyes continued to gleam in the firelight while he stood on the only road leading into the village. So far from other settlements, the likelihood of help arriving before the structures collapsed was slim. Villagers passed by the stranger, shooting him glances of shock and confusion as they fled the rising inferno. Some stopped to plead for his assistance, whereas others simply took it upon themselves to try to save what was left using their primitive irrigation system.

Again, Kanvergiss could only laugh mockingly at their feeble attempts to survive.

The inhabitants only made it so far before a sharp pain collided with their backs, the force of the impact enough to send them sprawling into the dirt. Darkness was an excellent cover for murder, Kanvergiss believed. His vest of throwing knives wasn’t nearly empty, snuffing the lives of stragglers as they passed. A sadistic glee-ridden chill ran up his spine as the dull THUD of the knife reached his ears, eliciting a smile from the young man.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Brolo quickly opened his eyes, having propped his body up against his birchwood staff instead of lying down with his head in the dirt like many of the others. Not that he considered himself better than the others in the Bloodsails, just that he was a little more random in his sleeping patterns. The sorcerer looked down at his hands, noticing that his fingers had gnarled themselves into the final spell position for his explosive pyre, which made the sorcerer grin.

”To think if anyone would have woken me, they would be a charred corpse in an instant.” Brolo wriggled his fingers, making sure to not lose the spell first as he stood up and surveyed the camp. The others were still asleep, aside from the Monk and the Paladin which in truth, he didn’t quite understand. It must have been their utter disrespect for the powers that be, those powers being chaos of course. He never bragged to be a supporter of Talos, nor did he make himself stand out any more than the other mercenaries, but Brolo did indeed choose to shoot first and ask questions later.

The sorcerer could overhear the women prattling on to themselves, not so interested in their conversation as he pulled the tip of his staff from the dirt. He was a good looking young man some might say, not too on in his years being just a few shy of thirty. Brolo kept his long, dark hair tied back in a tight ponytail, the rest of it either being slicked back with some substance used for styling or just left slightly looser in the front. Today it seemed that a few lone strands were to dangle in his face as they would go about their day. A quick survey of his surroundings noted that it was still night, leaving the sorcerer to wonder why his companions (to which he was told he had to entrust his life) were already awake and shunning their slumber.

“If you’re having trouble sleeping, I don’t think it’s beyond Caine’s ability to offer a merciful punch to assist in knocking you out.” Brolo said as he spoke from across the fire, the flames almost tracing him in golden-red light. His dark eyes shimmered as he moved from around the fire towards the two, checking his vest with his free hand while his staff rested between his elbow and his chest. “It’s still the middle of the night, and I believe it’s someone’s turn for watch duty.” Brolo commented, keeping a decent distance between the two, lining himself up with their bodies so that from above they looked almost like a perfect triangle.

Azrael

Azrael watched the camp from a distance, sitting beneath one of the many trees that made up Cloakwood. His eyes didn’t focus on anything in particular, at times watching the flickering flame or closing as he thought. He had risen many hours ago, not being one for sleeping very long, instead sleeping only a handful of hours a night, at least on most nights. Whether it was achievable due to his many years of practice or due to his Elven blood he could no longer remember, the days when he slept long periods forgotten, if ever present. For the assassin it was simply the way things were, he woke far before most and usually he had such times to himself, taking advantage of the silence, focusing his mind and preparing himself for whatever was to come. Apparently the day was not going to be as it usually was, as people were rising from slumber earlier than they did most days, and if he believed in such things he would call it an omen. Chances were it was nerves, most were bothered when a new assignment was to be given or when they were to move soon, even seasoned veterans such as the individuals that comprised their small group. Then again there were many reasons to awake earlier than need be. It caught his interest that multiple people were gathering around the fire. His eyes focused on the three that had already come together, inspecting them from afar.

As he watched, he pulled out a particularly sour type apple found in the woods, something he had scavenged earlier before he settled beneath the tree. He ran his thumb over the glossy peel, searching for any rotten parts, even pulling out his little stone to insure that it was perfectly fine to eat, always being rather cautious with food, especially in Cloakwood. When he was satisfied that all was well he began to take small bites of the crisp fruit, continuing to watch the others from afar. He hadn’t come to know much about those he traveled with yet, talking to the others but divulging nothing of importance during the conversations. If anything he was usually just flirting without real intent with one of the ladies or chatting lightly to pass the time. He had figured out the names of each of them though, that much had been easy enough and made him seem so much friendlier, if such things were even possible. Other than their names he had learned a bit about their fighting styles and basic habits from watching, each one of them bringing something different to the table, including himself. It was a diverse group, no doubt created like it was on purpose.

He turned his mind away from pondering just what the groups true purpose was, not caring much seeing as he had his own reason for joining up, and instead turned his attention back towards the three gathered. The first to have taken a seat was Caleb, a tough woman to be sure but also, as her current state made clear, she was quite beautiful as well. To Azrael she seemed reliable, a relative point of view to be sure but she had a feel to her that if, and when, something went wrong, she would know how to handle it. Then there was the Monk, Aletrayu. She had been up for some time but her routine was similar to his own, out of the way, quiet, and peaceful, so it didn’t really bother him. There was the Sorcerer Brolo as well though, a man whom Azrael had disliked from the beginning. There was no real reason for his dislike of the man, he was just one of those people, a natural irritant to the Assassin. Maybe it was his personality but it didn’t much matter, Azrael had his own reason for being with the group and it did not include getting into it with the Sorcerer, so he made himself civil whenever they spoke. Besides, even if he disliked the sorcerer, there were others he disliked more in the world, and he hadn’t killed them. Hell, not that it mattered how much he liked someone, for the right amount of money he would kill just about anyone.

The thought of being paid to kill the sorcerer amused the Assassin, if only he was really paid to kill people he personally found annoying, life would be so much more enjoyable. The man took a final bite out of the apple, tossing the core back into the thick wooding behind him before pushing himself up off the tree, deciding to be a bit sociable instead of watching from afar, he did enough of that in his line of business. As he began walking over, he paused, watching as another joined the group. It particularly caught his attention because, like himself, she had not been in camp but away from it, farther than he was in fact. It did make sense if he thought about it, she was a druid and an Elf at that, it was a double dose of nature friendly. With a shrug he made his way over to the group, his boots causing him to make no noise so he whistled gently as he approached, not about to sneak up behind a group of trained combatants, whether it would really be all that dangerous or not. Azrael got close to the fire immediately, only briefly nodding to the others, not being one for a cheery hello, especially when everyone was just waking. So he let his body warm up a bit, catching Araina offer to watch over them all. He was not about to go back to sleep though, no, his long day had already started and if she decided to keep watch he would simply give her a hand, although he had a hard time picturing everyone else just going back to their slumber.

The night was dreamless for the Fighter hailing from Baldur's Gate. A symphony of snoring escaped the mouth of his tent as he slept with his head propped up on his shield and his enchanted cloak over his large frame. The cloak managed to keep him warm in the chilly night thanks to that enchantment. The sleeping countenance of the fighter was relaxed and even somewhat serene despite his brutish nature. Truthfully, the warrior had no worries to speak of. Life and death were just two sides of the same coin, one he flipped every day that he woke up in the morning. He had faith in Tymora and trusted his luck in everything that he did. It was no different that night than it had been for countless others.

In truth, while Caine felt no worries, he did feel excitement. A new day brought on a new fight and a new adventure. He was never one of those sit and watch kind of being, nor was he a thoughtful man. He lived to test his mettle day in and day out. Caravan guarding, bounty hunting, bandit cleansing, mercenary work, it was all a means to an end for Caine. And that end was to live his life to the fullest, filled to the brim with excitement and danger. He often thought of his life like the tales the bards sang. Glorious battles and honor hard won. Of course, there had yet to be a glorious battle for the Fighter and his honor tallied up to nothing more than a mercenary. Still, it did little to dissuade Caine from his chosen profession. Perhaps he would find his battle yet.

Then the Fighter drifted awake, his mind still dazed and groggy from sleep. At first he closed his eyes once more in search of slumber, as a glance through his tent flap revealed it to still be night. However much as he tried, he could not will himself back to sleep. An hour passed and he still found himself awake as sleep was found to be elusive. He sighed and gave up and instead began to stare at the roof of his tent. The light of the sun was bound to rise in a couple of hours anyway, so what was the use of sleep? A waste of time in his eyes. His thoughts lingered on the silly elves and their method of sleep- or unsleep. His bones began to itch for activity. He began to toss and turn underneath the warming cloak in an effort to exhaust the itch yet it still proved rather resilient. His hand found it's way to the the coin strung around his neck as it usually did in times of idleness, his thumb tracing the grove worn into the gold metal. Nothing could relieve Caine of his restlessness, save getting up. At least he wasn't the only one who was awake. He could hear a couple of the others likewise employed with him moving outside.

Finally giving up and giving in to his restless urge, Caine sat up in his makeshift bed. A glance to his side revealed his equipment strewn haphazardly around his tent. He collected his boots and his tunic and left the tent, making his way to the fire. As he approached, he managed to catch Brolo's comment.

"I don't punch women, Kanvergiss," He replied to the sorcerer's comment, "Especially when one can punch harder than me," he finished with a nod to the Monk. The proximity of the fire illuminated the body of the Fighter, displaying a number of scars etching his stout frame and the tattoo inked into his right arm, not to mention the glint of Tymora's coin laying flat on his chest. He donned his tunic and approached the gathering around the fire and took a seat between Brolo and Aletrayu. He held his boots close to the fire in order to allow the flames to let the heat sink into the cool leather. As he waited, he added with a grin, "The Smiling Lady favors the brave and the bold, not the stupid. I'd get my arm snapped for sure." It wasn't a fight Caine was against, mind, and in truth the Fighter would probably have found enjoyment in the scuffle. However, it was neither the time nor place for such games.

As he slipped into his boots, the campfire was approached by two more of their company. The Druid and the Assassin. He shot a curt greeting to both of them and then began to poke and prod the fire with a stick, sending billows of sparks up into the air. Then came Araina's offer to keep watch. "I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep," he shrugged, "Now that I'm already up. Sunrise shouldn't be too far off now anyway, right?" he asked.

There was something to be said about the stars in the sky. The drow of the underdark often never see them, or the sun for that matter. In fact, Veilyn himself had not gazed upon the infinite expanse of space until he was a ninety-seven, a lifetime for humans, but for him, just a brief chapter of his life. Something about the stars stirred within him a sense of awe, a primal feeling that started in his stomach and clawed its way into his heart that told him, "behold how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things." It was thoughts like these that filled his mind during his reveries, which often; as they had this evening; take place on a thin roll arranged outside so that he could gaze for hours into the blackness. He had long forsaken the practice of reliving his memories, for he had too many, and very few of them pleasant. "Besides," he often argued to himself, "there is no use dwelling in the past."

Though he had distanced himself from the camp by a sufficiently large margin, he was acutely aware of the gathering around the fire. First, was Caleb, the Paladin. Veilyn liked her a lot, and not just because she was attractive. Despite being one of those "virtuous" people, she had the same kind of grim strength that so many that survived the underdark share, a demeanor that only graces those who have been through hell, and lived. Second came the Monk, whose name Veilyn could still not confidently pronounce, forcing him to refer to her with names such as, "you", "monk", "girl", or "kid". She was pretty, not the same way as Caleb. Where Caleb was strong, Aletrayu was refined. Where the paladin was grim, the monk was stoic. Veilyn's ears picked up the monk's voice for a brief moment, before the night fell silent again, and only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Then came the sorcerer, Brolo. Veilyn didn't know what to think about him. He had a recklessness about him that Veilyn respected, but it was recklessness spawned from inexperience, rather than experience. He did seem a little short tempered, but Veilyn had yet no quarrel with him, so it was best to let him be. Morning must have been creeping up on them, and the sun's light dimmed the stars as it prepared to crack over the horizon and spill it's golden light all across the landscape.

Turning his attention back to the fire, he saw that two others had joined the group. The druid, Araina, and the newcomer, Azrael. There was little that Veilyn had to say about Araina. She was a surface elf, which automatically put a strain on their relationship, and though undoubtedly attractive, she seemed like the kind of nature-loving, tree-hugging elven stereotype that Veilyn tried to avoid. If he ever pursued anything with her, he felt as if it would somehow involve the forest in an unpleasant way. Azrael, on the other hand, was the one Veilyn was watching out for. Veilyn, of course, had long ago learned never to fully trust anyone, especially new people, but this went deeper. He was always aloof, and he had a strange habit of waking in the small hours of the morning. In talking with him, Veilyn realized that Azrael talked around his past and his motives. Whatever they were, the man did not want Veilyn to know. He'd also noticed that Azrael never makes a sound when walking, even when stepping on branches or dry leaves, meaning that the man had boots enchanted for utter silence. Veilyn knew very well the shadowy paths, and he knew that only thieves and killers bothered to silence their footsteps. The most off-putting thing about Azrael though, was his similarity to Veilyn, at least in outward interaction. He played charismatic to learn about the group but the way he acted when he wasn't chatting someone up suggested it was only superficial. Veilyn would not let his guard down.

He pulled himself from his state of rest and stood, refreshed and ready for the day. It was still sufficiently dark, and the shadows still clung to his armor and cloak, slightly obscuring him. Adjusting his straps, he fastened his sword to his waist and his bow around his torso. He took one more moment to stretch before stepping softly towards the fire. Another man had joined them, Caine. He reminded Veilyn of Caleb, and he wondered why the two were not a couple, although he had an eagerness that she did not, which was probably off-putting to her. As Veilyn neared, the light from the fire melted off the last remnants of the darkness that clung to Veilyn, and cast his shadow long behind him whilst illuminating him a strange mix of firelight and morning sunlight. Veilyn caught the end of what the Paladin said, but did not deign to reply, as he had nothing to add. Instead, he lead with a different topic, his cadence slowing for a moment as Caleb left.

"I am not too late to this party, am I? Fashionably late is one thing, but most of you are here and that makes me feel like I am interrupting something. I hope that is not the case." He glanced around, then continued before anyone could reply,"So... breakfast?"

Cloak Wood, it was a nice enough place. There was always some sort of adventure to be had, all one had to do was walk in the woods for a day and some sort of encounter or confrontation could almost be assured. Still, Lucien was a wanderer at heart. Wonderlust was his birthright as a Moon Elf, and keeping camp in seclusion for a month was about all the bard could handle. It would have been alright had they actually been in a city, there were lots of different things to do in cities. But he had been all through these woods already, he knew the secret spots, the hidey-holes, and he was already a well known figure at the various wayfarers' inns within walking distance. He was at one such inn now, enrapturing the patron's of the inn's bar with his harp.

This would ideally be his last performance in the area, the Bloodsails would be moving on in the morning, so he was going to soak up all of the attention and admiration he could. Apart from wandering from land to land, exploring, experiencing, and seeing, he loved to have an audience to play for. There was simply noting like it. The thrill of having an audience, the gratification afforded by demonstrating his skills to impress others and garner their admiration.

Eventually, the crowd of patrons dispersed to their bedrooms, some called by their internal clocks, others by their lovers and mistresses. For his part, Lucien stayed in the tavern room, resting in a booth against the wall. Slipping easily into the trance-like state of the reverie. His was not a troubled rest, this time his visions were of a past performance, this one in a city square. Such visions were far and away the most common. Though less pleasant one were beginning to become more and more frequent, especially after the outbreak of the plague.

Lucien roused himself from his reverie in the early morning hours. It was still dark out, but he decided it was about time to return to camp. Wouldn't want to miss the departure. And come to think of it, he still hadn't received the mission details. He hoped Caleb, or Zaccheus would fill them in soon, the anticipation was killing him. As Lucien walked back to camp, he idly strummed at his harp, the sound filtering through the woods. After a time, he arrived back at camp. Seeing most everyone around the fire he approached as well, calling out in a bright manner, "My my, aren't we all up early?" He had caught Caleb's call to mobilize, but his gear was already packed, he was always ready to go off exploring and adventuring at a moment's notice. It would seem he had arrived just in time to set out.

.

Emerald orbs surveyed the scene around the campfire as the druidess stood apart from the others, seeking the comfort of the trees lining the clearing rather than the people within. Her right shoulder rested against the gently curved trunk of a hiexel tree, one of the two arbor oddities that existed in Cloakwood. The tree itself was easily identifiable, bearing a green, waxy wood and marked by oval shaped leaves and sparse branches. While the others began to pack their belongings, Araina slung her staff into its sling upon her back, turned and then rested her hand against the tree as if sensing something about it.

To the others, it may look like she was praying, and they wouldn’t be far from the truth. She was, in fact, asking the tree for the use of its wood since it may prove useful in their journeys. Hiexel wood burns and produces a thick, black smoke that is oily and chokes those that breathe it in, making it useful to drive off enemies or light signal beacon fires.

A soft green glow seemed to shimmer between her palm and the bark whilst several branches fell suddenly to the ground. The druidess smiled, a slight curvature of petal pink lips as she stepped back and bowed towards the tree.

Ask and you shall receive…. Her thoughts were casual as she picked up the wood which had been cast off and took a length of cloth from one of the many pouches hanging loosely from her leather belt. Winding the strip carefully about the small bundle of switches, she secured them tightly then hooked the free end of cloth around her belt so that the pack of hiexel kindling hung against her hip as well.

It was only then that she meandered closer to the fire, green eyes still regarding the flames with subtle hostility before lifting up once more to regard her companions. They were an affable lot, mostly. Caleb seemed an archetypal strong and silent type- beautiful enough to be amongst the finest in the human cities yet choosing a life on the road. In fact, it seemed odd that most of the people she traveled with were each eye-catching in their own way.

The monk, Aletrayu, was exotic in appearance yet had a calming quality that extended to those surrounding her unlike Brolo, the fire mage, who tended to incite the darkest emotions in others. Azrael and Lucien were closer kin than they appeared. Both the moon elf and half elf exhibiting the sort of charismatic life-loving attitude that most of her long-lived species seemed known for. What good was an extended life if one didn’t enjoy themselves? It was a mantra that many of her elven kindred shared and she couldn’t fault them for such an attitude. They laughed frequently and flirted shamelessly but were both formidable when the situation called for it.

Their darker elven brother, Veilyn, was equally charming but she could not overlook the innate hostilities between their people. The constant warring between the sun-kissed races and the shadow-tainted hordes left little love between them and even when a drow left the Underdark to venture up onto the surface, he or she was still usually discriminated against. Still, she tended to love or disdain all living creatures with equality, so she treated the dark elf as casually as she did any of her other party members. That even included the human, Caine. Despite her predisposition to abhorring the human race for the atrocities it commits on a regular basis against Nature, she tried diligently not to fault him for the acts of his people especially since she would be required to travel extensively with him.

Her thoughts had once more gave way to the reality set before her as the others began to circle once more about the fire. Everyone seemed to be laden with packs and bags of various weight, causing her to inquire, “Do any of you require assistance with your things?” Her voice once more issued throughout the quiet campsite, a melodic lilt affecting her tone the way it did for most woodland elves. It was an honest inquiry, for the druidess had little of her own to take with her. The various herbs and foodstuffs that she gathered were carried in the pouches hanging about her hips, her weaponry was a light enough load and she required no tent or bedroll. Having lived over a century living off only what nature provided, she was adept at procuring what she might need with the occasional aid of the Forest Father.