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[1389] - Y06.289 - A Man of Trouble IX
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 17:00:18 +0000 UTCAdam stepped into the village, without revealing any of his secrets, while Dunes glanced aside towards the half elf, equally as surprised as the pair entered together. The village was packed fairly tight with smaller buildings, many which liked to reach towards the sky, with gardens and streams arcing through the village. Many of the buildings were made of stone, with wooden buildings sparsely littered throughout.
The villagefolk went about their day, many having retired from their work for the day, returning back to their homes, many setting up outside of their homes to spend time with their neighbours, others distracted by the rolling carriages. A few of the tribesfolk disappeared into their homes, returning once they had donned bits of armour, from lighter chain, some adorned in scale, and each carried weapons at their sides now, from a simple dagger, others wearing longswords and axes, one even wearing a large maul, just in case.
“You must remain within the centre, or I will consider it as your impoliteness towards me,” Manixzur warned, the lithe serpent, whose scales were faded, almost greying from time, slithered away, towards a nearby tower, keeping them within her sights, especially one figure who stared at her, with a similar expression to her daughters.
‘They really hate foreigners, huh?’ Adam thought, keeping his mouth shut, deciding against bringing any attention to himself.
The Iyrmen, Deathsingers, as they were called by people of old, especially those connected with dragons, settled themselves obviously in front of the group, considering their feelings on the Iyr.
Ashmir, on the other hand, eyed up the old man. He was dark skinned, though with a touch of fairness, his eyes dark, and he looked like a typical Aswadian fellow. He wore a keffiyeh atop his head, white and black, his hair greyed out, almost white, and fell down to his shoulders, his beard even longer, dyed orange like fire. The old man was adorned in a flowery patterned robes, pink with white flowers, a scarf of white with deep purple flowers, while he wore a white set of clothes underneath, pristine. He carried a set of gardening tools within a bag, that had been slung over his shoulder, and though he walked with a slight hunch, Ashmir could feel it.
The old gardened held the Lion King’s gaze, but he bowed his head, reaching up to tug on his keffiyeh gently, relenting to the old fellow’s gaze, shambling his way towards a group, settling himself among them. Ashmir decided against confronting him, since they both held a similar vibe of being old men who wanted to be left alone about most matters.
The outsiders remained mostly by themselves, though were finally approached by a certain figure, a red scaled half dragon, who was quite the handsome fellow, whose scales were a beautiful and bright red, a blade at his side, seemingly adorned in no armour. His eyes were a deep red too, his hair fiery, though straight and combed neatly, his dark skin revealing he was half human from an Aswadian man, while his eyes remained almost stone cold neutral, as though he were an Iyrman.
“Many blessings upon you, travellers, I am Kal Mirac, Administrator of the Valley,” he said, hiding the exhaustion that came with such a title with decades of practise.
“I am Mo Dunes, of Black Mountain,” Dunes said, taking the lead, for it was easier now that they were invited within the village.
“I was informed you are looking for your companions who passed by, a Lady Sara, and a Kal Korin?” Mirac asked.
“That is correct,” Dunes replied, glad to hear they already knew who he was talking about.
“They passed by a short while ago, with a caravan, heading towards the west,” Mirac informed, beginning to converse with Dunes for a short while, while his own thoughts raced. What was it about this group of people that interested his father so?
Dunes’ shoulders felt much lighter now, the young man smiling warmly, considering how to tease his companions once they met. As he did, he noted a trio of other half dragons, two who were adults, the last who was younger, perhaps in their early teens? They were each women, with varying degrees of fire sparkling within their eyes, seemingly a greater fire as they grew younger, and also each adorned in such fine plate armour, save the youngest, who seemed to wear heavy clothing.
“Deathsingers!” the eldest woman said, who looked around Mirac’s age, so anywhere between twenty and eighty, for she was a half dragon too. Her eyes darted around until she found the older Iyrish woman, in her fifties or so, and she grinned wildly like a beast. It was then she noticed the bow, and she frowned, her eyes darting around to find another great warrior within the group.
“Lion King?” the second youngest woman called, who was roughly twenty, perhaps a little younger, her eyes glued to Ashmir. “Hah! It is you, Lion King! I thought you looked familiar.”
“I am,” Ashmir confirmed.
“You’re the Lion King?” the eldest woman asked, tilting her head. “You do give an impressive aura, but I didn’t think you were the Lion King. Still, isn’t that good for me, who will defeat you this day?”
“You are too young,” Ashmir replied simply, daring to ignore the woman within this place, the place that was ruled by her mother, as though she was the village’s Queen, and the young lady, a Princess.
“Who gave you permission to refuse?” the woman reached to the large greatsword upon her back, swinging it down to meet a shield, as Jurot stepped ahead, keeping Ashmir from being annoyed. “Aha? A Deathsinger? You’re not a bad choice either?”
Jurot’s entire body flushed red hot, clashing with the young woman, their magical steel ringing together as they fought. Jurot’s axe forced her backwards, though the young woman’s thighs burned, and she forced herself forward to face the young man.
‘You aren’t so weak, but you picked the wrong opponent!’ The woman’s greatsword threatened to cleave Jurot in half, denting his shield as she brought it down upon his head. “A Rage Dancer, who does not sing for death?”
Jurot narrowed his eyes slightly, but he stepped forward, the pair exchanging clashes, the young woman would have been able to defeat many others who were at Masterhood, but unfortunately for her, Jurot was not just any Rage Dancer, but he who had been taught by the Rot family, so even as the greatsword inflamed, the fire tickling against his skin, Jurot stepped ever forward, seemingly unbothered by the heat.
‘He is fighting well,’ Mirac though, considering the viciousness the pair fought with, though there were few who could handle his sister, for she was not yet thirty and already a Master, something many could only wish for. ‘I will step in if she takes it too far.’
Jurot could feel the way the flames danced along his skin, the Iyrman noticing how much effort it required to step forward against her, she who had struck him violently, in a manner which would have slain a typical Expert, then once more. However, the wall known as Jurot stood tall and strong, even to the point Mirac had to note that the young Iyrman seemed to…
‘Hmm?’ Mirac thought. ‘Is she losing?’
It was Jurot who loomed over the body of the half dragon, who fell to her knees, panting for air, her vision blurry, her heart pounding, the sweat of effort darkening the floor beneath her. She blinked, for it was the first time she had known defeat, for many had stepped back if they seemed to be winning, causing her a great annoyance, but the bitter taste of defeat…
‘So this is what it feels like,’ the young half dragon thought, her heart pounding violently in her chest, her cheeks flushing lightly. Her heart continued to pound, but throbbed in a very different way, the kind that flooded her with warmth. ‘I see!’
“My name is Jurot,” Jurot said, seeing as the woman had calmed down, or at the very least, her passion shifted.
“Jurot?” Mira replied, holding a hint of recognition, for she was certain she had heard the-, “Ah. I shouldn’t have held back.”
“Yes,” Jurot replied, stretching his neck from side to side, as though he could continue fighting for a while longer, even if she didn’t hold back.
“Don’t feel too bad,” said the fool, only to realise he shouldn’t have spoken up. “My brother is a Master.”
“Your brother?” Mira narrowed her eyes towards the half elf, for though it was a surprise Jurot was a Master, it was a greater surprise that the half elf dared to suggest he was the Iyrman’s brother, especially in front of him. Perhaps he was speaking informally, so he could live another day or two. “You are no Iyrman.”
“I am no Iyrman, but Jurot is my brother, and I his,” Adam said, motioning a hand to the Iyrman.
“It is true,” Jurot said. “He uses a shield and axe, as a member of our family.”
Adam flushed lightly, for it was one thing to say he was Jurot’s brother, and another to say he was a member of the Rot family, though he would never refuse such a title.
“You are a Master? How old are you?”
“Twenty four.”
Mira let out a light snort, having originally thought she was strong, but now to hear that this young man was equally as powerful as her, and yet her junior by many years…
Jurot, on the other hand, wondered why she did not use the same techniques as her father, who was certainly a Monk.
