xx. missing something [open, shana]

[Howl Wilde]

The city of Uru’baen was one that had several qualities about it. One of those qualities was that it stank horribly, no mater where in the city you were. The slums had their own distinctive ghetto-reek of unwashed people and decaying surroundings, the middle sectors of the city had their own poignant pong of markets and beggars and horse dung, while the sculpted courtyards and the parks and orchard of the city were somewhat taken to spelling either of honeysuckle (which Asyris hated,) or blood, because most of the people who held a high enough rank to walk those colonnades were either military or friends of the king, and the king’s friends weren’t usually very nice people.

With his cloak billowing around his boots and his hood up to cover spiky read hair and a scowling face, Kamaru Asyris stood under a cultured, impressive looking stone arch accentually on purpose allowed to be covered in crawling flowers of some sort or other (jasmine?) which made the elf captain’s nose itch. Behind him, a fancy-pancy courtyard was still full of soldiers training in the impossible spring heat. Asyris had no good reason not to be joining the other fighting men other than that he didn’t feel like it. Besides that, fighting in this weather would mean he’d have to remove his cloak and he didn’t feel like dropping the hood that shadowed his face.

So he was waiting. Who he was waiting for was of no consequence – he knew, and that was really it. The captain was going to be waiting for a lot longer, probably, as he’d requested the meeting at the end of training and that was still almost an hour away. The sticky heat crawled upwards, and Kamaru dropped his hood, tussling his hair to get it out from under his collar. Just half an hour to go. The air smelt fainting of thunder, now, the scent barely detectable over the smell of sweating soldiers and whatever flower it was that Kamaru was standing under. The elf hoped it would rain – but only once he was under a roof and getting drunk.

Behind him, the clatter of swords on amour began to lessen. Someone (an old man, Kamaru couldn’t remember his name. Personal trainer to the king’s pet cousin or something,) was shouting and people were disengaging across the field. The elf turned to watch as men bowed to each other and began to strip their training amour and move their training swords back to the barracks. A few had brought their own weapons and clothing, and these saluted the grey-haired trainer before striding towards the exit to the courtyard. Kamaru recognized some of them and wondered if he aught to go away so they wouldn’t notice he was there: they’d probably point out he should have been training too.

Asyris moved backwards out of the arch, pulled his hood up and leaned back against the wall pretending he wasn’t Captain Kamaru at all, just some person leaning on a wall. Just leaning, not the man you’re looking for.

“Not a great disguise,” someone said.

Kamaru ignored them.

“Captain,” the voice said, and the elf decided to look up.

“There are only two people I know who wear that kind of clothing in this weather,” one of Kamaru’s men said, brushing long sweaty hair out of his eyes so he could see his captain better. He had his helm under his arm and his sword loosely held in his other hand. Kamaru couldn’t remember his name. “And only one has flipping great loops of metal hanging from their belt.”

“Bugger off, Esruoc,” the elf snapped, remembering the man's name in his irritation. To his surprise, the human shrugged and walked away.

Kamaru had the nasty feeling he was missing something. Which important person had been inspecting the troops today? Whose wrath was he incurring by not joining in? Which memo had he not gotten?

[shana]

Woosh. A blade circled quickly around around the dwarves head. Thwack. A head fell to the ground, cut cleanly from it's shoulders. But, unlike the man he wanted to kill right now, the Dummy's head wouldn't spurt blood. Hot. Sticky. Blood. The worst thing about peace was the lack of it. It rolled beneath a person's skin, crawling like a bug; just waiting until it could escape in the huge gush's that meant a person's death. That, the moment of pure satisfaction you get from tasting the other person's blood seeping into your own wounds. That single moment is the one every soldier longs for in combat. And that moment was one training could not duplicate; it couldn't even come close.

Damien, 5'6". Rank, Soldier. Weight, 130.

Quickly turning his head around during the same strike that severed the Dummy's chest from it's legs Barzul looked at the inspector with hard eyes. Human he was, his skin red as the blood that coursed below it. How good it would be to cut him open and see his true blood, watch as the red liquid slowly coursed down the humans leg...

"Ms'reosh, 6'5", Rank, Elite. Weight, 120."

He shook his head from the thought of blood. It was a passion of his, but it didn't mean he could kill the king's whole army. But, he did have a very elite squad. After shrugging off that thought, he threw his sword into the ground and walked up to the inspector with what seemed like peace. It was indeed mutual at that point.

"V'rael; 7'1", Rank, Striker. Weight, 150."

"Inspector?"

The inspector continued along the line, ignoring the dwarf without a weapon. "Meradeen, 5'11". Rank, Stalker. Weight, 98. Zeferezon, 6'3". Rank, recruit. Weight, 112."

"Inspector"

"Queron; 5'4. Rank, swordsman. Weight, 78."

"Inspector!"

"Sorry, didn't see you there. Midget."

Ignoring the comment, Barzul grabbed his sword from the ground and held it to the inspectors neck. He hadn't been in a good mood all day, and a bit of blood flow wouldn't be a bad idea. In a moment the inspector slid his sword from it's sheath and smashed his blade away.

"Barzul; 4'9". Rank, Lieautenant. Weight, 128.5" The inspector said reluctantly, before walking away without another word.

With that, Barzul walked out of his squad while they were in training. Unhappily he walked up to Kamaru, leaning on a column beside him. "Kamaru." He said in greeting, not expecing the greeting to be mutual.

[Howl Wilde]

“Midget,” Kamaru responded, mollified that the dwarf was also in a bad mood and wouldn’t rub the Captain’s anger in further. Although, you’d think after as long as they’d known each other, the midget would have figured out that being happy when Kamaru was sad or calm when Asyris was angry resulted in painful consequences. That was just how it was with the elf: he seemed be overloaded with emotions that switched constantly and couldn’t decide how exactly they were going to screw with his life next. They’d do anything to completely destroy him, those emotions of his. He was convinced they were trying to kill him from the inside.

The elf captain straightened up, lowering his hood for the second time and mussing his hair so it stood on end again, although the damp heat did what it could to make his hair lank and ugly. Elves tend to be rather vain, and this Empire-allied captain was no exception, no matter what his allegiance or that he hardly bore any resemblance to his race anymore. He barely spoke the language, was useless with magic, and used a weapon that few elves had ever seen let alone used. Few people at all, actually – most humans wondered what the hell he did with those spiked steel hoops. Brushing an errant strand out of his black-line eyes, Kamaru glanced at the dwarf.

“Girls or alcohol?” the captain asked lightly, tipping his head slightly to one side like a curious puppy. He was feeling better already, feeding off his companion’s displeasure. It was usually infuriating to be around Kamaru, because his emotion was usually the opposite of yours and if it wasn’t that way right off the bat, it would change just to spite you.

[shana]

Barzul ingored his comment, instead placing his hand on the handle of his blade. He wasn't in the mood at all. His day had been downright crap, and usually Kamaru rarely made him feel better after a crap day. And yet, it was relaxing to feel him insulting him like Kamaru did. Annoying, yet satisfying. Annoying, and yet, relaxing. He was feeling slightly better because of the insult, which was strangely amusing to him. He gave a light chuckle, more of a snort, and brushed his hand over his hairless head.

He had done everything he could to remove the dwarven stereotype, to remove the traces of his past and heritage. But there were quite a few things he could not be rid of. The dwarven stereotype of the beard, he was just to lazy to cut it off. Then there was him slipping into his native tongue. Couldn't be helped. And finally, the first thing a lot of people noticed. His height. Whether or not he was a dwarf, he would be called one. Why? Because he's short. And it wasn't going to change.

"Neither," he said gruffly, hardly in the mood to go anywhere at that point. Well, that was half the reason. The main reason was, in fact, to contradict Kamaru. The elf was always playing mind games with him, and he occasionally returned the favour. Usually the dwarf was good natured, not when he'd been pissed all day though. The peace had existed for too long, it would be nice just to spark a fight. Not a bad idea. "We could spark a fight among the men," he said, eyes lighting up. "I just love to see those idiots attack each other."