Hunters Gatherers

It's Kesenday, Aestry 07 15:02:26 1019. The full moon is up. The tide is low and rising. Towering white clouds drift slowly through the blue sky. It's hazy and hot, and the glare of the sun seems to drain the color from the landscape.

W02: The Light Woods

---

Here in the forests away from the big city the trees provide shade and fresh air against the intense heat of this summer's day. Beside a swift brook on a grassy clearing bedecked with a rich variety of flowers in glorious bloom, a big griffon with a beak that seems to be made of highly polished silver and wears a shirt of fine mithral chain is sitting on all fours eagerly devouring the carcass of a buck, his tail swishing. Near him, an average looking wild elf male sits on a boulder, whistling to himself as he sharpens the business end of a halberd.

Svarshan makes his way in from the south, from the direction of rivers and the nearby township. Over his shoulder is a cache of fish. Not a large one. He's accompanied by two of the hunter-caste, leaner, more wary sith-makar. On their shoulders hang larger caches, as due their caste and training. The warrior walks along with them, his expression relaxed and comfortable among his kind. An axe hangs comfortably in its holder.

Seemingly steping right out of the woods itself, A silver-scaled Sith'makar shows to greet Svarshan by thumping his tail. "Peace on your nest, Brightscale. Did you and the hunter casssste bring meat for Mictlan?" The silver seems to have a large pouch upon his shoulder....and from the smell...they're herbs...

<OOC> Durrankar says, "twas me."

Pendaril looks up as the sith'makar pass into the clearing. He stops whistling and says, "Good day to you, and peace on your nests, good sirs." The griffon spares a glance, too, but is intent upon his meal.

Walking along the trail that leads from the city travels... a dwarf of all things. Clad in a thick breastplate made from the master craftsmen from the mountains depths, it's fine polish makes it shine like a mirror made out of Steel. Slung cross her back is a greatsword that seems to have been crafted by an equally talented blacksmith from the custom made grip to fit small-ish hands like hers to the length of the sheath, which is made of silver and gold with the likeness of her ancestors along the face of it. She just wanders along with a basket in hand full of various wild herbs, berries and mushrooms. She finally comes to a stop at the river when that sith-makar thumps his tail on the ground to make himself known. She just stares at the strange, silver scaled man as she sets down her basket for a small break.

A lizard relaxed moves at a comfortable pace, and that is what Svarshan does. His tail hovers a few inches from the earth, and sways here or there to counterbalance his step. At the sight of one of the shamans he comes to a halt, and offers a thump of that tail in return. "Ssa. Peasse to you, sshaman. Hunter," he says. The two hunter-castes pause as well. A few thumps are given towards the sildanyari, but the focus here is comfort and slow-moving, within the wild and among the presence of kin. And yet, and yet... at the arrival of the unknown and armed khazad, muzzles twitch, and eyes shift. They turn here and there to look at the khazad. Muzzles dropping slightly, drawing moistened air over olfactory senses. Scenting. Quiet. And waiting for the shaman to respond.

The sound of a pair of arrows striking something emits from beyond the trees, followed by a thud as a solid mass seems to fall to the ground. The scent of whatever it was, though, is masked by the griffon's bloody meal.

The silver dips his head to svarshan and the pair of hunters with him. "Peace to you." His attention turns towards the dwarf when the sound of arrows hitting something draws his attention, and he turns to find where the sound came from.....and even sniffs the air...just for a moment. "Came from that way." He says as he gestures with his staff.....

Taking the shaman's lead as regards the visitor, the other sith-makar offer a thump of the tail, comfortable. And then--

--and then the arrows hit, firing into meat. The three immediately respond, hunter-caste flowing behind the warrior, and flanking their shaman. The warrior finds his own ranged weapon, an atlatl, and presses it against his palm. "I hear, sshaman," he says in soft tones. ...and then they wait. To see what occurs.

The fish--for this penninsula is surrounded by ocean, by river, and the food of the sea is common fare. Nothing unusual to it. It is eased onto the earth, without sound.

Whatever cause those arrows to hit whatever in the forest, it matters not to Aerilaya as she was not the one being shot at. Instead she picks up her basket and wanders over to the river where some bright green flowers are seen gently floating in the stream as they are anchored down via strong roots and s stalk all under water. She takes her basket and sets it down on the ground a good meter away from the river's edge. She carefully removes her gauntlets as she sees the three sith-makar start to take on a difference stance, one ready for battle at whatever cause the noise. Shrugging once more, she wanders over to the water and gets onto her belly with both of her hands in the water at the roots of the flowers, seemingly trying to find something...

Pendaril just watches for a moment, then, at the sound of the arrows says, "Well, I wonder what Ga'Elian found for today's supper."

The comment causes the silver to thump his tail. "Mmmmm.......As long as it is Elian..." he says before looking to Svarshan and thumping his tail again. "No danger." He says before looks to the dwarf again. "it is somewhat unusual for a khazadi to be way out here." he says as he steps closer, tilting his head. "What brings you out here?"

Another scent, drawing air over tongue. Air moistens it, teasing the flavors of the wild and not-wild from its depths. One of the hunters shakes herself, and scowls at Pendaril. Then spits, "Dvorrki ka aii," she says, which means fool or unthinking of some sort. "You sshould have ssaid he wass out there."

"We sshould have notissed," the other hunter responds. The two go quiet after that, in reflection. The fish is taken up then, and rehoisted. The mood is less cheered than it was before, but weapons once readied are now put away. Their third, the warrior-caste, armored and of heavier build, tilts his head to the side, to listen.

At length, he thumps his tail. The hunters make their way off, towards the west and thicker wild. They melt away. Svarshan, not of their caste, stands no such chance of pulling a similar trick.

Pendaril responds with an amused smile, "Well, 'out there' is such a vague matter. Quite frankly, when he hunts, I rarely know how far he ranges."

The dwarf is quiet when asked what she is doing out here. Her green eyes seems to be focused purely onto the task at hand... After several minutes the green flower starts to rise up and out of the water, followed by the rest of it as the dwarf tugs harshly at it, pulling up the strong roots. She only pulls out one flower, but one was all she needs. She grabs the stem of the flower and just drags it up out of the water and onto the dry land, showing her price. At the root of the flower there is a /massive/ tuber, showing what exactly helped keep this flower achored into the riverbed when flooding happed. "Oh, hello there." The dwarf offers to the silver sith-makar with a cheery smile, her pouty lips parting for a moment to flash her pearly white teeth! She looks and sees the two hunters just vanish into the woods, which causes her to raise an eyebrow. "I'm... just out gathering some plants to cultivate back at my home. This bad boy..." She hefts up the flower. "Is a good prize find for today. Might I be so bold to ask what're ya lot doin' out here? Some sorta meeting I'm not privy to?"

"This is where we live, not far from this road, but far enough to where it is difficult to find. We hunt, bring meat to fire, cook, feast." The silver then looks to the flower and hrfs. "You are a brewer. That is a good find." He moves to sniff the flower, and draws in deep......but stops halfway through the sniff.....and snaps his head towards Aerilaya....sniffing another time, swishing his tail back and forth before thumping it a couple of times......but plays it off like there is nothing there. "I am Durrankar of the Tyrannik, steward of Mictlan. What might your name be?"

Svarshan shrugs his shoulders. Not his caste, that says. He is no hunter, to stalk the woods, or worry for the politics between them. And so...his response might seem uncaring, or alien, but that is how things are in some way, among the reptiles. To his sith-mind it is comforting, and he finishes putting the atlatl away, now cleared of an item he would need to worry for. And so, he does not.

"Peasse to your nessts," he says then, relaxed again. And then, follows the shaman's lead. "Svarsshan, warrior-casste of Atoyaatl, and sservant of the Ssilver Empress. ...it iss good to sshare words."

Aerilaya looks as the silver shaman leans into sniff at the flower, but it's not lost on her that she is also sniffed. The keen dwarven eyes notices there is a slight... shift in posture, in how Durrankar's tail starts to thump like how he and Svarsshan did in greeting. She brushes this off, not wanting to seem alarmed. "Yes, the sweet juices within this thing is just perfect for flaving drinks, or to make drinks purely out of. Sadly, stuff made from this can't exactly be called a dwarven brew by my standards, as it's too weak." Aerilaya lets the flower go and the hard tuber just makes heavy contact with the ground, showing just how much that thing weighed. She places a hand to her armored chest and says "My name is Aerilaya Steelstrike, of Clan Stonesmasher, heir to my families name." She bows her head slightly and smiles up to Svarsshan. "Warrior caste, hmm? I guess we have that in common. I served under Ogrin Stonefist, of the berserker brigade. First into battle, last ones to leave."

Pendaril comes over to Ga'Elian and takes the turkeys, saying, "Okay. I guess I'll get to work then."

Elian nods, then approaches the khazad. Good day, Mistress Aerilaya. I am Ga'Elian. Pendaril there is my cousin, and Erithamiel (gesturing toward the griffon) is my companion. You are welcome to sup with us when the meal is ready. You intrigue me. Several brewers from the City pay me to bring them such ingredients, but you come here to select them personally. 'Tis a mark of the pride you place in your craft, I'd say."

The warrior-caste lift his jaw all the sudden, his gaze sharpening. Svarshan looks over to the khazad again, and again, there's that dropping of jaw, the moistening of scent-air. ...and he tilts his head to the side, eventually. Quiet, listening, before looking back towards the tribe-shaman. Clearly, the shaman is the one with words. At least here, in this moment.

Aerilaya is... ever so slightly confused at that phrase. "Dragonfather? I'm sorry, I'm not aware of who you speak of. No, I don't have to brew only my kinds drink, but there is a certain type of stuff that is needed to fully call a drink 'proper' in our eyes." She looks over to Elian and offers a smile. "Oh! Sure. I'd be more than happy to join you! I got plenty of herbs and spices that I picked up along the way here that may help improve some dishes! Even got some salted pork and hard cheese rations in my bag." She turns away from the group and wanders back to the basket, leaving the flower with the bulb that must weigh around fifty pounds where she left it. She dons her metal gloves and picks up her basket once more, wandering back to the group again. She looks over to the griffon and says "I suppose that one won't need anything from us currently, hmm?"

"He hasss been fed." Durrankar says quietly. "Also, he is tame. You have nothing to worry about." He then tilts his head. "Cheese? AH....hardened udder water. I see." he then looks towards the tuber and thumps his tail. "When you are able to make foul water from that plant, can you bring some to Mictlan?"

As talk turns to food and brew, the warrior relaxes. He finds at length, not a place to sit but to rest his tail against the earth and bend his legs just-so, to form a tripod. As the words continue, he seems content, if watchful. The group of them are in a small area of the woods.

Having, by now, picked the carcase pretty clean, the griffon stands on all fours and proceeds to dig a hole in the earth with its talons. After a while, he claws the remains of whatever the beast was into the hole and covers it back up, tamping the dirt down again with his massive rear paws. He's a well-trained griffon, isn't he?

Elian remarks, "The Dragonfather is Daeus. Just as we sildanyar know him by the name of Eli, and, as Durrankar said, Erithamiel has eaten and is quite self-sufficient. But thank you for considering his needs."

Azog is wandering through the woods, bow in hand, tracking. He looks up and sees the crowd, though he doesn't pay it much mind, until he gets close enough to realize the tracks he's following are probably someone's pet. He grumbles.