Light mists still hung among the High Ridges that morning, softening edges and blurring details. The air had nor warmed yet to full day's heat, and the skylight was still dim, but that mattered little to the pair crouched in the rocks above a winding game trail. The pair were both matched and differing, a tall and massive man unclothed but for a loincloth and a cloak of some sort of bearskin, an oddly shaped stave in his hands, while the girl at his side, perhaps thirteen, was loosely dressed in a collection of thick, treated hides, offering some protection but leaving her legs, arms, and midriff bare, a heavy iron hammer gripped and kept secure by leather thongs wrapped around her wrist. Of course, this was quite common among the human tribes of the High Ridge, more utilitarian focus placed on the ability to scamper and climb among the jagged terrain.
The two forms remained perfectly still, waiting for the creature they knew would be traveling the shortest route from its den to the spring at the path's end. This hunt had taken two days at this point, but even here in the Outlands, the life of "uncivilized" sentient beings was much like that on any Prime, only the setting being different, as evinced by the odd creature which eventually waddled up the path. Aurumvoraxi were so rare as to be almost extinct among the Primes, but could be found in almost any wild area in the Outlands, stemming from a migration from the Beastlands millenia ago, until now even the High Ridges between the gate towns of Ribcage and Torch were home to the fabled golden gorgers. A fact the two tribals new well, not to mention the nutritive value of the gamey meat, or how much travelling merchants and the rare planewalker visitor would pay for its gold-infused pelt.
Moving like a ghost, the man rose to his feat, leaping from the rocks and landing feet-first on the solid creature below, eleciting a yelp and stunning it. Acrobatic skill allowed him to roll off without injury, thrusting his staff into the aurumvorax's maw and twisting it, the odd shape somehow serving to keep the beast's mouth occupied, while its length allowed him to stand back, keeping it at bay as the long copper claws of its eight legs scrabbled against the ground, even as the girl slid down the scree towards it, balancing herself with gloved hands.
Over the years, the Blackcliff tribe had learned the art of hunting these beasts, a dangerous prospect even for experienced knights in full plate. But with the right training and tools, it could be done... but never alone. But alone, the man was able to find leverage, forcing the beast's head to the ground while the girl came up from behind, muscles bulging in her arms as the hammer swung in great arcs, shattering the two rear legs and drawing a desperate yowl from the creature. And from this point, it became less a battle and more a series of tasks, the staff holding it in place despite its thrashing while the hammer worked its way through the legs, finally working up to a killing stroke at the base of its skull, a bloodless killing that left the hide and claws intact.
Hours later, the day's full heat beating down from the bright skylight above, the pair walked silently along their own path. Talk for the sake of talk was not the way of the Blackcliff tribe, all that needed to be said between the two conveyed by the man's slow nod and approving hand on the girl's shoulder, and the wide smile on her face when she looked up at him. But as the path neared a larger road, the man hissed, drawing his companion back into the rocks. The motion was given credence a moment later, as hoofbeats sounded, soon resolving into a group of horsemen clad in red, placed around three massive closed wagons, each drawn by a team of six red-furred oxen. Muffled moans could be heard coming from the wagon, prompting the man to hiss, "Ribcage slavers... stay quiet".
The procession passed slowly, the pair remaining hidden from sight. It seemed all trouble was past, until with a splintering crack the back gate of the last wagon burst open, a muscular woman leaping forth from the crowded interior and swinging a broken length of chain affixed to a crude iron collar she wore, the impact slamming one of the riders from his saddle to lie screaming on the ground, clutching at his shattered face. And with that, the world dropped out from beneath the girl, her whisper harsh as she spoke the fierce woman's name, which she knew as well as her own. Saescha...
She rose from her crouch, ready to leap forward as the other riders surrounded the woman, one horned, blue-skinned rider lashing out with a whip to pull the legs out from beneath the escapee, hammer already in hand.
Forgive me Maegan... you must live. The gruff voice sounded behind her, then a sudden flash of pain in the back of her head and a darkening of the world. The last thing she saw was the man leaping froward, staff swinging as he ran at the slavers before unconsciousness overtook her.
Atrocity and Repricocity
