Patience. He knew that word. Had dined on it as he had starved and drank greedily of it's depths as he began hallucinating without water. The Clan that had caught him in that fateful battle had been at best unkind to the unnatural warrior. He could not fault them for that. In their place, his people would have been far worse. Maybe. They certainly wouldn't force one of the savages to fight in their pointless squabbles over and over like some trained hound.<br/><br/><div class="bbm_float fleft" style="float:left;margin:0 10px 5px 0">
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</div>The things they had made him do...fighting warriors was one thing. It was clean, as clean as war could be. And he had gladly done it. But they hadn't stopped there had they? When all the warriors were dead the children.. their own children.. their own kind... not even those that could fight.. they all stained his blade now. Those, more than the lashings, more than the beatings, had broken the spirit of the proud warrior. When he had seen the blood of innocents he had been determined to end his captivity. One way or the other.<br/><br/>That last battle he had joyfully taken spear and shield from his warden, the same stone-faced elder warrior it had been for years now. When he had first been captured by the Evanori, he made that man's job the Seven Hells. Escape attempts. Starvation protests. Attacking at every available opportunity. At that Last Battle, he had greeted the warrior warmly, if not happily. He had ignored the shock and then acceptance in the warrior's face. That elder warrior had seen it come over the<i>Skandarai </i>before, when the horrors of total war broke their honorable spirits.<br/><br/>It had been a chill autumn morning, frost clinging to the short grass of the North Plains even as the swiftly rising sun ascended in the East. His breath pluming to mingle with the hundreds of the Evanori, the Warrior had made his way in front of the lines of Evanori warriors where his chains were finally removed from him warily by his warden. Often he had lashed out at his captors at this time before battle. Instead, he had remained passive as they strapped his sword to his waist and placed helm upon his head. He had looked North towards the enemy Evanori, not in the least surprised to see massed ranks of their own kind standing on the other side of the field.<br/><br/>He had not been content to wait for either side to make the move. He had raised a spear above his head and charged them. The Evanori of the West Clans had stared in shock at the<i>Skandarai </i>charging in front of them. Their own honor demanded they follow with a roar that had shook the air as their charge trembled the Earth. All the while, their slave Warrior, their executioner, raced ahead of them, his head tiled back and his lungs full of the cool air and knew. He knew this was the day he die. And the sound of the crashing of shields and the screams of man rent the air as the two armies collided, blood flashing in the air and the cries of death rattling through the bones of every man present. His training was instinct as he flashed through the Evanori, seemingly cutting through the ranks with barely an effort and death followed him.<br/><br/>He fought the Evanori of the North Clans until he was stained with the blood of the enemy, a specter in red that could not be contained or stopped. Fewer and fewer of the Evanori of the West Clans did he see around him until he realized, with dawning joy, that the Gods had blessed him with a death. A laugh had bubbled forth from his throat as he saw a second enemy army close the trap on the West Clans, completely surrounding them and slaughtering them in the score. It had not mattered that he had killed dozens of the North Clansmen before the trap was sprung. The North Clansmen were smart; they had drawn the West Clansmen in to a trap and the<i>Skandarai </i>had led them in to it!<br/><br/>He couldn't stop laughing, even as the North Clansmen surrounded him and began delivering their vengeance one sword stroke at a time. Even as he continued to kill, the laugh stayed with him, and tears left trails through the blood on his face. His hair flowed behind him, somewhere he had lost his Helm, and he breathed deep his last breaths as the tide of Evanori spears flowed past his guard in a thousand places, punching holes in him. Suddenly, he had found himself on his knees; he had lost the energy to keep laughing but he was determined to meet the God of Death with a smile. His last sight of his suffering was the butt of a spear between the eyes.<br/><br/>But it was not to be. He rose from the depths of unconsciousness and let out a roar when he realized that he had been pulled from the embrace of Death and not walking upon the Shores of Elysium. He had killed the first Evanori his hands reached, an elderly matron healer of the North Clansmen. It did not matter if she was innocent; he remained a slave and wanted to die and if the old woman had to pay the price for it, so be it. The surviving healers had called for help and soon his shack had been full of warriors bearing clubs. They had beat him unconscious and the healers had completed their work on him with shaking hands.<br/><br/>Since then they had come and gone as his wounds healed quickly once he had been tied to post thoroughly. Yet another gift of his people. He had been dressed in a pair of pants and given a shirt barely adequate to cloth him let alone keep the chill at bay. It would not kill him, he didn't feel the weather like these Evanori did, but he would be cold nonetheless. Then he had been tied to a post with his hands behind his back, scrubbed as clean as he could be and left to wait.<br/><br/>He did not have long to wait. He had ignored the sounds of the shack door opening and the scrape of a chair and the sound of someone settling in the chair, his chin resting against his chest, light brown hair obscuring his face. No doubt a warden. However, he opened his eyes when it was a woman's voice he heard, speaking haltingly back and forth between his Mother tongue and his own,<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff00ff">"Warrior, Your wounds are healing nicely.""</span></i>He winced at her terrible pronunciation and wondered idly if this was the torture to be received from these Northerners. As that thought led him to full wakefulness, blinking his eyes warily and shaking his head to brush the bangs from his eyes, the woman continued,<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff00ff">"I have seen your skills,"</span></i>he smirked at that. Oh yes, praise the butcher on knowing how to kill and prepare the meat,<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff00ff">"I am called Cerys," </span></i><br/><br/>He remained silent for the longest time, testing the bonds keeping him tied to the post and found them not loose enough for him to manipulate. If he had something in his hand he could have made short work of them. Apparently these Evanori had learned their lessons well when it had come to his people. Instead, he looked up and stared into purple eyes with his golden orbs and finally spoke, in perfect Evanori.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"Spare me your mangling of my tongue, Evanori whore."</span></i>He spat at her and smiled a grin that promised only death. His voice was smooth, but as cold as the edge of steel left in ice,<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"I am Gnaeus of the Fifth Sword. Release me."</span></i>He commanded. He knew she wouldn't. But it never hurt to throw these barbarians off step. He strained against his bonds for a moment, the muscles in his arms neck standing out in stark relief, before he gave up and broke eye contact with her to stare at the ground between his outstretched legs.<br/><br/>It was a long moment before he spoke again in a much quieter voice, his eyes downcast.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"What do you want from me?" </span></i>As if he had to ask. They all wanted him to kill for them. Maybe the Gods would see fit to answer his prayers in the next battle? Somehow, he doubted he would ever be lucky. He could not kill himself. It was forbidden by those of the Sword. It did not stop his longing.