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Post by Luba Gavrilova on Sept 25, 2016 20:18:37 GMT -6
(Prelude to Coldfront) Skirting around the outskirts of the city in low glide, Diana spirited a near-frothing Luba along the burnt and sullied battleground of Remi. The ex-Ironwing kicked herself for the late arrival, now painfully aware that she had had no time to waste. If only she'd been a little faster. She might have made it before the siege. The old warrior's heart sunk in her chest. The landscape of Remi looked like it had been raped. Much of the land which had once been fertile, green and lush, was now black and burnt. Atop those dark patches of earth lay figures upon unburied tombs. Skeletal shapes, some shattered and others pierced to the bone by wooden shafts and steel poles, were littered about an already forgotten battlefield. Skulls, some large enough to fit in helmets, others small enough to fit in goblets, peered back with eyes absent. Inns and homes, covered in soot, black ash, stood dormant, quiet. Gaping wounds, the dues of flame, left the structures opened and exposed to the elements. The injuries of some had collapsed the structures entirely. Those places had forfeited too much in the fiery siege of magic and mortar. Windows shattered and doors kicked down, the work of blood-crazed soldiers or scavenging bandits. These were places that no one still called home. The burning of her home lit a flame inside the maiden of death. Long had it been since Luba had wanted to kill, had physically and psychologically experienced an inexorable drive to end life. Even when she had had to carry Vanya's broken body from castle Bern, and felt that the world might only benefit from Vorn's death, she had not experienced a lust, a thirst, to take the man's life. The mercenary had long ago learned during her career to view death objectively, as a part of life and not an offense or wrongdoing. But now, viewing the unrecognizable skulls of former neighbors and the shattered ruins of her childhood, now Luba found it hard to be objective. ”Could have buried the dead.” Luba uttered in a dispassionate grunt, leaving the boneyard at her back. The grim soldier sped onward and soon arrived at her destination. Outside of her old home, a now half-burnt farmstead, Luba dismounted her steed. The outer field was littered with the aftermath of battle. Peering out into the field, Luba could see younger versions of herself and her sisters working. Talia strolled about collecting ripe crops where plants were black and shrunken. Cveta read out a list of instructions, directing their chores, where the earth was stained with arrows and blood. Agata plowed the fields with an all-too-small tool where a sizable cart had been sundered in half. Luba shepherded the livestock, surrounded by the bodies of cows and horses. The old warrior shook her head, trying to focus on the present. Luba's pegasus, Diana, panted in fast and labored breaths. The first time in some time since Luba had pushed her winged companion to the point of exhaustion. But the well-being of her horse, or anything for that matter which didn't bear the name Gavrilova, was a concern far from her mind. All that mattered right now was the fate of her family.
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Post by Luba Gavrilova on Sept 26, 2016 11:01:34 GMT -6
Steel-toed boots beat against ashen grass and hard clay, as the old warrior rounded the barn door. The smell hit her first. Decaying flesh, that of rotting animals, assaulted Luba's nostrils. Then came the sight. Barn animals split with swords and axes. Others pierced and felled by spears. The bodies were mostly those of cows, with some chickens and goats here and there. Slumped against one of the stalls, with it's back to the wall, lay the body of a person. Luba approached the still form, fears subdued as the corpse looked unfamiliar.
As Luba came closer, she could tell that the body belonged to a man, slim and young. His hair was a light-blue and his eyes, though faded, a mahogany brown. The boy's mouth hung open slightly, as if he'd been in the process of asking a question before his untimely demise. Examining the lower portions of his torso, Luba noticed the cause of his death. A single trail of dark, red blood trailed from a torn aperture in his overalls. ”Must have been stuck with a spear and left to bleed out.” Luba continued to look him over. Other than the stain of blood, the boy's overalls were largely clean, so long as you weren't counting the dried mud and manure. Off to the side lay a drag, just out of the dead man's reach. ”Bet you were a farm hand.” Luba looked about, glancing at the bodies of the animals. The small body of a chicken lay curled next to the deceased boy. ”Hope you didn't die trying to defend them. The life of a one person isn't worth that of some livestock.” Luba looked upwards, towards the roof. ”Even if it was a barn full of livestock.”
The old warrior reached out and closed the eyes of the deceased boy. ”But if you did, I appreciate you looking after my family's property. You died too young, kid. Sorry the Gavrilova's couldn't have done better by you.” Not much of a eulogy but, seeing that the body had gone unburied, it might have been the only one he'd gotten. With heavy steps, Luba left the barn. ”Shitty way to go, bleedin' out.”
Shitty. That was a good way to describe the situation. An ancestral family home torn down because of a stupid war. A boy left to bleed to death in a barn because he had the wrong color hair. A thriving port-town besieged because it was in the way. It was all really shitty.
Luba trudged across the ruined ranch, making her way to the house proper. She stopped dead in her tracks. Another body, large, mannish, and a dark blue of hair, lay slumped over the porch railing. Hulking physique. Purple hair. Both hallmarks of her eldest sister. Luba breathed in sharply and felt her heartbeat hasten. ”Please don't be Agata.” The warrior drew near, her stomps becoming softer, cautious. An uncomfortable feeling, like a bag of sand, sank within her gut. Now closer to the body, Luba noticed the shaft of an arrow jutting out from it's head. Tentatively, the old woman's hands cradled the limp cranium and lifted.
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Post by Luba Gavrilova on Sept 27, 2016 11:35:40 GMT -6
Luba breathed a sigh of relief.
Another man. Older than the farmboy, probably in his mid-twenties. Handsomer too. Dimples, which might of looked really cute when he smiled, and a pair of big, open eyes. He'd be pretty good looking if he didn't have an arrow shaft sticking out of his skull. Luba let the head lie limp and took a sweep of the area. She didn't see any other bodies, at least any other human bodies. Plenty of animal carcasses, but no people. ”Probably the first casualty.” Luba surmised. The man, arms resting on the railing, had probably been gazing out across the ranch, enjoying a breezy afternoon, before catching an arrow between the eyes. Quick way to go. Better than bleeding out. Luba showed the large man the same courtesy she'd given the farmboy and shut his lifeless eyes. The old warrior made her way into the house.
The interior of the building was much the same as the exterior. More bodies, more scorched and broken building. No animals this time, thankfully. There were five bodies on the bottom floor. Two female, both dressed like maids. Farmhands. Two more were those of men, armed and armored. Mercenaries. Definitely Illian given their blueish hair and pale skin. The last body, also male, had been stripped of most of it's clothing. A man wearing nothing, apart from his undergarments, a torn, silk tunic, and a dagger in his hand, lay in a dead slump next to a seat at the dinner table. The man's throat was slit and the body was missing two fingers on the left hand. Upon closer inspection, Luba could make out faint circular imprints, where rings had once been, on the man's remaining fingers. Probably a merchant, or some other fat-pursed patron, who'd been trying to arrange a deal before the attack. Looked like the Etrurians had pilfered his corpse, stolen his valuables after killing him. Judging by the missing fingers, the man had been unwilling to give up some things in death. Luba continued her investigation.
A thorough examination of the upstairs found no bodies. Out back behind the house was a different story. Four men, armed with a variety of different weapons, were splayed about the red grass. More mercenaries. All Ilian. Either former body-guards to the wealthy merchant inside or some extra security the family had hired. That made eleven separate Ilian casualties. Not a single Etrurian to be tallied amongst the body count. Luba would have been concerned by that, but she figured whatever Etrurians had fallen had been collected and buried.
Relief washed over the old warrior. Though her ancestral family home was littered with the dead, none of them bore the name Gavrilova. Her family was alive somewhere out there. Talia, her daughter, Renata, son-in-law, Grigory, and grand-son, Lubov, Agata and her husband Misha, Cveta, her son, Artyum, and his family, they'd escaped. They'd all escaped. Death, inexorable entity it was, had not claimed her family yet. The Gavrilovas were still out there.
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Post by Luba Gavrilova on Sept 28, 2016 22:43:01 GMT -6
Luba exhaled and sank to the ground, realizing now she'd been holding her breath. A reserved smile cracked across the stoney woman's face. When she'd seen the ruins of the city, Luba had feared the worst. Feared that her sisters, and their children, and their grand-children, had met the end of some callous soldier's lance, that their lives had ended when she could have prevented it. Luba was intimately familiar with death. Memento Mori: Remember you will die. Everyone does. And this is not a bad thing. But the Gavrilovas did not need to die yet, especially little Lubov, especially not for this senseless war, and especially while Luba had the strength to defend them. Luba knew that her family was alive. Now she had to find them and keep it that way. No better place to start than in town with any neighbors who'd survived the siege.
The grim soldier rose to her feet, swatting at the dirt on her cape. ”City's probably been de-militarized.” Luba muttered, feeling the combined weight of her weapons and armor. ”Can't go in dressed like this. Need to look like a civilian.” The old rider shot a glance back at the barn. ”Better if Diana stays behind. Riding in on a pegasus would attract too much attention. Hate to pen her up in that graveyard, but she's seen worse.” Luba gripped her chin, thumb and pointer finger on opposite sides. ”The family probably left some clothes behind. Anything in Cveta or Talia's size would fit me.”
The old solider ventured into the house, passed the dead farmgirls, and up the steps. Undoing her cape as she went, Luba draped the regalia across her arm and stomped into Talia's bedroom. Sheets of paper lined the walls. Stories, some finished, some torn, others falling apart. Definately Talia's room. Nice to see age hadn't dulled her sister's passion for writing. Luba undid her steel-toed boots and began fiddling with her breastplate. In Talia's closet, the grim soldier spied a drab gray dress and a plain white apron. ”That'll work. More it covers the better.” Luba muttered with a grunt. The soldier had a diverse tapestry of scars scattered about her body. The less of them she had to show, the easier it would be to pass by as an old farmer. With a loud clang, Luba dropped her breastplate to the floor and donned the new attire.
Luba almost tore through the dress with her first step. Military gear was, without a doubt, a better fit for her. Much less restrictive, more much loose, much more tactically advantageous. These old farm dresses barely gave enough room to stretch one's legs, let alone gain proper footing in battle. The whole ensemble was a bit mortifying for the veteran to move about in. Thankfully she wouldn't be running into any soldiers she knew while in the city. Least she didn't expect to.
With a stomp, Luba stumbled out of the ruined domicile. ”Son of a...” The soldier grunted, nearly losing her balance. ”Gonna have to remember how to walk in one of these damn things.” The more-comical-than-grim looking soldier shuffled her way around the barn to find Diana nibbling at a patch of grass. The pegasi's head jerked up, stopped suddenly as she analyzed Luba, and then cocked to the side. ”Yeah, I know. I'm not crazy about this getup either.” Luba whistled sharply. ”Come on, girl.” Diana followed her as the soldier re-entered the barn.
To say Diana was apprehensive would be appropriate. The war-horse flashed a stink eye at the stinking bodies. She trotted carefully so as not to press into one of the prone frames, lest it give way. As Luba shepherded her into one of the pens, the pegasus realized her master's intentions and neighed sharply. ”Wow, wow, girl.” The grim warrior ran a bare hand across the steed's ivory mane. ”I'm not crazy about leaving you here, but I can't take you with me.” Luba cradled Diana's head so that the two were looking into each other's eyes. ”I'll be back after a day or two at most. You just need to tough it out until then, huh?” Luba patted her on the mane. The pegasus grunted and resigned herself to the pen.
”Yeah, well, you didn't have much say in the matter anyway.” Luba grunted right back and left the pegasus in her temporary sleeping quarters. Beginning to get a handle on this whole dress thing, Luba strode out to the edge of her family's barn and gazed at the port-town before her. Somewhere out there, in that half incinerated city, was somebody who knew where her family fled to. Someone who could get her that much closer to ensuring her family's safety. And whoever it was, Luba was going to find them. Planting a foot firmly into the earth, the grim warrior began her march towards the new Remi.
(End Thread)
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