THE ROAD EAST; blurbs on baroona's journey from daraak to temple mercenaries
All of these blurbs are rough little things written in my free time to help me understand the big fucking gap canon leaves us with.
On Where He Stayed
The farther into Cronos he went, the more exotic he became. Despite the days spent in the sun, his skin remained fairly pale and his complexion smooth. It was an uncanny occurrence that he tended to ignore, having lived with it since birth. But to the people around him, it was mysterious and oddly beautiful. He started to attract attention. More people began to offer to take him in, normally younger women who sought companionship of one form or another. He found himself being adopted nightly by widows, mothers with dead children, mothers with too many children, even the children themselves at points. He learned quickly not to approach any men. Men were too suspicious; they only saw him as a Daraakian while the women saw him as something more. A glimpse at a land they'd never be able to see. They would feed him, clothe him, give him a place to stay, yes. But they also drilled him, interrogated him, spied on him as he would change, eager to spot some discrepancy between themselves and this foreign body.
Eventually, he grew sick of it. He hid his hair under a hat he stole, covered up as much skin as he could, donned layers of clothing to hide his thin, muscular frame. It worked well enough. He would still be taken in by women, but never as many as before and never treated as well. But it was worth it to avoid the stares, the questions, the murmurs behind his back about the marks on his back and shoulder.
He changed in private now.
On Marino, gladiator fights, and other things
They put him in the afternoon show after two months. They thought he showed promise, but underestimated how well he would do. He was thrown into the program as the weakest opponent and came out the strongest, swiftly and gracefully killing the six other gladiators. His movements, fluid and sharp elevated killing from entertainment to a high art, his body creating lines and compositions previously unknown to the spectators.
They wanted more and he was forced to comply. Not that he really minded. This was the way his life was now. Sand, blood, sweat, steel. The smell of burning bodies at night, freeing the city from any potential threat of disease through dead gladiators. People he once knew. People he killed.
But that was to be expected. He was a gladiator now. A slave meant for entertainment. And as he rose higher in the ranks, the more popular he became. His youth attracted admirers, some of which called upon him to entertain them in their homes. Forced to comply, he would be placed under scrutiny by a party of people. They would examine him; touch him, speak over him, admire him and scorn him at the same time. Other times there would be no party, just an empty bedroom. They would enter from behind, guide him to the bed and instruct him to take his clothes off.
He had to obey. Punishment was harsh. Nothing he couldn’t deal with, but unpleasant all the same. Besides if he viewed it as a job it wasn’t so bad. Another fight, just a different location.
Marino was higher than him, the real champion of the fights. Baroona watched him fight in awe and admiration. His strength was astounding, his movements beautiful and clean-no wasted motions. He recounted this awe to him afterwards in the holding area below the arena. Marino would smile, congratulate Baroona on whatever fights he had won that day, then leave. Unlike Baroona, Marino was called on every night. Such was the job of the champion-he knew that. But it left him feeling nervous and alone. He hated it, constantly training in the holding area in order to keep his mind off it.
If the other gladiators took issue with it, they held their tongue. Baroona was one of the top fighters now, deserving of respect. This respect only grew with each fight won. Soon enough he was rivaling Marino in speed and strength, having already surpassed him in grace and accuracy. Baroona stopped watching his fights, stopped talking to him afterwards. They were closer than ever, yet still far apart.
It wasn’t far enough for their final fight. Baroona had been dreading it, his hands shaking as he entered the arena opposite the man he admired. Yet when the fight started, it was as if something took all that hesitation and anxiety away, giving him only an opponent in front of him instead of a master.
The fight ended quickly and violently. Baroona was ruthless. A true gladiator. The audience loved it. Baroona laughed as tears swelled up, feeling as if both actions were out of his own control. As if he was watching this, removed from his body.
And then they tried to remove Marino’s body. Tried to take him away from Baroona after forcing them to fight. It was inevitable, but avoidable if only. If only…
He killed both the attendants easily, and ran, slashing and slaying anyone in his way. He ran and jumped and ducked out of the arena, out of the city, out of Daraak. He only stopped when his tears made it hard to breathe.
On being captured
At age 12 he was a war criminal, standing in far back in the line of his fellows. He hadn't necessarily done anything other then be born in the wrong place, to the wrong parents. His mother was a strong-willed woman, his father a fighter. Both were rebels, fighting in another one of Daraak's civil wars. A minor one, but one that merited enough attention for the king to send his soldiers. The rebellion was defeated easily, his parents killed and himself captured while tending the family fields. They had known his parents had helped the cause-a cause too complicated for him to understand at the time.
He fought capture, his parents taught him that much. Don't go down without a fight. He didn't particularly know why he was running or why they were chasing him. He suspected it was because of his parents. But he didn't care about their cause. Why should he have to be involved? Yet there he was, being hunted down because of his involvement.
They slowed him with an arrow to the leg. He stumbled, fell, rolled back to his feet and kept running. They aimed another arrow, this time at his neck. Baroona felt the fear of death creep upon him, surround him, only to be broken when he saw what appeared to be a high-ranking officer in front of him. Behind him, the archer lowered his bow. Baroona slowed to a stop, his path blocked by the new arrival. He was captured then, soldiers surrounding him, weapons on should he try anything. He was chained, shackles placed around his feet and hands, a metal collar placed around his neck. All connected. They removed the arrow from his leg on orders from the officer, bandaging it swiftly an expertly. The seemingly kind action confused him, gave him hope that maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Despite the chains, it'd be fine.
It was the only kindness they showed him. Shackled and bound, he was dragged from the officer's horse, forced to stand and run behind the animal. Dirt and dust was kicked up into his eyes, and he frequently stumbled and fell, allowing the animal to drag him before eventually managing to get to his feet again.
They arrived at a camp, filled with other prisoners like him. Lines of them, chained together and waiting. For what, Baroona didn't know. He was joined to the longest line, forced to stand there without food or water, devoid of any kind of respite. All he could do was wait, watching and listening the people around him. As he got closer to the front of the line, he watched the officer from before mutter something to the soldier at the beginning of the line. He thought he noticed the soldier glance toward him, then nod to the officer. Were they talking about him? His gut twisted in fear of the unknown. The front of the line wasn't far away. What would happen to him there?
They unchained him when he reached the front, removing him from his current line and placing him in another. Unlike the previous prisoners, the new line was filled with muscular men with stern faces. Baroona didn't feel out of place.
They put them in carts pulled by tired old horses. The carts were small and the prisoners were many, forced to sit back to back in rows. They didn't know where they were going, and the implication of what that meant created a heavy tension in the air. A lumbering sense of death haunting every man.
It took them a week to reach their destination. The numbers had slimmed by then, some of the prisoners having died from lack of food. Baroona was able to twist around in the cart, allowing him to view what exactly the destination was.
It was the capital city, ornate and unearthly towering above them. They passed through the gates, wound their way throughout the city streets until a new structure towered above them. Baroona's heart plummeted into his stomach and a sense of dread sunk into him and his fellow prisoners. They had entered the arena.
It must have been the fight that he put up, Baroona thought. The fact that he was shot and kept running. Perhaps they thought he'd make good bait for the lions. Good target practice for the other gladiators. Either way, he was cursing his choice to run as he stood in another line, this time to be branded.
The line went quickly, the constant shouts of pain helping to pass the time. When it was his turn, he was forced to take off his shirt, turn around. They took the heated iron then, and he flinched when it got close to him. They noticed this, and summoned another attendant over to straighten his back. A moment later they pressed the iron against him, the heat searing his flesh. He screamed. They pressed harder. He struggled against it, pulling at the attendants and trying to break free. More came to help. He was pushed down against a nearby table, face first. His struggling was restricted then, partly by the table and partly by the two attendants pushing him down on it. They branded him again on his back before shifting the weight and repeating the process on his shoulder. They ignored the screams, the shouts of pain, the twisting and writhing. It had been heard and seen before.
When the finished, Baroona was quiet. He was shoved into the main holding area, a hand ghosting over the shoulder-brand. He met the eyes of the other gladiators in the room, his own eyes sharp and cold, filled with an anger at the injustice of his situation. But wasn't that the same with everyone else here? Wasn't that a requirement for being a gladiator?
His hand fell to his side and he stepped into the room.
In the Arena
He had thought rising in the rankings would save him from beatings. Thought that by killing more people he’d become more of a person. Earn his life back. Gain the privileges he once remembered getting.
He had been wrong.
He had been wrong in the arena as well. He thought his status as the rising star of the arena would guarantee him choice. The option of who he killed and who he spared. In this case, a man about ten years older than him. A new slave, by the looks of it. Unskilled at fighting. No potential to become better. Meat. Meat for him to cut up.
The man had tried to fight him; picked up a spear and held it shakily towards him. Baroona got rid of it easily, and advanced. The man shook. His knees quivered. Baroona remembered seeing them shake. He thought of it as a trick. A way to lower his defenses. The closer he got, the more he found himself wrong.
The man was crying, a fact that startled him. The desperation in his eyes stuck within Baroona’s mind long afterwards. “No,” he had muttered. Please, mercy. Have mercy.
“I don’t want to die.”
The words made him pause. What an odd thing for a gladiator to say. Death was a part of their life. An everyday occurrence. Surely even a newcomer should know that, should try to fight for their life.
But this man had given up. Fallen to his knees, head bowed. It was sincere and utterly pathetic. Yet Baroona felt no contempt for him, only pity.
“Do you surrender?” His mouth was moving on his own, before he could register the words. The audience was roaring at him, growling in his ears: “Kill him, kill him.” He ignored them, waiting for the man’s answer.
He nodded feebly, his whole body shaking now. Baroona remained cold and calm, staring at him coolly before turning around and walking into the middle of the arena. He bowed to the patron who had funded the event and explained the situation.
He was foolish to think it would be allowed. The audience wanted blood despite having a whole day’s worth of it. Baroona’s pleas for understanding fell upon deaf ears and cold steel, now pressed against his neck. He was explained what he had to do. Kill the man or be killed.
Baroona looked at the older man, being dragged into the center of the ring. Placed in front of him. It didn’t take long to decide.
“Then kill me.”
It couldn’t be done. With the fame he had gained the loss of such a popular fighter would be wasted and unimpressive if a guard slayed him. They would let his death happen naturally, in a fight. Not like this.
It was the second day of his beatings now. He was promised a week of them. Nonstop, except at night. He imagined himself later that week, on the brink of death. No doubt they would throw him out into the arena immediately after his last lashing. But it was fine. He would survive.
They had killed the man in front of him.
On Leaving Daraak
He backed against wall. Two nights on the run and he was already on a border town. It was good progress, especially while being hunted. The only problem were the slavers. Or rather, the officials charged with bringing him back. He had managed to avoid them for the most part but they were stubborn and remained on his trail.
They had caught up to him now.
He flattened himself against the wall, as if that would make him less visible. As if this wasn't a futile attempt. They had him trapped. It must have been planned. They knew he was coming here. Figured it out despite all of Baroona's efforts to trick them. And now he was stuck in an alleyway as two officers patrolled the streets on either side of him.
He watched their torches move, up, down, into other streets and alleyways, and he knew he didn't have long. But this alley was narrow. Their horses couldn't fit inside. They'd have to dismount and get him, making them easier to kill. Then he could steal their horse and flee. It was simple. Easy. A perfectly good plan.
His heart was racing faster than he ever thought it could, his eyes wide and scared. He wanted to run. But if he did he would only give himself away. No. He had to be patient. They would move over him soon enough.
A torch enters the alleyway, it's light bouncing off the two buildings.
The officer sees a shadow. A figure. He calls out. It doesn't answer. He calls through the alley to alert his partner, dismounting from his steed. On the other side of the alley, his partner does the same. They both advance at the same time. The figure starts to move, a slinking motion from side to side. It's an all-to-familiar movement.
They're shouting to the other officers now. Alerting them that he's there. He knew he shouldn't have started to move. It was stupid, but he was nervous. And now he was forced to play their game, do what they wanted.
There wasn't anything wrong with taking out a few officials in the process, though.
He kills them swiftly, before running to the left. He can hear hoofbeats coming from the right. Probably the rest of the squad responding to the alert. He steps over one the dead bodies, taking a sick kind of delight in the cracking of a bone. He exits the alley, running away from the sound of danger. He's doing good. He can do this.
He's cornered by them when he's about to leave the town. It's only natural that they trap him when his freedom is visible. He recognizes the leader as the same man who first captured him. His heart starts to beat faster, panicking. Foot soldiers trap him from behind, surrounding him. There's not a lot, but it's enough. And then there's the meager cavalry, three horsemen including the leader in front, two behind him. Five in total. It wouldn't seem impossible if it weren't for the leader. But if he captured you once…
No. He won't let that happen. He won't go back. He'll kill them and move on. Get the freedom he deserves after all these years.
An archer hits him from behind before he can even move. It pierces his shoulder. Another one comes shortly after, impaling the other one. He lets out a mangled cry, stumbling forward and turning on the archers, weapon ready.
And then one of the cavalrymen grabs him by the hair and drags him behind. Baroona falls to the ground, the impact pushing the arrows deeper. He tries to pry the hand off, but as suspected, it's fruitless. It's only when he gets his footing again that he pushes off the ground, throwing all of his weight towards the immense weight behind that hand. The unexpected force startles the man, the added weight knocking off his center of balance. He falls off the horse. Baroona can't help but smile when his neck breaks.
Wasting no time, he turns quickly, ignoring the burning pain and catching the reins of the horse. He mounts it swiftly and elegantly, turning it back towards the archers. There are more arrows now. A few glance his skin, but more hit. One to the leg, another to the arm, more and more. He ignores them all. He can do this. He has to. Freedom is within his reach and he has to snatch it.
On horseback, and with his weapon, he makes quick work of the infantry. He blesses them with a quick death, a slice to the throat. Saves the more painful deaths for the cavalry. The nobles.
He wraps his cord around one's neck, pulling him off his horse and dragging him behind. The second one dies of an open stomach. The third, a horse's hoof to the head. Then, finally, he's left alone with the man who once captured him.
He draws his sword, readying to charge. Baroona uses his weapon to snatch the sword away. The man seems surprised. Baroona charges.
It was a hard cut. Bone is always hard to slice through, but he did it somehow. The captain's head falls off pathetically, landing with an anticlimactic thud on the ground. His body follows a moment later. Baroona only hears it, not bothering to look back. His eyes are blurring and blood is coursing out of him from every possible limb, but he doesn't pause. Doesn't slow down. He keeps his hold on the reins tight and his gaze locked on the Daraakian border. And he keeps it that way until he passes it.
On Where He Stayed
The farther into Cronos he went, the more exotic he became. Despite the days spent in the sun, his skin remained fairly pale and his complexion smooth. It was an uncanny occurrence that he tended to ignore, having lived with it since birth. But to the people around him, it was mysterious and oddly beautiful. He started to attract attention. More people began to offer to take him in, normally younger women who sought companionship of one form or another. He found himself being adopted nightly by widows, mothers with dead children, mothers with too many children, even the children themselves at points. He learned quickly not to approach any men. Men were too suspicious; they only saw him as a Daraakian while the women saw him as something more. A glimpse at a land they'd never be able to see. They would feed him, clothe him, give him a place to stay, yes. But they also drilled him, interrogated him, spied on him as he would change, eager to spot some discrepancy between themselves and this foreign body.
Eventually, he grew sick of it. He hid his hair under a hat he stole, covered up as much skin as he could, donned layers of clothing to hide his thin, muscular frame. It worked well enough. He would still be taken in by women, but never as many as before and never treated as well. But it was worth it to avoid the stares, the questions, the murmurs behind his back about the marks on his back and shoulder.
He changed in private now.
On Marino, gladiator fights, and other things
They put him in the afternoon show after two months. They thought he showed promise, but underestimated how well he would do. He was thrown into the program as the weakest opponent and came out the strongest, swiftly and gracefully killing the six other gladiators. His movements, fluid and sharp elevated killing from entertainment to a high art, his body creating lines and compositions previously unknown to the spectators.
They wanted more and he was forced to comply. Not that he really minded. This was the way his life was now. Sand, blood, sweat, steel. The smell of burning bodies at night, freeing the city from any potential threat of disease through dead gladiators. People he once knew. People he killed.
But that was to be expected. He was a gladiator now. A slave meant for entertainment. And as he rose higher in the ranks, the more popular he became. His youth attracted admirers, some of which called upon him to entertain them in their homes. Forced to comply, he would be placed under scrutiny by a party of people. They would examine him; touch him, speak over him, admire him and scorn him at the same time. Other times there would be no party, just an empty bedroom. They would enter from behind, guide him to the bed and instruct him to take his clothes off.
He had to obey. Punishment was harsh. Nothing he couldn’t deal with, but unpleasant all the same. Besides if he viewed it as a job it wasn’t so bad. Another fight, just a different location.
Marino was higher than him, the real champion of the fights. Baroona watched him fight in awe and admiration. His strength was astounding, his movements beautiful and clean-no wasted motions. He recounted this awe to him afterwards in the holding area below the arena. Marino would smile, congratulate Baroona on whatever fights he had won that day, then leave. Unlike Baroona, Marino was called on every night. Such was the job of the champion-he knew that. But it left him feeling nervous and alone. He hated it, constantly training in the holding area in order to keep his mind off it.
If the other gladiators took issue with it, they held their tongue. Baroona was one of the top fighters now, deserving of respect. This respect only grew with each fight won. Soon enough he was rivaling Marino in speed and strength, having already surpassed him in grace and accuracy. Baroona stopped watching his fights, stopped talking to him afterwards. They were closer than ever, yet still far apart.
It wasn’t far enough for their final fight. Baroona had been dreading it, his hands shaking as he entered the arena opposite the man he admired. Yet when the fight started, it was as if something took all that hesitation and anxiety away, giving him only an opponent in front of him instead of a master.
The fight ended quickly and violently. Baroona was ruthless. A true gladiator. The audience loved it. Baroona laughed as tears swelled up, feeling as if both actions were out of his own control. As if he was watching this, removed from his body.
And then they tried to remove Marino’s body. Tried to take him away from Baroona after forcing them to fight. It was inevitable, but avoidable if only. If only…
He killed both the attendants easily, and ran, slashing and slaying anyone in his way. He ran and jumped and ducked out of the arena, out of the city, out of Daraak. He only stopped when his tears made it hard to breathe.
On being captured
At age 12 he was a war criminal, standing in far back in the line of his fellows. He hadn't necessarily done anything other then be born in the wrong place, to the wrong parents. His mother was a strong-willed woman, his father a fighter. Both were rebels, fighting in another one of Daraak's civil wars. A minor one, but one that merited enough attention for the king to send his soldiers. The rebellion was defeated easily, his parents killed and himself captured while tending the family fields. They had known his parents had helped the cause-a cause too complicated for him to understand at the time.
He fought capture, his parents taught him that much. Don't go down without a fight. He didn't particularly know why he was running or why they were chasing him. He suspected it was because of his parents. But he didn't care about their cause. Why should he have to be involved? Yet there he was, being hunted down because of his involvement.
They slowed him with an arrow to the leg. He stumbled, fell, rolled back to his feet and kept running. They aimed another arrow, this time at his neck. Baroona felt the fear of death creep upon him, surround him, only to be broken when he saw what appeared to be a high-ranking officer in front of him. Behind him, the archer lowered his bow. Baroona slowed to a stop, his path blocked by the new arrival. He was captured then, soldiers surrounding him, weapons on should he try anything. He was chained, shackles placed around his feet and hands, a metal collar placed around his neck. All connected. They removed the arrow from his leg on orders from the officer, bandaging it swiftly an expertly. The seemingly kind action confused him, gave him hope that maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Despite the chains, it'd be fine.
It was the only kindness they showed him. Shackled and bound, he was dragged from the officer's horse, forced to stand and run behind the animal. Dirt and dust was kicked up into his eyes, and he frequently stumbled and fell, allowing the animal to drag him before eventually managing to get to his feet again.
They arrived at a camp, filled with other prisoners like him. Lines of them, chained together and waiting. For what, Baroona didn't know. He was joined to the longest line, forced to stand there without food or water, devoid of any kind of respite. All he could do was wait, watching and listening the people around him. As he got closer to the front of the line, he watched the officer from before mutter something to the soldier at the beginning of the line. He thought he noticed the soldier glance toward him, then nod to the officer. Were they talking about him? His gut twisted in fear of the unknown. The front of the line wasn't far away. What would happen to him there?
They unchained him when he reached the front, removing him from his current line and placing him in another. Unlike the previous prisoners, the new line was filled with muscular men with stern faces. Baroona didn't feel out of place.
They put them in carts pulled by tired old horses. The carts were small and the prisoners were many, forced to sit back to back in rows. They didn't know where they were going, and the implication of what that meant created a heavy tension in the air. A lumbering sense of death haunting every man.
It took them a week to reach their destination. The numbers had slimmed by then, some of the prisoners having died from lack of food. Baroona was able to twist around in the cart, allowing him to view what exactly the destination was.
It was the capital city, ornate and unearthly towering above them. They passed through the gates, wound their way throughout the city streets until a new structure towered above them. Baroona's heart plummeted into his stomach and a sense of dread sunk into him and his fellow prisoners. They had entered the arena.
It must have been the fight that he put up, Baroona thought. The fact that he was shot and kept running. Perhaps they thought he'd make good bait for the lions. Good target practice for the other gladiators. Either way, he was cursing his choice to run as he stood in another line, this time to be branded.
The line went quickly, the constant shouts of pain helping to pass the time. When it was his turn, he was forced to take off his shirt, turn around. They took the heated iron then, and he flinched when it got close to him. They noticed this, and summoned another attendant over to straighten his back. A moment later they pressed the iron against him, the heat searing his flesh. He screamed. They pressed harder. He struggled against it, pulling at the attendants and trying to break free. More came to help. He was pushed down against a nearby table, face first. His struggling was restricted then, partly by the table and partly by the two attendants pushing him down on it. They branded him again on his back before shifting the weight and repeating the process on his shoulder. They ignored the screams, the shouts of pain, the twisting and writhing. It had been heard and seen before.
When the finished, Baroona was quiet. He was shoved into the main holding area, a hand ghosting over the shoulder-brand. He met the eyes of the other gladiators in the room, his own eyes sharp and cold, filled with an anger at the injustice of his situation. But wasn't that the same with everyone else here? Wasn't that a requirement for being a gladiator?
His hand fell to his side and he stepped into the room.
In the Arena
He had thought rising in the rankings would save him from beatings. Thought that by killing more people he’d become more of a person. Earn his life back. Gain the privileges he once remembered getting.
He had been wrong.
He had been wrong in the arena as well. He thought his status as the rising star of the arena would guarantee him choice. The option of who he killed and who he spared. In this case, a man about ten years older than him. A new slave, by the looks of it. Unskilled at fighting. No potential to become better. Meat. Meat for him to cut up.
The man had tried to fight him; picked up a spear and held it shakily towards him. Baroona got rid of it easily, and advanced. The man shook. His knees quivered. Baroona remembered seeing them shake. He thought of it as a trick. A way to lower his defenses. The closer he got, the more he found himself wrong.
The man was crying, a fact that startled him. The desperation in his eyes stuck within Baroona’s mind long afterwards. “No,” he had muttered. Please, mercy. Have mercy.
“I don’t want to die.”
The words made him pause. What an odd thing for a gladiator to say. Death was a part of their life. An everyday occurrence. Surely even a newcomer should know that, should try to fight for their life.
But this man had given up. Fallen to his knees, head bowed. It was sincere and utterly pathetic. Yet Baroona felt no contempt for him, only pity.
“Do you surrender?” His mouth was moving on his own, before he could register the words. The audience was roaring at him, growling in his ears: “Kill him, kill him.” He ignored them, waiting for the man’s answer.
He nodded feebly, his whole body shaking now. Baroona remained cold and calm, staring at him coolly before turning around and walking into the middle of the arena. He bowed to the patron who had funded the event and explained the situation.
He was foolish to think it would be allowed. The audience wanted blood despite having a whole day’s worth of it. Baroona’s pleas for understanding fell upon deaf ears and cold steel, now pressed against his neck. He was explained what he had to do. Kill the man or be killed.
Baroona looked at the older man, being dragged into the center of the ring. Placed in front of him. It didn’t take long to decide.
“Then kill me.”
It couldn’t be done. With the fame he had gained the loss of such a popular fighter would be wasted and unimpressive if a guard slayed him. They would let his death happen naturally, in a fight. Not like this.
It was the second day of his beatings now. He was promised a week of them. Nonstop, except at night. He imagined himself later that week, on the brink of death. No doubt they would throw him out into the arena immediately after his last lashing. But it was fine. He would survive.
They had killed the man in front of him.
On Leaving Daraak
He backed against wall. Two nights on the run and he was already on a border town. It was good progress, especially while being hunted. The only problem were the slavers. Or rather, the officials charged with bringing him back. He had managed to avoid them for the most part but they were stubborn and remained on his trail.
They had caught up to him now.
He flattened himself against the wall, as if that would make him less visible. As if this wasn't a futile attempt. They had him trapped. It must have been planned. They knew he was coming here. Figured it out despite all of Baroona's efforts to trick them. And now he was stuck in an alleyway as two officers patrolled the streets on either side of him.
He watched their torches move, up, down, into other streets and alleyways, and he knew he didn't have long. But this alley was narrow. Their horses couldn't fit inside. They'd have to dismount and get him, making them easier to kill. Then he could steal their horse and flee. It was simple. Easy. A perfectly good plan.
His heart was racing faster than he ever thought it could, his eyes wide and scared. He wanted to run. But if he did he would only give himself away. No. He had to be patient. They would move over him soon enough.
A torch enters the alleyway, it's light bouncing off the two buildings.
The officer sees a shadow. A figure. He calls out. It doesn't answer. He calls through the alley to alert his partner, dismounting from his steed. On the other side of the alley, his partner does the same. They both advance at the same time. The figure starts to move, a slinking motion from side to side. It's an all-to-familiar movement.
They're shouting to the other officers now. Alerting them that he's there. He knew he shouldn't have started to move. It was stupid, but he was nervous. And now he was forced to play their game, do what they wanted.
There wasn't anything wrong with taking out a few officials in the process, though.
He kills them swiftly, before running to the left. He can hear hoofbeats coming from the right. Probably the rest of the squad responding to the alert. He steps over one the dead bodies, taking a sick kind of delight in the cracking of a bone. He exits the alley, running away from the sound of danger. He's doing good. He can do this.
He's cornered by them when he's about to leave the town. It's only natural that they trap him when his freedom is visible. He recognizes the leader as the same man who first captured him. His heart starts to beat faster, panicking. Foot soldiers trap him from behind, surrounding him. There's not a lot, but it's enough. And then there's the meager cavalry, three horsemen including the leader in front, two behind him. Five in total. It wouldn't seem impossible if it weren't for the leader. But if he captured you once…
No. He won't let that happen. He won't go back. He'll kill them and move on. Get the freedom he deserves after all these years.
An archer hits him from behind before he can even move. It pierces his shoulder. Another one comes shortly after, impaling the other one. He lets out a mangled cry, stumbling forward and turning on the archers, weapon ready.
And then one of the cavalrymen grabs him by the hair and drags him behind. Baroona falls to the ground, the impact pushing the arrows deeper. He tries to pry the hand off, but as suspected, it's fruitless. It's only when he gets his footing again that he pushes off the ground, throwing all of his weight towards the immense weight behind that hand. The unexpected force startles the man, the added weight knocking off his center of balance. He falls off the horse. Baroona can't help but smile when his neck breaks.
Wasting no time, he turns quickly, ignoring the burning pain and catching the reins of the horse. He mounts it swiftly and elegantly, turning it back towards the archers. There are more arrows now. A few glance his skin, but more hit. One to the leg, another to the arm, more and more. He ignores them all. He can do this. He has to. Freedom is within his reach and he has to snatch it.
On horseback, and with his weapon, he makes quick work of the infantry. He blesses them with a quick death, a slice to the throat. Saves the more painful deaths for the cavalry. The nobles.
He wraps his cord around one's neck, pulling him off his horse and dragging him behind. The second one dies of an open stomach. The third, a horse's hoof to the head. Then, finally, he's left alone with the man who once captured him.
He draws his sword, readying to charge. Baroona uses his weapon to snatch the sword away. The man seems surprised. Baroona charges.
It was a hard cut. Bone is always hard to slice through, but he did it somehow. The captain's head falls off pathetically, landing with an anticlimactic thud on the ground. His body follows a moment later. Baroona only hears it, not bothering to look back. His eyes are blurring and blood is coursing out of him from every possible limb, but he doesn't pause. Doesn't slow down. He keeps his hold on the reins tight and his gaze locked on the Daraakian border. And he keeps it that way until he passes it.