[piosenniel]

Gorothlammothiel’s post

Hours had passed since the slaves had escaped them yet Shivana and Ekatran still lay bound. Both had limited mobility thanks to the tightly knotted cloth binds and their life was slowly draining away from them as quickly as the night was creeping up on day.

Ekatran stared into the burning pyre - the bright flames reflecting in his gaze. A slight gust of wind caught a flame and sent a smoking ember across in the hunter’s direction landing on Ekatran's forearm, burning black his tanned skin. He winced at the smell of burnt flesh. Two hunters lay within those flames and Ekatran grew angry at their deaths at the hands of the 'weak' slaves that they had been pursuing. Their passing, however, did not infuriate the Lord of Nurn so much as the betrayal of one of his own - Rhunnaro.

The balance had already been in the slaves favour after Rhunnaro's disappearance and Ranchards, 'departure'. Ekatran sighed heavily at the realization of the irony now apparent over Ranchard and all thier fates. Had he and Shivana not killed Ranchard, perhaps their current situation would not of resulted the way it had.

That thought gave Ekatran all the determination he needed. It wasn't the fact that the slaves has escaped, for several had fallen which was victory enough to return to Nurn without answering questions, but the fact hat he had lost one of his own men to the slaves infuriated him so much that he 'crawled' across the dusty and bloodstained floor.

Reaching a small blade, Ekatran managed to cut the binds around his arms then quickly moved to untie those around his feet. Rubbing at his wrists his eyes caught a flicker of the pyre reflected in the blade of a sword, still lying on the ground some distance away. Still weary, he crawled over to it, pushing broken spears from the battle aside as he went. He lifted it and gripped it tightly at the hilt. He studied it closely. It wasn't his sword, it was Rhunnaro's.

Climbing to his feet and staggering, he swung the sword heavily across the the two 'banners' of spears and his and Shivana's hair, letting out a cry of anger as he brought them to the ground.

Shivana stirred. She seemed to be waking from a temporary, and recent, state of unconsciousness. Still bound, she sat herself up and looked upon the scene, and then onto Ekatran. He walked over to her and cut her arms and legs free from the bonds, then placed the blade in the empty scabbard at his side. Shivana tried to stand but promptly fell back to the floor. She had sustained more injury from the battle than he had. "My Lord," she said coarsely as she gasped for breath and swallowed hard, "we have not failed, slaves may have escaped but some died at our hands." She pointed to the cairn.

But there was no consoling the Lord Ekatran. "Nay Shivana, some lay dead indeed but so do our own!" She shook her head, "Nay Lord" but he continued, "and Ranchard and Rhunnaro?!" his voice now a shout. His anger however was no longer registering with Shivana. She was gasping for air as she lay almost motionless, dying.

Ekatran did nothing but watch as she took her last breaths and then the darkness took her. He closed her eyelids the stood and walked back from the last of his company. "She died in the thought that we were victorious in battle, but I shall not have that fate, no, mine is to be prolonged and full of torment and shame."

With that, Ekatran left the body of Shivana, the pyre and the cairn, and headed away from the battle scene towards Nurn, by foot. It was some days before Nurn was within his sights once more, but at last he could see his kingdom. The sun was high in the sky beaming down into the fields where slaves were at work. His home in sight and yet Ekatran found he could move no further.

He was weary indeed. Several days by foot with no water, but he had survived. Yet now just a few steps away from his home he fell to the ground, his face in his hands. He looked up and ran his fingers over the cloth at his face. That which the slave had tied around his cuts, forgotten until now.

"If I were to return now" he spoke as if to those he hunted with, "I would surely be shamed. To return alone would let everyone see how I had failed the hunt. The slaves would discover that and revolt against my house." He spoke quickly now, a phase of madness taking him. "No, no" he cried ripping the rag from his face, wincing in pain as the blood ran from the wounds which had scabbed through the thin woven material. "Nurn will not fall! When I don't return, no one will know the truth and a new lord named. Nurn will continue and I remain Lord Ekatran. This years hunt won't be remembered as a failure but shall be a legend, yes, yes..."

Under the heat of the sun Ekatran took Rhunnaro's blade from the scabbard at his side and stared upon it. "Rhunnaro" his voice grew low and concentrated, "you are the only one now who could reveal the truth so that it would be believed by my house. Dare you not return to Nurn during my exile." Then he paused. A thought crept across his mind and his eyes narrowed. "Yes" he whispered, "I shall not face exile, no, I will die at your hand and be found by my people. The wounds to my face shall show our battle. On your return you shall be punished for your treason and I will remain Nurn's Lord, in both legend and truth!"

With that, Ekatran thrust the heavy blade hard into his stomach. A crimson river flowed hard from him and he fell, withdrawing the blade and letting it fall from his weakening grasp at his side. He smiled, though writhing in pain, and kicked some dirt to partially cover Rhunnaro's blade. His last moment of energy was spent wiping the now steady flow of blood from the seven wounds on his face, from his mouth, then with one last cry, it ended.