Brothers

Written by World Smithy

Is it shame or is it fear that controls me? Is it a longing for easier times or the will to be better that drives me? Is it the blood on my hands or the cry of my name on a brother's tongue that haunts me? I have been forsaken, ad infinitum et cinis.

— Colonel Tirjin, the Azure Hand

It was a slaughter. The expedition caught in a howling sandstorm was blind, its members disappearing one-by-one as they trekked in search of proper shelter. Dry winds billowing over the dunes carried the scent of fresh meat and rotting offal, forcing many of the less prepared to gag and swallow mouthfulls of sand. Those that weren't taken by the pursuing Gloom Cloud were lost to the desert, leaving the few survivors of the storm to pick up the pieces. Tirjin, Azure Hand of the Primum, was among them.

Sitting at the center of a thin, canvas tent barely held up by steel poles was Tirjin, meditating on the events of the last few days. Thoughts flowed in and out of his mind as the gale of the sandstorm whipped the tent around him. Small holes appeared in the fabric by the force of the wind and grit as he sat there, unmoving. His officer's saber was plunged into the sand next to him. A dull crackle of lightning arced into the ground from the polished scabbard with every measured breath he took. This fascination with the past will get everyone here killed, Umpar must be stopped before anyone else is lost!

Tirjin and several other soldiers of the Prismatic Host were charged with protecting a red-scale, the highest rank a scale-born of Jaddregos could achieve—Ash General Umpar. The General had commissioned their expedition team from Eo' Wissae to aid in finding a relic long thought to be buried in the western half of the central desert, deep beneath the Whispering Wastes. He was told that the relic would have brought about a new era of peace and stability for the scale-born of Jaddregos, but the only tangible thing to come from their expedition was the carnage that followed in their wake.

With a breath laced with ozone, he opened his eyes and took in his dimly lit surroundings. His sleeping arrangements, little more than two multi-colored blankets sewn together to make a pocket and a thin pillow, were crumpled into a ball behind him. A single candle, struggling against the invasive winds, burned at his side, painting the interior with soft oranges. Crackling, the sword's scabbard quivered next to him, a small puddle of glass clinking against the wooden shaft. Time to go; no use stalling any longer.

Standing, Tirjin gripped the handle of his saber and wrenched it free of its gritty prison. It found its way to a belt clip at his side soon after, and he wrapped himself in a thick, blood-stained, burlap cloak before daring to open the tent flap. As he did, the candle behind him blew out, trailing a whisp of smoke in the gale. One step, two, and he was striding towards the Ash General's tent in the encampment. Few people, mostly researchers and arcanists from the western Bastion, were out of their tents to face the sandstorm's wrath; most opted for the relative saftey of their tents.

Tirjin's face wore a stony expression, but his amber eyes betrayed his intentions when they narrowed to slits as he grew closer. Vuupec, a green-scale officer under his command and long time friend, caught his arm in a tentative embrace. His gray eyes shined in the dim light of the Sister Moons; those irises swirled like a storm cloud as they scanned Tirjin's body language. He wore a heavy suit of armor that bore emblems and runes all across its many surfaces, making it hard to discern what was magical and what was decorative. Wrapped around Vuupec's shoulders and across his maw was a similar cloak and shawl to his own.

“Not the time, Vuu. We can talk later,” Tirjin said as he attempted to brush past the officer.

Vuupec's grip tightened, pulling him back mid-stride, “What are you doing, brother? What troubles you so much as to go directly to Umpar?”

“What troubles me? Have you not seen the bodies, many claimed by Haze Fever and rot, that we have left behind?”

The green-scale's demeanor darkened at the mention of losses, and he released Tirjin's arm from the iron-clad grip anchoring him in place. He crossed his arms across his decorated chest, almost defensively, before finally choking out, “Who hasn't, brother? I still hear the newest Lost calling for us in the mornings...” He shivered at the memory. “Do you intend to confront Umpar?”

“Yes. Do you intend to stop me? I have no intention of sitting idly by and letting more fall to this vanity project, but I don't want to hurt anyone. Not anyone that doesn't deserve it,” Tirjin said, stepping towards Vuupec with an outstretched hand reaching for his shoulder.

Vuupec waltzed back, avoiding the gesture as his feet adopted a defensive combat stance. It was instinctual, of course, but betrayal shone through Tirjin's otherwise stoic façade regardless. His blue, clawed hand groped at the air and hung there, balled into a tight fist right where the green-scale's shoulder would have been. He blinked and a tear streamed down the side of his draconic visage, sand clinging greedily to the freshly wetted surface. To Tirjin's horror, his friend's hand fell to the sword locked inside the scabbard at his own waist; it rested there on the hilt in an unspoken warning.

“What you speak... what you say is treason, Tir, do you even hear yourself,” Vuupec whispered, hardly audible above the whipping winds.

“So you do intend to stop me. You'd rather watch more innocents die in the sand than put a stop to it and return to normality?” Tirjin's asked softly.

“Of course not!” he snapped, grip wrapping around the handle of his blade. “But I-I won't stand here and pretend that undermining everything I've ever known is the answer! I'm sorry, but I took an oath at birth—something you know very little about.”

The words stung like a Scourge Wasp that found its way to his heart, and Tirjin knew exactly what he meant by them. He had always been an ‘other’, an outsider; a potential threat to Jaddregos. He was a ‘natural’ scale-born, often simply refered to as Dragonborn, to parents that migrated to Hope's Cradle when he was quite young. He always found the notion of being an outsider ironic, as his family worshiped the Aspect of Body, often refered to as ‘Other’ by Their faithful. His left hand, clad in a silvered gauntlet representative of his faith, clutched the hilt of his own sparking blade as he took in the situation; he would have to go through Vuupec to get to Umpar.

***

A streak of crimson flew from Tirjin's chest to one side as Vuupec's blade found its mark. The green-scale struck first, and his gray eyes were glossed over with resignation. Tirjin staggered backwards, ripping his saber from its scabbard as he righted himself, the pain exploding across his torso. A thunderclap rang out through the camp as the crackling blade finally met the air around it. A moment passed and a pulse of heat wrenched through him. He knew that his friend always kept his own scabbard's interior oiled with various poisons. Breathing out, he coud taste warm iron and ozone as he locked eyes with the one he once called a friend.

“You couldn't... best me normally,” he wheezed, leveling the end of the curved blade towards Vuupec. “Fine. As the Hand of the Primum...” he said, his vision growing blurry as the poison coursed through his veins. “I'll have to end you, too, friend... I'm sorry. I'll remember you, ad infinitum et cinis.”

Tirjin closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing the lightning that dwelt within his very soul to purge the poison from his blood. He stood before the green-scale some ten paces away now, glowing a radiant blue. The energy dissipated and only a moment later he was gliding across the sand with a supernatural speed towards his friend. Vuupec was hardly able to catch Tirjin's blade in time, parrying the swift strike to the right mere inches from his arm.

A blue blur broke through the flying grit in a follow up, slamming hard into the green-scale's gut; Tirjin's clawed hand had pierced the steel plate and drew blood. Vuupec attempted to strike downwards with his oiled blade but was met with resistance of Tirjin's own steel. Tirjin stepped back, deflecting the swipe aimed for his head upwards. He felt something cold and sharp impact his side mid-stride; a dagger was hidden in Vuupec's sleeve! He wrenched the blade free and a scarlet spray of blood painted the dune beneath him.

Both combatants panted and stood their ground, making small movements to feint their next attack. Tirjin's wounds, while not immediately life threatening, pulsed with pain with every heaving breath. The sandstorm continued to rage all around them, drowning out the cries for help and shouts of fear coming from the few foolish enough to brave the sandstorm. Out of the corner of his grit-crusted eye Tirjin saw that one of the other soldiers, a white-scale, was rapidly approaching them with his arms raised, waggling in the air as if to catch their attention.

Before there could be an interuption, Tirjin lunged forward and brought his left arm, bearing both his gauntlet and weapon, back behind him. Flourishing it forwards, a massive arc of neon blue lightning flashed forward, striking Vuupec square in the chest. The green-scale flew backwards some twenty feet before landing in a heap in the black sands of the Whispering Wastes. He struggled to get up, and Tirjin heard his name called from his now-charred friend. With a curse, he dropped his saber in the sand and rushed towards Vuupec, ignoring the growing agony of his own wounds.

“Tir... jin,” Vuupec coughed, sputtering dark, viscous fluids from his mouth. “W... why?”

Kneeling next to him with the dagger gripped tightly in one hand, the other clutching his torso, Tirjin whispered, “You didn't... have to do that. Shit, now look what we've done...” he trailed off, his knuckles tightening as his grip threatened to snap the dagger's handle. Brushing aside the clinging sand and ruined armor, Tirjin assessed the damage; there was a crater-like hole of charred scale and flesh alike near the center of Vuupec's chest. It was a wonder the green-scale could even breathe, much less talk in this state.

“Tirjin! You... you made a promise, an oath!” Vuupec cried, reaching his hand up to clutch at Tirjin's cloak. “Brother, you've forsaken me! Us! Tir-jin... Tir...” His grip eased and slipped from the rough material of Tirjin's cloak, falling into the sand at his feet. Before the dying green-scale passed, he drove the dagger through Vuupec's heart with a wet, sickening thud. Ending him with steel was the only proper way to send him off to Iros for his judgement. It was over for Tirjin then and there, his exile all but guaranteed as he knelt crying over his dead brother in arms. He would be the Azure Hand no longer. Ad infinitum et cinis, Vuu. To infinity and ashes will we walk, together.