Snippet #1470781

Jurial Plains: Circle Formation

Legionnaires were beginning to be whisked away one by one by the magic of their armor. It seemed that they would make it out alive after all... Most of them anyway. Caine glanced to the orc at his side and saw him break the formation and slip into the circle, heading to another, prone orc. The emblem on his armor, it was unactivated. Caine felt another wave of helplessness. He only managed to slide his shoulder slightly before he was whisked off as well. He did not see if the Orc, Thanaros, had made it to the other orc. He was gone, in a flash of light and a vague nausious feeling...

??? Sickness... Lost.

Caine had arrived to wherever the magic had taken them, sprawled out on the ground with the saber sticking out of the ground, blade first. He laid prone for a few moments, allowing the wave of nausea to pass. He then sat upright, and took stock. The circle he had been with before the translocation still seemed to be alive, except... The orc Thanaros was after was no where to be seen. A pit welled deep within Caine's being, another lost to the forsaken Children... He beat the ground at his knees with his uninjured arm, and cursed.

He then placed a hand on the buried saber and rested his head on the Pommel. It looked as if he was almost praying. And he was, but not to some God, but to someone else. Someone he had lost. Anyone could hear him, and most likely they did. Everything the Berserker did wasn't subtle. He spoke, "I'm sorry Liera. I know this isn't what we promised each other... I'm sorry. I've gotten three more, and there is more to come..." He said, speaking the woman he mentioned in the fight with the Child. He glanced at the Orcs who had lost their partner, and added something else to his prayer, "Please, look over the allies we lost today..." He said, finishing and placing his saber back in the loop. A bit difficult considering the loop was placed for his right hand to sheath it. His right hand still hugged closely to his chest, finally feeling the pain and weariness rushing into him. The burn throbbed with every beat of his heart and every breath of his lungs... That was nice.

The berserker then grew solemn as he followed the rest of the legion into the circle of tents. He was positioned beside Thanaros, the orc who had tried to save his partner... Caine said nothing as he just placed his uninjured hand on the man's shoulder... And squeezed slightly. It was a knowing hand, knowing the loss of family and loved ones. He too looked up at the gray sky as the rain fell. As if the heaven's themselves were crying. And perhaps... Perhaps somewhere up there was Liera, looking after him... He shook his head after the procession. He was becoming soft. Becoming soft would get him killed and he knew it, but it was nice to feel again...

When Pel slapped his arm, Caine froze in pain and clenched his teeth together, flaring up his temper. He wanted to yell at the halfling but thought against it... The girl was healing him, after all. Instead, he merely grunted. He took the halflling's remark on the chin and shook his head yes, only saying, "They're quick." The arm was swollen and red, but the burn was gone and only a vague throbbing remained. A scar was still present, to which Caine looked over and sighed, muttering, "Oh goody.. Another one. It's not like I don't have enough." He nodded to Pel in thanks and patted Sid's shoulder in return for the encouragement she provided. Outside, Caine looked up at the sky once more... Still gray. Still raining... Fitting, considering the mood of the camp had turned somber.

Caine looked around, wondering what to do next. He paused outside of the tent and rubbed his healed arm. Giving up, he went to the center of the Tents, found a bench, and just sat. Sat and thought. He was still alive, and he had survived. Everytime he entered a frenzy, he fully expected to die. Just like he expected to die when the Child held his scorched arm and prepared to end him right there. Luck. That was all it was, luck, that the harpy managed to spot him in time to save him. Just a few seconds later and they would have said his name at the procession. He beat his now healed hand on the bench beside him in anger. He was useless in the grip of the child. They had lost people, friends, family, comrades, and he lived. By all rights, he should be dead too, why was he the one blessed enough to survive and the Halfling wasn't? Why did he make it out, and the orc was left behind? He hit the bench again, angry, pissed off at the world, at the children. At himself.

He leaned back, tired.. Sore. Mad... He'd have to make it up the next time he face the children... How many had they lost? Four? Then four children were to die by his hands... He hit the bench one final time, slightly cracking the wood.