Frakame Yazyxtae

170 AD - In a forest, along the Danube,

Grass-barren grounds - dunes, rather - rumbled beneath the line of oxens, mules, donkeys and man from all walks of life. All but one; the Roman patrols expected to nag them with tolls and taxes. Maybe they've fled, or maybe they're fighting. Eitherway, many took it with a breath of relief. Others, though, were not as calm.

However obnoxious they could be, Roman patrols kept them safe. Without them, well, nobody's out to guard the perimeter, and at this peak of the sun the breaths and sweat of four-dozen steppe horses ruffled through the underbrush. And suddenly,

Sawarmag: "MARHA, MARHA!"

Cried out the Iazyges minor chief, his second time followed by the loud, sickening thuds of arrows upon arrows, upon flesh and blood crumbling to the sand, and that's not the last of them. Galloping out the trees were Frakame and her fellow tribesmen, the hooves of their mounts so fast they flew out gusts of sand, blinding the eyes of man and animal alike.

At arm's width, Frakame let the string of her bow go, planting an arrow between the eyes of a priest before she narrowly ducked over a spear, a flimsy pole lunged by some underpaid merc. She kept her joust, leaving the fool to the lanceheads of her fellow tribesmen, before circling around - arrow in hand - to aim at a cowering merchant.

Frakame: "APPAR DÆ KARD!"

Mamercus: "W-what?!"

The merchant asked, a blade of steel - barely a gladius - held by his own, quivering hands. Well. He must have skipped conscription, but he's brave enough to shield his family, his wife and young, with the bulk of his frame, and the last thing Frakame would do is widowing another woman. So anyways, she shot him.

Frakame: "No no, no pick up knife, you stupid fuck."

Frakame warned, her Latin heavy with an accent but enough to ward the courage off the killed merchant's young. Her other hand reached for the quiver at her hip, flicking out another arrow.

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170 AD - In a forest, somewhere in Dacia,

Some of the leaves still stained red, its scent a smell bears would die for. Literally, at the face of conscripted, yet sufficiently-trained Roman legionaries, the fear in their eyes naught as they scrape loot and valuables from the stockpile of dead - a ragtag of Iazyges scouts.

Not all of them were killed. In the haze, a number of the Roman pila struck the horses dead, not the horsemen now huddled in cuffs and disarmed. And as always the women amongst them (and their dead), few but enough, never failed to awe the Romans new to the Danube.

Arruns: "Hey. Barbare. When I ask, you answer. You, yes you, answeeer!"

Persisted Arruns, a legionary of the South bitch-slapping Frakame for six or seven times - light, patronising taps raining down her cheek. On the other hand Galerius, a taller colleague, freed his hands off Frakame's bow to flank and slam her with his bracers. Frakame's hands, roped by the wrists, managed to rise and shield the side of her head. Now in a way, she avoided concussion, but she was still knocked down to the ground.

Galerius: "She doesn't speak Latin, Arro. Don't even bother. But, cunts like her, how much would she sell for? I would say-"

Frakame: "Wait wait, no sell me!"

At first, Frakame's one and only retort paused both of her captors. Accented, sure, but neither of them actually expected her to reply. Still, their awes are void of respect, something made clear when Arruns stopped her from relentless begging or whining with a firm, punishing kick to her stomach. Only then was she yanked back up, back to her weak-legged kneel.

Arruns: "Soo, you were just ignoring me. Oh, that's bad. That's very bad, girl. Very bad. Galeri, what do we do to bad girls?"

Galerius knows exactly what they'd do. He needed only to brandish his gladius, the simple move striking either one of Frakame's eyes, bruised as they were with deep, unadulterated fear. She seems a bit unready to die, early too but plenty have died earlier.

Plenty by her own hands.

170 AD - Somewhere in the Carpathian basin,

Red deers ran, scampering down mounds after mounds eager to save their own skin - whatever kinship there is among them meant nothing when the men, women alike of Iazyges rode to hunt some game. One, such deer thought itself clever to fully steer off its pack, galloping to the trees.

If only it ran a second early, because one of their hunters, Frakame, also thought herself clever by doing the same thing for a different reason - kill her game, that poor, misfortunate deer, and share its rewards with nobody else but herself.

The first arrow missed, the second brushed its ears, marking little more than a scar - it was so close, so close to the safety it saw in those thickets of trees - but the third have made its mark, stabbing it deep in the guts. It kept running, tried to, until the fourth punctured its spine, felling the deer for good.

Frakame: "Hehehe, upornyj ebat."

She muttered, approaching its corpse once she had her gelding leashed (to a tree). Her missed arrows could wait their recollection. For now, Frakame knelt to skin her game, humming to herself.