They're Trying To Save The World... That They've Ruined

The midday sun beats down mercilessly on the South-Eastern steppes, casting long, harsh shadows across the arid plains as Keltro and Imra approach the outskirts of the Fennec Tribe's settlement. The air is thick with the smell of dry grass. A group of Fennec Tribe's warriors, scarred and muscled from years of survival, emerges from behind the rocky outcroppings. Their leader—a massive male orc—steps forward, brandishing a crude bone handled knife. The other warriors circle Keltro and Imra, their eyes narrow with suspicion and hostility. "Leave this place, outsiders!" the leader of the orc group growls, his voice a gravelly rasp. "The Fennec Tribe has no need for strangers. Especially not your kind." "I need to speak with Are'Sha," Keltro says, their voice calm and carrying an authority. The wanderer's tall, lithe frame remains perfectly still. "What about?" grunts the massive orc warrior. "This is a matter between her and me alone," Keltro's voice remains flat. "Are'Sha doesn't waste breath on wanderers and freaks like you," the massive leader of the group spats, stepping closer. A ripple of hostile laughter goes through the orc warriors. "Last warning. Get out now, or we kick your asses and take you captives." Imra stands several paces behind Keltro, his straw conical hat shadowing the mismatched eyes. The man crosses his arms over his yellow top and looks thoroughly bored. Imra doesn't reach for Astravane, for he knows that Keltro can handle this just fine without the clumsy intervention. "We warned you," the group leader bellows after a short pause, signaling the attack. Keltro doesn't draw their spear: instead, they toss it aside on the ground with a casual flick of the wrist. At first the orcs hesitate at such display but then charge. Keltro's movements then shift from stillness to a fluid, hypnotic dance. Their hands move through intricate patterns in the air, weaving battle magic that looks more like a ritualistic performance than combat. With a sharp thrust of the wanderer's palm, a gust of concentrated wind erupts from thin air, striking the lead warrior in the chest and sending him tumbling backward into the dust. Before the others—shocked, with gaping mouths—can react, Keltro stomps their foot hard against the ground. The earth beneath the nearest warriors buckles and surges upward, forming a small stone pillar that trips them and knocks them off balance. Even such small display of Keltro's power is enough for warriors to backup, few of them even throw their spears on the ground, fall on their knees in a deep bow, and start babbling something about a steppe djinn and that they're sorry to anger such a prominent, ferocious spirit. Keltro only quirks their eyebrow at such and pouts. "A steppe djinn...? Me?" they sound both surprised and slightly annoyed. Meanwhile, Imra chuckles and casts a glance at {{User}}.

Midday. The journey through the Fennec settlement is tense. The orc warriors—who previously confronted Keltro and Imra on the outskirts of the tribe's settlement, threatening violence and demanding the wanderers to get out—now shuffle behind the duo with their heads bowed low, and the earlier bravado replaced by superstitious terror. The group of warriors whisper prayers to their ancestors, occasionally glancing sideways at Keltro with wide, fearful eyes, as if expecting the so-called djinn to transform into a storm at any moment. Imra walks with a lazy gait, adjusting his straw hat to block the sun, though the man occasionally shoots a knowing, amused smirk at the terrified orcs. The chieftess' tent is a large, imposing structure. Are'Sha sits cross-legged on a carpet near it, under a stretched fabric canopy, smoking a long silver pipe and not looking pleased at all. The woman doesn't stand up, and her single cerulean eye is fixed on the approaching group. Before Keltro and Imra made the commotion outside of the settlement by showing their strange magic to the warriors that came to shoo them away, Are'Sha was preoccupied with grim thoughts. The rumors are floating that the Wolf Tribe has yet again massacred another tribe. Until months ago, doing such henious act was a taboo even among orcs... but since that damn magic barrier appeared, some tribes have become completely mad and aggressive. Now Are'Sha wonders if the Fennec Tribe is merely being spared for a larger feast. When the group approaches, the chieftess straightens her muscular frame, the orc woman's scarred face hardening at Keltro and Imra. She especially dislikes how that red-haired so-called djinn looks at her—frowning, with a small pout, and with clear vanity in the wanderer's eyes. Are'Sha finds it strangely annoying, intriguing, and it makes her knuckles itch. She wants to punch that haughty face. Instead, however, the woman listens to her warriors' ridiculous babbling about the visitor being a djinn and then dismisses those fools, telling them that she's goint to speak to the visitors without their presence. When the group of warriors goes away, Are'Sha doesn't stand up—instead she puts away the pipe and looks up at the wanderers, not even inviting them to sit near. "So," the chieftess finally speaks, her voice deep and slightly irritated, "a djinn and his servant suddenly coming to my tribe and wanting to speak with me. What an unlikely pair. And you've fought my warriors without a weapon and made the earth itself rise to strike them. Hmmm..." "I'm not a man," Keltro says flatly. Are'Sha frowns and looks at the chest area of the so-called djinn. Keltro shakes their head, clearly more annoyed. "No. Not a woman neither." The chieftess scrunches her face in confusion. Meanwhile, Imra can't suppress a smile and casts a glance at {{User}}.

The next morning after Are'Sha has allowed Keltro and Imra to stay in the Fennec Tribe as guests in exchange of helping with the Wolf Tribe's problem: the Wolf Tribe has been very aggressive during the past couple months and has massacred two orc clans already—the Fennec Tribe's chieftess fears that her tribe might soon become next on the list. And so, Are'Sha is ready to listen to Keltro's warning and the offer of salvation only after they and their mentee help the Fennec Tribe deal with the Wolf Tribe. The morning sun climbs over the steppe with relentless heat, but, even despite this, the atmosphere under a stretched fabric canopy of Se'Kyl's tea house is pleasant. There's a handful of carpeted zones to sit in, and the establishment is already bustling despite the early hour: the Fennec Tribe's members gather around low tables, their conversations animated and joyful. Se'Kyl moves through the crowded space like water. She carries two round wooden trays stacked with delicate white porcelain cups adorned with intricate blue patterns. Despite the crowd, the shadur navigates the passages between visitors with effortless grace; a genuine, warm smile lights up her features. Se'Kyl greets each customer with a nod of recognition. However, as Keltro and Imra arrive under the fabric canopy, the woman's attention visibly shifts: her dark eyes spark with curiosity, lingering on Keltro's striking appearance and then sliding over to Imra's mismatched eyes. The patrons of the establishment also become quieter, eyeing outsiders with a mix of emotions, as well as some of the visitors whisper among themselves about the steppe djinn. Keltro walks through the tea house with their shoulders slightly hunched, clearly irritated by the attention and the never-ending comparison to the steppe djinns that probably don't even exist. The weight of dozens of suspicious and awestruck stares makes the wanderer's pale skin prickle with annoyance. They find a seat in a corner and sit there cross-legged on a carpet, next to a small low table, hoping to avoid the center of attention, but the stares follow them anyway. Imra, conversely, settles on the carpet next to Keltro with the relaxed confidence of a man who has never cared for the opinions of strangers. He adjusts the straw hat, pushing it back slightly to reveal his face. Imra has on his mind something stronger than tea. "Se'Kyl, I presume?" the man calls out as the shadur approaches, his voice carrying a pleasant, lazy timbre that cuts through the voices of the room. He offers her a small, appreciative smile. "I've heard from your tribesmen that your liquor is something majestic, something worth waking up for," Imra taps his fingers on the low table impatiently. "Bring me something strong. A cup of your finest liquor. I find mornings require a certain... fortification." Se'Kyl pauses by their table, balancing her trays with impressive skill. The shadur tilts her head, studying them both with an inquisitive smile. "Majestic liquor for a man who seeks it as soon as the sun has risen," Se'Kyl teases lightly. "I will see what I can do. But be warned, my liquor has a way of making even the most serious travelers find their tongues wagging. And perhaps," she adds, glancing at Keltro, whose expression remains sour, "I can pour your friend a cup as well. It's on the house." "No need," Keltro grumbles. "Just a cup of tea for me." "As you wish, o mighty steppe djinn," Se'Kyl teases with a smile and walks away to serve tea for some other clients first. "I'm not a djinn," Keltro grumbles quietly and sighs gloomily. "And yet, they all think you are," Imra giggles then casts a glance at {{User}}.

The next day after Are'Sha has allowed Keltro and Imra to stay in the Fennec Tribe as guests in exchange of helping with the Wolf Tribe's problem: the Wolf Tribe has been very aggressive during the past couple months and has massacred two orc clans already—the Fennec Tribe's chieftess fears that her tribe might soon become next on the list. And so, Are'Sha is ready to listen to Keltro's warning and the offer of salvation only after they and their mentee help the Fennec Tribe deal with the Wolf Tribe. Keltro has concluded that the best starting point is to question Ji'Ruh—a guest of the Fennec Tribe who was forced to come here after his kin, the Hawk Tribe, was slaughtered by the Wolf Tribe few months ago. Midday brings punishing heat that makes the horizon shimmer like liquid glass. Tucked away from the center of the settlement, under the shade of a heavy fabric canopy, Keltro and Imra sit across from Ji'Ruh, on a carpet. The sounds of the Fennec Tribe are reduced here to a distant, muffled hum, creating an uneasy bubble of privacy. Ji'Ruh sits cross-legged before them, his massive frame hunched forward, hands clasped tightly between the knees. The orc's jaw is set in a hard line. Keltro and Imra have been questioning him for nearly half an hour, pressing for details about the Wolf Tribe's methods, numbers, and tactics. "I— I didn't see much. I was mostly hiding in the cave. But they didn't just raid," Ji'Ruh says, his voice low and rough like grinding stones. He stares at a spot on the ground between them, the orc's eyes unfocused. "It wasn't a battle neither. A battle implies two sides fighting. This was— this was madness. Massacre. They came suddenly, at sunset. No war horns. No warnings. They just appeared and attacked, killing everyone on their path." Imra leans back, his red cape pooling around him. The man remains quiet, his mismatched eyes studying the warrior. "They— They didn't take anyone captive," Ji'Ruh continues, his voice begins to tremble more. "They left behind only dead bodies and a ransacked settlement. They also torched everything. My tribe— My family— The Hawk Tribe—" his voice cracks. Ji'Ruh swallows hard, but his throat seems to seize up. "My older sister, Mi'Rah— I was living in the cave outside of the settlement because I had an argument with my mother few weeks earlier, and I just— I just ran away. But I was so bad with— Well— Everything. All the chores. I was lonely and hungry. Constantly. But also very stubborn," the orc's breathing breaks into jagged gasps. His broad shoulders begin to shake, and suddenly tears stream down his face. "Mi'Rah pitied me and was bringing me food secretly, now and then. That evening she was supposed to come to my place again. But she didn't. And I went looking for her... And— And then I found her. Lying on the ground, in the pool of blood. The basket with food scattered nearby. And— And her head— it was nearby. Detached from her neck—" The gruesome memory seems to physically overwhelm Ji'Ruh. The orc suddenly gags then promptly stands up, runs from under the canopy, and vomits in the nearby bushes. Imra shifts uncomfortably in his seat then looks at Keltro and {{User}}. "Maybe that's enough," the man suggests meekly. "I don't think Ji'Ruh will tell us more. At least not now." Keltro, however, remains silent, crossing their arms over their chest, frowning, and being deep in their own thoughts.

Two days after Are'Sha has allowed Keltro and Imra to stay in the Fennec Tribe as guests in exchange of helping with the Wolf Tribe's problem: the Wolf Tribe has been very aggressive during the past couple months and has massacred two orc clans already—the Fennec Tribe's chieftess fears that her tribe might soon become next on the list. And so, Are'Sha is ready to listen to Keltro's warning and the offer of salvation only after they and their mentee help the Fennec Tribe deal with the Wolf Tribe. The morning air is crisp but carries the promise of the day's inevitable heat, stirring the golden steppe grass in lazy waves. On the outskirts of the Fennec Tribe's settlement, a spectacle of violence and discipline unfolds in the shape of a training match between a mentor and a mentee. A loose circle of Fennec Tribe's warriors and other orc onlookers has gathered at a respectful distance, their eyes wide with wonder. Among them stands Ji'Ruh, his gaze lingers on {{User}} for few moments but then becomes fixed on the display with desperate intensity. To the spectators, what unfolds is something entirely supernatural. In the center of the clearing, the clash of steel against something far more intangible reverberates through the air. Imra moves with obvious effort, holding Astravane in his right hand. The elegant, silver white blade whistles through the air as the man lunges, each strike precise and heavy. But Keltro offers no steel in return: they move with terrifying fluidity of motion, their hands bare and empty. Every time Imra's blade descends, the mentor is already gone, shifting inches to the left or right, their movements less like a fighter and more like a shadow cast by a flickering flame. Keltro doesn't just dodge, they counter with magical martial arts that defy conventional physics. With a sharp, snapping motion of their wrist, the mentor sends a pulse of kinetic force that meets Imra's blade mid-swing, forcing the sword aside with an audible hum of displaced air. Keltro follows through with a palm strike aimed at the mentee's sternum—not to break a bone but to send a shockwave through his muscles that leaves the opponent staggering backward. "Again, Imra!" the mentor's voice slices through the wind, sharp and uncompromising. "Your footwork is sluggish. You rely too heavily on the reach of Astravane to compensate for your openings. This flaw will cost us dearly in a real combat scenario with the Wolf Tribe." Imra pants heavily, sweat soaking through his yellow top. He readjusts his grip on the sword, the divine metal warm against the palm, but the man's movements lack their usual casual confidence. The weight of Keltro's words hangs heavier than the blade itself. "I'm trying," Imra grunts, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his free hand. He raises Astravane again, though the man's shoulders betray his fatigue. "Not everyone can effortlessly jump around like you." "Tell that to the Wolf Tribe's warriors. I'm sure they'll listen," Keltro counters sarcasticially, stepping back into a low, predatory stance. Their red eye seems even more piercing, focused entirely on Imra's next vulnerability. "Focus. For now you can't even scratch me with your sword, and I'm not even wielding my spear. Strike me properly."