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| - It's been about fifteen minutes since the rioters dragged Sharpeye Skygazer away from the estate, which is now a raging conflagration of swirling smoke and flames on the near horizon, visible through the trees of the forest behind Whitestripe. Whitestripe eyes the area to the west of the clearing where the mob dragging the Imperator had disappeared into, then starts making his way around the outside edge of the clearing. As he ducks and weaves through the undergrowth, he occasionally stops for a moment to listen before resuming his skirting of the area. The mottled figure glides to a stop in the middle of the trampled path of undergrowth. He quickly glances about, looking for something; clues, people, perhaps ghosts of his own making. He briefly fingers a broken stem of grass, he gauges the depth of a footprint, he sniffs the air. The smell of smoke, the well-trampled bushes and the raucous shouts ... along with the shots being fired into the air to the west ... should give ample clues as to the whereabouts of the mob. No one seems to be trying to hide their movements. Stealth seems the last thing on their mind. Whitestripe starts to jog at a fast rate down the trampled path, discarding most of his pretense at concealment in favour of speed. He still stops occasionally behind a bit of brush or a tree to gauge the area ahead, but otherwise keeps the speed of the chase up. As Whitestripe gets closer, a new sort of chaos seems to erupt. "He got loose! Altheor's teeth! He's loose! Grab him!" In the darkness, the members of the mob scramble back and forth. "Let me go!" someone roars. "Not bloody likely!" shouts another. Whitestripe can barely make out a trio of Demarians chasing after one in flight. The trio beats its quarry to the ground, wielding sticks and rifles. Over and over again, they pummel the Demarian's head and snout. The target of their aggression thrashes wildly but then, before long, he goes still. "DEAD!" one of the trio shouts, and this brings the crowd running. "THE IMPERATOR IS DEAD!" The shadowing figure goes to ground, finding a handy little nook betwwen a tree and a set of bushes. It pauses throughout the slaughter, for that's all that this can be described as, and watches in stillness as each blow is raised up to promptly thunder down. Watches. Listens. Remembers. "Get his body!" someone shouts. "We'll hang him from a lamppost on Sanctuary Avenue!" This gets another cheer from the mob. They take the corpse by the feet and haul it with all the dignity of a bumbler carcass through the woods toward the city. Whitestripe acts. He strips his robing off in a few quick motions, revealing an older set of clothes. He dives into the robes for a moment, yanking a dagger from the pile of cloth. A couple of quick slashes; to the upper arm, across the chest. He slaps the wounds once or twice, wincing slightly at each abrupt motion. He smears blood covered hands over a cheek, across an ear, down the arm. Another quick glance, then he bolts east, paralleling the group in the hopes to overtake then downtrail. No one seems to pay much heed to another bloody and battered-looking Demarian as Whitestripe catches up to the crowd. Whitestripe overtakes the crowd, plunging out of the undergrowth and onto the trail a distance ahead of the mob. Taking a deep breath, he starts to job fitfully down the trail towards the mob, crying and wailing as he does so. "Help us! Mrrrooooo! Help, Altheor help us! Ahhh!" Upon spying the distressed Whitestripe, many in the crowd stop to peer at him through the shadows. "What is the matter with you?" growls the grizzle-snouted Demarian who leads this group. He's currently standing near the trio bearing the battered corpse of the fallen Demarian. Whitestripe stumbles towards the grizzled one, breathing shallowly. "Where were you?" He looks about into the gloom wildly, tiredly. "Where were you," he asks of the grizzled one and the group as well, "when they came to our houses?" He staggers and half-falls towards the grizzled one. "They're killing us. Altheor, help us..." "Who's killing you?" the older Demarian snarls derisively. He motions for the Demarians dragging the corpse to keep going and then moves to help stabilize Whitestripe. "What madness is this?" The trio continues hauling their prize toward New Alhira, while much of the rest of the mob waits to hear what Whitestripe must say. Whitestripe visibly works up the strength, throwing himself erect and grabs the other by the arm. "WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THEY CAME FOR OUR KITS!" The scream echos through the forest, bouncing from tree and bush. "Where were you! The Militia! They came! They said it was for the kits own good! Medicine they said.. Medicine they said would help them get better. To sleep..." Whitestripe lets go of the other, staggering backwards a step. "They wouldn't wake up. They wouldn't breathe." He staggers back to lean against a tree. "We tried to hide them. They came street to street." He holds up the bloody dagger, the blade glinting a red in a shaft of moonlight. "We fought them. We were too few. They shot us down." He pants for a pregnant moment. "Where were you all when New Alhira needed its warriors to defend them from traitors?" The grizzle-snouted Demarian bobs his snout slowly, listening as Whitestripe relates his dramatic tale. As the Sandwalker noble builds to a fever pitch with the final salvo, the older Demarian narrows his eyes and flares his whiskers. "That sounds like a really interesting story. Only problem there is that the Demarian Militia fired the first shots at our people on the pad and we *slaughtered* as many of those turncoats as we could. The ones we didn't kill got offworld with that traitor Longclaw. So, maybe you were mistaken about who you saw doing all this killing." Whitestripe moves at that right up to the grizzled one. "Militia outfits. Militia weapons." He points to his shoulder, "Militia bayonet." He points to the blood on his cheek. "Kit Grassrunner Windchaser." He holds the dagger up in front of the old one, eyes narrowing, "Some nameless, soulless private." He laughs right in the old ones face. "Oh, we got them all, he says. They all left, he says." He turns his head slightly to spit on the ground and raises his voice. "_I_ say you're a fool. Twice so if it was you that led these people off." He turns away, and raises his voice even louder. "New Alhira! Hear me! Your kits lie in cooling piles of dead flesh tonight! When I left, a fifth of the city was 'cleansed'! And it continues now! And for what?" He darts forward towards the trio. Pointing at the body, "For this? For this meaningless pile of offal, you left your homes? You idiots! You idiots!" The old Demarian's hackles bristle and his fangs clack together as he hears the muttered rumblings in the crowd as some people seem inclined to check out what Whitestripe is claiming. He raises a clawed hand and bobs his snout. "Bodies cooling in the city, eh? Well, you stay right here with me and a few others." He nods to a score of people to his right. "The rest of you, go into the city and see if it's true. If it is, well, lad, I'll go into the Sand Mother Desert myself." His snout tilts and his whiskers flare. "If it's a lie ... I'll see *you* go to her. Naked." Whitestripe laughs bitterly. "You and a few others. Are you that frightened of being beaten to death yourself by your own people? Are you that frightened of me that you need a few others? Did you and a 'few others' beat that sack of dung to the ground as well? Why don't I come with you back to the city? Or should I stay here with you and your 'chosen' people? Into the desert, naked, huh? I would wonder tonight if there wasn't more then one traitor here. The Imperator doesn't like us. Neither do the sand tribes. Is that who you work for, old one? Get New Alhira to kill its own Imperator while those tribal rejects stand back and laugh?" "We'll know a thing or two about traitors soon enough, I wager," the grizzled old Demarian replies. He sighs, dropping into a crouch as he stares up at Whitestripe, dappled in moonlight while those in the crowd shift their weight or even move to take up flanking positions. "The thing is, if what you say is true, well ... we killed the head of the snake and he'll be strung up from a lamppost in the middle of the city right quick. If what you say is true, we will deal with those murdering bastards you claim are running loose in the city." His whiskers twitch and his ears swivel as he rests his clawed hands on his knees. "But isn't it odd that, with all our people at risk, with kits being slaughtered, instead of hurling yourself into them with every last fang and claw, you managed to tear yourself free and come running up the one path that would conveniently bring you into an intercept course with us ... when we didn't even come this specific way to get to the Imperator's estate." He huffs. "Something doesn't smell right, friend. If you had brought a story like this when we were still so riled up, when that blasted Imperator still walked free ... still drew breath ... it might have been more convincing." His claws tap slowly on his knees. "Want to keep talking? Or what?" Whitestripe walks right up to the old one and too kneels down. "Or what. You seem to have led these people here. You seem to be the idiot who caused this. I name you traitor to New Alhira. I paid my dues in the streets, and ran to find where so many had gone. What have you done, old one? Where's the blood on your hands? Other then whip this group into a frenzy, what good have you done tonight?" He stands up and staggers back a step. "Challenge, old traitor. Here and now. Or are you going to try to hide behind this crowd like some sort of kitling afraid of a jiggerhopper?" The old Demarian laughs raspily. "I will accept your challenge if you prove honest. If you prove a liar..." His voice trails off as a few Demarians bearing torches can be seen crunching through the underbrush from the direction of the city. Elements of the recon team returning. "The kits seem well enough. The only body in the streets is now hanging from a lamp post," one of them reports to the grizzle-snouted Demarian. He, of course, rises to his full height and sighs. "I do not know what you were playing at, friend," he says to Whitestripe. "But the charade ends now." He nods to another in the group. "Liberate him from his garments. Bind his paws. In the morning, make a gift of him to the Sand Mother Desert." Whitestripe flicks the dagger out, having never sheathed it. "I will go to the desert here and now, old one. Naked if necessary. I won't return to a city with a traitor." With that, he starts to one handedly unbutton his shirt, ears flicked outwards to either side. "Oh, I had every intention of letting them take you on the journey tonight," the grizzle-snouted Demarian replies. He turns and starts walking off toward the slope to the city. "The walk is not a short one, after all. The Great Watchers will rise again before you reach the verge of the Sand Mother. They should be well in their thrones for judgment once your pads test the sands." Whitestripe one-hands his shirt off, snorting as he does so. "I hope Altheor grants me the strength to return to see you, old one. Maybe then you may accept the challenge for what it is." He looks about. "Whoever escorts me best come with me now. The old tribal says the walk is long. I would gather he's right." See also Overrun and Last Flight out of New Alhira
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