Chapter Text
Highland breezes by the counting of the afternoon, as a turquoise-dressed figure herded a few baby goats spawning by the edge of the cliff.
Downwards off the rocky blanketed cliff, there is a bump of forest filled with cherry trees, with a shoveled pathway leading downwards to the more paved mountain on a graveled pathway.
Birch and oak Trees were forest-colored greenery. with a few axes and a small meadow opening that only shows a building exoskeleton of stone pillars. black blocky ravens flew up to the trees.
Down onto the big gradient cobblestone staircase for many donkeys and villagers to get around. with the scratching of a cat running away from the bottom of the stairs messing with the donkey's hooves to yelp and kneeling to the dismay of the two villagers handling the cart of chests. You'd always need to take a step down, touch a graze of grass, or look closer into a pond, with ramps for carrying a ravaged ton without them rolling down.
But that wouldn't hurt the ravager that much unless you tell the ravager to feel pain from it.
Scattered laughing and the echo in the timbered trees by those with axes who aren't lumberjacks in flannel having a gay ol' time. Those with axes had different attires.
Another echo of the scuttled laugh follows the rumbling echo of the tree, causing a packager to drop a package.
Onlookers were sitting at the balconied rosewood fences, with the far right being oak with decorated bleachers of vines. watch the poor package delivery villager trip in the middle of the village, with the ominous shading of darkness from the forest sending a shiver to the packager when the high branches were cracking from something bigger.
The bristles of branches break from the omen-striking banner. Those that fell on top of the Vindicator head were pushed off, or thrown away by intricately cuffed gloves of vexes. Escaping the branching in the clearing, and looking around into the forest before the eye moves up to a well-built wall... Carved out beautifully.
The Villager Unemployed mob, with mountain patterns on their robes and a brown collar to signify unemployment, sits at a single table by their fenced balcony, peeking out to be greeted by a poke in their eye. Cracking their glasses, were metal 'armor' for the edge of the banner against the wind.
"Hrr," The Vindicator looks straight up, at a Villager's sharp eyes at the leaning by the wall, arms crossed. Their collar was based on pink terracotta, and their tool belt signified business ownership with their emerald. And as many smart working business owners who got to the top. They speed-walked up the stairs, grabbing the Packager's collar as other villagers looked on.
The villagers stay seated, looking across at each other at the dragged Packager. Pity, the package might have been important. Servagers go on with their job, with a shiver and frozen body realization too. Well if you were the one serving pie to the client who ordered 'Goats Rasberry Eye' and 'Demonic Goats Eye Pried' if everyone needed to pretend they were demons when fae came around and burnt (Not on purpose like most cheesecake, but they aren't allowed to tell you that).
"Uhm, it, may I get you a glass of ice."
The waiter fumbles through their words as if they had to break the ice from their throat to speak. [This waiter is snippy and usually tells people 'Hey you should get ice for your eye' but seeing a raid captain of all things made them want to have the choice to run rather than to come back and give them some plain watery ice.]
They pushed back the metal bridge of their glasses cracked, the clank of the platter of pie, and the chair shoved back. The Servager boots clacked away with dust clattered behind them, as the Villager's knee bent down next to the fence to reach down like a snake to a messenger crow.
A ravager horn drops, but the Vindicator's eyes widen at the Villager pulling up their face. Launching their mouth right underneath their inner eye, being nothing more than a mouse, there was a loud snap from the illagers inner world. The illager's right brain felt like shutting off from all senses.
The Villager moved themselves back from the fence to the sun over the forest horizon. The trickle of blood fell down their cheek even more as the string of meaty blood dangled in the breeze in between a Villager's gritted teeth.
A clank of glass filled with ice reflected onto the sun, and it reflected onto the goat's horn. The passing Servagor freaked out, stepping back at the unconventional rage.
With fear pressing the Vindicator's throat, like prey. They ended up holding themselves in the air, the fear in their eye visible to all who could see. On the horizon, the small swaying of the trees mimicked the sticky string of blood that hung from their high cheekbones. Their eye floods in fear, cracking open their cold job exterior. The little trickle of trees mimics the stickier bloodied string that blurs in their very, green colors hitting their eyes.
The fork stabbed into a crust layer not reaching the board. Far from the illager’s sight on their last eccentric eye, the sun's reflection across the glass could see a glimpse of the villager’s fork that rose up with their handheld under their fork. The blue iris gushed onto the raspberry-coated crust.
Cherry blossoms burned on their face, unlike a sunburnt crisp illager, unlike them they still look like a delighted illager in warmed tones of fear of the serpent's sun.
Wedding bells ring in their head, as they wobble down on the saddle, back arched up and elevating their head by the bite. arched up and elevated their head by the bite.
They felt a grasp on the neck of a snake untangling themselves from their chokehold to take a deep breath. Their adrenaline heated up to their cheeks. The salty tears fall with pressure and pain trying so hard to let tears go out that it pains them. They continued to bleed, the red liquid dripping down to their saddle and under their shin to the strapped belt of their formal Vindicator attire. They have dripped down to their saddle and under their shin to the strapped belt of their formal Vindicator attire.
Everything is tinted by rose gradients, from their face to the horizon gradient. The colder breeze passed them and they couldn't feel the sun's heat on the back of their head. The illager’s hand held their hand to their cheek, coating their glove. Deadpanned silence with the munching of the forest life hunger, watching the villager take a bite out of the pie.
They felt like a fox that never wanted the crow to drop their own eye. Watching that villager through the pink fence, waiting for a response, they had watched them take a bite out of an eye. Realizing they subconsciously reached for their chest to clench, wrinkling their clothes, being able to hear their panting and the noisy breeze. Their flushed faces moved from tint to tint, fading shades of doozies from their flushing face flushing out more blood.
Observing the architectural stonework, the chairs seemed inspired by desert temple creepers' drawings. The sunset looked like it had been tempered to shine.
Gulping down some saliva, feeling drier than the blood staining their saddle, they arched themselves back from picking up their goat horn
The gush of the eyeball seeped from the Villager’s fork and lips revealing the linger on the fork savoring the eye, cold blue, like the Vindicators.
Their Ravager looked up at their rider, turning around and walking back into the forest shrubbery, paying no mind to the banner scraping the fence on the wall. The illager tightly adjusted themselves back onto their ravager and held the reins. Seeming like an amateur rider.
The echo of the bell's soothing warning had paralyzed the branches, they’d always moved slowly but the only way they’d motion like factory workers was by the force of the ravager's beats. The trees were ignored by the ravager of the entrance of the Highland’s Villager’s home. Better treated than the grunts and laughs of the trees less hidden by a recent meadow of footprints.