As he promised, Sorin surrendered, though with a final pat and encouraging whisper to his dragon. He accepted the help with his hand and never offered to fight as he was bound. He did struggle a bit as he was led away, but only because he wanted to keep an eye out for Vedeir. He gets a sharp pain from his back, probably because someone was warning him about trying anything. He glances back to the rider, talking to them or anybody that would listen, “Will I get to see him? Once we are in Khapan and as he heals.”

His words seem lost to the rider and he turns away dejectedly, trudging his way through the mess of the battle. Burned and still burning bodies lay strewn through the mud, most of which came from the blood of those with slit throats or stomachs. It was a mess, though he didn’t recognize any that had fallen on his side. Probably the newer soldiers that had come in only weeks before. As they left the worst of it, he heard mention of returning to the city on horseback. Although he disliked horses, especially as transport, he had to admit the Khapanian war horses were a sight to behold. Varying shades of bay and black, all built for speed and with a considerable amount of muscle for carrying equipment and their heavily-armored riders. Those that were left after the dragons were grouped in one decently flat area. Some snuffled various clumps of grasses, others were still skittish after nearly burning. The foot soldiers and cavalry worked on gathering those that had gotten loose and claming them all for the journey back. A few higher ups meandered through the remaining troops, taking count of the fallen no doubt.

He could confidently say that although it wasn’t a major threat to their forces, the Khapan would still feel the hit from Sorin’s troops. Those on his side fought valiently, but it was useless to remember them now. He wasn’t worthy of his people’s praise anymore, not with his surrender at least. Sorin had given up, and now he wouldn’t see many of his former comrades in a while, if at all. He obeys what his captors demand, mounting a spare horse for is trip to the dungeons that awaited him. Sorin catches only a glimpse of his beloved dragon, now being hoisted into the air by the mysterious rider’s own beast, before the call down the line that signalled them to move out. Now what lay before him was an uncertain future and endless sand, redder than the blood that was spilled mere hours before.

All he could do was nod, eyes downcast as he begrudgingly gets placed on the back of the striking bay. The horse wasn’t necessarily horrible to ride and it felt smooth enough. He watches as the pair launch into the air, wishing he could return to the skies as well. His mind still hoped, what with the promise made by what seemed to be a commander of some sort.

The trip back to Khapan was slow and eerily quiet. Everybody was mourning, even himself though not near as much. It was nearly sunset when the spires of the desert city came into view. By now his men would be counting the deaths and those missing, with his name at the top of the list no doubt. He clears his mind, drawing his attention back to the city. The buildings were made of light sandstone, a stark contrast to the red of the sand, and were adorned with faux gold accents here and there. Some of the roofs had wooden roofs, although most were flat. He was curious what they held the bricks together with as water appeared to be scarce so far out. As they made their way through the gates, people swarmed with cheers and gifts of a safe return. Those celebrations stopped as the troops made their way through the city; worn, bloodied, and missing from reality, some in depressive trances too deep and too heavy to break at the moment. The horses without riders did not prance the cobbled streets, almost as if they too could feel more than just the physical loss of their riders.

One thing was apparent to the elf: Everybody had a bond, and everybody could feel the loss of those some hundred lives. He noticed it as they walked past the crowds, and saw it in the eyes of those that scorned him as he passed. As they should, he thought, I had a hand in this sadness. He wouldn’t be bothered by it, not this. Sorin raised his head, in self-assured pride more than anything, and looked straight into the eyes of everyone he passed. He did feel sorry for the soldiers, those that died in vain for the petty words of another, but it wasn’t his place to reminisce. He had his own to mourn and worry about. Sorin’s ears twitch at the call of a dragon. Baritone, low, and in pain. Vedeir. He hurries to look up, searching the sky frantically for his companion. He spotted the red female from before, then the large male at the front of the pack. There, tucked safely in the claws of the beast, was Vedeir and he was safe.

He calms himself at that thought and uses it to remain calm as they pass through the gates of their encampment. Soldiers, more than he had imagined, milled about. Many rushed to collect horses, others came to retrieve the dead or wounded. A few were warned away from Sorin as he was pulled from the horse. His legs hurt from the long ride and he struggled to stand at first, much to the dissatisfaction of his guard, but he managed enough as he was led to what was assumed to be the dungeons or a temporary holding cell. It wasn’t far from the entryway, a few turns and down a side path. Sorin was shoved unceremoniously into the room, the evening heat having already set in to create a rather muggy environment. The elf plops to the ground, eyeing the door, as he watches his guard’s form disappear and the sound of voices with it. Now all he had to do was sit and wait, for what he wasn’t sure.

Sorin jumps at the door opening however the fellow elf didn’t seem to be threatening. He thanks them for the help and sits awkwardly while the two converse. He studies the new arrival, the way she carried herself. With a pang of anger, he realizes it is the rider from before. His brows set in defiance and he turns cold, eyeing the two. Women in Asheatha were held in high regard, of course, especially given their trials as not only mothers but managing the household as well, however, many believe they are not to hold major positions. To be beaten by a woman in battle felt like a dagger to his heart, and in turn to his people. He searches over the two once more, eyeing the door for an escape route. He couldn’t necessarily fight his way out, and he was probably in the heart of the camp, not to mention they had Vedeir.

Sorin turns his harsh gaze to the woman, a look of discontent on his face as he stares down the two. He wouldn’t give up so easily, at least not to her. His eyes narrow, sitting up straighter to show his defiance. Let them kill me if they must, I shall embrace death if I have to. His jaw tightens as if biting down, another show of his ridiculous need to keep quiet. Eventually, he lets out a sharp breath through his nose, mind racing as he speaks, “I am Sorin Katz, and I am not going to be compliant to someone with a false pretense of authority. I will embrace my death honorably if I must, but I will not surrender anymore to the likes of you.”

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I am so sorry this is beyond late and so short. I struggled a bit with his reaction haha

He frowns at the woman, eyeing her as he speaks, “I have information, but I have my own terms.” He stands, although haphazardly due to his ankle, and looks the elf in the eyes, “I can tell you of their formations, their chain of commands, how they function, where they stay, and more. The meetings, the plans on the front… I was part of it all. I just want out, no matter the conditions. I want to see Vedeir and I want to explore Khapan. Escort me yourself or have me surrounded by guards if you must.”

His mind flashes back to the mercy he was given, the anguished cry of his fellow soldiers as they died around him, and the tired look the emerald dragon had given him. Sorin quiets down, realizing that he was ready to give up as well. What were they fighting for? Why did so many have to die for a cause the elders wouldn’t share? Is the cause they rally truly important? Does it matter anymore?

“I was born to fight, to be ruthless and efficient like my father, so it is all I have known. When the war started I thought it would be my chance to prove I could stand for what was right, but ow I’m not sure what that is. Deep down I will always be that warrior, the fighter people fear, but now it’s useless to try. I give up,” his eyes find the floor, and he seems to lose the strength that has held him up until now.