Canen Darkflight
04-08-08, 08:50 AM
"At the time, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. I never asked questions of myself, or what I inherited, and I never complained about my lot in life. Just sort of got on with it, you know. When I met him...when I found out the truth, even after believing it to be a pack of lies, it shook me. It made me think "What the hell am I?". Yet, I didn't think about how much it was tearing him apart too. He had a curse, and a gift. A connection."
“Always raining…" Syrion muttered, shaking his brown hair as he approached the doorway of his Radasanthian abode. Rouisa, who had stopped under the awning at the front of the silver bricked building, shook her head silently, a single hand rested on the hilt of her blade, as always, in habit alone. Her ceremonial red robes flashed under her black coat, rushed by the constant breeze that swept through the city in the dark and cold winter months. Hugging a huge textbook to his chest, the young Syrion staggered up to the tiny porch of the adjacent mortar, lumber and clay house and pushed up against the wall, breathing heavily through the heavy mist of rain that had been pounding Radasanth’s streets for almost three whole days. He really hoped that this awful weather would cease before every single mapbook he had to bring home was destroyed.
The night was darker than sin. The heavy, cumbersome rain clouds had rolled over the valley and hung there for longer than expected, even in the winter season, flash flooding the less than perfectly maintained roads with sudden downpours and drowning out the crops in the wheat fields to the south. Indeed, the weather was hampering everybody’s day to day lives.
"Well," Syrion said, turning to the shapely figure of Rouisa, who had slowly crept up to the blackened doorway. "We managed to get what we needed. The maps are good quality, perfect almost. One-nil to the library community, I say.”
"I’m guessing everything will be made clear later then?" Rouisa tacked on to Syrion’s statement. It seemed she had been out of touch with her best friend and his ways for several years, since he took his job as a bodyguard to the highest bidder. Once she had known almost all of her time to be spent with Syrion doing what the young would do best, buying and trading new equipment with most of the shopkeepers in the markets, hunting in the nearby Concordian forests and just relaxing in the hot springs. Now, having had her world turned upside down by the morbid events of the past years, the Coronian civil war, and the horrifying and abrupt murder of her father she suddenly found herself only, at best, loosely attached to anything remotely sentimental.
There was some truth in that Syrion had long since gotten used to Rouisa being, if not by blood, then certaintly a sister by nature to the young Khaian. Witnessing the constant changes she had gone through, feeling the suppressed hatred flowing through her veins for the people responsible for her father’s murder and realising that some things just could never be the same again was enough to feel some animosity towards his best friend for fear of her losing the will to live, even if it wasn’t a direct emotion. Perhaps he hated the murderers more for causing this situation in the first place.
"It’s a bitter night tonight," She muttered, choosing to state facts about the weather to mask the awkward silence. “We should go inside or we’ll catch our deaths.”
With a smooth gesture, Syrion warmly ushered into his home the ringing wet Rouisa, and closed the door, grasping and firmly bolting the metal lock to his right.
“Always raining…" Syrion muttered, shaking his brown hair as he approached the doorway of his Radasanthian abode. Rouisa, who had stopped under the awning at the front of the silver bricked building, shook her head silently, a single hand rested on the hilt of her blade, as always, in habit alone. Her ceremonial red robes flashed under her black coat, rushed by the constant breeze that swept through the city in the dark and cold winter months. Hugging a huge textbook to his chest, the young Syrion staggered up to the tiny porch of the adjacent mortar, lumber and clay house and pushed up against the wall, breathing heavily through the heavy mist of rain that had been pounding Radasanth’s streets for almost three whole days. He really hoped that this awful weather would cease before every single mapbook he had to bring home was destroyed.
The night was darker than sin. The heavy, cumbersome rain clouds had rolled over the valley and hung there for longer than expected, even in the winter season, flash flooding the less than perfectly maintained roads with sudden downpours and drowning out the crops in the wheat fields to the south. Indeed, the weather was hampering everybody’s day to day lives.
"Well," Syrion said, turning to the shapely figure of Rouisa, who had slowly crept up to the blackened doorway. "We managed to get what we needed. The maps are good quality, perfect almost. One-nil to the library community, I say.”
"I’m guessing everything will be made clear later then?" Rouisa tacked on to Syrion’s statement. It seemed she had been out of touch with her best friend and his ways for several years, since he took his job as a bodyguard to the highest bidder. Once she had known almost all of her time to be spent with Syrion doing what the young would do best, buying and trading new equipment with most of the shopkeepers in the markets, hunting in the nearby Concordian forests and just relaxing in the hot springs. Now, having had her world turned upside down by the morbid events of the past years, the Coronian civil war, and the horrifying and abrupt murder of her father she suddenly found herself only, at best, loosely attached to anything remotely sentimental.
There was some truth in that Syrion had long since gotten used to Rouisa being, if not by blood, then certaintly a sister by nature to the young Khaian. Witnessing the constant changes she had gone through, feeling the suppressed hatred flowing through her veins for the people responsible for her father’s murder and realising that some things just could never be the same again was enough to feel some animosity towards his best friend for fear of her losing the will to live, even if it wasn’t a direct emotion. Perhaps he hated the murderers more for causing this situation in the first place.
"It’s a bitter night tonight," She muttered, choosing to state facts about the weather to mask the awkward silence. “We should go inside or we’ll catch our deaths.”
With a smooth gesture, Syrion warmly ushered into his home the ringing wet Rouisa, and closed the door, grasping and firmly bolting the metal lock to his right.