Skie and Avery
08-20-12, 11:53 AM
closed
Beinost was gradually disappearing on the horizon, ducking down below the tree-line as Skie rode fast from the city. Coming into the port had been jarring, a different sight and city than last she’d fled from Anebrilith’s port during Raiaera’s war with the undead. Walking the cobbled roads of the beautiful city, now she felt like a stranger in a land she’d come to think of as her second home. However, the strange port was of little consequence as the thick forests slowly took over the rolling farmlands and swallowed her in their comforting embrace. Even now, years having passed since the attack on the elvish homeland, there were still signs that once a great tragedy had befallen the ancient soil. New growth patched pieces of an ancient woodland as the forest was reclaiming areas that had been burned. The trails and roads extending out from the city were hard packed where thousands of horses and soldier’s feet had trampled dirt into packed stone.
Taking a deep breath and ducking her head closer to her horse, Skie urged the mare on. The thundering of hooves underneath helped to calm her nerves. While memories of the shining nation of Raiaera drifted in and out of her mind, the half human sword maiden fought back the nostalgia and focused only on the passing of road before her. She was here with a purpose that had nothing to do with her own selfish desires. She was here to pay her respects to the dead.
..oOo..
Three months prior
Candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow across the rough surface of the table. It was but a small circle of light in the dark hall, surrounded by others much like it. Deep breaths and the heavy shift of thick pages turning floated through the air. The air was cool and dry, and somewhere across the darkness someone cleared their throat, jarring the peaceful quiet of the library. Skie stared down at an unfurled scroll, her eyes darting along the delicate Elven script. Every now and then, she stopped, her mouth turning over an unfamiliar word. Sheaves of paper to her right were littered with scribbled notes, some encircled and connected to other thoughts with a line. Her writing was thick, as bold and messy on the page as her thoughts in her mind. As she paused in her translations, ink dripped from the sharp end of the quill to splash on the page. With a sweep of her wrist, her pale skin led another hastily written sentence, smudging the ink blot along with no care.
Sitting back, she scanned what was left of the scroll. She glanced back and forth from her notes to the scripts. One phrase kept jumping out at her, one she’d already translated into her notes. Aeraes Mas. It was a title – the Eastern Star. It wasn’t unique to this account either, she thought as her thoughts turned to another scroll. All throughout the teachings of Dûrion Mithdhrina – an Alerian dark elf who wrote extensively of Raiaeran song magic – this title kept cropping up. With every scroll Mithdhrina wrote, he always ended it with the same phrase. In his perfect scrolling penmanship, Aeraes Mas, Byli ail ei Tandri. The Eastern Star, The Voice in a Cage.
Beinost was gradually disappearing on the horizon, ducking down below the tree-line as Skie rode fast from the city. Coming into the port had been jarring, a different sight and city than last she’d fled from Anebrilith’s port during Raiaera’s war with the undead. Walking the cobbled roads of the beautiful city, now she felt like a stranger in a land she’d come to think of as her second home. However, the strange port was of little consequence as the thick forests slowly took over the rolling farmlands and swallowed her in their comforting embrace. Even now, years having passed since the attack on the elvish homeland, there were still signs that once a great tragedy had befallen the ancient soil. New growth patched pieces of an ancient woodland as the forest was reclaiming areas that had been burned. The trails and roads extending out from the city were hard packed where thousands of horses and soldier’s feet had trampled dirt into packed stone.
Taking a deep breath and ducking her head closer to her horse, Skie urged the mare on. The thundering of hooves underneath helped to calm her nerves. While memories of the shining nation of Raiaera drifted in and out of her mind, the half human sword maiden fought back the nostalgia and focused only on the passing of road before her. She was here with a purpose that had nothing to do with her own selfish desires. She was here to pay her respects to the dead.
..oOo..
Three months prior
Candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow across the rough surface of the table. It was but a small circle of light in the dark hall, surrounded by others much like it. Deep breaths and the heavy shift of thick pages turning floated through the air. The air was cool and dry, and somewhere across the darkness someone cleared their throat, jarring the peaceful quiet of the library. Skie stared down at an unfurled scroll, her eyes darting along the delicate Elven script. Every now and then, she stopped, her mouth turning over an unfamiliar word. Sheaves of paper to her right were littered with scribbled notes, some encircled and connected to other thoughts with a line. Her writing was thick, as bold and messy on the page as her thoughts in her mind. As she paused in her translations, ink dripped from the sharp end of the quill to splash on the page. With a sweep of her wrist, her pale skin led another hastily written sentence, smudging the ink blot along with no care.
Sitting back, she scanned what was left of the scroll. She glanced back and forth from her notes to the scripts. One phrase kept jumping out at her, one she’d already translated into her notes. Aeraes Mas. It was a title – the Eastern Star. It wasn’t unique to this account either, she thought as her thoughts turned to another scroll. All throughout the teachings of Dûrion Mithdhrina – an Alerian dark elf who wrote extensively of Raiaeran song magic – this title kept cropping up. With every scroll Mithdhrina wrote, he always ended it with the same phrase. In his perfect scrolling penmanship, Aeraes Mas, Byli ail ei Tandri. The Eastern Star, The Voice in a Cage.