Hunting III: Again?!

[Chance]

The moon was full, and hung like a gravid fruit in the foggy Dheathain night sky. It reminded the boy of an over-ripe fruit, ready and threatening to burst. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled its miseries in the darkness and Chance Wintersent couldn't help but remember all the tales of stalking monsters he had ever heard, and shiver. He watched the pale orb through the small window of the library, stared at the murky shadows that carved a face into the moon.

The library around him was located in Dheathain's Capitol, Donnalaich, and was in and of itself the Capitol of the Dust and Dirt nation. Soil somehow managed to coat the floor, despite the walls and ceiling that were supposed to guard the precious volumes from the elements. The dust was everywhere. After sitting in the room for even five minutes, he could wipe his arm, and watch it fall from him like a curtain. After being in Atarael for so long, the boy hated being locked inside such a small space. He was used to the great plains, the never-ending cobalt sky overhead. But even more, he missed his brethren. Why he had been ordered back to this god forsaken land, he didn't know. It was like being forced into a crypt, or a coffin.

Chance dispelled the thoughts from his mind. Why are you bitching? You're a Third Lieutenant of the Storm Blood Order. You know you are better than this.

His cerulean blue eyes moved back to the book laying open on the table just past where his feet were propped up. The title read The powers that be. For being a book describing the strongest groups of power in Althanas, it was unbelievably boring. Leaning back, Chance's eyes lifted up the bookshelves, catching random snippets of words or phrases. One leapt out at him. Frowning, he took his booted feet off the table and let the legs of the chair smack down against the floor. He ignored the small cloud of dust that rose from it. He stood, stretched, and moved to the bookcase.

Fae Crystal Manipulation.

Chance pulled the book out and began ruffling through the pages, his eyes catching on random pictures and words, and slowly his desire grew. He was reminded of the last time he had done this ingredient gathering, with his Father and Lillian. He looked down at Hoarfrost and Hailstorm, and smiled. It had been worth it, even if it had been a trial. Leafing back through the book, he bent the corners of the a couple pages down. Smiling, he closed the book and left the library. The morrow would bring another adventure.

[hr]

Finding companions for his Hunt had proven more difficult than he had originally believed. Now, he stood at the front steps of the Morach Mor, the Great Hall of Enchanting. He had left a note pinned to three notice boards around the area, asking for companions, and now he waited to see if it would pay off. The weather was floating somewhere between summer and autumn, warmth weighed his actions down, and humidity drew a thin sheet of sweat across his forehead.

He wore a white, long sleeve shirt and black pants beneath his sangria cloak. The garments were a little heavy in this weather, but were priceless for one single fact: they hid the scars that traced over his body like latticework. At his belt, two Scimitars hung in sheaths, and if he drew them, they'd be revealed as Prevalida. His sandy blond hair was cut short and messily, and his boots were scuffed. Altogether, he had seen better day. But the fire of anticipation burned in his eyes.

He waited impatiently.

[Tshael]

There were whispers through Corone, winding their ways down the streets of Radasanth and out through the rolling countryside into the forests of Concordia. They came from a small stone building that had once, and was once again called The Silver Pub. No matter the name, it had changed just as surely as the woman whose name stood on the deed. It was of her that the whispers were mentioning, her name and the madness that seemed to overtake her the day that the angelic child she'd only just begun to raise into a man had died. Grief was the sickness that had infected her once kind heart, and though many would say time was it's only medicine, it was a bitter pill to swallow indeed. The woman had had years to try and break through the loss, with no shoulder to lean on but a ghost's. It was in the memory of her lover that she continued to wake with each morn, the fading dreams of his caresses and strong arms that kept her from taking her own life. Beyond the love that she could not let go, somewhere buried deep inside was hope. Hope somehow always found a way of coming through, and in legends and myths surrounding the crystal synthesis she found stories of a peculiar crystal that could have the power to bring back the dead.

Now the woman sat on her knees in the Cearnaigh Criostal. The waterfall was falling hard behind her, the rains of the past few days fueling the headstream that fed it. Beyond the rushing roar of the curtain of spray behind her, she could hear nothing. The voices of shoppers in the Square beyond had been filtered out of her meditations hours ago. She didn't know what time it was or how dark it was outside. Her eyes had closed long ago, and as she focused on her breaths, letting the threads of her web of magic flow from her mind, she could feel nothing but the cavern. The threads twisted and turned, sifting through the tapestry of earth that was all around her. She could feel the pulse of magic here and there in the divine seam of rock and plant. The strands of moss that grew with the moisture the falls brought to the entrance was particularly alive in her mind, but she could not afford to let herself be distracted by her honed element. The earth would always be there. For now, she needed something else.

Her mind pushed past the small cries of heat and wave that assaulted her when she plied past crystals who laid their claim to fire and water. The one that brought a short smell of sea air, the pound of waves against her skin with every heartbeat was close to what she sought, but yet so far away. Instead, she continued to search. Finally, she felt it. A breath against her skin like the first frost that came in winter. The chill in cracking the surface of an over-frozen pond. She opened her eyes, the golden iris' gleaming with power as she began to weave her webs. Slowly, the walls of the cavern began to move, shifting and cracking as dust and small pebbled chunks of stone crumbled and fell before the advancing push. One by one, crystals of a pale azure fell from the sides, perfect in the hard lines of their irregular lumps. She picked up one that had rolled from the cave wall, holding it to her lips as she sighed in relief. Without needing to take force to the walls, without wasting her intent with crystals she did not need, she had the Sapphire Crystals she sought.

Her checklist was growing shorter. Now she needed a Fae, a Draconian and a short trip to the place where the Ancients once lived, and she believed she would have everything she needed. The Dranak stood, gathering the handful of crystals she'd gathered from the walls, placing them almost lovingly into a burlap sack that hung from her back. Once she was done, she moved back to a spot of stone floor that was covered in a soft cushion of moss. The clip-clop of her hooves were muffled and with each step of her equine legs, small white blossoms burst in half moon shaped patches across the brown and green patches. Her happiness was showing with each step and she paused near the entrance to the cave, raising two toned arms to the sky. Her gilted eyes closed as she leaned her head back, sanguine locks cascading down her back, melding in with the curls of her tail - the same deep crimson shade. Her nude torso was flecked with drops of mist as it rolled into the cavern from the falls, her breasts rising and falling quickly as she let her consciousness fall back into the web of magic.

Along the walls where she'd taken the crystals, moss as brightly green as the springtime boughs of Concordia began to grow. It spread from a central circle of life, the lumpy lichen flowing and clinging as it spread out in thin, graceful lines. Once the growth was complete, a verdant, living sigil marked the wall. It was a shape that any who had traversed Salvar would recognize. In the warmth of Dheathain, Tshael had left the mark of a snowflake. To the woman who had grown up as a child in a warm country only to fall in love with a man who seemed to embody the ice, it only seemed fitting. She continued to stand in this place that brought comfort even when she saw the dark shadows of movement against the white rush of water that curtained her from view. Others were coming, and they would take what they needed from this place. As she glanced over her bare shoulder at the living graffiti she'd left, she only hoped that they would not mar the beauty of what she'd left behind.

After all, it was all for him.

[Ataraxis]

From the verdant lungs of Luthmor blew a sultry breath, its lukewarm tides pouring into the streets of Donnalaich, filling the ancient capitol to the brim as if it were a flowing vessel. Through the city it spread like a great flood, rushing over a bed of furrows and flagstones, flowing under broken arches, around withered pillars, and branching out into several winding streams as it broke against a hundred stonewalls. Within minutes, the humid wave was gone, to be lost under the mossy boughs and towering canopies of the rainforest, but it had left something unfortunate in its wake. Heat and moisture now hung heavy in the air of noon, and clung to the skin like stubborn sheets from a warm summer rain.

It wasn’t so much the heat that bothered Lillian as it was the unbearable humidity that reigned over the Fae Capitol. After all, the girl had lived most of her life near the ardent sands of the desert, and the temperature there was by far more excessive than it was right now, on the eastern continent. Fallien, however, was subject to seasons of intensely dry heat, whereas this region of Dheathain was so moist that a short promenade on the thoroughfare had given her white dress a mushy texture. I wouldn’t be surprised if I could have a drink right here, right now, just by wringing the air itself.

Of course, the traveling librarian found no need to do so, considering how she had taken a seat on the edge of a fountain. It was a simple, three-tiered construction with hidden spouts along its marble edges, and with picturesque engravings on the uppermost bowl, where the sculpture of a fairy was graciously poised. Lillian knew this was a recent addition, not only because the fountain bore no traces of wearing, but because the Ancients, original builders of the city, most likely had no knowledge whatsoever of its newest occupants, the comely and colourful Fae. The young girl had always found these winged characters to be beautiful, though she had to admit that their excessively bright heads of pink and blue and purple made them look more like dolls, something that was unfortunately not offset by their vibrant vestments.

With cupped hands, she brought a cool draft to her lips and drank it in one quick swig. With what drops were left, she washed her forearms, neck and face, exhaling lowly as the freshness prickled her snowy skin. A curious reflection caught her eye, and she leaned slightly over the clear pool, but a few watery beads trickling from her nose and chin had momentarily blurred the image. However, when the waters were calm enough, Lillian could see herself, distorted by something other than the ripples and froth. There were darkening pockets under her eyes, her cheeks seemed slightly hollow and her lips pursed, as if she had been sucking on a lemon for some time. The librarian had seen budding curves in her silhouette a few months ago, but even then the girl was never quite the picture of a buxom or healthy-looking girl; now, however, Lillian was all skin and bone.

Shutting everything from her sight, she sighed. The last few months had been immensely taxing for Lillian, both physically and mentally. Every now and then, she would try and lighten her heart with witty quips and amusing comments, but like today, all attempts had been in vain. There was no way, she thought glumly, no way that she would ever learn to enjoy such things again. How could she, when she had lost one friend to the clammy hands of death, and yet another to those of a psychopath?

Ishadin. How she could harbour such hatred for a man she had only seen once and of whom she still knew nothing had always troubled her, but this particular thought had been the least of her worries. For months, her mind was plagued by bittersweet visions, memories. That little boy, his safety, his endearing smile… Ever since all those things were taken away, she gave up everything to find him. She owed the boy, so much, so much, yet she could not pay him his due until her search came to fruition. Donnalaich, the forest of Luthmor, Suthainn and the swamp of Fiorair: everywhere she could go, she had gone, and found nothing.

Nothing but failures. Her hand quavered against her lips, teary beads formed in the corner of her eyes. Lillian saw him being taken away, saw the desperation, the fear, but also that thimble of hope that always flickered in his stare, that always glowed when the times were dark. And now, after disappointment upon disappointment, all her heart could wish for was that his eyes were still the same little sapphires, the same beacons of hope that had always been looking into hers with both mischief and innocence. One year. It’s almost been one year. Where could you be?

No answer whispered in her ear, only the drizzle of the fountain. The surrounding voices had become a warble of meaningless sounds, and it was becoming harder to see with the briny water that gathered in her vision, a mix of tears and sweat. Lillian swept an arm across her face, and slowly drew herself to a stand. There was no point in sulking here, in wailing like a lost child; there would be no help from above if all she did with her precious time was complaining. In these moments when the very lore of the world failed her, she could only find the will to trudge onward, through the mud and mire, from her faith. In times like these, she needed to believe in something.

“I’ll find you, Chance. I don’t know how, but I will.”

She left the boulevard, disappearing into a narrow alley, her white silhouette almost melting as she marched toward the deeper darkness. Right then, a brusque wind blew behind, carrying with it a slip of parchment. It dropped at the mouth of the dark lane, a flap of its corners stuck in a groove on the street. There, it waited patiently.

A second breeze wafted by, picking up the notice, and it too vanished in the shadows.