View Full Version : Changing Seasons
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Nothing lasts forever, a wise woman had once told a young redheaded girl. The seasons gave up their crowns to the next in line with little fits, except for maybe winter who took the longest to let go. Flesh gave way to earth, fire to the air, the tides ebbed and flowed. There was a balance to everything, the woman had said and all life hangs within those arms. The child thought that she had understood the words of the sage, and in the way of the child who has no idea of the vast world beyond their circles, she did understand. Life, however, goes on and the child grew up to be a woman and a mother and it wasn’t really until a dry autumn morning, standing in the first-born lights of day, watching the last dying lights of the fire, that she understood. Nothing lasts forever. Not lives, not love, not dreams.
While she watched as the Silver Pub burned to dust, a stone-faced Tshael clutched a sleeping child to her breast, fighting back tears of rage and injustice. She wasn’t so naive that she’d dare to scream that it wasn’t fair. Althanas, and life at that, certainly weren’t fair. However, those childlike tendencies were coming alive so readily while she watched her home and livelihood dance away in warm, mockingly cheerful flames. In the inviting firelight, she could see several figures already. They, like she, set up their homes on the outskirts of the capitol city. Out here was just urban enough to draw steady customers, but remote enough that the chance of saving the building in the event of this situation was slim to none. Most of the faces were sympathetic, a few moving close enough to pat her on the shoulder and murmur their condolences.
The hours dwindled on, the breeze coming colder and colder at her back as the lumber receded into bare embers, and then nothing but scorched and blackened earth. It was a lucky thing, someone said, that the pub had been surrounded by unyielding clay and gravel. The farms were untouched, glowing amber with withering stalks of corn as the sun began to peek from the horizon. Nothing had been harmed, except for a pub. It had been early in the fire that the fear had reigned. As flames stroked alongside the barrels of rum and whiskey, balls of light exploded in the sky, tossing timber and glass. Tshael and a few shocked patrons had their share of scrapes and bumps, but otherwise most were unharmed. The wild idea of rebuilding in stone was flirting with Tshael’s mind - with the help of her sister and Lord Ithermoss she did OWN the land - but it was one comment, said on the very outskirts of the ravaged land, that caught her attention.
“This whole thing reeks of the Mob, I tell you what.”
As Tshael looked up to see who had spoken, a shadow darted away in the long light of morning to lose itself within the crowd. In that moment, everything changed.
"That's ridiculous," Tshael muttered, trying to peer through the crowds at the figure who had taken flight. Despite the man's insisting, the Dranak woman ignored him. No matter how the city had grown over the years, the Silver had stalwartly refused to let urban development to shroud it. The building held fast to the outer edge of Radasanth in the decade that she'd been here now. When Tshael had stumbled towards the metropolis from the darkness of Concordia, she'd encountered the Pub first. Now she stood on the road, away from the smoking debris of what was left and the path gave her two choices. The city or a trek to Concordia?
In her arms, the babe was stirring. She rocked Tsyliss as the crowds departed, the fires dead and a night half robbed of sleep coming in aches and grumbles. When all were gone, Tshael took the child back up to the debris, looking upon what had once been her home and business. In the rubble all that was left was the fireplace, black with soot. It stood like a sad and lonely sentinel atop the small hill, smells wafting through it with the breeze. She caught the stench of burnt wood and molten metal, of charred bread and vegetables from the storehouse, of seared whiskey barrels and broiled rum. The redhead doubled over, sobbing into the bundled infant, trying not to let the smells bring her nausea to the surface.
It was all gone, and she had been sure that the figure she saw darting down the road that morning had been the harbinger. Beyond even that suspicion, she'd been sure that it had been Dranak. The features had been disguised beyond the morning sun's lazy reach, but there was no mistaking the body. While baggy trousers had kept her from seeing the legs, which would have been the most obvious indication, she'd seen the proportions of the arms and torso. Dranak were lean and long, especially in their limbs. As the suspicious character had disappeared into the background, she was sure there had been the clicking of two hooves against the cobbles in the road.
Tshael began to pick through the charred timber and black and steaming rock rubble, thinking back to years past and a woman named Nashiara.
It had been over a rope bridge, deep within a river-island cave that Tshael and seen Nashiara for the first time. She'd been made of shimmering light and a pleasant warmth, motherly and sensuous all at once. But in the years since she and Thoracis had faced their past in magic mirrors and escaped a crumbling cavern of relics, Tshael had been reading. The scripts and legends of the Dranak were easier to find than she had thought, once she knew where to look. Somewhere, in all the dark soot that lay around her hooves, were the ashes of a great library. How many nights had she fallen asleep with the baby in her arms, parchment scattered around their bed as her heavy eyes had slipped shut, unable to read another word?
The legends said little of Nashiara as a healer or nurturer. Instead, they told the story of a woman made of stone, her eyes as cold as her bones. Nashiara had been created strong by Magus, to withstand the force of his need, and to ensure that he would be protected at all times. She was made to fit his needs, and have none of her own. So why had she gently guided Thoracis and Tshael to discover artifacts and relics, and to discover a shared pathway to each other?
Her hoof came down on a pile of ash and wood with a sharp crunch, her step faltering as the sound of glass grating upon itself stopped her. Stepping back and leaning down, she let her fingertips - already stained black by her searching - move aside the rubbish beneath her. There, the paint charred off to reveal darkly scorched porcelain, the broken pieces of a once onyx mask were scattered in twisted metal hinging and the tattered remains of a quilt that hadn't quite burned all through. She paused, her breath caught in her throat, and slowly Tshael stood, letting the pieces remain.
Turning her back on what once remained of the Silver Pub, Tshael moved silently towards the hub of Radasanth. The market called, a cheap room in a small inn, and in the morning she would seek the open road to Concordia.
Tshael dreamed that night, of a sixtuplet of arms that curled around her, the tickling sticky strands of spider silk brushing against her skin. She couldn't fight against the web blanketing her body, even as it bore down her arms. She dreamed that she was drowning in dark eyes, in an angry face, and oh so much webbing. Being cocooned, she finally felt the nightmare ebb away. In the darkness, the warmth of death coming down around, she could sleep.
She woke with the baby's cries, feeding Tsyliss as she watched the lace dance with pale light of pre-dawn. They paid as the last rays were flush with the horizon, barely squeezing out enough light to see the road by. The baby was swaddled and wrapped against her chest in a sling, her cloak covering both of them. Not a strand of her red curls could be pulled by the wind from the hood. A dark cloak, a black ghost in the night, she walked as the sun slowly burst and coated the sky in fire.
They'd been walking for several hours before she stepped off the road. Here the grass grew tall, pulling at the bottom hem of the cloak and her legs within it. The sting of burr and nettle against her calves reminded her weary body that there was still so far to go. The trees here were beginning to grow thicker, a welcoming darkness inside. On the edge of Concordia, the battle maiden pulled back her hood. She smiled at the silhouette of tall trees, their leaf-laden branches swaying against a cloud-burdened sky. The day was warm, the sweet and heady scent of wild honeysuckle coming to her on the breeze. She'd emerged from this forest one night ten years ago, crying and terrified. She'd found Radasanth, the Pub, everything in her desperate escape. She had been running from something completely different than what she came to face, but the nostalgia was too strong to neglect.
A lone owl hooted eerily in the morning, the breeze rattling the trees. Replacing the hood, hushing the child that had begun to fret against the cold, Tshael carried on. The trees began to writhe as she walked through the forest. Every step that took her closer to the deep copses of Concordia brought out more and more anger from her. Secrets were being whispered on the wind, the same secrets that she could feel fueling the destructive fire that had overcome her home the night before. Docile flowers in the path of the Dranak woman began to grow thorns and wither away from the swell of her emotions. There were few things Tshael hated more than secrets, especially when they held such poison for the small garden of happiness she'd begun to grow.
The sky was bright with the full light of the day when they reached the deeper part of the forest. Here, there were less flowers and tall ferns took over the pathway. As dew still clinging in the shade caught her eye here and there, suspended, she could begin to make out the shapes of spider's webs. The breeze, when it could penetrate the thickly wall of trees, was cold. Underneath her feet, the grassy loam was hardening; rocks gathered in place of weeds.
She turned, her hand reaching up to brush strands of her red hair from her face, Tshael watched a spider work on a web for a few moments. Her thoughts overtook her and her eyes unfocused, but that's when she caught it. A tree behind the webbing was difficult to see even with full noon glow, but if she strained, she could make out the stark outlines of a familiar design. Along the trunk, runic characters twisted and ran in spaces that had been carved out of the bark. It had been filled with a light metal, whether silver or steel she couldn't tell. Here and there the bark had begun to grow again over the characters, leaving a raised surface, a scar of what had been. Even broken from the light script, she could read what it said. It was a language she was familiar with; the ancient script of the Dranak.
"The tomb of Nashiara...." Tshael murmured, reading aloud. Could her luck really be that great? She'd been looking for answers; would she truly find them at the resting place of her ancestor? Nashiara had been on her mind through the day as she'd trekked from the city to the forest. Feeling her path blessed with fortune, she began to move onwards.
Ahead, on the path, she caught the barest whisper of sweeping footsteps through brush, the crunch of metal against rock. Ripping her gaze from the sign, Tshael's eyes narrowed. Her golden eyes searched and strained as her sight swept ahead. She crouched and began to move quickly towards the scurrying steps. She thought she saw the silhouette of a figure ahead, but then her quarry was on to her. The figure broke out into a run, and Tshael followed. Pebbles scattered under her as she ran, and she began to see the pursuant more clearly as she gained ground on them. Long hair, the broad shoulders and muscled torso of a male, luxuriously full tail, and hooves; she was chasing after a Dranak.
Victoriously, she reached out, with both her hand and mind, vines uncurling themselves from the trees ahead. They snaked out, moved by her will and ensnared the man. His legs wrapped with the thick, creaking plants, he stumbled then fell. She could hear the "oof!" as he lost his breath, his fists clenching. He was caught, and now she would have the answers she so desperately searched for.
There was fear in his expressive blue eyes. Tshael stared down at him, watching his face turn from confusion to fear and guilt as she strode up to lean over him. She felt like a bully for a moment, terrorizing this creature of endangered existence. She should have embraced him, a rare brother in a world of too few Dranak, but she couldn't get the smell of the burning pub from her mind and the retreating hooved footsteps that had fled from the wreckage. Her compassion had been crushed in the ruins, the moment she'd stepped on Thoracis' mask.
Her knees bent and she crouched so close to the man that the ends of her curled locks brushed against his chest. His eyes flickered back and forth between her sadistic smile and the baby that shifted in his sling. The living ropes that bound him squeezed more tightly - a warning that she could rip him to shreds if he so much as breathed towards the infant. They watched each other for several long minutes, he trying not to give away his terror and Tshael wondering what she should do with such a prize.
"What have you done?" she finally sighed, clucking her tongue at him as if he had been a petulant child, spoiling his supper with too many snacks. He gulped a few times, before shaking his head.
"I don't know what you mean!" he claimed, squirming as even more vines began to loop over his limbs. "Release me; I've done no harm to you!" She could tell that if he hadn't been begging, his voice would have been low and soft, as nice on the ears as his sweeping hair was to the touch or his muscled stature was to the eyes. Now, he was pitiful. Tshael felt disgust rise in the pit of her stomach. She'd spend years in Radasanth among heroes: men who wouldn't have pleaded the way this pathetic creature did before her.
"Pity," she said as she stood. "I was hoping this could be simple."
Tshael's fingers buried themselves in his hair, her grip balling up the soft strands as she used them to haul him to his feet. The Dranak cried out, trying to jerk away even as her strength and the vines brought him to a stand. With his arms and legs bound, he was like a totem. The thought played in her mind that she could just leave him here, to stay until she was long gone and the vines relaxed. She could also open up the earth and have it swallow him whole, burying his guilty face.
A wave of dizzy came over her. Were it from the stress, the morning spent walking the countryside of Corone or her anger, she wasn't sure. As she swayed on her feet, she rested her head on the shoulder of the man. Every breath she took was filled with him. She could smell the sweat on his skin, the heady aroma of a working man. In his hair, locked in the scent of him, was a bare hint of something that clung delicately beneath the surface.
"What's your name?" she asked, closing her eyes and focusing on what she could smell on him. He was silent as he thought, and she didn't rush him. The sound of the breeze through the treetops and the insects that hummed and chirped in brush and tree were comforting. The silence was what she needed to keep her rage from getting the better of her, to calm herself for the sake of everything. While she had her suspicions about the sins that stained this man's hands, he held answers one way or another that would help her more if he were alive.
"Pvaren." he finally said.
"Where is your campfire, Pvaren?" Tshael asked, pulling her face away from his shoulder so that she could look him in the eyes. Pvaren was a terrible liar. Everything she needed to know flashed in his expression, in his widened gaze and incredulous stammering. The jig was up. Nodding, Tshael released the vines. Her fist still gripping his hair, she dropped to her knees, slamming his face in the rocky ground.
"Deeper in the woods!" His muffled plea paused Tshael's hand, her fist shaking with rage as her amber eyes lit with a demonic fire. Of all the answers that he possibly could have given her, that was most unexpected. The scent of flame and smoke was still in his hair, and she'd been sure that he would admit to having set her Pub alight. Jerking his head up, ignoring the blood that dribbled from his nose to fleck the gravel below with a sticky darkness, she glared at him.
"You know what I meant."
"No!" His denial only earned him another face full of gravel as she shoved his nose back into the earth. When she ripped his head upwards again, she felt the tug of his hair, heard the ripping of strands from their roots. She bet it hurt like hell, and it was only the bare suggestion that he may be innocent that kept her from doing so much more.
"Radasanth. You set my home on fire yesterday." Her voice was shaking, stammering out the words in a seething tone that nearly broke into sobs. Tsyliss, who had been squirming and grunting for a moment now began to cry. The high keening echoed through the trees. Brow furrowing, a look of shame came over her. She released Pvaren, using her grasp on his hair to shove him away. As she stood, her hooves taking her back a step, he curled into a ball and grasped his face in his hands.
As she rocked her son, allowing him to begin feeding, she watched the man carefully. Her arms were cradling her son, the sling loose and sliding down her shoulder as it's burden was lifted in his mothers arms. Like this, she stood, her cloak and hair weaving in the breeze. As she stared, the statuesque presence of both mother and executioner, the Dranak man began to sit up. His hands moved up to his face, his eyes closing and his fingers traced the cuts and outline of bruises that marred his handsome expression. As his touch slid over areas, the cuts seemed to close up, his skin less red. Still stained with blood, she couldn't be sure but even the gash that had been on his chin after her last assault even appeared to be nothing but a scrape that was quickly fading.
"A healer?" she asked. Could this be why he hadn't fought back? She'd been too angry to think much of it until now, but where was this Dranak's elemental magic? She'd felt no resistance to her manipulation of the vines, no fire had engulfed her. Even the youngest child of their tribe could conjure some form of their elemental domain. She'd never known a Dranak who could heal without the touch of herbs; could Pvaren have dominion over the flesh itself?
"What form of nature do you take in your hands?" she asked haughtily, her hand stroking the cheek of her child. His hand flailed out and grasped around her wrist, holding tightly. She'd been sure that when he came into his talents, he would hold power over earth or ice, pulling from one of his parents elements. No doubt in her mind that her son would be a mage, now she had to wonder if there lay some unexpected potential that he would surprise her with.
"Perhaps it is not nature at all, but necromancy that you command." her words now held a warning in them, her eyes flicking back up to the healer. He was shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut as if he could will her and her suspicions away with the gesture.
"Nashiara gave me this power, because I had nothing."
"Nothing," Tshael asked, nearly laughing. "No Dranak is born with nothing."
"No, but I gave everything away. She took my talent to make herself stronger, but she gave me something smaller so that I wouldn't be as the humans are born."
They descended into silence. She expected him to run while she watched the child eat. She expected an attack at her vulnerable back. Neither came. Pvaren was as quiet as the morning. Tshael wondered idly if she had cowed him into submission so easily that he could be molded like clay. Finally Tsyliss' dark eyes fluttered closed, drunk on milk.
"You swear to your wretched life that you had no hand in setting fire to my home?" she asked. When he did, Tshael turned to Pvaren and asked the question that had been haunting her hopes and heart. "Where are the others? I will have answers and justice today."
She watched as the man turned his face away. His lips pursed, one hand dragging through his hair, a battle was raging behind his eyes. Tshael sighed. Her body was heavy, her mind exhausted. She hoped she wouldn't have to persuade him to answer her.
"I think," he finally said, looking back at her with haunted eyes. "You'll have to go straight to Nashiara for your answers."
They'd gone through the forest awkwardly. Tshael had used a length of vine to bind Pvaren's hands behind him. He walked uncertainly now, tripping now and then. Tshael had to keep a grip on the vines, hauling him back every time he stumbled and fell. They'd stopped a few times more to let the baby eat and to change and wash him. Pvaren was never able to give her a straight answer to Nashiara's whereabouts. She just let him lead the way, and she listened. Here and there, she could see hints of the changing forest. Off the path they went, where the turning leaves that gave away the coming of autumn even on this warm morning were slowly beginning to speckle and gather in the tall grass. Great oaks clustered ever closer together until Tshael was sure that they would end at a wall of wood, trunks huddled too close to pass through.
The oaks thinned again, the soil turning to solid rock. Ahead, the sounds of birds were overtaken by the rush and roar of water. Their journey took them to the side of the stream, following the flow down. Soon, the bank ended and Tshael and Pvaren were staring down a sharp drop to the pool below. They were at the crest of the falls, and both the pond that was fed by the stream and a small grove of trees were nestled far below. Looking around, Tshael could see no slope that led to the bottom of the valley. It was if some great fist had reached down and scooped a deep pit of the earth and left it to it's own devices.
"Nashiara is down there, with the oracle." Pvaren said.
"The oracle?" Tshael gave him a puzzled look, but the other Dranak just shrugged.
"She has no name that I know of. Just the oracle. She's a slave of Nashiara, too."
Nodding, Tshael began to walk from the stream, where the mist from the falls below was wafting up in a cool breeze. Her amber eyes searched the edges of the cliff, trying desperately to find a way down. Pvaren seemed unwilling to help. Standing back, his eyes cast down to the earth, Tshael walked several feet before turning back to him.
"You've been down there?" she asked. When he nodded, her brow furrowed, her lips pursing in frustration. "How? Is there some secret ladder or tunnel that leads down?"
"Well," Pvaren shrugged as he finally looked up to meet her gaze. "I usually just jump."
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