[Flashback] Gravity (Duvalyon)

[Laszlo]

Day 74, Spring 510AV Exactly six bells. Though dim light came from each of the structures that hung from the cavern ceiling, it was too dark to see who was shouting. Several voices called distantly, hopefully from the people who'd seen him fall. Most of them were speaking in a language Laszlo didn't understand. Even if he could, he doubted he'd be able to make sense of anything over the sharp ringing in his ears. Relentless waves of pain pulsed from the base of his left horn, which had absorbed most of the impact when he'd hit his head on what must have been a stalactite. That discomfort couldn't quite rival the agony that wracked through his entire body whenever he moved his arm. His hand shook, and the pain seemed to triple every minute that he held on to the rope. However, Laszlo wasn't letting go. He didn't need his distant Symenestran memories to know what would happen should he fall. "Help…" he whispered, too frightened that shouting loudly would cause him to lose his grip. His heart was beating in his throat, in time with his pulsing headache. All he could think of was the day of his birth, when he had to swim for his life. The fear of death had made him panic, thrashing about in the water as he quickly taught himself how to swim. Here, hanging on for his life from the ceiling of an immense cavern, that same desperation kept his hand clasped over the rope like an iron vice. He couldn't die. He couldn't! Not yet… not this soon… "Please…" By the time Laszlo felt hands pull him up and carry him to safety, he'd fallen into a state of delirium. Whether it was from that blow to the head, or the dizzying fear that had kept him from falling, he couldn't be certain. Though he was barely conscious, powerful screams erupted from him whenever his arm was jostled. The force of his falling body had done something bad to his shoulder when he caught himself on the rope. He hadn't even noticed the burns on his palms, but he distinctly remembered feeling something "pop" when the grip of his left hand saved him from the merciless will of gravity. Now these strangers who'd been shouting earlier were taking him somewhere. In what little of the Common language that spoken which he made out, probably in their efforts to communicate with him, Laszlo thought he heard the words "Place of Purging." He was also relatively certain he heard someone laughing. *** Earlier, in the hours before sunrise. Kalinor, the cavern city. In dreams barely remembered, he'd only seen brief glimpses of the place. Now, finally, he was here in the far reaches of Kalea to find it. He was staring at nothing but cold rock face and the black maw of a cavernous hollow, but at the very core of his soul, he knew. It was really here. "Mister Laszlo? Is something the matter?" Standing beneath the twilight, the shrouded form of the Ethaefal Laszlo bathed in the neon glow of Leth's nightly vigil. Wild summer winds swept madly across the rocky Kalean landscape, kicking up clouds of dust and licking furiously at his wool cloak. One gloved hand clutched at his silver chain clasp, holding the struggling garment shut. Laszlo knew he was hesitating, caught here on some precipice between two worlds, trying to decide which he belonged to. Some distance away, the caravan that he'd spent part of Winter and almost all of Spring traveling with was slowly disappearing out of his life, while they journeyed on to find a safer place to make camp for the evening. The gaping mouth of a black cavern yawned before him. In the daytime, his golden eyes would be unable to pierce the shadow inside. At night, however, his pupils sat wide in their sparkling violet irises, drinking in the copious moonlight. Laszlo could make out the cavern's interior in fine detail, his Symenestran form making good use of the pale light given by Syna's diligent lover. A violent gust of wind knocked Laszlo's hood back, and sent his silver hair swirling around his head like a maelstrom. The rush of air had been so powerful that he even stumbled backward in an attempt to gain his balance. Laszlo's Symenestra phase was much lighter and more fragile than in the day time, and unable to withstand the same forces. Still, he wondered if the wind had been deliberate Trying to push him away from what awaited him beyond the cavern's opening. Perhaps it was Zulrav, testing Laszlo's resolve. A thin smile crossed his face; he wouldn't be turned away from this. Kalinor held a key to understanding exactly what and who he was. Inside the cavern, his past was waiting for him. "Mister Laszlo?" "These cavern openings in the cliff walls… I've seen a lot of them now. I feel like… I feel as though I should remember what they are." "Entrances to Kalinor." "They're… what…?" A canvas glove fluttered briefly through the air before lighting gently on the stony ground. After walking several yards into the cavern, Laszlo pressed his bare hand against the cavern wall. He leaned back, his vision piercing the darkness that tried to disguise the vertical passageway that led to the floating city. Not long ago, he'd discovered that while in his night phase, his Symenestran hands and feet could be especially adhesive to many surfaces. He'd spent several nights toying with this bizarre ability in private inn rooms, but never outside where anyone could see. Sylirans didn't like the Symenestra – the ones who knew of the race, anyway. Laszlo still wasn't entirely certain why, but their eerie appearance could possibly explain it. The fangs, the sharpened nails, the agile frame, the caustic venom, all the tools of a predator. It could make anyone uneasy. Keeping his night phase hidden from the rest of the caravan hadn't been easy. In the day time, Laszlo had been friendly with them, and did his share of the work to help keep the caravan moving. Once night fell, his hooded cloak would keep his new appearance concealed in shadow. The silver hair, the lavender eyes, the teeth that cut, were all hidden out of view. He wore canvas gloves, claiming that his hands were sore from his daily tasks. In truth, they served to conceal his pallid skin tone, and his curved black nails. True, he could have trimmed his nails down and probably gotten along fine. Human vision didn't perceive color so well at night. However, something innate in his Symenstran mind loathed the idea of filing down his nails, so he never did. "If these are entrances to Kalinor, why are we still moving?" "Don’t you know anything? We can't use these caverns to get to the city. Only Symenestra can. We're headed to the Woven Gates. It's a bit further, but we won't arrive until morning." The other travelers thought it odd that he became so reclusive and quiet at night, but they soon learned that he became irritable when prodded on the matter. No one in the caravan seemed familiar with the Ethaefalen race. The flash of light he emitted upon his nightly and daily phase changes was impossible to hide, but they grew used to it after a while. Laszlo was sure no one suspected that he had actually changed form. He had no idea how they'd react if they discovered what form he'd taken. It was possible, seeing as these were seasoned traders headed on their annual route to Kalinor, the Symenestra city, that no one would have minded. All his fuss over his night phase could have been over nothing. But… Laszlo remembered the look of terror in Raelynn's eyes, the young girl who'd come to visit him in his room on his second day of life. She had looked so much like the beautiful white haired woman trapped in his dreams. Poor girl, he never meant to hurt her. They kissed… and Raelynn cut her tongue on his fang. Later, the Ethaefal had found out that she survived the poison easily, but the pain it had caused her had been immense. As he thought about it, he wasn't even sure why he'd been so quick to pull her into his arms. He barely even knew her. It was some buried instinct, some charm of the Symenestra, he was sure of it. He feared his night phase, perhaps even more than Raelynn had. "I see. In that case, I'm leaving." "Leaving? Mister Laszlo, we've been on this trip for months. Can't you wait another night?" "I've paid you, haven't I? I've done my share of work for you. Surely you can do without me for the rest of the journey. You've brought me this far, and I'm grateful." "If you're thinking of traversing those caves yourself, well, beg my pardon, but you're insane. At best you'll fall to your death. At worst, you'll get eaten up by some creepy-crawly." Laszlo pulled at the fingers on his second glove, and soon that was discarded along with the first. As he placed both hands against the wall, he found his light frame was surprisingly easy to lift. With minimal effort, he found himself on his toes. That presented another problem: the soles of his boots would not adhere like his hands would. But the balls of his feet… Enthusiastically, Laszlo darted downward to begin unlacing his boots. In the hours passed, reveling in the new splendor he found in scaling the cavern walls, the Ethaefal completely lost track of time. "I'll be fine. I'm... used to caves. I think." "You're talking suicide!" Lesson learned: he should have listened.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

“Hellebore! We’ve got a strange one!” Lazslo wouldn’t quite understand what one of his escorts was proclaiming as the group entered the Place of Purging, but he would recognize the humor in their tone. This wing of the Place of Purging was surprisingly peaceful. The calming quiet of medics was paired with the taut silence of waiting family members. A strong herbal scent filled the preliminary chamber. Opalgloams were in abundance, making the place exceptionally bright to Symenestra eyes, but only illuminated to other races. “Svorador!” An arid voice entered the conversation, it was emotionless but for a tinge of irritation. “Have a care to not bellow in the halls, Ladival. Svorador is indisposed. You—“ Laszlo felt himself being lifted and the voice halted then veered onto another subject. “This room, here.” The Eth floated through the air, not for the first time. He was lifted by many hands before being settled on a bed, or something like it. The click of claws and rumble of voices dissipated replaced by the lonely sound of water being poured. “Can you hear me?” A blessed phrase of common, lightly accented and briskly spoken. Cool water was dripping into Laszlo’s face before being dabbed away. While the Symenestra was cleaning the wound around Ethaefal’s temple with all delicacy and care, the rest of his manners were metallic. “Tell me your name and what city you are in.”

[Laszlo]

"Can you hear me?" Laszlo's eyes cracked open. The voice was a light in the darkness. More or less acclimated to the unintelligible chatter and dim, moving lights in his vision, at first he wasn't sure whether he was awake or dreaming. Amid the quiet chaos was that voice. It was stiff and emotionless, but Laszlo understood it. Someone was actually speaking to him. He was alive, and people were helping him. The uncomfortable chill of the water on his pale face brought him further back to life. As the drops of liquid ran down the sides of his face, it left his skin feeling cooled and clean. "Y… yes… I can hear you." he managed, his voice sounding a little breathy. He opened his eyes a little wider, his Ethaefalen pupils hungry for more light. His vision as still a little burry, but— "Ow!" A sharp pain bolted across his skull from his temple, but was quickly gone. In retrospect, it hadn't even hurt that much. He just hadn't been expecting it. "My name is Laszlo. I'm in K-Kalinor, I think… I hope." Yes, Kalinor. There weren't many other cities built in caves, and the Ethaefal had gotten a good look at the city before daybreak. Or what must have been daybreak. Thinking on the sunrise, Laszlo suddenly felt a little weary. Finally, his vision came into sharper focus. His golden eyes rolled in their sockets, then came to rest on the doctor's face. Wait! He was…! "You're a… you're a Symenestra, right?" Well, probably. Kalinor was chock full of them, from what he'd heard. "Uh, sorry. I've just… I've never seen anyone else who's looked like me. Up close, anyway." Another spasm of pain. He winced. "Nnh, my head." Laszlo began reaching up to feel at his wound, but realized belatedly that he would only get into Duvalyon's way. His hand froze in mid air, then rested upon his chest. His other arm hadn't been moved since he'd been laid down. He dare not disturb it. "They rescued me, didn't they? Heh… then the gods aren't finished with me yet. Tell me, is it very bad?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

“Looks like you?” Duvalyon’s expression was bland, but he raised an eyebrow. “In your current state. You’re a bit…thick to pass for a Widow,” here was the ghost of a smirk. "And yes, last I observed, I was a Symenestra. Not uncommon considering you're in our city, Azo." The medic was more concerned with the blow to Laszlo’s head than his dislocated arm at present. The former could ruin you while the latter was more a matter of pain. He took his time in answering Laszlo’s question. Instead choosing to continue his evaluation. Laszlo felt his eyes being tugged open even wider as Duvalyon stared at the Ethaefal’s pupils. “Touch your right index finger to your nose,” a quick command. Duvalyon watched his patient perform this meager act with interest. “Did you lose consciousness at any time?” As Duvalyon asked the question, Laszlo could see him waving in other Symenestra. A low quick phrase was exchanged in Symenos between them. “Please look at me,” Duvalyon instructed, steering Laszlo’s attention away from the others. There was something in the medic’s voice that was more persuasive than a request, a tendril of compulsion that could not be placed. “Answer the question, Laszlo.” The shock of pain was sudden and the sound nauseating as the other Symenestra yanked the distracted Ethaefal’s shoulder back into place. It was an unnatural pain that flushed through Laszlo like a fever before retreating to his shoulder. Duvalyon leaned back, no longer serving as a diversion. “If memory serves, your kind take quite a bit more effort to effectively wound. So, no, I don’t think it is ‘very bad’.” There was little in the way of pity coming from Duvalyon. “Try using your own talent on the gash by your horn.” The Symenestra paused, preparing to be vexed by ignorance, “You recall your talent, yes?”

[Laszlo]

His mind a little clearer now, Laszlo focused his golden eyes on the ceiling. In the corner of his vision, he saw Duvalyon raise an eyebrow. The demeanor of the physician was cold, yet… refreshingly no-nonsense. As he worked, Laszlo flinched twice: not from the pain, but upon the words "Widow," and then "Azo." He didn't like either of them. Momentarily annoyed, Laszlo briefly narrowed his eyes and uttered a sigh, but the feeling passed. Not paying enough attention, he completely missed the implication that Duvalyon understood what he meant by "look like me". Still, Laszlo didn't elaborate, feeding on the physician's apparent lack of appetite for anything inconsequential. Feeling his eyelids pulled open, the Ethaefal uttered a noise of complaint, then blinked rapidly once the physician was finished. Duvalyon's request was odd, but Laszlo complied out of blind faith in the physician. It was new and comforting to see another Symenestra that was not his own, nervous reflection. His fingertip grazed the tip of his nose without much difficulty, though he was perhaps a bit slow. "What…?" Laszlo followed the physician's eye line to the other Symenestra, who began walking this way. Whatever was said to them made him nervous. Was there something grim about the low tone he used? Upon command, Laszlo immediately turned back to Duvalyon, giving the black-haired man his full, rapt attention. Obediently he locked his golden eyes with the Symenestra's peculiar red ones. "Sorry," he apologized quickly. "N-no. Or…" Laszlo's gaze wandered away briefly as he groped for a memory, then returned to the physician. "I don't know. Everything felt a little dreamlike for—AUGH!" Although the sickening grinding noise in his shoulder and the pain of the joint reconnecting was simultaneous, he only realized after the fact that one was associated with the other. Clutching at the mattress with his free hand, Laszlo's entire body flooded with pain, right down to his exposed toes. He arched his back, clenching his eyes shut as tears formed in both of them, but in seconds, the pain faded, and he was instead left with a powerfully throbbing shoulder. Bearing irrational resentment for the men who had just helped him, he snatched his arm away (and then whimpered at the minor shock of agony that caused). Laszlo held his shoulder tenderly as he caught his breath and listened as Duvalyon finally answer his question. "My talent," he echoed quietly for self-affirmation, forcibly taking his mind back his shoulder. It took him a moment to place what Duvalyon was referring to. The Ethaefal had not come up with a name for his unique gift, but "talent" was a good way of putting it. It had been another thing he'd discovered by accident, when admiring the box garden outside one Syliran business. Making plants grow a little had seemed like a pitiful power to have, and at first he'd wondered what kind of joke was being played on him. Through further experimentation, he realized it worked on other things, but he had never considered using it on himself. Laszlo was mildly surprised Duvalyon even had any knowledge of this ability, but he had already guessed that such a talent must have been uniquely Ethaefalen. What had the doctor said? In your current state. He knew, then, what had happened. That saved Laszlo the trouble of a humiliating explanation. "It works that way?" Laszlo voiced out loud in mild surprise. Trusting the physician's suggestion, he lifted his hand and drew two fingers gingerly over his head wound. He winced as he felt the skin tighten and the injured under layers of skin harden. It was an unsettling sensation. The hint of a smile visited his face. "Huh… that's convenient." Laszlo looked up at the doctor. "You know of my kind." He smiled genuinely for the first time, warm, yet bashful. "That makes one of us." Huffing a soft sigh of defeat, he returned to clutching his shoulder, feeling the moisture still in his eyes, and now remembering to feel emasculated by it. Blinking rapidly didn't help, but he didn't want to risk what little dignity he had left by wiping at his eyes. Meekly, he stared across the room at the other beds. There was a new, childish desire to latch onto this person, this doctor, who probably understood more about Laszlo's predicament than he did. Think of everything he could tell the young Ethaefal, how much light he could shed on this pitch black shroud of confusion! It was a powerful urge, but the throbbing pain served as an effective distraction for now. "Thank you. I… well, thanks. What is your name?" Lazslo paused arbitrarily to wait for an answer, wondering passively if he now owed a monetary debt for the physician's services. "I'm s-still quite a bit shaken from heh, from nearly falling to my death. Look, please… what else do you know about the Ethaefal?" He remained completely ignorant to the likelihood that now may not have been the best time for that question.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon didn’t know quite what to do with the Ethaefal’s smiles and signs of appreciation. They had grown foreign to him in the Place of Purging. Most his patients were furious with both him and their obligation to carry a death sentence for three seasons. His scarce bells at home or in society had a dream like quality, not because they were surreal but because they were incredibly isolated. Dor and Melia were the only pair that dared to really smile at him anymore and the habit was discouraged in the former. Without intending to, Lazslo had confused his physician. Duvalyon was only adept with glibness, genuine feeling made him reel. “You’re, er, welcome.” The Symenestra’s voice had lost the crispness of command and fizzled to something natural yet smooth. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I'm Duvalyon.” Trying to find his pace again, he resumed looking at Laszlo’s head. “Anyone with an ounce of education knows a bit about what you are. And Symenestra tend to be learned.” falling into a didactic mode, Duvalyon was comfortably aloof again. “You’re the chosen of Syna or Leth, fallen to Mizahar from the gods’ realms. I assume you’re aware of your physical change, a daily reversion to a life you lived before.” Duvalyon withdrew, satisfied with the state of things. “The rest of my knowledge is what you already grasp merely by being awake. And what is helpful for my profession. A day or so and you will mend yourself well enough.” The Symenestra moved across the room, discarding the cloth he had used to mop up blood and water. “In the meanwhile, it is best that you stay awake. Who in the city is responsible for you? I can have them summoned.”

[Laszlo]

That was it? Laszlo's golden eyes remained fixed on Duvalyon's gaunt face, hopeful and eager for more information, but the physician had finished speaking. The bewildered gratitude that he had worn before fell away, leaving unmasked disappointment in his features. The Ethaefal reluctantly looked away, no longer able to stand the cold apathy in Duvalyon's burgundy eyes. In his naivety, he had been certain the physician could have given him some key piece of information, or new knowledge that would illuminate the reason for Laszlo's return to life, and then everything would make more sense. Unfortunately, this Symenestra didn't seem to know anything else that Laszlo hadn't figured out already. "I see," he mumbled unceremoniously. With his good arm, he carefully pushed himself up into a sitting position. He pushed his golden blond hair from his face, tossing it behind a horn, and then returned to gently cradling his sore shoulder. He remained obediently still while the physician checked his wound. The Ethaefal had no reason to be so disappointed. He should have known that he would not learn much here about what he was. Relatively early on, he'd learned that little was understood about the chosen of Syna and the chosen of Leth who fell back to Mizahar. That was why he had come to Kalinor. Even if there was little he could do to learn about his horned appearance (which apparently resembled no other living race in this world, to his knowledge), he could at least educate himself on his Symenestra half. It was a compromise, as he was less interested in his past lives and more concerned with this one, but some understanding was better than no understanding at all. Still, Laszlo had felt a minor surge of pride when Duvalyon described the Symenestra as "learned", though perhaps that was silly. Finally, Laszlo broke his thoughts and answered the good physician's question. "There isn't anyone, not really. I was part of a caravan crossing Kalea, but they aren't here yet." He pulled his hand away from his shoulder and examined his pearly skin and pink fingernails. "If I'm in this form, then it must be a bit past sunrise, so I'm sure they're moving again. They will probably arrive in a few hours." Laszlo returned his hand to his shoulder, then stared down at his bare feet. The hard folds of his leather boots could be felt against his side, the articles stuffed into the pack still fastened to his waist. "They know my name and they have my mizas, but beyond that we share little association. I need to start looking for work so I can afford a place to stay." Laszlo was relieved by Duvalyon's apparent intelligence, and the minor changes in his demeanor made it clear that he was a complex individual. Analyzing others had become a pastime for the Ethaefal, who felt trapped in this world as if it were a waking dream. Most things felt alarmingly inconsequential, but understanding the characters in this unending reverie helped abate the constant feeling of confusion. Duvalyon had advised Laszlo to stay awake, but fatigue swept through every muscle and made his eyelids heavy. The physician must have known that to give such a specific instruction. "Have you any advice on the matter, Master Duvalyon?" Laszlo looked up, polite stoicism returned to his features. "Perhaps you know of someone who could use a pair of hands? I have no skills to speak of, but I learn quickly."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

The medic listened and nothing about his expression changed during Laszlo’s story except a slight tightness around his mouth. Here sat the antithesis of what Viratas desired: a creature devoid of connection, of heritage and community. How strange to even be without parentage. Nothing tethered Laszlo to the earth but gravity. Duvalyon was by no means a sympathetic figure. He callously observed women being devoured by their young and did all he could to make the process continue. There was ample blood on his hands by Azo standards, and even some of his own found him cruel when frustrated. Yet there was a band about his arm testifying to adherence to the blood god. While Duvalyon was not kind, he was principled. The Ethaefal sat in front of him like a test from on high. The last thing he wanted was another houseguest or a drain on his limited time, yet—here Duvalyon inwardly scowled – Viratas would ask this from him. A follower was nothing if his obedience stopped when the command grew burdensome. “There is always work to be done,” Duvalyon said briskly, “Even by the unskilled. I’d suggest the trader's public house, they would embrace a person with your… attributes.” Laszlo could hear a hair’s breadth of resignation in the medic’s flat voice as he continued. Duvalyon’s glance was conveniently elsewhere, as he wrote in a journal beside the sickbed. “My duties are completed here at the conclusion of this bell. I had the evening shift. I can take you to my web and Dor will keep you awake.” Dor would like to see an Eth, the Symenestra thought. And he would be pleased to show her something books failed to accurately describe. Her education was a game. He wanted to keep her ignorant enough for peace of mind and obedience, but instill enough knowledge to make her capable. That and it was good to plant seeds of what waited beyond Kalinor. If she liked the flower, her curiosity would pull her from his web effortlessly when the day came. The Symenestra looked up, “Satisfactory?”

[Laszlo]

With Laszlo's attributes? Puzzled, he looked down at his hands. Right, Ethaefal. The aging thing. It never occurred to Laszlo that that ability could be useful to someone else. Gardeners and the injured might appreciate him. A motley bunch, his demographic. "Thank you, I'll look there," the Ethaefal mumbled arbitrarily, rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulder still throbbed, but the pain was tolerable. As long as he didn't use the arm for anything for a while, the injury no longer worried him. Duvalyon's advice was helpful, despite Laszlo's lack of enthusiasm. He might fare better, however, if he adjusted his schedule so that he was more active at night. In his Symenestra form, he could more easily navigate the city on his own and be more readily accepted by Kalinor natives. It was questionable whether these cave-dwellers even recognized day and night, tucked so far into the darkness that the cycle of Syna and Leth didn't touch them. This was something among many things, Laszlo conceded, that he would have to quickly learn here in the cavern city. Unexpectedly, Duvalyon said something that caused Laszlo to look up. The Symenestra physician was busy with some other task in his hand, refusing the Ethaefal any reassuring eye contact. Had he just invited this stranger to his web? Wait, a web? "Your…?" No, hold on. This word was familiar. "Wait, I know this word. You're inviting me into your home?" Laszlo's tone was incredulous, as if he were insinuating that Duvalyon was making a grave error. And indeed he might have been. The last time Laszlo was a guest in anyone's home, a young girl was poisoned and her father was blinded. However, these weren't humans, and they weren't ignorant to what he was. Perhaps this time, he could avoid disaster. "Do you mean it?" Laszlo's eyes slid away, running his palm over his forehead and pushing back his hair. He winced as he felt his skin pull at the healing wound on his temple. He stared into space, bewildered for a moment. The Symenestra didn't seem much for accommodating guests, if their city was any indication. Laszlo realized that this offer on Duvalyon's part was extremely generous, even if he had tossed it at him so monotonously. There was a certain quality to the physician's voice, as if he'd just been forcibly coerced into something. Duvalyon pressed for an answer. A cautious half-smile appeared on the Ethaefal's porcelain peach face. "Yes. I'd like that. Thank you." *** While the physician resumed his work, Laszlo was left alone to contemplate his near future. Dor will keep you awake. What was Dor? A pet? His child? His lover? A food item? A ferocious attack-beast? Laszlo's eyes drifted toward a door. And what a peculiar name, Dor. He tried not to contemplate too heavily on the fact that Laszlo's life seemed to rely heavily on luck. It was lucky that he was saved from the ocean, it was lucky he'd ended up in Syliras, where there were no creatures waiting to eat him, and it was lucky that he heard word of a caravan, and that they would allow passengers in return for payment and hard work. Here in Kalinor, he luck continued. Some might consider relying on such handouts dishonorable, but Laszlo was indifferent to such a frivolous moral outlook. What bothered him was the lack of control over his own fate. Soon, he would have to start creating his own luck, and getting by without the help of others. Being at his own mercy would be much more preferable than trusting strangers and drifting with the wind, like a feather. Laszlo didn't want to be a feather. He wanted to be the bird. The Ethaefal didn't know many things, but he knew that. Because Laszlo lacked the dexterity and the adhesive grip of the Symenestra while in his day phase, they had to make use of the pulley system that transported large baskets between city structures (if these things could indeed be called structures). When they were finally ready to leave, Laszlo had inspected the basket curiously, and while the questions were as plain as torchlight on his face, he remained silent. Better save his naivety for later, or risk annoying the Symenestra who stood between him and a fall to his death. "In my other form this city felt so familiar," he said softly, gazing out into the darkness. All he could see were the fires of torches and the soft glow of opalgooms, illuminating the structures like stars in the clouds. "But in this one I can't feel the sunlight. I can't see anything." Laszlo sighed, gripping his shoulder with one hand, and resting the other on the edge of the basket. A short, bitter laugh escaped his throat in a huff. "Asking Syna for guidance seems a little silly. I guess I'm on my own."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Mercifully, Duvalyon had the operation of the basket as an excuse for distraction. While fairly cultured and intelligent in conversation, he did not fare well when it came to deeper emotions from any but his siblings. It required more empathy and transparency than the Symenestra was willing to give. Some would argue he didn’t even possess enough of the attributes to display them. Laszlo’s honest melancholy was met with an inscrutable expression. Finally the Symenestra made an answer, spoken more to the gloom than the man. “The sun has not ceased to exist, nor the goddess.” The cryptic encouragement was the entirety of Duvalyon’s reply. Only the mild creaks of the gears and the broad echoes of the cave followed. The further they progressed, the more the medic’s fatigue showed. His rotation had occupied the whole evening and a portion of the morning. He still held himself erect, with a sharpness to his carriage, but his burgundy eyes were blinking slowly. The city proper and its larger structures gave way to a section of homes. They were smaller and showed a hodge-podge in design, betraying individual as opposed to civic ownership. Finally Duvalyon spoke. “Dor is my…charge. She is perversely curious and has never left Kalinor. I intend to use you as a minor teaching tool, if that is acceptable. Many people have never seen your kind, I would like to give her the privilege.” His voice took on an iron edge despite the evenness of his tone. It warned Laszlo to listen well or be chucked from the basket. “She is largely innocent of some Symenestra practices,” Duvalyon didn’t feel the need to say which, “This is for the best.” The basket had arrived as near as it would to Duvalyon’s web. It would take a minor jump to his “door”, an oval hole covered in thick canvas. Considering the matter a moment, the Symenestra crept out of the basket and along the thread to his door. It was still disconcerting to watch the eerie insect motion, even when expecting it. After pulling aside the canvas, he returned to the basket and unlatched its gate. “Just take a long step.” Suspecting Laszlo would be wisely wary. Duvalyon offered a clawed hand from on high. Taking a grown man by the hand was obviously not the Symenestra’s favorite thing to do, but he didn’t want all his mending work to be undone either.