I, Drykas (Rhylen & Sam)

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

11th Spring, 510 A.V.

When the horse and his boy emerged from the Bronze Woods, Horse turned his head in the wrong direction. It took Sam a moment to realize what he was doing, then urge him with all the subtle signals to turn around.

"No, jackass, Syliras is that way."

Horse was unmoved by this logic. He continued on despite Sam's protests and speculations on his poor pedigree. After a while, Sam stopped as Horse probably figured he would. After all, they didn't have a date in Syliras, it was just the general direction they were headed.

When they stopped, he set up a camp not far from the road. There was a stream for water and he still had food in his saddlebags, so the detour would not kill them. They were in the Wildlands again. So be it.

While Horse started cropping the grass, Sam went about setting up his tent and a cookfire. Tomorrow he would try to hoodwink Horse and set off in the direction of Syliras again.

[Rhylen]

Feyn sprinted excitedly for Thalla’s hooves, veering off at the last moment as the Strider whinnied her displeasure, aiming to take a round out of his back side. “Easy,” Rhylen said with a soft chuckle, watching the Akinva’s foolish antics with a feeling of effortless mirth. Thalla had missed, fortunately for the dog, and trotted a few steps forward, tossing her head and snorting at the still circling Feyn. “You’d best not upset her any further, Feyn,” he said, laughing now. “If she wants she’ll catch you. And then you’ll be in trouble.”

The Akinva paused, tongue lolling out to the side, his head angled in perpetual curiosity. Feyn’s training had been comprehensive enough that any utterance by his master would spark immediate attention, but he was little more than a pup, and still didn’t quite carry the fearsome bearing of a full grown Akinva. Rhylen was happy for this oft distracting companion. Thalla’s demeanor was generally calm and distantly alert, as if sensing the unseen wilderness around them. This was probably true, but it didn’t make the journey home any less daunting.

As they continued on for a while, both animals simultaneously paused. Thalla tested the air with her snout, ears erect and scanning, while the dog perused the woodland road with his own snout pressed to the ground and his tail wagging wildly. After a few broadly sweeping circles the hunting dog shot off down the road, baying in his still juvenile voice. Rhylen had no choice but to spur the Strider forward, keeping an eye on the woods so as to avoid an ambush.

What Feyn had found was neither prey, nor what might be considered a threat, though few could be sure in these parts. A few dozen spans from the road, perched near a gently trickling stream, was a large tent. Further investigation revealed the lazily trailing beginnings of a fire, and another horse, a Windrunner if his eyes held true. Though he could not yet see the camp’s inhabitants, he whistled for Feyn’s silence, and raised his right arm in a gesture of peace.

“Hail,” he called into the trees, hoping that his greeting would not be a death sentence. Bandits could often be found along these roads, and Rhylen was in no mood for a confrontation.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

If Sam ever went in for banditry or highwaymanship, rather than the occasional absconding with someone else's horse, he hoped he would be more circumspect about the logistics of his camps, and he hoped he would have a band of fearsome horsemen as minions... But he was busy preparing a feedbag for Horse when he heard the call. There was new growth of grass aplenty, but Horse needed some nourishing grains as well, and those amounted to what Horse could carry and Sam could buy.

He cursed himself for leaving his scimitar strapped to Horse's saddle, which he had removed and set on a fallen tree in order to give the ungrateful palfrey a bit of a rub down. Frozen there with the feed back, he lowered his voice and called back: "Ho, stranger."

[Rhylen]

“Well met,” the voice of the mounted Drykas carried well through the trees, devoid of any gruffness. In fact Rhylen’s voice was soft compared to many of his kind, an even and unassuming tone that rarely stirred conflict. “Are you Drykas?” he wondered aloud, seeing the man’s easy way with the Windrunner and noticing a familiarity about his coloring.

“I don’t mean to impose, but I was about to bed down for the night myself, and a shared fire is often safer than not.” As true as the statement was, Rhylen would not press the matter should the stranger refuse. He knew better than to stir the emotions of others. For one prone to wander the Grass alone, Rhylen had become unnaturally bold of late, most likely out of homesickness. He missed human contact more than he’d ever expected he might, and the presence of Raghnall did little to allay that feeling. The Shaman was more detached now than ever he’d been in life.

Feyn took a few cautious steps forward, confident in the tone of his master’s voice, but unwilling to test his newfound courage just yet. He sniffed the air and paced back and forth, whining in the back of his throat. “Easy, boy,” Rhylen murmured, patting his thigh to calm the uneasy Akinva. “He’s harmless, really,” he said with a grin, eyes shining in the fading light of day.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sam had been working hiding his Drykas background for years now; the only true proof, his windmark, carefully hidden under a leather cuff. The skin beneath rarely saw the sun, and was pale as cream except for the tribal mark he earned for gentling...

When he saw the man's horse, he felt a shock like heat lightning running from his guts out the top of his head. Sam knew a Strider when he saw one, and his young face looked suddenly aged, crumpled like wet paper. His face fell; he hid this by turning away to fidget with the feed bag.

"Sure, you can stay..." he said, almost to himself. In his head he was telling himself in no uncertain terms not to share a tent. That would not a pavilion make. The past was dead and buried, or at least its bones were bleached between the Sea of Grass and the barbarian horse fair outside its boundaries.

He made eye contact for all of a moment, then dropped his gaze to the ground again.

"Make yourself at home."

He went to fix the feed bag over Horse's muzzle.

[Rhylen]

Rhylen was hesitant to move closer at first, the man’s discomfort almost enough to push the Drykas on a little further. He was tired, however, and curious to know what another of his kind was doing so far from the Grass. He dismounted then, an act which set the snuffling Akinva off in the direction of the trees. Rhylen’s shoulder’s seemed to droop slightly as his the last flash of mottled brown fur disappeared behind the brush. Feyn’s scouting unnerved him, so well trained the guard dog was in certain aspects, and so childlike in others.

“I promise not to be much of a bother,” he said as he approached the other man, his eyes seeking a contact. The quiet way of the other man reminded Rhylen of himself. It was an unsettling trait, something the shaman would have to work on. “I am Rhylen,” he said after a time, turning to Thalla and the saddlebags. He’d not given a last name, something uncommon for Drykas, but not unheard of. In reality the apprentice hadn’t been given a last name; perhaps Endrykas would shed light on his familial ties. It would feel good to belong again.

Busy hands eased the awkwardness of their abrupt greeting. Rhylen was quick to unsaddle the steady mare and set about his own tent. It might seem odd that two large tents would house just the pair of them, but Rhylen wasn’t about to leave himself too open to an easy assault. Clanless, though he was, being Drykas didn’t always merit good relations. More often than not opposing clans would clash more readily than against any outsider. Familiarity was a nice thing, though.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Sam," he said. It was not a Drykas name.

With the formalities take care of, he went about his business, caring for Horse, taking care of camp duties. From time to time, he'd glance at Rhylen or the strider. He told himself that outside the Sea of Grass, Horse would be faster than the strider, as if that were a score in his favor. As if they were in competition.

His windmark itched under his concealing cuff, and he dug his finger under the leather to itch at it, but to no avail.

The fire had calmed to the point where he could cook, and so he set to that.

"I've food enough for both of us," he offered grudgingly, for some reason allowing himself to fall into old habits of Cyphrus hospitality. "You're welcome to contribute to the pot if you wish."

[Rhylen]

“I haven’t much to offer,” Rhylen said honestly, unsure as to whether or not the pot Sam referred to contained meat. “I don’t eat animals,” he offered this bit of knowledge as a crimson cast settled over his face. “It doesn’t sit well with me. Not that I mind you partaking.” The Drykas eyed Sam briefly, and then returned to his saddlebags, tossing a pouch of mixed Cyphrus nuts and berries to the other man.

“It’s not much,” he murmured as he plunged into his tent with the saddlebags and his bedroll. He could be heard moving about, spreading things to the corners of the tent’s interior. As he emerged a few moments later, looking slightly disheveled, Rhylen seemed somehow relieved. “Perhaps I can trade a story or two for the warmth of your fire.” It was a strategy he’d used in the past to establish acquaintance, though his ability was far from that of his Master’s. Already he milled over the many stories of the knotworks. He wondered which ones the other man may have heard. Perhaps his estimation of Sam’s Drykas blood had been in error.

A disturbance in the nearby thicket birthed the excited Akinva, a hare hanging limp from between his teeth. Feyn brought it to Rhylen with playful look in his eyes, shaking the dead creature violently and spraying his tent with small droplets of blood. “Ack!” the shaman spit, falling behind the flaps. “Foolish dog!” He kicked the air in an attempt to discourage the beast, and it worked. Feyn trotted happily to a safe distance and began tearing his prize apart.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sam thanked the other man for his contribution, and made sure that no meat went into the pot. Instead, lentils, some herbs and vegetables, and then a few of the nuts and berries, while others were left aside to be eaten raw. He watched Rhylen go into his tent, intent as if the man were some sort of a threat, and noted the change in him when he emerged. The pot was giving off some old familiar odors that reminded him of sunny days and starlit nights on the Sea of Grass.

"Stories are fine," he assured the man, coupling that with the vegetarianism and assuming Rhylen was on the track to be a holy man or a shaman.

But Sam was no holy man, and he flashed the dog a slightly envious look before tending to the cook pot while his stomach growled.

"Where are you headed?"

[Rhylen]

“Back to Endrykas,” he said wearily, after wiping a few specks of blood from his face. He felt revulsion, for the tiny red dots that marred his sleeve, but pushed back the welling of his gut. “Though I’ll just be happy to see the Grass again,” he looked longingly to the road that would eventually lead him home. “Thalla doesn’t much enjoy being away. She’s not as quick as she’d like, I suppose.” He looked to the mare as she cropped at bits of foliage. Thalla's ears perked at the mention of her, but quickly assumed their relaxed angle, she was tired as well.

He looked to the bubbling pot, smelling the heady scent of a meal he’d not had to cook himself. The blend stirred his stomach to a more favorable roil, that of hunger. Often Rhylen found himself too caught up in thoughts of the horizon to consider his own body. Since his possession it had become even more difficult to care for himself, and though he managed well enough, the kindness of strangers never ceased to amaze him.

“You never answered my earlier question,” he pressed, though a part of him wished he’d not been so forward. “Are you Drykas? I cannot shake the feeling,” he looked at the man more directly now, breezy blue eyes peering into the shaded browns of his fireside companion.