[Temple of Viratas] The blood, it speaks to us (Duvalyon)

[Dovinya]

5th of Spring Alone he kneeled before the blood pool in the center room, his whispered prayer the only sound to be heard in the quiet hall's. It position commanding absolute attention for any who entered the holy place, and Dovinya couldn't help but reflect that it was only proper that it did. This was the most sacred place after all and it only was right that a pool of blood representing his divinity take the most important place in the room. He revered his sparse visits to the place as treats to be savored, for it was here he felt closest to his god, and his ancestors of the past. The quiet added to the sheer serene quality of the moment, deepening his own reverence and he found himself lost in prayer. He focused not on any single one thing but a repeating of the tenants outlined in the viratassa, adding when appropriate his own praises to the god. As he came to a finish, he spoke louder, and allowed his eyes to open. With hands no longer clasped before him, he proffered out of his bag a bone eating knife and in time with the conclusion of his prayer he made a shallow cut on the heel of his palm. Drops of scarlet welled there, contrasting brightly on his pale skin, and turning his hand over and keeping it over the pool he watched carefully as his blood dropped into the pool, sending slight ripples in it's blessed surface. Continued sacrifice brought a measure of peace to his wary mind.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I have often wondered if the literal blood has a power or if the power is in the act, the willingness to shed it." The voice had little recognition for Dovinya, but the figure might as it drew into his periphery. Kalinor was a small city and the populace could profess a mild familiarity with the features of each Web's members. This one was a Curare, maybe? No, no, a Hellebore, they had a sharpness in their looks. Their patriarch was a man of some prominence as the city's head medic, and was known for an especially imperious cut to his expression. "Or maybe because the soul, djed and flesh are tied, the motions of the body can influence the soul." The Symenestra neared the red pool. "I knew a man who would only pray on his knees for just that reason." As the other penitent entered Dovinya's sphere of awareness, a sudden certainty came upon him, powerful as a tide. They shared the mark of the god for whom the chapel was consecrated. Duvalyon had spent his ration of unprovoked conversation. The stores were at surplus due to days of self-imposed unsociability at the Purging. Unless speaking with another medic provided a better cure, it was a useless exercise and showed an irresponsibility towards their duties. If his associates were keen on conversation, they could join him at the Hunter's Gather.

[Dovinya]

Rising up to his feet slowly, while being careful to keep his split hand over the sacred pool, he allowed a coolness to sweep over his features before he turned around to gaze at the man who had spoken. His eyes immediately softened upon recognition of the man, or rather a man resembling one older that had treated him a year hence. He'd been expecting the voice to belong to Voldon or even Selvantia, but certainly not a Hellebore, one that by all rumors, had a sharp tongue and wasted not a breath on social conversation. Rumors common as they where in a Kalinor were everyone knew each other, tended to be exaggerated more often than not. Like the one concerning him for instance. "Tell me, do you come here often?" He asked quite simply as he watched the other symenestra. It was not his way to be blunt like the surface races, but this Hellebore, and his sudden appearance did gather interest within him. That and the fact they both bore the touch of their god, a thing of mutual knowledge born of such a power shared. Blood dried on his hand, he walked slowly to stand beside his fellow symenestra, letting his golden eyes stare forward at the blood pool thoughtfully.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon smirked at the question, mildly reminiscent of something more commonly uttered at a Public House than a Chapel. Remembering his manners, he answered easily. "Often as I can. I keep odd hours due to my profession. It is one of the few places that welcomes any at all times. Gods do not sleep." His chin lifted a degree as he glanced sidelong at the other worshipper, there was a subtle light of recognition in his burgundy eyes. "Dovinya, I believe?" Duvalyon hid the internal wince as he considered the man's entry in the ledgers of the Purging. "You weren't quite conscious when we met, so I don't expect you to recall." A mildly disconcerting realization that a new acquaintance had already met you in a setting that did not allow one to put their best foot forward, or any foot at all for that matter. "I'm Duvalyon, Svoreador's eldest." OOCLet me know if I assume too much and I will edit, no problem!

[Dovinya]

"Fortune favors that we find ourselves here at the same time then for my profession affords me accommodating hours, though this night will see no sleep from me" He replied back after allowing the appropriate time for between speaking. His gold eyes couldn't help but watch the man beside him, noting the way he held himself, and the economy of his every movement. Such was to be expected with someone so involved in medicine as this one was, and it reminded him that he could learn much from this man, and to thereby watch his tongue. He gritted his teeth at the realization that came with the man's words. What this Hellebore knew was beyond mundane rumor, he knew the harsh truth, though Dovinya swallowed the bitter feelings festering within him before responding to the man's words. "Pleasure to formally meet you, Duvalyon" He said, paying no particular stress on any word, though it certainly was a challenge to not speak absent a sour look. He didn't much care for the feeling of being caught at a disadvantage. It could be remedied however. "I've had words with your father, though conversation was brief by necessity. Unfortunate events do not make for good discourse after all, though whispers say your well traveled. What does one learn from the brutes on the surface?" Dovinya maneuvered after a time, pressing to steer the conversation far from himself, and moreover his injury. oocYour fine, I expected he would know

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon had the courtesy to leave the subject of Dovinya's Purging visit alone, and obligingly shifted to the freshly offered topic. "A bit, for the usual reasons. I haven't been on a significant trip in several years. Not since my brother married." While Duvalyon would sacrifice life and limb for his brother, the feeling was not reciprocated, hence neither was particularly fond of the other. They existed in the kind of polite stalemate only family could produce. Duvalyon suspected the early request for a surrogate was not so much out of a fervent desire for a child, but to ensure Duvalyon would be gone during the marriage celebration. He sat on the ground and leaned against the basin of the fountain, resting forearms on knees and letting his long hands dangle. "I visited the deserts of Eyktol and a bit of Sylira and whatever came up in between. I prefer it here at the end of it all." To Duvalyon, Kalinor was the heart that sent blood into the world. No other city embraced him or his people. They were, at best, grudgingly tolerated outside of the cavern. Sunborn races were ignorant of Symenestra demeanor and culture, sometimes even equating them with feral Zith. "I wish I would have learned more when abroad. I can claim a familiarity with Benshira culture and various fauna, little worth troubling the Cribellum about." Deftly switching the conversation off himself, the Symenestra asked, "Are you due for a Harvest anytime soon?"

[Dovinya]

"To be expected" Dovinya started once Duvalyon had chance to mention the places his harvest took him. While the name's of far off places where lost on him, he'd keep their names stored away in hopes that more could be added to them in the form of relevant information. He did not intend to be thrust out into a strange world without knowledge to guide him after all. Shifting his posture slightly to offer a more comfortable angle for talking with the Hellebore, and allowed a curious grin to creep across his features. "Any knowledge, no matter how sparse is welcome to be sure, but so too can I respect that more important matters need attention than speaking of the surface" He offered, and gave allowances for the change in conversation. It was cumbersome to be under prolonged scrutiny he knew as well as any. "Indeed, my brother will wed soon, and I find myself bound to harvest as a result. Have any words of wisdom that you might spare, I intend a visit to the Cribellum soon, though firsthand knowledge is always welcome"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

When Dovinya mentioned an upcoming obligation to the harvest, Duvalyon gave a slim smile that mingled slyness with knowing. "Oh? Congratulations." Despite its difficulty, harvest is what gave elder siblings distinction and fame. The younger children were never compelled to hunt in the wild and manipulate the most cunning prey in Mizahar. The process could create something formidable and proud out of a common Symenestra. It was emboldening to know one could successfully commit acts reviled and forbidden while fully illuminated by Syna's light. The exhilaration of dominance over another awakened the blood, proving sweet as the whispers of power to a mage. "Advice? Well that depends on your aptitude and approach, Dovinya." Duvalyon made barely perceptible motions with his head, shifting between contrary tactics he had seen or tried. "Some prefer force, others drugs, others cunning or a dose of all three. Oh, some buy surrogates." A prelude to disgust crossed his face but the feeling never came to fruition. "But that's a disservice to the race and the harvester." He motioned with one hand towards himself. "I tend to embrace cunning, and once I have them, I try to keep them disoriented physically and mentally. This can be done naturally or with proper doses of herbs." Memories were plucked up, scanned for pertinence, then ordered once again. "For example, don't allow them consistent or regular sleep. It will contort their perceptions better than any drug while sparing the vessel. Once they are in this vulnerable state, offer them hope." Duvalyon smirked at the word, but repeated it with a religious certainty. "Hope is a powerful terror."

[Dovinya]

Sour words remained on his tongue about the surface, and just how lucky he was to go there but he swallowed those all the same, speaking more neutrally instead. "Better to save your praise till I return with surrogates in hand, though then I suspect you will deserve your due as well for your part in informing me" Dovinya, replied going quiet when the symenestra plied him with words concerning harvesting. He listened carefully, focusing hard on noting what he considered the more important parts, but still leaving a place for the rest of the information to recall at his leisure. A frown teased at his features at the mention of brute force, but other than that, his features remained relatively placid as he listened to Duvalyon spoke. "And what sort of herbs did you use in your travels to make them so desperate for a snatch at hope?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

When asked about herbs, Duvalyon almost waved the question away as the least interesting or complicated aspect of the harvest. "Herbs can only muddy the mind and make it susceptible to suggestion or thoughts that would be considered madness in moments of clarity. Minor doses of mirage, can alter the senses effectively or perhaps something from the Konti isles." Duvalyon pressed on, discussing the pernicious act of creating and breaking hope with the acute calm of an anatomy lesson. This was technique and elicited a greater sense of precision in his smooth diction. "Every surrogate may latch onto different ideals of hope, but all will embrace the illusion of escape: a binding that is sloppily done, a supposed change of heart on the Symenestra's part, a bargain that promises their freedom in exchange for something." His logic was catching fire. moving into cunning. "If you can persuade them to betray some aspect of their 'principles' in exchange for safety, then deny them the reward... that's artful." Such a tactic was a long deception, hard won and requiring an uncomfortable knowledge of the surrogate. "They will hate themselves afterward and wonder if they were worth sparing to begin with. It is a knife that keeps spinning on its own momentum, wounding them with every circle."