Aloft

[Laszlo]

Spring 78th, 513 Sunset-ish. The tall, horned figure stood propped against the white-painted façade of Sakana's Alchemy Lab, positioned unevenly between two crimson pillars. Curls of golden hair cradled his face, and the rest of him was hidden beneath the draping folds of his familiar grey cloak, which was as dear to him as a close friend. Rounded points at his sides hinted at elbows, bent slightly to accommodate tucking his hands into his pockets. For a while, Laszlo just passed his time watching the sky fade from liquid yellow to smoldering orange. He let go of his thoughts, allowing them to overlap and run rampant. Happy, stupid, and disjointed daydreams floated aloft on evening breezes as the Ethaefal watched them from behind half-lidded eyes. As the hour gradually dripped away, he remained deliberately oblivious to the casual migration of lights and bodies weaving through the Sharai streets, bathing in the unintelligible wisps of mingling conversations that blew his way. Laszlo was still while the city breathed around him. The ages, if he lived to surpass them, would be like this. Always moving onward, while the Ethaefal remained frozen and untouched, immune to the tides of Tanroa's eroding waters. If that didn't sound dreary as hell. Eventually, the last of Sakana Dai's students emerged from the mansion, jogging past Laszlo in a colorful blur. The alchemist appeared shortly afterward in the open door, marked by a set of horns that gleamed handsomely in the bloodied sunset. Laszlo gathered his wits and floated out of his stupor, leisurely turning his head to regard the older Ethaefal. As Sakana approached him, Laszlo studied the way he moved and walked, wondering if he could discern the centuries he carried hidden behind his youthful features. "I'm sorry that took so long. You could have waited inside." Even his voice was smooth and ageless, lacking any gravel that might betray his years. "It's warmer," he added, noting the unusual chill in the late Spring air. "I brought a cloak," Laszlo pointed out quaintly, adding a half-hearted shrug. Both of them knew that the weather hadn't been the reason for his warmer dress. He'd been forewarned that it would probably be past sunset by the time Laszlo finished his task for Sakana, and the Symenestra were more known here (and thus more despised) than in Alvadas. "I prefer being outside, anyway." Sakana watched him warily for a moment, as if trying to catch him in a lie. Laszlo twitched an eyebrow and looked away in resignation. It was rare, these days, when Laszlo had the chance to be by himself for any stretch of time. He loved Abalia, dearly, and he knew his time with her was limited. Duvalyon was pleasant in measured doses (the sentiment was probably mutual). But, occasionally, Laszlo craved the quiet. "In any case, these are finally finished." Sakana pulled a large wooden tube from under his arm and handed it to Laszlo. It was long and bluntly cylindrical, meant for carrying rolled sheets of paper. Laszlo tucked it against his body, somewhere in the confines of is cloak. "They're meant for the Library. There's a Seeker expecting them. You know your way around the city, I assume?" "More or less. I was given a short tour by an Acolyte yesterday." Laszlo rubbed absently at his abdomen. Sakana nodded curtly, though private thoughts could be gleaned from subtle creases in his features. Laszlo wondered if the other Synaborn had heard anything. "Good. Come by tomorrow, if you can. One of the Twilight wants something done, and I've been putting it off. I should have it finished by late afternoon." The two Ethaefal parted cordially, with a certain bleakness that made Laszlo grimace. Sakana was a brother, another son of Syna. They had both known and lost the same thing, and still invested their faith in the same brilliant Goddess. It seemed like an insult to their origins that they would interact so formally, conducting simple business for mortals. Two Ethaefal coming together should have had a greater meaning than that. Laszlo sighed. That's what the Temple was for, he supposed. The brilliant light of his shift occurred as Laszlo was still traversing bridge from the Sharai to the to Zintia. Beneath him, and all around him, the gorge was enormous and hungry. He was a speck suspended above the Unforgiving by a thin strip of gently shimmering skyglass. When Syna settled down for the evening, Laszlo resembled a coin glinting in the rising evening mist. He flipped up his hood.

[Dor]

Hunters drew back the hoods. They uncovered truths surfaced into the emptied faces of the dead after all the little lies that sewed up the countenance of a socially functional creature had been extinguished in flattened eyes. Dira's veil was yanked free by fist or fortune or folly in the bloodletting moment, and it was such a second with which the peregrine falcon was intimate. Kalinor's gorge was a beast that had mutated Dor to prey, grasping for direction in a salivating black whensoever she flew; and the maw that yawned glitter struck by the transition of days in Lhavit had nothing -- nothing -- on it. Wind shot the bird out from below, turning cartwheels in astonished honor. The falcon's climb was slow only in comparison to her murderous stoop where speeds unsung save in the whistling ears of comet tails were reached. Lightning could have walked from a clear sky for the muted boom of powerful wings swooping downward, throwing air into all of the space that seemed to free here. She was darting, the bird, with a target that had reason well beyond the box over simplifying the relationship existing between the hunter and the hunted. He had been spied beneath the opulent eaves of Sikana's Alchemy lab, loitering while the sun set and so she had waited, roosting, for the coming splash of unwanted transformation. This, this, in miniature conflagration now was what she had wanted and so her climb became a dive toward the bridge spanning the distance between Sharai and Zintia. The falcon ignited in a far less divine echo of Lazlo's swiftly hidden transformation. She shed feathers for skin while in mid swoop, a short burst of stardust that delivered a woman of truly deceptive frailty into a tumbling, heel skidding and really quite naked descent to the Symenestra's feet. Somewhere, Duvalyon Hellebore was burying his face in his hands. "Laz!" She cried, gathering up her limbs, shooting straight up to her feet with only a single wince. Tangles of murder colored hair were shoved out of a once familiar face as she grinned at him.

[Laszlo]

No one expects a naked woman to come tumbling out of the sky. When something like this happens, there is no proper reaction for it. The pink blur descended in front of Laszlo, and all he could do was stop in his tracks, startled and tremendously nonplussed. It was a cardinal flash of thick, long hair that shaped his dumbfounded shock into a much happier form of surprise. He was frozen, a thick rush of hope rising in his throat as the girl finally righted herself and straightened. Ever since he'd learned Duvalyon's Kelvic was here in Lhavit, he'd been expecting to eventually run into her. And he had assumed it might happen like this. "Dor!" The false Symenestra brightened, opening into a rare smile that looked foreign, almost awkward on his normally sullen and pale face. It passed quickly, registering first that she was nude (not the first time he'd seen her this way), and a few seconds later realizing that she was, well… developed. "Sweet Goddess, look at you." How could he not? His violet eyes wandered her shape with tiny minds of their own until he forced them back up to Dor's triangular, narrow face. Even there, he could see she had aged. This wasn't the young girl he remembered. "You've grown up." Laszlo knew that Kelvics were shortlived creatures, but to see an adolescent girl reach the peak of womanhood inside two years made this gravely evident. Had Duvalyon thought the same thing when he had seen her? Would she be middle aged in another five years? Did she choke on the fear of her mortality? The plain look in her eyes said "nope!" So, Laszlo dreaded for her. The Ethaefal shot a quick look around the bridge for nearby onlookers, conscious of what it would look like for a Symenestra to be standing so near a starkly naked woman. If anyone honestly thought he was here to snatch her up and take her back to Kalinor, they must have also thought that Laszlo had a profound lack for subtlety. But then, the stories of the Symenestra were colorful and varied. The average human might well believe that Widows crawled out of cracks in the roads at night to snatch up women and children who hadn't washed their faces before bed. Although there was no one in their immediate vicinity, it wouldn't stay that way long. Lhavit came to life at night; it was only a matter of time before someone strode by to gasp in horror or breathe a threat. "Duvalyon said you were here in the city. I thought he might have been making some cruel joke," Laszlo told Dor with a brief laugh, beginning to unfasten the silver clasp of his woolen cloak. It slid off his shoulders heavily, baring his tall, lissome frame; a wooden cylinder was tucked into his belt, held fast against his side. Unlike the other Symenestra she knew, this one wasn't thickened by a layer of chitin armor. Laszlo didn't execute the grace and elegance of the race quite as well, dressing himself in simple linen clothing and earth tones, rather than gem-colored silk wrappings. It might not have been a good idea for Laszlo to remove his covering and make himself more obvious, but he couldn't let Dor stay like this. Difficult to tell whether he was protecting the public's sensibilities or his own. "You need to wear clothes when you look like that," the Ethaefal told her gently, only because Duvalyon wasn't here to enforce his rules on her. He stepped toward her and quickly covered her wiry frame with a flowing curtain of charcoal colored wool, warm from his own body heat. It was much too large for her, and bundled at her dainty feet, but he managed to pull it around her shoulders and hook the silver chain above her bosom. There was still a strip of her body visible down the front, which Laszlo futilely tugged shut. It would open again as soon as she moved. So, it wasn't perfect. "Or someone will think you're trying to show off." Laszlo stepped away politely, granting Dor back her space. He needed to be moving on soon to the Twilight Tower soon, but they could wait for a few more chimes. "It really is you, isn't it? I never thought I'd see you again. I always wondered what had happened to you, if you were alright. Duvalyon would never explain to me what happened…"

[Dor]

Laughter grasped her, flushing sunset colors to otherwise pale cheeks. The sun was a wonder of the Up, but she spent the majority of her time with wings rather than flesh that could reflect the hours of her excursions in darkened pigment. "Why," she began when Lazlo's cloak swept around her, mantling teacup shoulders even as they hunkered up. Hands rose, fingers sliding across his, tugging before releasing in a playful manner as he dressed her. "Oh, right. If you want me to, I can. I have my own clothes." Symenos was an artful craft, spun from her lips as if native. It was gruesome and elegant, her voice a little husky for a china doll countenance. One might imagine she had much opportunity to speak with the spider's tongue, but she grasped back for those gossamer strings of her past with a frightfully correct aim. "Not here," she carried on and clutched at the edges of his cloak, bunching them up in grass stained fists before spinning to watch the fabric flap and twist. It still writhed about her when she came to a halt that on anyone else would have been dizzy for her spun circles; but this was a bird and only lightless places where sky and earth were turned upside down disrupted her innate sense of direction. "But elsewhere. This will work. I like it. Can I keep it? Laz --" She stepped forward when he stepped back, not graceful in two legs but almost bobbing. Her arms came out, at first for balance, but then to embrace him. Maybe she did it because she had missed him. Maybe it was also because Duvalyon had never, not even once, allowed a hug from her. "Hi," she said, the word muffled against his chest. "It's really Dor. Who else would it be? Duv never told you what? Why I left Kalinor?" Her head came up, ruffles of hair sliding back in revelation of piercing black eyes. "Seriously? You'd think Duv would want to teach anyone he can, but maybe -- Oh," and her brows lowered with realization, one eye narrowing into a squint as she observed him. "Oh," she repeated, disgruntled. "Figures."

[Laszlo]

Prying his captured fingers out of Dor's, as if withdrawing from a kitten's grasping paws, Laszlo flicked an amethyst glance into the Kelvic's dark eyes, rimmed with mild surprise. It was the first time he'd heard her speak Symenos and comprehended it. Before, Laszlo had been unfamiliar with Kalinor's native tongue, so it had been more of a secret code shared between her and Duvalyon (usually a back-and-forth of airy inquiries and grumbling retorts). Dor had been instructed, and repeatedly reminded, to speak Common for Laszlo's sake. Her strong accent had been reminiscent of Duvalyon's, which carried a sophistication that, coming from her, was more comical than graceful. The side of Laszlo's lips quirked. "I would hope so," he said, speaking in Symenos more for his own sake. It was less of a headache if he only had to operate in one language. She twirled, and the immodest flashes of her pale flesh beneath a fluttering curtain of charcoal gray wool coaxed Laszlo to look away in embarrassment. His mouth parted in what could have been a sigh or a suppressed chuckle, the twitching corners of his mouth hinting at the latter. The Ethaefal only faced her again when she asked her question and closed the gap between them, his silvery eyebrows sliding upward. "No, you can't keep it. It's mine—" The wooden cylinder at Laszlo's side rattled suddenly. Her slender arms were around him before he could stop it. The contours of woman's body that couldn't be Dor's, unclothed beneath her parted cloak, settled against him in a gesture of absolute trust. "Um…" For a moment, Laszlo's own arms hung undecidedly in the air, as if touching her would cause grievous burns. Nervously, he turned his head and scanned the nearby area of the bridge, trying to assure some disgruntled onlookers that he was the helpless one. Gradually, Dor felt the weight of Laszlo's arms wrap around her shoulders through the thick wool. He was certain that neither Abalia nor Duvalyon would have approved, but how could Laszlo deny her? The loneliness in Dor was so desperate that he could feel it as powerfully as his own, the need for another person to care. And, maybe, Laszlo also knew that a hug was something Duvalyon would never give her. "Hi," he breathed into Dor's bright, fiery mane. Laszlo hadn't realized he'd been missed so badly, or perhaps this embrace wasn't meant for him. It wasn't unpleasant, in any case. She smelled feminine, and of feathers, dirt, and himself. There was also a slight, fetid tang that he guessed was probably dried animal blood. The Kelvic digested his question and intuited her own meaning from it, which largely escaped him. The rhythm between her and the Symenestra had never been clear to Laszlo. Her disappointment though, whatever it was for, was plain enough. She looked up at him. Laszlo wasn't sure he'd ever seen a head of hair so direly in need of a comb. Black claws deftly relocated one or two rebellious curls of red. The Ethaefal looked past her, focused on some inward thought. It had taken Laszlo weeks to muster up the courage to ask Duvalyon directly whether something had happened to Dor. The rumors of the Symenestra's celebrated, imminent fatherhood and the fire at the Nest had led the Ethaefal to fear the worst. "She left" was all the explanation Laszlo was given, and Duvalyon wouldn't say another word. Although Dor was alive and well, the past was grim business, and not appropriate discourse for a happy reunion. "Don't blame Duvalyon. He's just… he's Duvalyon." As part of a strategy to withdraw his arms without potentially upsetting her, Laszlo playfully pulled the cloak's hood over Dor's wild hair, and then further down over her large, somber eyes. "You know how he is. He only ever talks when he has something to complain about." Dor had given him plenty of that, when she had plagued his home in Kalinor. Laszlo wondered if Duvalyon had missed having something to be constantly annoyed over. "Now, my cloak is yours to borrow, Dor, but I'll want it back when you're done with it." It didn't occur to him that he might need to be more specific. "If you want, I can buy you a nicer one that would actually fit you." His clawed hand brushed the wooden cylinder at his side. It was carved with familiar patterns, marking it as the property of the Twilight Tower. The gesture served partially to show Dor that it was somehow important, but also to remind Lhavitians that the Symenestra apparently had some association with the Twilight family. A temporary but useful misdirection. "I have to run this package to the Sartu Peak, but if you aren't busy I'd love to catch up with you. Do you want to come with me?" Stepping aside, he began leading Dor down the bridge, toward the Zintia. Accompanied by a young woman, Laszlo might have to take a more discreet route to avoid the Plaza. The Twilight seal would only earn him so much lenience. "I'm interested to know what you've been doing all this time. Have you been on your own?"

[Dor]

"But there is only one Duv to blame for being Duv," the bird retorted with irritating alacrity. A smile had charmed its way upon her face, pushing up dimples despite the rather wintered hollow of her cheeks as she fluttered fingers at cloak edges and swayed from side to side and back again, twisting like a small child or a fat pigeon settling and resettling the lay of its wings. "And he does more than complain. He teaches," and that was important, displayed as such with the shoving down of one hand between them like the fell stoop of a hungry falcon. Well, no. It was nothing at all like the fell stoop of a hungry falcon, that clumsy gesture; but the sheer force of her certainty that it did near substituted farce for fact as she scurried to catch up with him. "Teaches letters and manners and cold civility," she recited, sing song and accompanied by an audible eye roll. A hand caught his elbow, either trying to slow him down or to speed herself up in the manner of tail winds. "Paper faces and the dangers in the dark. Does he, has he, taught such things to you?" She peered up at him, utterly transfixed. "On my own," came the echo in a voice that felt meek to ears accustomed to cawing. Her hand dropped and her head turned. Maybe her attention had been split by the whiz and flutter of a calias bright moth. Maybe. "Yes."

[Laszlo]

Although Laszlo was at first reluctant to accept Dor's hand on his arm, he turned to look at her in mild concern when she retracted it. "I'm sorry, then," he said to her softly, either with a mote of understanding or the gentle guidance of a teacher, "that you've been alone. I know that isn't easy." With violet eyes, he regarded her with cautiously muted empathy, remembering just how little he ever understood her. She was no longer the only Kelvic he had ever met, so some of her workings made more mathematical sense to him, but the flow of her thoughts was still so inhuman that Laszlo could not grasp the concept of her. In her mind there was no line, not even a blurry one, that separated what was animal and what was sentient. She was always simultaneously a falcon and a girl. As a practiced Hypnotist, it unnerved the Ethaefal that he could not fathom her way of thinking. Not that he would ever need to harness it, it just made him feel defenseless. "Duvalyon, uh…" Laszlo faced forward again, shifting his parcel in his arm. After crossing the bridge, he led Dor down a more shadowy route, through the alleys around the Surya Plaza. To him, the streets weren't darker so much as they were less blinding. "No. He didn't teach me letters or manners. He showed me less tangible things, like patience." His head quirked to the side as he acknowledged some inner amusement. "Occasionally, knowing him requires a lot of it." A moment passed, with Laszlo looking at the ground while he walked and quarreled with himself. It was difficult to know what sorts of things Dor could understand. When she was younger, it was easier to think of her as a tragically simple child, but now she spoke with a woman's voice. Her unique use of language sounded more profound now, rather than nonsensical. He was probably reading too much into it. The next bridge loomed closer. "Has he told you why I'm here?" Laszlo turned his head slightly, picking the girl up in the side of his vision. How much did she know about the Symenestra, and the Ethaefal? "In Lhavit?"

[Dor]

The Star of Kalea was illuminate, but the dark was made richer in comparison. By accident or design, it clung to the back alleys they traveled and softened the scars worn by weather battered paths. The light transfigured the black of Dor's eyes to velvet, caused her to seem wise as the sentinel pines stabbing accusing fingers at the lowered sky. "You made a surrogate of a woman you love," she replied with arms wrapping around herself, bundling up the cloth of his too large cloak like a blanket. "He is helping you save her life." She hesitated. "He has made you his family, Lazlo; but the woman will never be. You kick the egg from the nest, not the bird from the sky." A huff of breath feathered a tangle of hair as she averted her eyes. Did she believe that? It was a distinct possibility. "You thought I wouldn't know," she concluded after a few careful steps through the pitch. "Why do you always think I won't know?" Understand? Comprehend or believe? She quickened her step at sight of the next bridge, the hem of his cloak fluttering about bare feet.

[Laszlo]

For the first time since Laszlo had left Kalinor, his temper rose into his throat. Dor's cold acknowledgment of the facts had hurt him, more than offended him, carelessly tossing salt onto still-fresh wounds. Worse than being reminded of his own mistakes, however, was the idea that anyone would think of Abalia as a surrogate. The Kelvic spoke of her as if she was inconsequential, she was just extraneous matter. His anger brimming, Laszlo closed the gap between them with a long stride and reached for Dor. His long, clawed fingers closed around her delicate arm. After stopping her, he turned her around to face him. His narrowed violet eyes were severely displeased. It was difficult to stay angry at Dor's young face and the quizzical look in her dark eyes. Laszlo was still thrilled to see her again. "You don't know, Dor." He sounded stern, but he wasn't raising his voice. A mere instant ago, he'd wanted to, but Laszlo quickly remembered that Dor wasn't who he was angry with. She wasn't the one who killed Abalia. There was also the dire need for subtlety on the subject here in the open streets of Lhavit, even if the immediate area seemed quiet. "She is not a surrogate, she's just pregnant. You don't make surrogates out of the people you love. No matter what happens, she'll always be the mother of my child and that makes her family to me." Laszlo glanced over his shoulder, realizing what this might look like, then released Dor's arm. Remorse set in as he looked down at her, and he gently straightened a fold in her borrowed cloak. The Ethaefal took a slow, cleansing breath and released it. "The woman has a name. It's Abby. Don't ever speak of her like she's expendable, do you hear me?" His eyes fell to the side, the sudden ire in his features gradually turning to sorrow. A pale hand, tipped with sharp black nails, passed over his forehead and mussed some of his silvery bangs. For a lingering moment, Laszlo took the time to quietly collect himself, but eventually he motioned for Dor to continue walking with him. "She's important to me," Laszlo continued quietly. "The same as you or Duvalyon. If I could give my life to save hers, I would." He cringed. "Syna, in a heartbeat, I would."