Placeholder Denusk Family Reunion Part III: To Sing for Joy

[Aramenta]

Spring 65
Sea of Grass, Northwestern Quadrant
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Canter foot had carried Ara with a certain uneasiness since the day that Ara had defended the Zith woman - the feeling of trust and oneness faltered between them. Ara was as my ch of it as Canter was. Each time she passed the horses head, she fanciet she saw disgust or fear in the wise old horse's eyes, and it made her stiff and clumsy in her seat. It was a different sort of lesson in riding - it was like learning to ride on a stranger, or a skittish mount - she learned a way of being forever in a state of ready tension, to listen not passively but actively. She found she rode, when cantering, better now with the distaff and spindle, as they emptied her mind, gave her a single point of focus. The spindle shook, and she knew the horse would bank.the distaff quivered a particular way, and she leaned back in her seat to let Canter slow.

It was worse, now. She had reported back to the webbing camp, with news of the lost Denusk, and asked permission to go seek out Vanator. As far as the camp was concerned, shed fit herself well enough on her first scouting expedition, finding her way home uneventfully after getting caught in a damaged snarl of web. She had even spent time repairing the snarl - in truth looking equally for signs of the Winged Woman to moon over, and signs of her own treason to disincorporate. She had sensed the mans posting positions across the web, and was following in him now, quickly.

And yet she was not sure who she wanted to meet. On the one hand, she wanted to see the man, yes. Both because she had a duty and... To see him, perhaps, as he was now. A man can look different when you know something of him. Would he be more attractive? Wasn't that supposed to be attractive, that feeling of someone consuming you, taking control of you? He was a man, of good family, and good countenance. But the little touch of the enamoured shed recognized was gone.

Instead she felt fear, a certain trepidation. The cold pit if her was full of it, unsure. She tried to simply picture him strong and straight on his Striders back, but... She could not. She kept picturing him hunched hungrily over her, rough hands, breath rank with hatred.

Had his strider reviled from him afterward, the way Canter had? Had his strider chastised him? No... No. The woman was...

She closed her eyes nd emptied her mind. No. She would not think of it.

Because, just behind hat thought was her fear: that perhaps she had volunteered to come into this part of the sea, hoping not for him - for when she was honest now, she was horrified at him, at the very idea of him, at the ugliness of lust and hate. But to hope, perhaps, for her.

Se reached deep, the late spring sage pollen high on the mid morning wind. She halted Canter, closed her eyes and breathed deep, drifting back into the web, searching.

Her fingers wove familiarly into the cording here, the work of her own spun heart, long silver lines, as pale and slender as the wink of the morning star. She held them, softly and began to hum - but she could not. She could not. Her song was gone. She only listened.

And there he was, still a ways away far from earshot for either of them. She drifted forward along the lines, the whisper of herself adding like a ghost, her lines back to herself slender and weak. She would have to be careful.

He was riding. But she saw his knot on the web, and he was not riding away. She laced her fingers into the knot and spun djed out from her lips, wrapping it around a twisted sentence.

"A sister of your clan, Delani Denusk, found alive. I will wait here down New Silver Trunk Web, for your response."

And she tied it to the mans anchor with her signature, a knot to one intimate with her identifiable as her own, and to own familiar with her people, identifiable as Drykas web work.

And then, she poured herself back onto strider, and she opened her eyes.

"Now we wait, Canter. He is a good Drykas. He will look before long."

She said the words is whisper and her voice quavered. She set the spindle and distaff to their saddle bag and drew out a flat expanse of lacework done by her teachers hand. Taking a hook, she began long rows of I letting knots, drifting meanwhile quietly in Anid it of the web. Back and forth. Waiting. And occasionally, with an empty, shameful hopeless hope, she turned her eyes upwards to scan the sky.
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[Vanator]

Vanator had not hastened to return home, in spite of the inherent danger of traveling alone in the grass. Such forays into the Sea of Grass, as perilous as they may be, afforded the Drykas a sense of freedom, of connection to the land that no clansman could live without, and still call himself Drykas. Santuary was his home, because that was where his family was. Kavala, Larik and Cadra, they were the pavilion now. But the stone walls and underground warrens that comprised their homestead left a wanting in the Denusk man. He knew, one day, he and his pavilion would return to the grasslands. The veteran horseman stopped periodically to tap the Web. Rarely did he venture into the djed network, for that left his dormant body guarded only by his Strider stallion. But Vanator touched the weavings of magic strands, cursory checks on local movement of beings in the area, or for a message sent by Kavala. One such venture revealed a communique from an unfamilar sender, until the signature was determined. It was the young webber he had recently met, Aramenta. The news it provided immediately set Vanator's heart into a violent pounding, the taunt of a Denusk appearing against all hope. Delani. Van ascertained the location of the meeting the nearly mute Drykas woman indicated, and set Sirocco on course at a thundering pace, the noble Strider's agile hooves and powerful limbs feeding on the djed web to propel he and his rider along the grasslands at tremendous speed. Only when Vanator saw the dot of horse and rider ahead did the Denusk man pull back on his mount's gait, moving to an easier gallop until the features of Aramenta were apparent, finally pulling up to a halt very near the scout. Knowing her difficulty in speaking, there was no reason to stop at the stone's throw distance their previous greeting required. Set aside too were traditional salutations. Vanator was too excited to concern himself with formality now. "Greetings Arementa, I came as fast as I could. Where is she?" He inquired, his tone controlled, but the accompanying signs betrayed his anxiety.

[Delani Denusk]

OOCUntil Dela's informed of a meet-up/retrieved, I'll abstain from posting.

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[Aramenta]

Ara sat atop her horse, quietly. It was not a long wait, the man was too experienced to do as the young men sometimes, did, and get so lost in the sensations of riding as to forget to keep hold of the under-echos of the web-world periodically. She had expected as much, and had drifted quietly in and out herself. It was good practice she told herself, this tracking of someone else - but in honesty, there was more to it, something between expectancy and fear, mixed with watching his progress. A few chimes, and she sensed his fingers untangling the knot of her message. Felt the movement of his strider turning back. Felt the strider's feet sending a new vibration up New Silver Trunk, an easy road to listen to, since she had helped rebuilt it and was intimate with its normal movements. The rushing of the strider... so fast! So fast! Why must he rush so! ... it came like a crescendoing staccato across the silver line. Her knotting fingers tensed, and began to move in sync with the footfalls. Thump-gallop-thump : wrap, pull, taut : thump-gallo-thump : wrap, pull, taut.

She leaned her cheek against the Strider's neck, and drifted back and forth: watch the vibrations along the web grow closer, watch the knots approach the end of the fillet, back and forth.

And stop, sometimes, stop both, and with a craning of her neck that made Canterfoot restive, look up to the sky, peering about, trying to convince herself that it was fear, but knowing it was a strange forlorn hope. But the sky was empty, and the footfalls grew near and wild enough that she could hear them with her flesh-ear, hear the swishing of him in the grass. She froze - wisdom would have had her, with the man approaching pell-mell, drift now to check the web, to make sure no other inhabitants of the sea approached of less good intention. But in truth, the man's approach was, suddenly to her with the appearance of his autumn-colored hair streaming over the blur of his strider, far more terrifying than a glassbeak would have been. She knotted, quietly, with shaking hands. Focus. Pull the knots. Feel them, check them. You are not a woman, you are merely hands, pulling tautly narrow knots.

And then the man came close. So close. Too close. And her fear came out, and she pulled the horse back a few steps, her eyes showing terror, unmistakeably as he spoke to her, as the fierce desire for his family entered the man's face. She knew this is what it was, she knew it had nothing to do with her. But nonetheless, that muscular face suddenly in a fit of passion intense enough to bring down his decorum left her with a feeling almost animal in its insistence.

She mastered herself quickly, but the man's eyes, perceptive from years of watching the sea, she knew would catch the terror and revulsion in her own. Mutely, her eyes broadcast an apology now, but a confused one, more cringing and fearful than apologetic. The apology of a child trying to avoid a beating, not of a grown woman caught at a bit of involuntary rudeness. She pulled her courage by the hank of its hair, and fought the few steps she had pulled away back towards the man, closing her eyes for a beat, before answering.

The leaning in was terrifying, as her nose filled with the scent of him - worn leather, riding dust, the virile scent of the sweat of a man who had been eating the food of the road. The scent of horseflesh and lathered spittle. And then there was the sound of his hot breath, rushing with the energy of riding fast, which she felt the barest tickle of against the arm that she shakily set on his shoulder to brace herself as she leaned. Her fingers were unfamiliar, curled to touch as little surface area as possible, as she leaned in, and her breath quickened slightly as she did so, coming shallow and heavy.

"Y-yes... you... The Dame Denusk will come to the meeting of the Ki and the Bluevein. She has been attending the Birdflight pavilion, as both were... were... lost in the storm damage. She... is... well, when I saw here, and and grateful to find her Ankal. The Birdflight returned to Endrykas three days hence, so she should arrive at the fork close to when we do."

She swallowed hard and leaned back, still shaken, but regaining her composure. She silently hoped he would be too swept up in the news to question her too hard. She managed a thin smile, and across her breast made the sign of good tidings and good fellow feelings. Her face looked a touch green, almost nauseous.
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[Vanator]

The young scout recoiled from Vanator, as if he were covered in blood. Aramenta, he could see, was afraid, and repulsed. The subject of her barely concealed abhorrence was himself. The Denusk was confused. Their first meeting was steeped in respect and congeniality, the girl draping her words with honorifics and admiration. Now, Aramenta reacted as if she was afraid the man would snatch her from her horse and strike her down.

The inclination did not wane as she leaned in to speak, Vanator leaning to meet her, angling his head so she could speak into his ear. Aramenta did so as if trying not to vomit. She acted as if sick, but the astute Ankal could see he was the source of her acute discomfort.

The message was relayed as quickly as the woman could utter it, her hesitant touch on his shoulder withdrawn immediately. Narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow met Ara's hesitant gaze, but Vanator simply nodded in acknowledgement, his excitement to find Delani momentarily eclipsed by the messenger's strange behavior. "Thank you Aramenta, you have my gratitude. If there is anything the Denusks can ever do for you, please ask."

Vanator hesitated for a moment, shifting in his yvas as he looked at the cherub-faced girl. He considered pursuing a conversation, curious to determine the reason for her disdain. But Aramenta seemed all to anxious to end the encounter and distance herself from the Denusk man. He returned her farewell sign, then with a final glance, turned Sirocco and headed toward the meeting place.

[Aramenta]

She watched the man's confusion as he looked over her. Gods, she was being rude! She was being rude... it struck her, suddenly, and she was ashamed, and bowed her head quietly, submissively as the man responded to her. But then... submission, the feeling of making herself vulnerable, at the mercy of the man, it made her heart rotate in her chest. Was this how it had been before? Had the woman cowered, apologized, had she blushed? Had he made her feel small? IS that what he was doing now, is that what it had always been? No, no, no, her reason cried now, but the bubbling stew of her teenage heart was fierce and inchoate, and suddenly filled with unpleasant thoughts.

She closed her eyes just a moment, calmed herself. No. This was not why she had come. She had come to see, not to panic. Not to hate. She had not come to be a rebel, this man was good, this man was the height of goodness, what could she know? He was an elder of her people, a man to have her sons emulate one day. If he HAD done something - and who is to say he had? the woman... or maybe she had deserved...

And then she felt sicker, sicker than before, guilt on behalf of her people, and guilt on behalf of the winged woman, who should have killed her, but didn't, who should have repaid the sins upon her, but had offered to save her instead. Canter felt the tenseness of her mistress, and snorted frustratedly.

And he was turning to go.

No.

This was her duty. Her duty was to bring him to his sister. She had sworn this. She said nothing but nodded low again, and turned Canterfoot with a gentle pressure of her knees and followed behind and beside the man. One was not taught what to do in this, how to be courteous and pay a duty to one who terrified you.

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[Vanator]

Vanator had bid farewell to Aramenta, still perplexed by her apprehension, but ready to leave the woman and her strangeness behind him. Making his way to the meeting place was all he was concerned with, finally to see Delani. Not just Delani that he had not seen in two years, it was Delani whom he thought dead. Nothing would dampen that kind of excitement.

His spine straightened as he heard the soft rustle of hooves through the grass, the creak of leather and wood as the teenager made her way to his side. Vanator's gold-flecked gaze gave the Drykas scout a quizzical look, eyebrows raised. But the Denusk did not question the young woman. She still bore a tension that was obviously born of his presence. Her guarded countenance all he needed to see to understand. She was to lead him to the meeting point, because that was her duty. It was not, very clearly, her pleasure to do so. Vanator gave Aramenta a grateful nod, maintaining a measure of space between his Strider and hers. They could travel together in silence, if that is what the teenager desired.

[Delani Denusk]

The ride had been refreshing and a fine sheen of sweat glowed on her skin and in Coram's fur. The sturdy stallion had carried her away from Birdsong and she'd directed him only occasionally as they trotted the trails towards the meeting of the two rivers, her mind filled with thoughts of what might be.

It'd been at least two years since she had seen Vanator, and over a year since anybody of her Pavilion had been found. Now, thanks to the help of young Aramenta, hope was returning that she'd be reunited with the only real anchor she felt she had now. Too long, Dela had simply been coasting, riding the ups and downs since the Storm, finding refuge, fleeing, hunting, surviving. And now, come again upon the wheel of fate, she was to be returned to them.

"Will he recognize me?" She murmured aloud as Coram trotted on, one of the womans hands knit in the base of his mane should the horse misstep. "For that matter, will I recognize him. So much time...so many questions."

The grasses began to part ahead and she clucked the horse forwards a little more quickly, bending low when they passed beneath the hanging branches of a lone tree. The sough of the wind through its branches flicked the drykas' mind to another time and place for a moment, and she thought she was laid upon the ground again, the whisper of a horses lip against her ear felt. The moment passed and the two broke through the passage and into the modest clearing that united the two rivers. It was really no more than a stretch of bank and shrubs with some grazing spots between the low bushes. There were birds and a few rabbits nibbling on the sweet grasses but that was it.

"They must not be here yet." Dela dismounted fluidly and pulled her satchel from one of the hooks on the yvas, retrieving a set of tackle and fishing hooks. "Go on, graze. I'm going to fish while I wait. Perhaps we will have something caught when they arrive." The stallion just nickered softly and gave her hair a nibble before moving on, stepping through some of the shrubs and lowering his head to tear at the grasses.

Dela headed for the riverbank then, working as she walked. Four of the hooks were secured to the main line, then with stones tied an inch or two beneath the hooks so that the line remained beneath the surface. She measured out half an arm's length for each hook, then, and laid this basic preparation on the ground. It would be a simple cast line that would be checked every couple of hours for any hits, but first she had to find some bait. The river would be the perfect spot for this.

The woman approached the water and looked at the moving surface, studying it for a moment. The bottom here was finer than elsewhere; there wouldn't be much for mussels to anchor to. But, among the river grass growing from the bottom she spotted slivers of blue and white and a set of long antennae. It was a crayfish! That would be perfect bait; but she'd need more than one. She returned to the bank and used her hands to dig a small hole about one foot wide and one foot deep. In this, she lined the walls with reeds that she pulled from the shoreline. It would provide a slick surface that the crayfish couldn't climb out of as she caught them, allowing her enough time to secure them to the fishing line and put the line in the water.

Rolling up her pant legs and slipping off her moccasins, Dela stepped carefully into the shallow eddy, only going about mid-calf deep so that her clothes remained dry. She bent over the water to block the sunlight and make the glare less intense, searching for the antennae she'd seen before....There it was! The little shellfish had just slipped beneath a clump of moss on the river bottom. Moving slowly, Dela lowered her hands into the water on either side of where she'd seen the crayfish go. Then, working her fingers into the muddy bottom, she carefully closed her hands together, trying not to scare the shellfish out and away, before just as slowly lifting her hands from the water, a little cage created with a bit of riverbottom as the support. Inside the flesh-cage, the fat tail of the crayfish was visible, its long antennae waving against the top of her hand while the big claws were complacently closed, picking particles from the grasses while watching her.

"Haha, got you now. Food for a fish to give food to us. In you go." She waded back to shore and dropped the morsel into the little pit she'd created.

This process was repeated three more times (twice of which resulted in some badly pinched fingers and half-soaked clothes from diving after the crayfish.

Once she had enough, Dela tied with more of the fishing line, the crayfish to the hooks, securing them in such a way that they couldn't bite or snip their way free nor get tangled in growth on the river bottom. The spacing for each hook was approximately ten feet, giving her forty feet of line to work with in all. In order for her to utilize the space, however, she'd need a good sized branch or stick to get it out in the water far enough. It would've been nice if she had a little boat, but wading would have to do for now; thankfully, the water was relatively slow flowing here.

Dela returned to the tree they'd passed previously and used her falx to cut off two armfuls of branches. Both loads were left near a brush that she'd strip to make kindling for a fire with. The longest stick was peeled of its bark and the base sharpened with careful motions of the falx again, the ivory handle well worn into the palm of her right hand. She had no proper carving knife, and had made it through much of her time in the grasses through simple improvisation. That included utilizing the sharp sword in whatever means she needed it to be: in this case, a whittling blade.

The stick finished, Dela returned to the river and tied one end of the fishing line to the stick. She stripped off her pants at this point and waded into the cold water till she was waist deep. Here, she stabbed the stick down as deep as it would go, allowing the crayfish to almost touch the bottom. The opposite end had been previously secured with a second stick, this one shorter. All finished, the woman returned to the shore to set about getting a fire started (and drying off).

Handfuls of twigs from the bush she'd chosen (one who looked predominantly dead) was stuffed into the tent of logs before she fetched her flint and steel. These, she struck against the kindling repeatedly, working until the flames were good and going and catching well to the wood she had. Laughing reflectively to herself, she remarked, "That went a lot better than the bones from that thing in the crater." The drykas straightened afterwards and fetched her blanket from her bags, wrapping it around herself for now while her pants dried on a bush nearby. It was a waiting game, now, both for Vanator, and for the fish.

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[Vanator]

It had been a few bells since Vanator and the strange young scout had parted ways. Once they reached the river, and Van actually saw Delani's signature on the sparse weave of the Web in the area, the Denusk gave Aramenta leave. The ride had been tense, the Drykas woman more distant and tentative than their first meeting, though Van never did discern what about him had put her on edge.

The Dryka's attention now turned to the prospect of finding another family member. Not since the Djed Storm had any other member of the pavilion surfaced aside from himself. Van and Kavala had accepted that they were the only pavilion Denusks to have survived. Then he had stumbled upon word of another.

As Vanator lead Sirocco along the river bank, he scoured his memory for recollections of Delani. Their adventure as children at the Hymnal Caverns, the day her father was killed, the comfort of her presence when he married Tamar. She had been much like a sister, even into adulthood. They did not always get along, she driven by curiosity and the love of knowledge, he compelled much more by his passions and whims. But they were family, and there was certainly love between them.

Off to the north a line of low shrubs marked the course of the river that would intersect with the one he followed. A solitary tree and a thin tendril of smoke rose from the suspected juncture. At that intersection, Vanator was to find Delani. A subtle brush of his heels urged the Strider into a quicker gait, the Denusk man now more anxious than ever. The confluence was ahead.

Slowing to a walk again, Vanator could smell the fire, then saw the horse grazing on the other side of the shrubs. His stomach was fluttering. Slipping from the yvas, he allowed Sirocco to wander as he breached the rough flora, past a pair of pants stretched out over a bush, and into the small clearing along the bank. There, he saw the figure of a woman by the fire, wrapped in a blanket.

"Delani?" He inquired. Though he had positively identified her through the Web, he was still hesitant. It had been so long. He watched, hoping, praying that the face that would turn to him would be a familiar one.

[Delani Denusk]

Movement alerted both rider and horse as something shifted the grasses on the route she'd arrived from. Coram's head came up, his hears rolling forwards and his nostrils flaring wide as he sniffed. Dela had likewise gotten to her feet, a log from the fire grabbed and her falx held tight in her other hand. The burning end of the fire log was pointed in the direction of the tree, her eyes narrowed while the damaged muscles of her left hand tried to keep a good grip on the log. If it was a glassbeak, fire was her only real safety.

The blanket had fallen away in rising, tanned legs bare, and she was just about to shout (hoping to frighten it away) when the figure emerged. It was like a dream, some lost memory stepping from the grasses with words of sorrow ready to share and arms prepared to embrace the girl who was now alone. She had never thought the man emerging would take on his fathers semblance. So, it came as no surprise that the falx and log alike dropped to a neutral position before the latter was simply tossed back into the fire.

Her hands moved tentatively at first, weapon sheathed in its scabbard on the ground before hand while jade eyes refused to leave the ghost, fearing that if she were to blink, it would surely disappear. But no, Eachann was gone. This was not her uncle, and certainly not her father. The fear and longing faded from the womans face, the lines of premature age loosening as her features relaxed into one of pure relief and joy, more than she'd shown in Aramenta's presence.

"I'd never have thought you'd take uncles face, Vanator." She spoke and signed, heedless now as she hurried across the short distance and embraced him. It was the hug of someone who'd too-long been lost and at last, after what felt a life time (to her, it may as well have been), salvation had come. Her arms were tight around him, unwilling to let him go yet, fearing he might disappear like so much had that previous year. Simply fade away or be extinguished in the blink of an eye. "Nor that you would find me. I feared you all dead. And yet, here at last..." She trailed off and finally stepped back, the loose braid on her head stroked with the fingerless gloved hand and a grin that gave her face back some of its youth.

"Hello, brother. You've no idea how wonderful it is to see you."

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