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[Edric Wingard]

92th of Winter, 513 A.V.

He sits upon the peak of a cliff, his feet dangling precariously over the edge. It’s cold out – no, it’s freezing, but the man ignores the icy needles that pierce his skin. At this altitude, the wind is vicious upon his flesh, no trees or mountain crevices capable of protecting him. He doesn’t mind the cold, however; it reminds him that it is important to feel something, regardless of the bitterness that settles into his bones and thickens his blood. From this vantage point, he sees everything; or as far as his eyesight will allow him. Sprawling before him in a seemingly endless array of trees and cliffs is the Unforgiving; its ethereal beauty enhanced by the shimmering snow that has settled upon the barren branches. Whimsical in its illustration, Wingard silently appreciates the scene before him, his breath puffing out evenly.

He doesn’t dare to look downwards towards his homeland; considering what he just witnessed, he does not want to tarnish the beauty of the unknown before him. Where his home used to reside, blood was now its new occupant; a roommate that he never really wanted. He doesn’t need to see the mangled bodies of his people to remind him of the unfortunate facts of life that winter, a season so necessary for the regrowth of the earth, was no friend to the Inarta. He knows of the necessity of hibernation, but he wistfully wishes its time of recuperation was smaller so that his people wouldn’t indulge in such hopelessness and anguish. Yes, it was idealistic to hope that something so timeless like the seasons of the earth could reform to better suit a single race of humans, but whoever stated that he had to be rational all the time?

Beneath him lay countless amounts of bodies; be it friends, acquaintances or unknown people. The majority of those that were unmoving he didn’t know, and his apathetic nature really didn’t allow him to feel sorrow so uselessly, but to watch people of the same race slaughter one another with absolutely no reason disgusted the Avora. Regardless of class, they were the same person, starving and struggling to stay alive in a season that only promoted death. Death of foliage, death of fauna, the death of one’s soul.

Winter sucked the hope from those that needed it most, leaving them with nothing but a hollowed shell. This shell, so empty, did not even have enough food to comfort it; so it curled within the small confines of its body, the ridged ribs digging painfully into one’s flesh. The emptiness festered like a sickness there, sucking the life essence out of the body until it had nothing left to gnaw on but the cracked bones of starvation. It toiled within the confines of the body, cultivating bitterness while reaping its way towards the brain to strangle one's sanity. When that emptiness had nothing left to feast upon within its host, it divested itself and moved on, slaughtering another human because after all, misery loves company.

Wingard shakes his head at such imagery, clenching his blood stained fingers into the snow around him, silently begging for the liquid to melt and coat his hands, ridding him of the taint that creeps into his soul. He has never slaughtered one of his own before and now that he has, the Eagle cannot help but feel unclean. Like Lady Macbeth and her obsessive hand washing, Edric only wishes for solace; for peace of mind, for forgiveness.

Clenching his teeth at such an obvious show of weakness, the young Kelvic continues to stare out aimlessly at the open sky before him. Leth has already settled in for the night, the remnants of Syna’s reign long gone beneath the darkened sky. He watches as a white bird lifts off from a deadened tree below, its form cutting through the blackened background like a beacon of hope. It flies so beautifully that for a moment, Wingard yearns to join it, but instead, he watches as it distances itself from the slaughterhouse known as Wind Reach, its form disappearing over the horizon.

Traveling, to a place Wingard would never know.

[Edric Wingard]

His fingers are numb, now.

Idly, he brings them forth to his face and blows on them. His breath is cold too. Slipping the frozen appendages into his katinu, he notes their freezing presence upon the warmth of his chest, but he doesn’t shiver. Wingard has long since passed the stage of sensibility and he nonchalantly wonders if his lips are blue. Licking them subconsciously, he feels the cracks of dehydration and it stings; the Kelvic cannot help but indulge in such a sensation. Everything else seems dead and unfeeling, so he takes advantage of what he can.

It is obvious to the hunter that he is going through shock. It is not every day that he can sit so listlessly upon the mountain’s edge and not feel anything but elation. A stance like this would normally urge the eagle off of the cliff to fly, but Wingard does not feel like praising the skies tonight. The joy that would come so easily from such a dance is absent as he feels the restraints of his circumstance so clearly. Having already attempted a flight, the Kelvic knows that the satisfaction is gone and wonders how a creature borne into the skies can wear such chains.

Wingard has always wanted to explore the wide expanse of the world before him. His thirst for knowledge is so strong that it drives him daily to answer inquiries that others refuse to respond to. Be it simple questions over the cultural dynamic of the Inarta, or subjects more complex like the origin stories of the Gods, or basic physics, the rapture has chased after intelligence like a child would a lick of ice cream. It is a habit that he cannot help; like his mother who instilled the passion for change and transit, Wingard yearns for the opportunity to go abroad to seek out more knowledge for himself. Like his animal side, he enjoys hoarding beautiful things, and rather than gems or shiny jewellery, the Kelvic wants books.

Unfortunately being brought up in a society so ethnocentric has left the russet-haired man much to be desired. He’s well aware of his ignorance and it angers him that he’s so stupid. How can one that craves for such enlightenment be so idiotic? His people, the people that reside below him that are still slaughtering one another, are so satisfied within their culture that they cannot bother themselves to learn about others. The hypocrisy of it all disgusts the Avora. Men that can slaughter their own race, merely because of their caste system do not deserve to feel such arrogance or content with their culture. When one can murder those of the same blood and not feel regret, there must have been a malfunction of upbringing along the way.

The eagle sighs. He wishes so idealistically that he could have been like his mother; the flighty bird that visited whenever she felt like it and journeyed far and wide because she could. He wishes, so childishly, that he could take a step away from this place and allow his eyes to settle upon foreign lands. His mind, so ready for molding, dreams of those moments, but his soul – the soul of a Wind Eagle knows that this cannot be. His colony is his family, and a colony bird without their own, is nothing. This conundrum is what holds him back from visiting the world. He faces an inner battle within himself that he cannot beat because in order to do so would be to destroy his soul.

Thus, he is a bird chained.

It is rather ironic to him, this paradox that he faces. How can a creature that has the open sky available to him, face limitations such as distance? Birds are generally exempt from the restraints of life; their ability to not be bogged down by physical landmarks or gravity a grace given to them by Zulrav himself. But he is different, because although his mind yearns for travel, he is a homebody of a bird. Nesting and bonding with an Inarta are the dreams of all Wind Eagles, and although he is not fully like them, he is one nonetheless. Wingard finds it rather funny, in a morose sort of way, that he faces this challenge of acceptance daily. Unlike many others that fear that society holds them back, Edric knows that he is his own worst enemy.

Closing his eyes, the Kelvic tries to remember how to breathe again. Up here, he has found solace, but still his heart beats madly in his chest, reminding him of the terror he had witnessed below. He knows that it would be best for him to climb down from his hideout and assist in purging their city of blood and gore, but the Avora cannot muster enough motivation to do so. Although he murdered a Chiet, a man whose face he can hardly remember, Wingard did not support such violence, nor can he condone it by burying it beneath a rug and pretending that it didn’t happen. Even the thought makes bile rise in his throat and he is disgusted by the actions of the last two days. His realistic side taunts him with the simple reminder that at least there are fewer mouths to feed, but many that were murdered hardly ate to begin with, so it hardly mattered.

The young man sighs again. He feels like in the span of fourty-eight bells he has grown older than his youthful days had granted him. Wearily, he rubs his face with his chilled fingers, tucking a leg up beneath the other as it continues to dangle over the edge. He’s so tired, and for once in his life, beyond his need to educate himself, Wingard wishes to fly away, only to escape the macabre below.

Footsteps are approaching, he notes, warily. Already, his hand rests upon the comforting steel of his sword, his eyes peering watchfully over his shoulder as they render the distance between them mute. He remembers a time, not that long ago, when an approaching figure would be treated amicably, not with caution and an edged blade.

[Turrin]

The protests of the previous day turned into full blown riots on the second day. Turrin was amazed at the level of rage the lower castes had for the higher castes. No one was safe in the inner warrens, so the War Hawk Endals were starting to live up to their name as they waged a blood slaughter against the ill equip lower castes. Luckily, he was able to reach Syveris and Azira. He just wished that he could stay with Syveris, but he knew that his duty as a Endal called him back to the riots, so he left her to rejoin the ranks with the rest of him comrades in arms. The Endal were called upon to bring order to the city and bring the riots to a end, but the sheer number of angry Dek and Chiet made it difficult to bring the city back from the edge of madness. In the end, order was just a hollow word uttered by fools hoping for peace. Nothing could quell the rage of the masses, so the inner warrens ran red with the blood of the Inarta. Leaning up against the wall of the warren, Turrin looked at the bloody sword in his hand as he stared down at the body of a Dek at his feet. Glancing up, Turrin narrowed his eyes as two more Deks joined the fight against the Endal. Taking shallow breaths, the Myrian gave the Dek and gave them a predatory grin, “...You two need to put down your weapons and leave...” Pointing his talon sword at the body of the their fallen comrade, Turrin stated firmly, “Or I promise you that you will be rotting by your friend here.” Turrin wanted to give them a chance to retreat, but the Dek weren't phased by his threat since he foolishly was lead into a dead end. Turrin kept his back to the wall as they slowly approached him. The two Dek were armed with makeshift clubs made from broken table legs. However, the dried blood stains on the sides gave the Endal a grim picture in his mind that these clubs had already killed someone. Taking a defensive stance with the talon sword pointing at the head of one of the approaching Dek. Turrin glanced at the body of the dead Dek, and he knew that he could use it in the battle. It would be a obstacle for them to get around, so he stayed put and waited in silence for their attack. Turrin's mother told him that being patient in battle will keep him alive. When the first Dek attack, the cornered Endal grinned and murmured a prayer to Myri for victory. The first Dek charged him with a two handed swing at his head. Turrin could feel the splinters of broken wood as he ducked under his blow letting the wooden club shatter against the wall. Turrin saw that he was off balance since he had one leg on the body of his fallen comrade, so the Endal put his hand on the pommel of the hilt, lunged forward, and thrust talon sword into the stomach of the Dek. The Dek's eyes went wide as the blood poured from the wound to his abdomen. Dropping the broken stump of the club to the ground, the Dek was now helpless, but he was still alive. Turrin glanced over the shoulder of the helpless Dek at the other Dek who seemed to lost all his courage. The Endal knew Dek were cowards in a one on one confrontation, but they were a fierce four in numbers. Turrin yanked the curved sword from the belly of the Dek and let the Dek fall to the ground holding his stomach.

[Turrin]

Walking over his body, Turrin stalked the last Dek who seemed to be back peddling away from him. Turrin knew that he couldn't let the Dek get away alive since the Endal had a feeling that if he found a group of renegades the Dek would find the courage to kill again. Suddenly, the Dek turned and started to flee down the warren, so the Endal dropped his talon sword to the ground and grabbed the throwing ax at his side. Turrin took a shallow breath as he lined his left foot with his target. Lifting the throwing ax up with his arm, he moved his arm forward and let go of the ax when the head of the ax was lined up with the back of the Dek. The Endal watched the ax wobbly soar toward the intended target, but it fell short and missed the Dek as he rounded the corner and disappeared down the warren. Picking up his talon sword, Turrin retrieved his throwing ax disappointed that he couldn't get the other criminal. Putting the ax in his holster, Turrin wiped his bloody blade on one of the bodies of the fallen Dek. The Endal looked down at the Dek who was holding his stomach and groaning. The Endal knew the man wouldn't make it, but he wasn't going to put him out of his misery either. It might be cold and heartless, but the Endal knew it was fine punishment for a man who broke the law. Turrin decided to continue his patrol down the warrens hoping that he wouldn't run into anymore people bent on murder. As Turrin patrolled the warren, the Endal didn't encounter any more resistance, but he could tell by the panicked people running by him that the violence hadn't subsided yet in other warrens. Eventually, Turrin made it to a hole in the wall caused by one of the many mizaharquakes. Turrin looked in the hole and noticed that he could feel a fresh cold air blowing threw it. Feeling adventurous, Turrin made his way through dark crack in the mountain. Turrin felt his away through it with his hands heading to the source of the fresh air. Eventually, he saw light at the other end, so he quicken his pace. When he got to the other side, Turrin took a deep breath of fresh air and shielded his eyes until they finally adjusted in the light of Syna. When his golden eyes adjusted to the light. Turrin saw a young man sitting on the edge of a cliff. He wasn't wearing a lontev of Dek attire. However, he could be a hostile chiet, so he kept his hand near his talon sword hilt just in case the man attacks him. Suddenly, the man turned his head around and Turrin noticed the sharp features of Wingard. Turrin moved his hand away from his hilt and said with a weary smile in Nari, “It good to see a friendly face, Edric.” Turrin paused a moment when he noticed Leth starting to take his place in the sky. The Myrian lost all concept of time in the madness of the city. It seemed like a bell ago that he woke up for his daily patrol. Sometime during the day, he got separated from the rest of the Endal. Walking forward, Turrin realized that he was covered still covered in blood, but he figured the Avora would understand since the Wind Reach was collectively loosing it's mind at the moment. Turrin walked closer to the edge, knelt besides him, and stared off into the sunset. The Myrian watched the red horizon and asked without looking at him, “Do you think the gods are laughing at the Inarta right now?”

[Edric Wingard]

Turrin’s approach brings relief to the wary Kelvic. He does not consider the Myrian a friend, as they have had far too minimal of contact to initiate such a relationship, but a friendly face eases the tight claws of hopelessness that have been clenching at his chest. He watches quietly as the man loosens his hold on his own weapon; dropping his shoulders and relaxing his stance as he draws nearer. He greets him genially, but the Eagle can only nod his head in assent before his gaze is drawn back to the Unforgiving. He sees the splatters of blood and brain matter that decorate the warrior close to him and he shudders inwardly at such a reminder.

Wingard realizes that he hasn’t let go of his blade.

Releasing the sword, he draws his hands close to himself as Turrin squats; his form strong and virile. Idly, he wonders what the man has seen and if such encounters have marred his reason like his, but he does not voice his opinion. Instead, he listens silently as the Myrian breathes; his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. The eagle matches his breathing easily enough, slowly easing the tension that had gripped onto his lungs and squeezed. Turrin really is of no consequence to the Kelvic, but witnessing his presence reminds the Avora that although the time is bleak, there is a silver lining present. No matter the amount of death that mars the floor of their city, people will rise from the gore and rebuild.

He smiles slightly at this, closing his eyes as he continues to breathe deeply. Meditation has never been important to him, but he is slowly beginning to realize the peace that it can bring forth. With each inhale of crisp, cold air, Wingard begins to battle the sluggishness that resides in his mind. Like a thick fog blocking his senses, the man works to relieve the disconnection he feels within himself. He easily notes the somberness that has settled into his bones, defeating him. This self-pity that he readily despises in others has seeped so completely into him that he does not know how to bear its overwhelming pressure, but he tries valiantly. He is disgusted in himself for sinking so low; the hypocrisy of his situation tasting like bitter cyanide on his tongue.

He re-opens his eyes as Turrin finally breaks the silence, his roughened voice delivering a contemplative question. He quirks his head sideways at the inquiry, his mind slow as it pieces together an opinion. Are the gods laughing at them?

He frowns. It is not a matter of questioning their humour, but rather the actual importance of their people to the gods, he thinks. Realistically, the Inarta are insubstantial to them. As a people, they are nothing but simply ignorant vagrants that were satisfied with their limited knowledge. They do not bother to change or grow, so they could hardly be considered interesting in a world that was consistently expanding. No, Wingard thinks, they were hardly important. If anything, their people were simply a race to be toyed with; a naïve, opportune tool to utilize for the gods enjoyment if the sealing of Ivak were any indication. They had been played by them; their ignorance exploited with magic they feared until they suffered the greatest of consequences when the gods’ forsaken plans backfired upon them.

“No,” he says, stating it out loud this time, his voice nothing more than a whisper upon the wind, “I don’t think we’re even worth a laugh to them.”

He doesn’t bother looking at Turrin as he speaks, preferring for their debate to be free of physical indications or emotion. He is tired after all, and the idea of reading his companions reactions is cumbersome and unappealing to him, so he faces forward, “We are merely ants upon a mountain of opportunity that we will never scale. If I were a god, Turrin, I would see Wind Reach and bare my teeth at such a primitive existence, disregarding it as piteous and unentertaining.”

It is worthless, really. The Inarta being important enough to warrant the gods’ attention is a laughable concept on its own. It may be sad, and it was lamentable, but even then Wingard knows that their actions aren’t even worth the gods’ scorn.

He does not sigh again but merely purses his lips at the truth they speak.

It's so cold.

[Turrin]

Turrin turned his gaze from the colored horizon to the shadowy valleys below him and contemplated Edric's words. The Myrian grew up with a deep devotion to the goddess Myri, so when he came to Wind Reach, it was hard to him to grasp the fact the red haired human's didn't have a patron deity A few called themselves worshipers of Ivak, Priskil, or Eywaat, but none of them put their god or goddess in the forefront of their lives like the Myrian. It was the reason why Turrin called them a godless people. When Zulrav came to Wind Reach in the fall and demanded the head of the Despised, he wondered for a few days if the wind god was going to stake his claim on the red haired humans. However, the high priest came to Wind Reach, and no one was converted. In the end, the Inarta stayed godless after Zulrav left, and now Wind Reach was in flames. In truth, Turrin was starting to see the pot starting boiling between the upper and lower castes for sometime now, so he figured a major crisis like a famine would be a fine catalyst to ignite the fires of unrest and change. He doubt the conflict will stop when the riots end, but maybe the leadership in Wind Reach might open their eyes finally to the social problems in their city. Sitting down the end, Turrin dangled his feet over the edge and said with a nod, “You might be partly right, Edric.” Turrin paused for a tick or two and continued, “I believe the Inarta to stuck in this world to worry about the heavenly realms. Inarta seemed to have one thing on their mind, survival, so it could be hard to worship a patron god or goddess if they are to busy concentrating on filling their bellies. It probably the main reason why the strong take advantage of the weak. I noticed when I joined the Endal ranks. The Endal and Avora feel entitled to their rewards and power because they contribute “more” to society. This entitled mentality can lead to us justifying our abuses of the lower castes. Endals are free of repercussions of our actions till now... ” Feeling the temperature of the day starting to fall, Turrin put up his hood and said softly, “In Taloba, civil violence like the riots in Wind Reach are unheard of since Myri would quickly put a stop to petty squabbles between clans.” Looking at his hands, Turrin said with a hint of sadness in his voice, “Even if the barbarians think my father's people our savage, my father's people would never even consider killing our own people. Murder of Myrian by another Myrian is a capital offense in the eyes of my people and the eyes of my Goddess-Queen.”

[Edric Wingard]

The eagle listens easily to his companion as he speaks; the words that spill from his mouth obviously impassioned. It is both a welcomed sound and a grating one to him as he has now seen both the good and the bad that can arise from such a dominating emotion. He wants to partially shy away from it, as the strength that is resonating in Turrin’s voice is nearly overwhelming in is grandeur, but the Avora also knows that like anything in this world, it is the wielder that one needs to worry about – not the tangible instrument. Refraining from resituating his body at a more comfortable distance away from the Myrian, Wingard forces his body to relax. He clenches and unclenches his fists beneath his katinu, the chilled fingers brushing against his lap as he breathes slowly. Each inhale shocks his system with cold air, but he relishes in it; picturing the oxygen entering his nose and mouth, visualizing it as it travels through the intricate canals of his body until it reaches his toes, before breathing out again. Each exhale disperses the horrid toxins from his body, and it only takes a few chimes of silence for the man to feel like himself once again.

The deadened air between them is hardly awkward when Turrin finishes speaking and settles into waiting for Wingard’s response. The wind is still angry under Zulrav’s attentive intangible fingers, but its whistling is comforting to him so he allows the pregnant pause to grow. He contemplates the words of his companion sullenly, silently wondering about why such a man that is hardly chained to Wind Reach decides to stay. Turrin embodies nearly everything that the eagle wishes he could be. It goes beyond the obvious difference in their ranks to a perspective of freedom. This Myrian, a title and race that Wingard can hardly begin to understand due to his ignorance, has the opportunity to move elsewhere and continuously explore; his form untied to the societal structure of their home. Just like he speaks of leaving his previous city, if Turrin truly wanted, he could say goodbye to his eagle and move elsewhere with hardly a disturbance. This freedom and lack of commitment is what the hunter envies and it eats away at him that he will never have the same opportunity as his companion.

Licking his parched lips in an unconscious gesture, he continues to stare emptily out into the open expanse of land before him. He simply wants to understand how one can turn down such an opportunity of knowledge and adventure. Why must one yearn for stability through roots that they cannot live nomadically forever? Why is it that a Myrian; a man that speaks so positively about a location that Wingard does not know or would even be able to place on a map, leave such a place, and not return? What is simply holding him to a city that he obviously does not fully accept, appreciate, or follow? Edric is tied to Wind Reach where his only consolation lies in the freedom he feels when escaping into the skies, but even he wonders where he could go if he simply allows Zulrav to carry him. Does Turrin not relish that sense of adventure?

Leth is dominant now, he notes. Blinking slowly, he swallows loudly as his throat is parched and water has not been seen as a necessity for some time. Still disregarding Turrin’s physical presence, he speaks quietly once again; his mind unsettled as it swims through the myriad of questions and non-answers that plague it.

“I do not know where Taloba is, nor can I state that I understand the ethical status of a race that my only experience with is through you, Turrin, but I simply have to wonder why you would leave such a place if its ethics have followed you here.” Craning his head upwards, he watches the twinkling stars with the intensity of a man that is searching for answers, “Why do you not return to such a place? Do you still find Myri, this goddess of yours, present in your life as you face the harsh desperation of starving people and how can you justify your belief in a goddess that does not care for anyone that does not believe in her? I find it laughable, that you can praise a creature that only bothers ending squabbles between her own, and does not take advantage of a lost race and utilize her teachings where they would benefit most.”

He does not laugh at the hopelessness he feels, but even he can detect the anger that simmers beneath the surface and sparks in his eyes. All he wants is answers; answers to these questions that he cannot fathom. These gods and goddesses are useless to him now, but should it not be different? When one has nothing, should they not hope for the presence of an unfathomable being to save them?

He feels nothing.

[Turrin]

As darkness enveloped the land, Turrin watched Leth take Syna's place in the heavens. The Endal had to admit that it was peaceful night even with the madness raging inside the mountain. The Endal glanced at the Avora next to him and noticed the young man seemed to hold himself higher than his current position in life. Turrin knew the man needed to be careful with attitude around other riders otherwise he might learn his station in life rather quickly after everything dies down in the city. Most riders don't like being talked back too especially by the Avora. Edric's personality didn't bother Turrin much as long as the blond man didn't decide to insult him. In truth the mongrel rider found it rather refreshing to have a normal conversation with someone without having caste get in the way of the discussion. Turrin unhooked the water skin from his belt and took a small sip of water. The myrian hasn't had much sleep since the riots have started since the Valintar needed constant Endal on patrols to deal with the rage of the lower castes. He was just glad that Syveris and Azira was safe, but he still haven't heard any word from Drusilla, so he was starting to worry about the Symenestra. Turrin listened to Edric and noticed the man seemed to eager to understand his reason for leaving Taloba and his devotion to the Goddess-Queen Myri. They were both very personal questions to ask of a acquaintance , but with all the violence and heighten emotions swirling around the city, personal boundaries really don't exist at the moment. Turrin could see the fatigue on Edric's face, so he corked his water skin, handed it to Edric, and said to him with a nod, “Help yourself.” Turrin looked back at the stars and said simply, “The choice to leave my homeland wasn't my own..” Turrin paused and rubbed his chin thinking of the day his grandmother banished his mother and sister from the clan and continued softly, “No I am kidding myself... I made a promise to my late father that I would take care of my mother and twin sister after he died, so when that hag of women banished my mother and her granddaughter from the clan. I couldn't let my twin sister and sick mother venture through both the jungles of Falyndar and mountains of Kalea alone...” Turrin let out a small laugh and said to him with a half grin, “You would be surprised what you would do for someone if you love them.” Suddenly, the guilt of failing at his promise hit him and the proud myrian turned his gaze back to the stars and said with a hint of sadness in his voice, “To bad... I couldn't keep my promise.” Turrin thought about his critical question about his faith to his goddess, and he realized that he actually never questioned his faith to Myri. It was just a part of him like breathing, so he didn't think about his faith vary often. Turrin looked at the blood on the top of his hand decided to answer his question. Still looking at his hand, the Endal said with a smile, “You sure ask the tough questions don't you, Edric? In truth, I have faith in a few gods, but I would die for Myri if she commanded me too.” The myrian looked up at the blond man and said plain, “Even though, I have faith. It doesn't make a mindless drone, so I hope your not thinking I am one. I just find solace in knowing that a higher power is watching over me,” Turrin continued “Myri is the goddess of war, battle, and victory after she defeated the god Ruros the old god of war. She claimed the title as her own. When she was mortal, she brought stability to jungle of Falyndar with a point of sword. Before Myri became a goddess, the people known today as the Myrian were just a bunch of warring clan bent on conquering and destroying each other for the sake of resources and their own power.” Thinking about his last statement, Turrin paused and snickered to himself, “Don't get me wrong. I am sure my Goddess-Queen had selfish reasons for uniting the clans too, but I see her as a stabilizing figure in our society and less of just a marauding warlord bent on death and destruction.” The Endal looked at him and said simply, “Myri took my father's people from the darkness of barbarism to the light of civilization.” Turrin said with pride in voice, “... she made a nation that could rival the great city of Syliras in the heart of the jungle.” Turrin realized that he was getting off track, so he decided to answer his question about returning to Taloba, “I could never abandon Aponivi, Edric. Other than my best friend, Drusilla, the wind eagle is my family now. I am not sure if you could understand the bond of a wind eagle and I share, but it feels like you reunited with another part of your soul when you bond with a wind eagle.” Realizing he getting off topic again, Turrin said with a nervous laugh, “Sorry, I keep getting off subject again.” Turrin realized the depth of his question on the reason why Myri hasn't come to the aid of the Inarta, and Turrin decided that he wasn't going to sugar coat the answer, “Any warrior seek assistance from the Goddess of War to gain victory, but she has her own people, Edric. I doubt the Inarta would survive if the full might of Myri armies brought their religion to Wind Reach. The river of Sankias would definitely run red that day and the screams from the alters would deafen the inner warrens.” Turrin inwardly shuttered at the thought of his mother's people being under the boot of the Myrians. Even though, he praised Myri as his patron god. The Inarta weren't militarily equipped to fight the Myrians. It would be a massacre. Yes, the Inarta had the wind eagles, but the Myri horde destroyed countless civilizations in the jungle of Falyndar if they ever got the urge to expand their borders past the jungle. The whole planet would tremble at the sounds of the march horde. Turrin looked at Edric and said with a smile, “I am a mongrel Edric, so I have the blood of devote warriors and the blood of proud aerial hunters running through my veins. I love both the people of my parents, and I would gladly spill my blood in defense of my people.” Turrin decided to ask since they were on the subject of intimate questions, “I have a feeling you are questioning your place in Wind Reach, so what happened to you in the madness that made you think of far off places like Taloba, and you're reason for staying in Wind Reach?” The myrian wasn't stupid since he knew this grilling by the Avora wasn't necessarily aimed at him. The Avora had something weighing on his soul, and the Endal figured the young man was looking for his place or a meaning to his life. It happened a lot on the battle field. After the loss of his whole family, Turrin did the same kind of soul searching for a time. Turrin waited for the young man to answer as the Endal looked off into the night sky hoping in the morning would bring peace to his mother's homeland.

[Edric Wingard]

The eagle listens quietly as his companion speaks; the rumbling of his deep voice penetrating the fog that has settled in his mind, creating such a detachment. Slowly, like for the first time since this horror movie has happened, the hunter finds himself awakening from the obscure vision he is existing in and the colours of Mizahar seem to grace his eyes at their full luminance. It is comforting for him, he thinks, drawing his eyes downwards towards the offering hand and the water skin that comes with it. For a tick, he simply stares at the charitable act, his emotional side close to the surface as he silently wonders how one cannot find their hearts so heavy and hardened that the act of caring for other soon becomes foreign to them. Turrin, it seems, still holds onto his humanity, unlike him, and the russet-haired man can only look at his fellow warrior with a humbled feeling of respect. He has left this battle feeling nothing but disgust with his fellow humans, and yet, here beside him, sits a man that has seen the worst of many, and still tries to be different. He does not give in to the tempting emotions of indifference, but instead fights to continue the act of goodness.

Smiling slightly, Wingard takes the offered drink, uncorks it, and brings it to his lips.

This man, although rather different from himself, has reminded the Kelvic that hope cannot be permanently lost and that in order for one to continue living, they need to accept their circumstances and let go of the darkness; lest it devour the soul. Turrin’s simple gesture of companionship – nay, of friendship - hit a chord within the rapture, touching his own sense of pride to the point that this Endal has earned his respect. Regardless of whatever was to follow, Wingard would not forget this moment of humility and charity. Drinking enough to quench the thirst that had previously overtaken him, the eagle did not let go of the water skin immediately. Turrin had dutifully begun answering his questions, his words flowing from thoughtful lips as he opened up to the young Avora.

The Kelvic listened carefully to each answer, an old spark seeming to reignite in his sternum as the Myrian easily spoke of a culture that he did not understand. The knowledge that seemed to flow from his companion’s lips, reminded the eagle of what he lived for; of the freedom he attempted to achieve through books when his soul and body were bounded so tightly. The concept of Myrian life and of Taloba interested the man and he eagerly wanted to ask more questions about such a culture, but figured that now was not the place to do so. Turrin spoke of his family so openly and with such affection that Wingard too wondered what such a feeling was. He had never felt such love or adoration for his own kin as it went against the Inartan culture; his father was simply a man that took care of him until he could do it himself, while his mother was a rather absent face of knowledge and encouragement whenever she decided to come about. Were family ties seen as something to cherish and covet in other places? Absently, he thought back to Ainyi and her absurd attachment to her father and contemplated if she felt a similar emotion like Turrin.

Hmm’ing lightly, the eagle felt himself interrupting Turrin as he spoke of the broken promise he felt towards his family. It was obvious that they had perished somewhere along his timeline, but the actual point was unclear to the Avora and he was rather interested in this feeling of remorse and responsibility the Endal seemed to feel over such an incident. Considering that Wingard had never truly felt deeply for another being, these concepts of guilt over deaths he was going to hypothesize were not actually Turrin’s fault, but rather an unfortunate series of events, were completely foreign to him. If caring for someone pushed one towards such illogical feelings, why would one bother with the offending emotions? It didn’t make sense to him for the Myrian to feel such responsibility over others simply because he gave something as flimsy as a promise to them. After all, everyone died, so why bother protection from Dira?

But perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t death that Turrin felt the need to protect them from, but rather the method of such an action. Pursing his lips slightly, the eagle looked at his companion from the corner of his eyes and wondered. His head cocked to the side slightly as he contemplated their ends, but he again had a nagging feeling at the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Ainyi urging him to not question what he figured she would call a ‘sensitive topic.’ It killed a little piece of him to stem his curiosity, but he reasoned within his mind that upsetting the Endal would probably end this enlightening conversation as well. Pouting inwardly, he kept his mouth shut, resorting to studying the downcast expression that seemed to decorate the man’s face instead. It was nowhere near enough of an indication to quell the insatiable need to understand, but Wingard figured that the downturned lips, muted eyes and tiredness that seemed to settle over his face was a result of such a negative emotion.

Realizing that he had been asked a question over his comprehension of the feeling of unity a bond could bring, the eagle found himself laughing somewhat bitterly out loud. Up until that moment, he had hardly bore a notice to the use of his old name, but hearing it paired with such a previously sensitive topic felt like someone decided to drag sand over freshly scarred flesh.

“Nay, Turrin,” he stated, his lips pulling up lightly into a cruel smile, “I do not know of this unity you speak of. When I was young, I used to dream of a bond that you describe until I realized that as an eagle and a man; only I could fill such a void that existed within my heart.” Looking at the Endal beside him, he continued; his eye focused solely on his companion’s, locking him into a deep connection, “That moment of clarity, Turrin, was when Edric died.”

Wingard did not bother going into further detail, but his features were nonchalant as if he spoke of the weather, rather than the apparent death of an alter ego. Looking back up at the stars again he continued, redirecting the conversation like the Myrian did moments earlier, “I do not wish for my people to be slaughtered, you must understand, Turrin, but one can simply wish that they could see the err in their ways. I am not foolish enough to believe that such a simple loss of life such as these riots will do anything to alter their ignorance – but I wish it would, which could make me just as a foolish as those below us.”

Smiling over the irony, the eagle broke for a moment to continue thinking, his eyes never straying from the sky as he attempted to recreate the initial barrier of indifference they had going earlier. “I do not think I am as selfless as you, Turrin. You care far too much for people you hardly know. I escaped with Ainyi, but I doubt that if another person had asked for my help, that I would have lent it. This bloodshed, it’s pointless. Death does not make a point, Turrin. It is simply a part of life and just because you end it earlier than needed does not make it a rite filled sacrifice. One little martyr shan’t change things. Hundreds of people are going to die, Turrin, and what for? It is pathetic.

“I am forever stuck in Wind Reach, Turrin. The tick I was borne, I have been tied to this forsaken place like a bird clipped. Each flight I join Zulrav is simply a cruel reminder that I have borders that cannot be crossed and destinations I cannot reach. So you question what I am searching for, Turrin; well, I am looking for reasons to not pitch myself off this cliff right now and simply be done with this imprisonment.”

His breathing was still calm, and his voice was hardly erratic, but the rapture could only wonder what his companion was thinking. Wingard was hardly suicidal, but he’d be a liar if he did not openly admit to his dark meanderings.

No bird wanted to be caged.

[Turrin]

Still looking off into the evening sky, Turrin listened to Edric talk about a bond. Was it a bond between two lovers, or was he talking about a bond like Aponivi and him? Turrin turned his golden eyes to watch the face of the man when he mentioned the little detail about being a man and a eagle. The endal raised an eyebrow and pondered the little hints given to him by Edric, but he sat in silence as he listened to the young man tell his story. Suddenly at the end, Edric told him that Edric died in his heart, so out of respect, Turrin decided to call him Wingard for now on. When Wingard commented on the myrians coming to Wind Reach, Turrin could only just nod in agreement. Myrian's considered everything other than Myrian, barbarians. Half his life, he never heard of his father's people do missionary work to convert the ignorant masses. Yes, as a barbarian you can prove yourself to the Goddess-Queen, but conversation was done by the sharp point of a knife or the edge of a sword. Only in death, a barbarian could be truly converted and reborn into a myrian. Turrin nodded in a agreement about his last statement and said softly, “Wingard, I don't ever want to know a man or woman who cares nothing for his fellow man because in their mind, you and me would just be objects that could be used and thrown away on a whim. Even Zith and Dhani have compassion for each other." When Wingard told him that he thought the riots in the inner warrens were pointless. Turrin shook his head continued his thoughts on the situation, “You might think your foolish for feeling compassion for people, but your compassion will keep you from not becoming a monster. The Endal, Avora, and their lack of compassion for the lower castes caused these riots. If the Endal and Avora don't learn anything from the riots, Wind Reach will fall. The lower castes are fighting for the dignity that they deserve. Even if the endal or Avora recognize it, Chiet and Dek work just as hard as the higher castes, but on a regular basis dek and sometimes chiet are taken advantage by higher castes. The dek are slaves, and the chiet are commoners with little status in our society.” Turrin said plainly, “I understand the reason why they fight, so as a warrior, their life has more meaning in my heart when I deliver them to Dira's dinner table. Understand?” Turrin paused for a moment, and he thought about his own statement. The endal knew that he was charged by the Valintar with protecting the stability of Wind Reach society, but he considered himself a honorable man, so he needed to understand his reason for fighting his own people. If he didn't, he would be in conflict with himself the rest of his life. Turrin looked at the Unforgiving below him and said, “Believe it or not, Aponivi, the wind eagle who choose me cares about the fate of the Inarta, and in the minds of most Inarta, the wind eagles are the closest things to gods. I think the part of the reason why Aponivi choose me a outsider to be his rider because he didn't want to be worshiped. He wanted a person who would challenge him if he got to full of himself. Aponivi wanted to be humbled, so he could relate to the humans who thought so high of him.” Turrin ran a hand through his hair and said softly, “I just wish the wind eagles would say something to the people in charge of the city, but I don't know if they know or care about the state of their people..” Turrin laughed softly, “Sorry that you have to put up with ramblings of a warrior. It might be the lack of sleep and excitement for battle that has given me a rare sense of clarity.” The endal knew that he needed to get back to his patrol, so he stood up, looked at Wingard, and said with a nod, “I can't make decisions for you, Wingard, but I think if you threw yourself off the cliff. It would be a waste because I think that I can call you friend someday.” Turrin shook his head and said with a smile, “Also, it is your life, Wingard. No one has the right to dictate your fate for you, so if you feel trapped, you need to fight with all your strength for your freedom because if you don't than you are truly trapped.” Turrin crossed his arms, and he decided to ask his question, “You mentioned that you were a eagle and man. What did you mean by the statement?”