Azmere was growing impatient with the difficult Drykas. Clearly, in the grand scheme of things, this incident was no big deal but the hunters and the breeder were treating it like the girl –Sloane- had stolen their children. When the smaller young woman stepped around him to add in her willingness to help, the puppies began to wriggle and attempt to escape. One of the little canines had slipped down between two of its siblings and had his tiny bottom dangling. The ankal reached over and plucked the pup with three fingers that barely grazed Sloane’s shirt against her abdomen. Azmere pulled the animal into his other hand and cupped it gently before turning and offering it to the hunter.
He repeated this process one small life at a time until the watchman had transferred every pup from the gentle embrace of the girl to the hunters and the scowling woman; all but the last. For this, the scarred man gave a soft expression with a knowing look to Sloane. He wanted her to hand over the last puppy on her own. Once this was done, the Troha closed his eyes and felt the magic inside of him awaken. He lifted the djed which coursed through all living things to his eyes with a thought and an almost meditative round of breathing. Moments later, when he opened his eyes again, the multi-colored starbursts were twinkling as if they were alive.
The world had become brighter and Azmere almost had to take a step back as the burning tongues of color surrounded everyone in their assembled group including the yipping pups. With a patient expression, the archer looked over at the woman and signed a simple inquiry. How many pups missing. Question. The woman narrowed her gaze as she stared into his eyes. The ankal was used to this since his normal eye color was polychromatic but the pathfinding stars added so much more than just another array of different.
Five. The woman’s hands repeated the number then she cast a sidelong look to the hunters but not before she raised an eyebrow in speculation. Azmere didn’t pay any more attention to her. His head had turned which lead his body past Sloane and towards the broken pen where he had first encountered the girl. His face was hard to read –blank aside from an intense focus upon the ground. As the Drykas passed the blonde, he shot out his right hand to catch her left hand. He was going to need her help and leading her back to the beginning of the problem was the first step.
It only took the tall man a few strides to cover the distance and Azmere was once again standing over a broken pen with pieces of wood scattered here and there. The living stars in his eyes picked up a whirl of tiny streaks of color going in many directions. It was confusing at first then the watchman had an idea. He looked down at the tiny hand he held and noticed green flicks of color coming from Sloane’s fingers. It was the kind of green that grew near water –soft but deep. Azmere released the girl’s hand and knelt down. In the area where the puppies’ paths crossed and folded over one another, so too had the girl’s body left a residual outline of her presence. The man made a long stride from his crouch and moved into this area then turned around slowly with his eyes on the ground.
Azmere’s large form blocked out most of the twisted and tangled patches of color. From his new, perspective, he could see where all of the puppies had gone. Even at such a young age, their pack mentality was there to guide them and help keep them safe. The watchman took a few steps to where the next group of puppy colors were clustered then bent down to examine the grass and mud. Tiny little paws trampled in a similar direction. The scarred man turned his face to look at what the tracks would indicate as a next potential location. There was a small tent near some wagons which seemed to be undisturbed but the pathfinder saw another smattering of the low colors which matched the streaks that hung near the original pen.
The Drykas was about to stand when he noticed a small piece of splintered wood no larger than a child’s finger. He scooped it up and stood then closed his eyes again. The novice pathfinder took a few ticks to remove the djed from his eyes. He knew from experience that pushing his magic through the colored stars for too long bore consequences. Silently, as his gaze returned to its normal gold and blue, Azmere thanked the gods for his encounter with the assassin. While harrowing at the time, the gift had more than made itself worth the adventure.
The scarred man opened his eyes to see one of the hunters regarding him with a cold expression as if waiting for the Watch to fail. This made the ankal smirk but he paid no more mind to the sour man. Azmere looked over his shoulder to Sloane and smiled his warmest half smile. The Drykas was no fool. He scared people with his appearance sometimes and it was to be expected given the number and natures of his scars and anomalies. The archer pivoted his foot and opened his stance to that his back was to the hunters and the breeder. He motioned for Sloane to go towards the small tent where he had seen the colors and the tracks. She should be the one to find and return the puppies. It would bode much better for her task of making amends.
While he waited, Azmere looked down to the chip of wood in his hand. The same djed which fueled the power in his eyes was once again called upon to serve the man’s designs. He stared at the wood and imagined it encased in djed. The novice mage pictured what it would look like and stared at the inanimate object for nearly a chime before he felt the change. His palm slowly began to fill with a translucent gel which attached itself in a thin layer to the piece of fence. Azmere laid his thumb over top of the splinter then closed his hand over his thumb. He rubbed the fat digit against the object he held trapped. The Drykas moved it around against his skin and felt the coating of magic completely shroud the wood. Once this was done, Azmere directed the mystical wrapping to serve a purpose; to protect the splinter from being broken again. The gel hardened and shrunk itself against the object and it instantly felt different in the ankal’s hand. The rough and jagged edges were replaced by a cool and smooth texture which almost made the thing slippery. Azmere smiled and closed his fist around the shard tightly then half walked, half limped towards the small tent to see what Sloane was doing.
Scars are just stories that we wear. - Asmodeus
Textbox by Firenze
