[Flashback] A lady and a farmer (Keating)

[Callisto]

Timestamp: 29th of Spring 509 AV
Location: Wildlands - Ash Family Home
Purpose: Tag Keating

Even at the turn of the day the air was still crisp and clean. The morning had been gorgeous, a bright, optimistic day, with clear blue skies and foliage that seemed to sing toward the heavens. There was no telltale signs of a drastic change of scenery amidst the wilds, but still the young Ethaefal seemed to find herself wandering further and further into the heart of all things natural and foreboding. The trees careened toward her, blocking out the sun and the congregation of dark clouds on the horizon was not something she would have easily invited on a day that had, until then, proven to be kind and merciful.

Oddly enough, however, Callisto seemed unfazed by the drastic downpour of rain that soaked her to the bone. Perhaps it was the Konti blood hidden deep beneath the layers of shimmering, golden skin. The deep sense of a culture she had lost then found once again. Callisto walked with a grace only a Timandre could carry, while the hem of her soft dress lay heavy with lumps of mud, and her bodice was soaked through. Thin streams of rainwater dripped down her slender, grass green horns, and her pale blonde hair clung to her neck and back. She seemed otherworldly, an alien creature who walked with such confidence, even amidst the wild lands she now traversed.

But Callisto, despite her divine status as having once been a chosen of Syna, was still susceptible to fatigue. She had walked for miles, many many miles from the Konti Isle. Amazed, intrigued and wanting more. It had been the first time she had seen the world of Mizahar as it was since her death nearly 300 years ago. Now her steady walking had slowed, as on the horizon, the tip of a building emerged and sparked her interest once more. It appeared to be a home, a dilapidated home, burned and rotting from neglect. She approached it, lightly touching the outer walls with a golden hand. “Ah, but there is tragedy in every life that walks these lands…” She murmured softly.

It was the curiosity that willed her legs further, cautiously entering through the rotted doorway that threatened to fall at any given moment. Old furniture was strewn about the floor, with deep burns staining it black. Even after so much time, this home still smelled of death and burning. She could sense it in the splintered wood, and the creak in the floorboards. But when she passed through the various bedrooms, Callisto came about the skeleton of what appeared to be a human on the floor. Ah, yes…. Death, so easily claimed. It was morbid, being here, but Callisto, it seemed, didn’t mind the overwhelming sensations of sorrow that enveloped the home. If anything, she was glad something as intriguing as this remained to be explored.

[Keating Ash]

What need had Keating of culture? Or riches? Everything he had ever desired was here, on this broken, old farm. Everything… except Rose. And it was she who had driven him away all those years ago! No matter where his head had rested since his abrupt leave taking, he was still a man of Bala. A man of the land. The farm’s fertile, moist soil filled his pores, while the season’s growing cycles claimed his soul. This desolate farm was his foundation, already he felt more grounded than he had in years, and he had only been back less than a day. Keating had stoically wandered the discarded fields and through crumbling buildings, his booted feet heavy in the overgrown pastures and empty pens. Silence. This was the only home he had ever known. How he wanted to remain here! But Loss! Regret! Pain and Anger, all warred within him, and pushed him to leave, to move on and continue his search. Weather meant nothing to him now, neither the beautiful morning just past, or the heavy darkness of the current rain storm penetrated his gloom. The downpour had caught him in the fields, sitting upon an old, stone fence, one leg propped against the crumbling stones of a dividing wall for support. At first, he had bent low to pick at the weeds that choked this edge of field. But he soon grew angry and viciously grabbed at them, ripping the offending plants from the earth’s gentle embrace, only to throw them in disgust as far from him as he was able. He soon realized it was no use; too many years had gone by. So he sat and brooded over the loss. Loss of farm, of family and Rose. And of the life he hoped to one day have. He bent once more to scoop up a handful of the wet, dark soil. Squeezing his fist, it clumped together but as he opened his large palm, the dirt sifted through, falling from his fingers. His hands and nails were black from it, but the land was still good! The soil was good… How he loved it here, and how he loathed it! And always he was compelled onward to see if he could find any trace of the girl he had walked away from. He needed to go! Right now. Otherwise it would become too difficult to leave. Even soaked as he was, it made no difference, he could not stay. He turned and stood. But in the burned out house, a hint of movement caught his eye, a splash of color where none should have been. A trespasser! Dark eyes hard, Keating moved closer, and picked up a discarded wooden slat lying on the ground. Testing its weight, he gripped it tighter. He slowly wound his way around an outer building and stepped through the doorway of what remained of the main house. He proceeded cautiously; there was no telling what manner of thief had entered this heartless home. Water droplets spattered what was left of the floor boards underneath his feet, and his shirt stuck to his chest, straining the creases as he crept. Hefting the makeshift weapon, his inner turmoil found a new focus in the intruder. The neglected building creaked around him, and he trusted the rain masked the sound of his footfalls. Through the partially collapsed walls the smell of wet earth was strong and fertile. It was a scent that normally brought him a small amount of joy, but now Keating ignored it to lift the board as he turned into his father’s burnt out room. “You’d best get the petch out or-” Words left him then, as he faltered. The would-be-thief was no thief at all, but a golden skinned woman… Never had he believed to see one such as her in this lifetime, though he had long heard tales of the shimmering Ethaefal. The weapon lowered as his eyes drank in her wet form, from the green horns and the pale, blonde hair to the mud-coated hem of her dress. She stood there, just as soaked as he from the downpour, but still she was not of his world.

[Callisto]

There was history here. A story that begs to be discovered. Bright, citrine eyes scouted the remains of the rotted floorboards and the collection of deep dents and nicks in the wood. She was so enraptured with the possibilities of a wondrous allegory that she had not heard the sounds of an approaching stranger. The incessant pattering of the rain further muffled whatever noise the possible assailant made, making the young Ethaefal a prime target for any would-be culprit. But few often expected magic in a world that have come to fear it.

Callisto had heard the voice of the man before she had turned to address him. She was not startled, as most, sane people would be, instead her curiosity was renewed. Before her stood a man! She had not met any men since leaving the Isle of the White Women, and having seen this one for the first time, her expectations have not lived up to what she wished of them. He was as filthy as she, and as soaked as well. Not only that, he held what she could only presume was a weapon!

“Do you intend to use that board on me, sir?” Came the Ethaefal’s stern, confident tone. Her eyes absorbed him just as he inspected her, and Callisto couldn’t help but find some semblance of a well-groomed man behind the layer of dirt that caked his skin. She cocked her head, “Is this your home?” She wondered, by his strange introduction, if he had something to do with the destruction of this building.

A golden hand reached for the hidden, curled handle in a crook of her bodice. The suvai was comforting against her skin, and she knew enough to understand the risks of meeting strangers. “If you would do me the honor, sir, of telling me what has occurred here, of if you wish, I will simply leave you be with haste.” The rain still pelted through the holes in the wrecked ceiling, dropping onto her matted, blonde hair and washing away the lumps of mud that now pooled at her feet. His presence blocked the doorway leading from the room, thus Callisto chanced a glance behind her, noticing an equally dilapidated window behind her. It would have to do for an exit if this man proved to be unstable.

[Keating Ash]

“Only if you’d like me to,” he answered seriously, still holding onto the lowered board. His eyes shifted to the skeleton near the center of the dilapidated room. He felt hollow. Why was she here, asking such questions! “What home this was, it is long gone.” He said cryptically, the emotion hidden from his face. It would be difficult to say what kind of home this had been for Keating. “What are you doing here? What is it that you want?” And with a snort, he added, “Little stories, to pass the time?” He nodded to the husk of his father, “Stories of small farmers, poor and pitiful to amuse you…? Emotions and drink killed him!” Normally Keating would not speak of this, his personal business, but the Ethaefal did not belong here. He was not himself; simply to stand in this room with its accusing memories unnerved him. And maybe he wished to shock a being such as her. “Despair lived here, and death. Many times over, horrible unnatural deaths. Do you wish also to see the graves of pathetic and bleak children? Once there was love, but that was…” No! He would not tell her! Anger threatened him, to think upon his youthful arrogance and stupidity! Unchecked emotion reached his eyes then, but his face was set stoically. “They were the lucky ones…” Beads of moisture clung to the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, and to his powerful arms. His eyes lingered upon her wet curve of her clothes, and while he did not bother to hide his admiration for her form, she was not Rose, his dark and magical sister. This one was light and ethereal. He said flatly, “You do not belong here. This is no place for the likes of one of your kind.” There was no threat in his words, but still they held danger somewhere within them. Thunder sounded then, reminding him of the conditions on the road. He waited, watching her garments drip and the mud pool at her delicate feet before he lifted his eyes to hers and said, “But you are wet. And it is still raining.” Opening his hand, Keating let the board drop to the floor. It clattered end to end, sending droplets of water to spatter their already drenched clothes. “An old barn is close by. It is not so badly damaged, and mostly dry. I will show you,” he said, “if you like.” And his body began to turn from the doorway, not waiting to see if she would follow.

[Callisto]

Callisto was deathly silent, as much as she was eerily still. This man harbored resentment and sorrow that emanated so powerfully from him, it was difficult for the Ethaefal to ignore. Indeed, there was much history here, and she was right to assume the man had been a crucial part of it. But why would he return? “Why do you torture yourself then, coming to these ruins?” She said quietly yet loud enough to be heard over the incessant patter and the roiling thunderclaps. “What do you hope to gain but the growing rage that is so evident in your eyes.” It was not in her capabilities to feel pity for others, but for some reason she felt the rising tide of aggravation, anxiety and despair. It was brimming underneath his skin just as hers oozed collective calm, even in the face of potential danger. “I must admit, I am unaware of the hardships humans endure, but it must have been terrible to have you here and in such a state.” She cocked her head at his comment, then, "Then, pray tell, you will enlighten me on where I should belong? It is most certainly not on the Konti Isle, and if not here, then where?” She was unfazed by his words, as only a smile greeted him in the silence before he spoke once more. She glanced at her less than impeccable attire, her hand still fastened around the hilt of the suvai, then at the sound of wood clattering against the floorboards she looked up. There was a moment as she considered his offer once he turned to exit. Indeed, the chill of the rain was beginning to melt into her bones, and she was feeling the telltale signs of exhaustion, but even so, would she risk this man to be sheltered and dry? Rain was not so bad… but the unpredictable nature of the wildlands was another matter altogether. In the end, she followed him, but kept a healthy distance, her attention, instead, drawn to the bleak environment that surrounded them. Once they had arrived at the shoddy barn, Callisto settled herself on the driest corner of building, where the rain that seeped through the crater in the roof wouldn’t dampen her dress any further. Slender hands wringed the hem dry, and she was grateful she had a place to sit until the arrival of dusk, where the rain would be a pleasant companion on the journey to come… provided this man didn’t slit her throat unexpectedly. Citrine eyes fell on him as well as a musty bag nearby, then almost abruptly, she spoke, “What should I call you, seeing as we will be in each other’s company for at least, a time.” She continued, “My name is Callisto. …You spoke of ‘my kind’... Please, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, have you seen more of my people?”

[Keating Ash]

“I come here, looking for someone. And you are not her…” he turned; face hard as disappointment shown on his features. “Farming is a man’s life, full of dirt and filth and heartache. She was above it. Like you, she was more-” he stated flatly. A compliment lay in his words, though they were spoken harshly. “Women don’t need this,” Keating picked up a handful of matted, old straw, and let it fall immediately to his feet. Dirt stained his palms; its fine black granules imbedded in the creases. “Even though I am gone from it, it is still mine…” as Rose would always be. “More of your people? The golden ones? No, I’ve not seem them,” his dark head shook. “I’ve only heard stories of the falling… and the longing that comes after…” Watching her, he wondered if the stories were true. Could it be similar to the yearning he felt for Rose? “Is it real, this longing? Does it… consume you?” as it did him, he wondered. Keating wouldn’t speak of his own situation; it would be too much like showing his hand and his own weakness to a stranger. “Keating,” he said as introduction, “Keating Ash – of the prosperous Ash Family Farm.” And his hand rose to include the whole of the dilapidated farm site. A deep, hearty laugh filled the small space between them. “Not even the rats want to call this place home.” He chuckled then; he’d seen how she had looked at him. “I’m not such an animal that I would attack you,” but Keating certainly looked as if he could, with his thick chest and predatory eyes. “I find the willing much more enjoyable.” But it was hard for the man to ignore Callisto’s nearness, with her otherworldly sensuality. And though Keating longed for another, he found himself desiring this rain soaked Ethaefal more. A heat began to build within him and unconsciously his hands clinched at his sides. Ignoring the growing hunger at his core, he knelt down in front of his pack, rummaged through it and produced a bottle of alcohol. These days he was never far from one. “It will warm you from the chill,” he explained, as he removed the stopper and set the bottle down beside her. Stepping away, he lifted his wet shirt over his head, and peeled it off his thick arms to then wring it out. Tanned back muscles, strong from labor stretched as he lifted to hook the dripping garment on to a broken beam overhead to dry. Then he turned back to the pack and pulled out a spare work shirt. He was about to put it on, when he stopped, Callisto in her wet dress distracting him. Bala! He wanted the Ethaefal! But she was cold, and Keating had no choice but to hold the shirt out to her, “You want this?” he asked. “It’s nothing fancy, but better than that wet thing you’ve got on… and I can try to get a fire started.”

[Callisto]

Her preoccupation with wringing the hem of her dress was stalled. This man wasn’t barbaric. No matter how caked he was to the bone with earth and dirt and… and life. He was as any other she deemed populated the world she now treaded. He was human. Vulnerable, inherently weak, full of sins and emotion so uncontained, it spilled forth into his words and actions; the very ones now displayed to the Ethaefal. Callisto would possibly never feel the way this man was feeling. So human, tormented by unseen forces that reveled in the pain of a mortal. Suddenly, she felt very…. Alive. “What was her name?” Callisto murmured, her eyes fixated on him; so intrigued, was she, by the way he spoke and moved. Her raw, citrine eyes suddenly blinked, and she glanced at the wall. “You show much compassion for this woman. She is either lucky, or damned.” There was no venom in her tone, and even the smile on her lips slackened the potential insult. When he spoke again there was a pause in her gaze, so transfixed it was on the cracks of the wooden walls. He spoke of longing. The longing of my people… Callisto always sought the comforting warmth of the revered Mother Syna. She was trapped in this realm, severed from her sisters and brothers, and it pained her. A golden hand clenched tightly on her knees, and several chimes would have passed before she spoke again. “It would be a lie if I said I did not long to be with my Lady.” She said softly, “I seek to return to Her; to live amongst my divine brethren, free of the mortality of this world. It is love, and it is something more.” Her eyes found Keating’s own; intense, unwavering. “My heart aches to return. Yes, I am consumed by it.” At his introduction, she bowed her head. “A pleasure, Keating Ash of the prosperous Ash Family,” she smiled, “At least you still show hospitality, even in such a bleak atmosphere.” When he turned to rummage through his pack, Callisto settled herself to tearing at the worn and torn portions of her dress, yet when Keating placed the item beside her, and mentioned what it could do, the Ethaefal was skeptical. “What is it?” She inquired, as she bent to pick it up, and placed it beneath her nose. The smell was pungent, strong and bitter. She jerked the bottle back with a slight grimace, “Are you sure this is suitable to drink? The odor is not very enticing.” And yet, Callisto was curious. She sniffed it once more, finding her senses now used to the bitter smell, and tentatively placed her lips to top. It was only one sip, and yet the taste burned all throughout her mouth and throat as she swallowed what little she took in. Almost immediately, the Ethaefal slammed the bottle on the ground, spilling most of the contents on the muddy, grimy floor. “That was vile.” She croaked. But it had, indeed, at least warmed her for a moment, even with the temporary onset of lightheadedness. A lightweight, as it seems, but one that had no intention of taking a another sip of the wretched bottle. “What?” Came Callisto’s rough response to the human’s question. She glanced at him, with naught but his sleek, well-toned muscles meeting her gaze and distracting her for a fraction of a moment. Her eyes roamed her own attire, then returned to the garment Keating was offering. “What a gentleman, will you not be cold yourself?” But her hand reached for his shirt, and she took it without another word. Deft fingers untied the wet bodice she wore, almost second nature. It appeared as if modesty was not something she inherently cared for in such events, as the garment was dropped precariously on the ground, revealing an equally wet top portion of the dress underneath. This she lowered to her waist level, with only her slick, shimmering skin exposed to Keating, and soon deftly covered with his large shirt. It was warmer, with a man’s touch. “Much more comfortable,” She said, as she slid the remainder of her dress from her legs and watched it pool along her feet. “Once my clothes are dry, I will return it to you.”

[Keating Ash]

“Rose, her name is Rose,” he said, “and you’re right, she is damned. And me right along with her.” His eyes shifted and met hers, unwilling to flinch from the dark truth of it. But then oddly her gaze fell on the wall near him. How she studied it. Did she even hear him? What did she see when she looked away? Keating’s eyes though, did not stray. Without embarrassment or the feeling he intruded upon a private moment, he continued to study the Ethaefal. Callisto’s coppery skin, slick and wet drew his attention, but it was her citrine eyes that held it the longest. Her hand clinched her knee, and his eyes rested on her fingers. So different, so not human, but human in form, he thought. He listened to her soft words, “Do you spend your waking hours wishing for a glimpse of Her?” He asked, suddenly interested, “Would it erase the lack that you feel? Even if you could not be reunited?” Callisto sniffed the bottle, and Keating laughed at the face she made. Women were the same, no matter the race! But as she wasted the drink upon the old straw, he sprung quickly. Grapping the bottle and righting it, he yelled deeply, “Hey! That’s good alcohol you’re wasting!” The man lifted the considerably lighter bottle to his lips and drank down the remainder of the spirits, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. “No. I won’t be cold,” he lied to the woman, as he did his best to ignore the wet chill in the air, at least in front of Callisto. And it was her turn to study the shirtless man, and Keating did not shy from her gaze. He had no timidity in him, this was who he was, and he was not ashamed. As she took the shirt from him, he thought about turning to offer her some semblance of privacy. But she appeared not to be concerned with modesty as nimble fingers untied her bodice. Not being modest himself, he saw no need to give her what she had not asked for so he stood where he was. At first he thought she might speak when the ties were undone, but she did not, instead she simply peeled the uppermost garment to her waist. Keating’s nostrils flared at the sight of the woman before him. Still holding the bottle, he took a step closer, the straw crunching beneath his feet. With a jerk of his hand, he tossed the empty bottle to the side, not bothering to look where it landed. But the shirt went on and covered Callisto’s delightful form and he reined himself in and stood watching as the skirt slid off her long legs. His eyes, appreciated the sight, sliding up their length to the now very short seeming shirt she wore. Keating’s body answered with a sudden warmth that infused him. Again his feet brought him nearer, and he knelt next to her, a very large presense. He tried to get a sense of her interest, but she was difficult to read, so he settled for resting his hand along her calf. His thumb moved to caress her flesh briefly as he watched her face. But then he picked up her wet clothes, saying, “I’ll just hang these on a beam to dry. And I’d best get that fire started.” Though one was already lit within him.

[Callisto]

“Rose. What a beautiful name for one so damned.” She didn’t smile as she said this, although Callisto held a certain nonchalant quality that seeped into her words without much thought. Her eyes had still been trained on the wall, but at the mention of her goddess, the Ethaefal wondered whether the mortal man was genuinely curious or trying to incite excitement in her. She remained stoic in the wake of his outburst over the alcohol. It must be a male thing, for the Kontis of Mura never reacted in such a manner over spilled drinks. “You sound as if you speak of yourself, Sir Keating. Do you revere this Rose as a goddess to worship?” Callisto’s hard gaze bore into his, disregarding the fact that he might have been ogling her this entire time. Fair payment, she would say, for having his body up for display for so long. Her eyes did not linger over the contours however, as they quickly found the rain seeping in from the hole in the roof more intriguing. “You do not understand, I see Her every day the light rises from the east and sets in the west. She is alive and well and thriving in her generous warmth, and I see her, I just cannot remain with her.” While she spoke, Callisto had not been aware that Keating approached, and when she felt the touch on her calf the instinctive reaction was a hard slap to his face. Rock hard, that’s the only word describable of his cheek, where her own hand seemed to throb from the aftermath of the strike. “You are bold.” She said simply, as he made to move. She said nothing more for the duration of the time she stood and helped him stack makeshift firewood from the damp corners of the building. Once the flames were high enough, she sat with her legs folded underneath her and her hands on her lap. “Do you always approach women with the intent to touch?” Callisto inquired abruptly, “I thought you craved Rose, or is she no longer on your mind?”

[Keating Ash]

“She is that,” he answered, “an unholy goddess. Dark and frustrating.” And Keating thought, And I can not find her…she is lost to me. But his hand on Callisto’s leg compelled his attention return to the present and as his focus returned to the compelling Etheafel, he was cruelly slapped. The crack rang out through the barn as her palm connected with his darkly, stubbled face. His cheek stung, but if the woman thought to deter him with the attack, she had greatly misjudged. Slowly, Keating’s lips stretched across his face into a handsome, yet dangerous smile. His white teeth shone, and his eyes glinted as he rubbed the side of his face. “You want bold,” he replied immediately, holding her gaze, his blood warming. He stood then, to make the fire, but before he did, his hand squeezed her calf once more. Once the fire began burning, its lazy smoke trailed up into the sky through the broken beams. The warmth spread outward and Callisto sat almost politely near it, but for the shortness of the shirt she now wore. Keating’s eyes were drawn over and over to the fine line where the shirt ended and her smooth legs began. “You wanted to slap me, and you did. But I warn you, I can be much bolder. Are you afraid?” and he knew she wasn’t. He crouched down to stir the fire briefly and settle the branches within it before he sat next to her, on the straw. With the heat surrounding him, Keating enjoyed a renewed energy as the chill upon his naked chest had lifted. Turning his face to hers, he ignored the sting of her question and said with a serious tone, “Rose has been gone a very long time, and we are here. Give me your hand. I want to see if you’ve injured it, in your,,, brutal attack.” And he waited, his own hand extended, with the soft smile still on his lips.