An Absurd Interloper [Lorne]

[Lysander]

Summer 32, 511 AV

There weren't many things in Denval that didn’t amaze Lysander. Whenever Sitkanis would allow it – and sometimes without his knowledge – the youth would slip off to meander through the short streets littered with colorful rooftops and smiling faces. He had his limits: the outskirts of the small town held establishments where he knew if his elder brother caught him he’d be strung up by the boot strings and locked in their cabin indefinitely. The imposing shape of the Temple of Nikali rose in the distance, set atop higher ground than most buildings to insist upon the reverence of its very existence. Syna’s dying glow made it shimmer in his astounded gaze, tempting him. Just a peek inside wouldn’t hurt, would it? The Denvali had spoke highly of the temple and Lysander was able to piece together enough of their archaic-sounding language to know the place was a right of passage for young men his age.

When he had asked Sitkanis about it, the older Ethaefal punitively forbid Lysander to ever set foot in the temple. Ruddy cheeks grew round as his nose wrinkled and lips tightened in a pouting frown; as much as his curiosity burned a hole in his head, he had just garnered enough trust from the Drykas to walk freely about Denval without needing an escort. The boy’s inner conflict clogged the narrow street he stood stationary for nearly five chimes before he finally decided ‘just a peek’ wasn’t worth the wrath of Sitkanis. This distraction had lasted long enough for Syna’s rays to slip beneath the horizon and pull the small city into the darkness of Leth’s reign.

When Lysander emerged from deep thought it was too late to react; there was no time to bolt back towards the safety of his cabin where he had left his satchel in a moment of absentmindedness; streaks of blinding light shot out from between his fingers and forced him to duck into a narrow alley between two houses.

Lysander braced his weight against the white painted wood of the nearest building, cool to the touch beneath his clammy palm and the shoulder that supported his failing balance. His body was ablaze with the luminous indication of his father’s arrival in the sky. The entire disorienting transformation lasted only seconds and the light it produced illuminated the entire alley in a momentary flash before it dispersed and plunged the space back into night’s darkness. In the place of an awkward youth stood the slumped figure of a man in possession of an unnatural magnificence juxtaposed by absurdly tight clothing; he had grown a head in height and more than two stones in body mass.

Fumbling blindly away from the mouth of the alley, Lysander's once weary countenance succumbed to a mirthful grin when a wall of swaying white caught his eye and drew him into the back garden of the quaint Denvali home. The owner had left their drying linen out through the evening, likely forgotten in favor of more important tasks. Pendulous salvation, crisp and aromatic and well-used by the look of threadbare edges. “I’m just going to borrow one …” Lysander’s whisper fell on dead air and he continued to reason with his actions in silence, plucking a white sheet off wooden clasps from taught twine. The suffocating clothing that had fit him chimes before had been removed and cast to the dirt; as he concealed his nudity in a makeshift robe, the muffled thud of approaching feet brought a prickling chill to his spine.

Somebody was coming.

Golden eyes darted wildly about in the inky darkness but failed to locate a suitable hiding place between the low-growing plants and rocks of the garden. The thundering footsteps drew closer, clear and foreboding against a backdrop of silent night; and in a move of desperation the second sheet was yanked down above him as the Ethaefal crumpled to the ground beneath an immersive shroud of white linen.

[Lorne Matiesaen]

Lorne had been out doing only gods and he knew what. He whistled as he walked, though, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his loose, dirty trousers and his honey-colored hair falling wildly about. He'd nicked a bit of fruit on his way home, and was munching on it happily as his sandals scuffed against the stones. He sang softly to himself, though he wasn't a very good singer, and took another, juicy bite, letting the stuff run carelessly over his chin. He'd wash his face before he went into the house. Didn't want to upset the man in charge, after all. He rolled his eyes at the thought. Miserable git, with his beady eyes and his short, stumpy arms. Lorne had begun to think of his stepfather as more of a swine than a man, and he supposed it was an appropriate substitution. Still, Lorne was agitated, and he fussed with the leather band around his wrist and ducked under a low branch on his way towards the house. Just over his shoulder, Duff (his horse) snorted and tossed his head, before he bumped pointedly into the shoulder of his young friend. He cast a glance up to the moon, furrowed his brows in momentary wonderment, and snorted. It wasn't that he held anything in particular against the moon, rather that he held a grudge against the creatures who frequented Leth's reign, himself included. He pushed a hand through his dirty hair, making it stand up on end in the front. He wanted out of Denval, but he knew the foolishness of such an endeavor. There was a big, wide world out there, and he didn't imagine he had much of a chance as far as survival was concerned beyond the city he had grown up in. Not that he'd given it much of a chance, but Lorne was too lazy to attempt such a massive task, no matter how much he desired it. Young, slender limbs pushed him through the dark and towards his home. He did what he could to avoid catching the attention of any who might desire his company or want to cause trouble. He was tired, and his mood had turned a bit sour. It did that when it came time to come home. Lorne didn't want to go back, but he knew better than to leave his poor mother home alone. He couldn't hurt her like that, no matter how much he hated her husband. Again, Lorne twisted the band, pausing for a moment and debating whether or not he ought to return back to the barn he'd been sleeping in. His hand rose to cup Duff's cheek, as the horse had peered over his shoulder to see why he'd stopped. A gentle pat, a sigh, and Lorne gave an agonized, mock sob. “Don't wanna,” he grumbled. “Can't we just run away forever?” Duff tossed his head and nudged the boy forward, and Lorne pouted. “You just want oats, you fat shyke.” And Duff, who was, in fact, quite plump, turned his ears forward and nickered. Lorne scoffed in disbelief. “Yeah, well...You ain't getting' any. I'm gonna eat 'em all myself. Then we'll see who gets fat.” He happened to be coming into the yard at that very moment. He could see his mother's wash out, as she liked the way the salty, nighttime air made the sheets smell, and he had half a mind to gather it up and fold it for her before she woke. The woman needed less work. His sisters did little to help, and he himself did what he could to avoid being home. He spent more time at his father's tavern and sleeping in the stables (and keeping the various patrons company) than he did with his mother, his siblings, and his wicked stepfather. Still, he knew he could afford the occasional favor for the woman who had given him birth, especially given what he knew she went through at the hand of her chosen mate. What else was to be expected for a woman who'd been traded off like Alyse had? Her father had been all too happy to get the pregnant teen off his hands, and Roderick had been willing and able. Duff was growing antsy now, and Lorne had to shove him to get the horse to calm down before he trotted right into the yard to have an evening munch. The sudden fluttering of one of the sheets caused both horse and boy to startle, and Lorne nearly leaped out of his skin as his dusky gaze fell upon the quivering lump of white linens. “What the petch,” he murmured. His brows furrowed, and he gave the lump a prod. “All right, you...Come out an' I'll just let ya go. Y'hear?”

[Lysander]

The sea-salt smells of deliberately hung linen and dirt surrounded Lysander and his world became immeasurably small. It was a perfect disguise to hide from the dome of sky, its belly now ripe with the light of the cosmos. Unfortunately it had done little to dissuade the thumping footsteps. Unkempt grass tickled thin skin between naked thighs and forced a shift in the dark realm that was swiftly followed by an unceremonious jab to the shoulder. The prod was followed by another, and then a voice ripe with derision called to the man beneath the feeble sheet.

“Come out an’ I’ll just let ya go. Ya hear?”

The linen trembled and fussed as Lysander gave a single, defiant shake of his head. Despite the sentiment, the swath of fabric had a discerning mind beneath it—a mind that would soon run out of fresh air if he continued his futile effort in camouflage. Besides, the voice on the other side had promised his freedom if he came out, hadn’t it? White sheet gave way to a glittering night sky and a child of the Moon was born of the man’s laundry with a sheepish grin, sloppily painted across his marble-pale face. Despite the less-than-graceful reveal, the young man was no less magnificent beneath the pale light of his Father. A shock of black hair ran like an ebony river across his face, obscuring honey-wrapped pupils; and something decidedly immature swelled beneath those unearthly seams—something that had chosen to stumble into this poor soul’s back yard and don their laundry as a robe.

Lysander wobbled to his feet, still gripping the first shift of linen that preserved his nudity between white knuckles. A pleading yellow stare found solace in the depressed ‘m’ of curved lip and curl of hair left unkempt and wild. Any thought to run had not occurred to Lysander; the community was tiny and his heritage unmistakable. There was little he could do but explain himself and pray.

“I’m really sorry,” a brow crumpled beneath the weight of assumed accusation, “I just meant to borrow one. I was going to give it back—I have gold! Back there,” Lysander’s free hand motioned towards the haphazard throw-pile of clothing he’d shed earlier. Whether or not he’d actually left coin in his shallow pockets, he was unsure—but the offer stood. A concerned leer drifted from the man to his horse and back again before he mumbled, so matter-of-factly, “Those ones won’t fit me until morning.”