break the dawn. (laz)

[Caelum]

I am done with my graceless heart so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart 'cause I like to keep my issues strong it's always darkest before the dawn - f + m – Timestamp: 30 Fall 511 AV The boulevard did a backflip, turning them on a silver and delivering them upon the top of the Gaping Maw with five coppers change. Black swirled around them far faster than the wheeling stars in this hour of the wolf, dawn a distant howl not yet bloodying the east. The Unforgiving loomed ahead, spread out like a promise dropped from the pocket of Leth. The god of civilization is dead, were the words the came back to haunt Caelum, clamoring in his ears as his arms remained out-flung in panicked bid for balance. Ionu chuckled behind his teeth in some alleyway, perhaps heel-skidded into an unholy alliance with Kel and Wyn. There were lots of rules left to break in this cradle hour where death and birth were at their closest. Regardless, it left Caelum scowling, sun bronzed features hideous and human with their knot of Drykas braids. The toes of weathered riding boots scratched along the stone brow of the Alvadas sentinel, gravity threatening to gut him as surely as it had nine years past in the seas off the coast of Black Rock. He gasped, even his lungs clutching at air, and threw himself back with far more good sense than he had displayed in years. A stumble, a trip and he fell all the same; but at least this time it was on his butt to rock, hands slapping down, hating their requirement for solid ground.

[Laszlo]

He'd gotten lost again. The inn room was stifling, too much like the Cavern. For endless weeks, Laszlo had stumbled back across the treacherous mountain paths of the Unforgiving, flanked by garrulous tradesmen on their wagons, just to be deposited from some choking, underground hole to a tiny, square room with a single window. He needed the open air. He needed the sun! Granted, the window was a great relief in the day time. At night, Laszlo's keen eyes fed on the Leth's pallor, the same, soft glow as opalgloams. It drove him mad. So he went out. He couldn't sleep, anyway, not with the Cubacious Inn turning over ever couple of minutes. The Withering Rose thankfully had served him ale (instead of bitter-tasting wine), but the place had been thick with sickly sweet tang of fermented grapes. After two glasses, he'd left. Laszlo had thought, perhaps, that a little alcohol in his belly might ease him back to sleep once he found the inn again. It at least did steel him against the chill of early Fall, guarding against the few tendrils of cold that clawed underneath his heavy wool cloak. However, he'd underestimated how difficult it would be to find the Cubacious Inn once again. Laszlo had learned, in the short span of time he'd been here, that the city shifted beneath his feet, invisibly picking up buildings and placing them somewhere else. Alvadas teased him with circles, bringing him past the same few buildings two or five times; at one point Laszlo was certain that from where he was standing, he could see three Withering Roses. Never the Inn, though. Even if he drew close at any point, Ionu moved it somewhere else. For two and a half hours, he searched for his rented bed. Eventually he sat down on the road out of sheer exhaustion. I give up, he had thought loudly at the God of Illusions. Laszlo captured an alleyway, watching it closely as he approached so it couldn't scurry away, then propped himself against the wall and slept restlessly. Curling his body up seemed to preserve his warmth well enough, protected behind his woolen barrier. His eyes rolled under their lids for a while as the night sky passed over him, opening a few times to remind himself where he was, but it was sometime close to dawn when he reopened them more permanently. Drowsy and miserable, Laszlo begrudgingly resumed his aimless meandering through Alvadas, too bitter and proud to admit how badly he wanted his tiny, square room with its single window. His fatigue had taken on the form of a dull, but painful headache that nestled between his temples like a cat trapped in a bag. Then, at some point, he arrived here. Here wasn't the Cubacious Inn. Here was the tall horizon, the jagged crown of the Unforgiving, the miles of rocks and cliffs that laid between him and Kalinor. Laszlo groaned loudly. It was only after he'd elicited that long, whining noise that he realized there was someone nearby. Ahead, on the stone forehead of the Gaping Maw, a human shape was sat on the ground. Was he within earshot? It was hard to decide. Another moment later, Laszlo's long, slender legs were carrying him closer. Some Symenestra instinct tugged at him to get nearer to the edge of the enormous statue's face, to dare gravity. He obeyed it blindly, using it as a tool to innocently place himself next to the lone human. The Ethaefal was tired and irritable, but he was also starved for company. "Have you ever been out there?" Laszlo asked, surprised at the gravel in his voice. He cleared his throat. Unlike the stranger, Laszlo didn't sit. He feared he might roll over and fall asleep again if he did. The heavy, dark gray cloak mottled his form, making him look not quite so skinny as he actually was. A twisting lock of graphite hair had spilled from the side of his hood, but most of his face was kept deliberately hidden. The air smelled like morning. The sun would rise soon.

[Caelum]

"Out?" The exile turned, surprise smacking eyes so dark the chips of gold in them felt like campfires of the damned. Crow lines formed as he stared, hunting for the face as if with sight alone he could pull back the hood. How Dira would howl. "Out there?" The swing of a hand released unfinished ink against the gloom, but in the direction opposite shadows had begun to flee from the feet of day. "In the Unforgiving?" Breathless laugh choked him. Was he half hysterical? This was the City of Illusions. Perhaps what the stranger watched was figment of a reality addled mind rather than truth rising to stand on the edge, the shadow of him breaking against the nose of the Gaping Maw to drip like snot into the mouth of Semele below. He had never meant to offend. "Yes," he gasped at last, reclaiming his lungs. A smile rose, obligatory due to the timing of sweet, sweet Syna stretching golden rays across the east. She looked and night dimmed; She spied them and the moon began to deflate. "Yes," he repeated. The sun rushed for them, released from Her lover's arms, and grabbed hold. "I've lived there." Day came and he looked down and away, eyes closing against all glow while it broke across his limbs. They lengthened and shoulders broadened, worn clothing growing fitted rather than too large. The horns came first as if the rest of him from there sprung, spilling out in a frozen rush of copper and gold, sharp lines and hard edges. Jeweler's cut, but left unpolished. By the time his eyes rose, lashes ashing off the last of their transforming embers, he too was catching sight of the unexpected.

[Laszlo]

"Really?" Laszlo turned to watch the first rays of gold pour over the caps of the distant mountains, washing away the gray of pre-dawn. Ethaefal wasn't sure whether he believed the human, and at first wondered if his answer has been more metaphorical. He remembered the Unforgiving; there hadn't been a city or a village or even a small encampment in sight for nearly two months of travel. Even Kalinor was hidden beneath a mile of rock. No one could possibly live out there. The warmth of Syna's light began to penetrate his clothing, his own body illuminating like a brilliant yellow sunrise. Briefly becoming a figure of pure light, Laszlo lifted one shining arm to throw back his hood, ensuring that his horns would not cut through it as they materialized. All of his clothing became a little tighter, and his feet pressed more heavily into the gravel beneath him. Ironically, the world darkened as Laszlo's keen Symenestra vision left him, but there was something bright shining just a few feet away from—with all the brilliance of a yellow sunrise. The pointless skepticism over living in the mountains evaporated completely. Laszlo's jaw fell. He took a staggering step backward, unsure whether to believe what he was looking at was real, or an Alvadan reflection of himself. Laszlo's immortal heart was beating in his chest, so powerfully that it hurt him even as he tried to clutch at it. An Ethaefal. One of Syna's, no less! Laszlo had expected that, eventually, he might run into another of his kind in the future, but not out of sheer chance like this. It was too unlikely. It couldn't have been real. Alvadas, ever the jester, was playing a game with him. Wasn't it? When Laszlo spoke again, his voice had dipped an octave lower. "You're—Goddess, you're…" But he was different than he was. His horns were an off-color. A dulled mix of green and gold. They didn't match Laszlo's pale red. They didn't shine like his did. Was that normal? It wasn't as if he had any basis for comparison, yet something about the other Ethaefal felt… unusual. It was Laszlo's ache of loss, the memory of transcendent fraternity that pulled him forward. A hand reached for the cloth of Caelum's sleeve. Desperate, molten amber eyes bored into a matching pair. He wouldn't let the other leave before he said what he had to say to him. If only he knew what that was. "You're the same as me," he astutely noted as he searched for the same love of Syna in the other Ethaefal's unfamiliar face. "Is this a trick? One of the city's illusions? Tell me; when did you fall? What is your name? Where have you been? Do you… do you remember… anything?"

[Caelum]

It was unwise to step backwards while standing on a cliff. The heel of a riding boot scraped dangerously close to the edge as he did so, surprise motivating him one way and fear the other. His hand twisted, Rak'keli's winged serpents emblazoned upon its back glittering in the new morning. All of those windmarks and the twice told tales they had to tell had vanished, but a wiry strength remained to propel the stranger backwards and himself thusly forward. His free hand clasped a bicep, heart pounding too hard and standing now too close as he put distance between them and yet another long fall. His instinct, strange, was still to save. He had been as worried for this stranger doused with Syna's as he had been for himself. "Am I?" He heard his breath form, having brought with him the scents of green things and undying, the collar of his jacket brushing his jaw as his head turned away from the cliff to come into slow study of the man before him. "No," he professed, that unearthly accent pulling on the corners of his words with the weight of meteorites. He blinked, absorbing the sight, confusion, uncertainty and something that might have been kissing kin with fear dappling his face in contrasting shadow. "No trickery. Not by the trickster god, at least. I --" His fingers released, having realized he was still holding onto the man. It had been for balance, both external and not. "Caelum," he managed finally, inelegant. The corners of his mouth twitched toward a smile that, if it made it to its noon, would be glorious and flush. "That's not my name, but it is what I'm called. You know that." Of course he knew that. This stranger could not possibly have a name capable of uttering either. "Eight years.. No? Nine. Nine years ago," he was verbally stumbling, conversation a talent he had not much prospects for. "Where have I..." He trailed off, a bemused smile catching the rest of him off guard. "Where have I been? Have you been waiting for me?"

[Laszlo]

The Synaborn's gentle laugh seemed warm the cool air between them, and his answer surprised Laszlo enough that he found himself chuckling too. He did not recognize the other Ethaefal's face, but with absolute certainty, he knew they shared a kinship that ran deeper than bloodlines or race. Laszlo had more or less assaulted his lost brother with his questions, but they were well received in good humor. He understood, this 'Caelum'. That's not my name, but it is what I'm called. You know that. Laszlo forgot what he was doing with Caelum's sleeve, so he let go and pulled back to rub his neck. It was difficult to hold keep eye contact for long, so he looked down at the ground. He feared that he would be transparent to the other Ethaefal, and wasn't prepared to feel so exposed. Alvadas stopped existing at that moment. Syliras, Kalinor—everything Mizahar was gone. Here, there were simply two refugees forced from Syna's realm, meeting again in unknown territory. "Well I…" A quick glance upward. Nope, still nerve wracking. "No. In a way, perhaps. I fell two years ago. You're the first Ethaefal I've seen besides myself. I… knew there were others, but…" Laszlo glanced to the side, looking down the steep face of the Gaping Maw. The shadows of dawn were still long and creeping, but he could see the earth down below where he'd once stood. Laszlo had been eager to enter the city, then. "I've been alone. I've been around, a little, but it doesn't matter what city I'm in. The feeling is always the same." Gathering his courage, Laszlo sucked in a deep breath, then turned to face Caelum fully. Gold reflected gold, matching pools of molten amber poured into flawless, perfectly sculpted faces. Their horns differed starkly, in both shape and color. Caelum's hair wasn't nearly as red as Laszlo's. Something felt different about him, but he didn't understand why. He had never met another Ethaefal, so why would he feel like anything was out of the ordinary with this one? "I… Laszlo," he proffered softly, wearing more of a light grimace than a smile. "It was the name of a young girl's pet bird. She believed I was its reincarnation. She wouldn't hear otherwise. You… heh. Sorry, uh… why are you in Alvadas?" What a pointless question. Why was he anywhere? Did it matter?

[Caelum]

"Passing through," came the confession. The crinkles around his eyes deepened, in their humanity but emphasizing his divine heritage. Hands spread, long fingered and empty, and he threw another glance across the rise of a shoulder at the broken eastern sky while he deliberated. At length he buried his hands into pockets and turned so as to face the fall. A second step, this time backwards, brought him shoulder to shoulder with Lazlo. "She's calling me," he spoke it soft, said it fast as a merciful soldier might. "Been pulling now for awhile to an outpost far north of here, in Kalea. Too bad my running feet can't fly." The last remark slid bitterly, accompanied by a sideways smile as his eyes took in his companion from the corners of things. "I've not always been alone," he allowed. "But I am now. Why are you here, brother?"

[Laszlo]

Brother. Spoken aloud, the word struck Laszlo with unforeseeable gravity. Amazement briefly made itself candid on the younger Ethaefal's features, with the lifting of eyebrows and a mouth wordlessly parted. The tall figure stood still and silent, a strange battle between relief and the feeling of utter futility happening behind his eyes. The question hung in the air, met at first with only the rustle of dead leaves pulling across dusty gravel, and the odd but familiar cacophonies of assorted sounds that whispered distantly from the heart of Alvadas. A year spent in Kalinor, the home of Laszlo's past life, had showed the Ethaefal much of what desperately not wanted, but needed to know. No one there would ever call him brother, although one Symenestra would casually lend the title "good brother" in Symenos to another even when only vaguely familiar. The spirit of fraternity among the Symenestra was eclipsed only by familial bonds. One human might thoughtlessly kill another, but a Symenestra would never conceive of raising a weapon against one of his own. Although Laszlo appeared as Widow during Leth's times of prominence, the Symenestra race did not belong to him. Nor did he belong in Kalinor. Without warning, at last he had met his own true kindred. While some part of him was elated, this wasn't what he had expected or hoped for. Laszlo had needed a feeling of belonging. Caelum only made him feel less connected to the mortal world than he did before. Yet, the other Ethaefal had already voiced the truth. His feet were fixed to the earth. "Because I am not elsewhere," he finally responded, his tone dropped some since he last spoke. Laszlo swallowed, trying to extract the sorrow out of his voice again. "I followed such a calling to Kalinor. Half of me belongs underground. Is that not irony?" He shook his head. "Now I am here. Perhaps I am running." Hiding from the light. Even Syna was filtered through Ionu's preferred realities here in the city of illusions. The sun did not always shine, and in its place was not always darkness, but some new invention in between. Ionu's power was immutable here. Syna was everywhere but here. And Kalinor. "I sincerely hope you have better luck at your destination."