Timestamp:![]() 29th of Spring, 510 AV Request: Hex, Vanator [Closed, PM] As the early morning light began to take its hold a chill breeze set about the pavilions, delighting itself in causing only the barest discomfort to those daring enough to reveal more skin then they ought to in the still meager blossom of spring. Rhylen ventured hurriedly through the swelling throng of Drykas and their mounts as they set about the day’s various chores. He’d left Thalla near the perimeter of the nomad city with his tent and supplies, trusting in the webbing to protect her and his belongings. Predators and the odd outsider would sometimes cross Endrykas, seeking an easy meal or some form of forage. Few could escape the bow shots of the Drykas once discovered. Rhylen moved with intent, seeking the purple plumes which often decked the massive tents of the Amethyst Clan. He quickly found the sprawling camp of the Way Finders, pleased to have reached his destination. It took nearly three bells for him to find anyone with the wherewithal to tell him his search had been in vain. He was not a member of the Amethyst Clan, they had no knowledge of his family and no record of him ever having existed. Upon mention of Raghnall the Amethyst’s representative scoffed, mumbling about the mad Shaman and his shaky reputation among them. This stirred some revulsion within him, but the spirit could not be sought for any further comment, nor would he remark on the lie Rhylen had grown up believing. He felt suddenly hollow, staggering from the whispered words of clanless, exchanged surreptitiously at his heel. At a time when he’d finally worked up the gall to seek out his clan, save any shame or burden they may have felt, Rhylen’s realization of his status among the Drykas served as a discouraging reminder of his youth. Torn from his home, and cast out into the Grass. Alone. Forced against his will to share the fire of a detached old man. Years of grumbled life lessons and harsh tutelage. For what? With no one to turn to, what chance did he have of survival in the Cyprhus? Melancholy suffused his being, seizing his limbs and forcing him away from the milling bodies and curious glances. Finding a space between pavilions Rhylen escaped the main thoroughfare, falling to his knees as a surge of emotions overcame him. He seethed and felt powerless all at once, hating himself and his unwelcome passenger as his mind waded through the new complexities. Clanless. The curse echoing in his haunted skull. |