Aimless Pursuit [Luvadros]

[Macabre]

Spring 14, 512 AV

“Ensure you’re getting this, Plicata.”

Ruvalos Lilium was on his side, clutching the down-soft pillow beneath his disheveled head of silver-grey.

“I am, for the sake of the gods. I told you I am.” Dra-Nesyria’s round nose wrinkled in an annoyed scowl as she furiously scratched details of the storm between torn pages of a derelict notebook. “This thing’s falling apart, I could go get another, it—”

“There’s no time for that. Did you get the bit about the animals? The horrible things, mutated and feral, feeding on their fallen kin, I’ve never seen such a thing. Pups feasting on a mother’s breast—not the milk, Plicata, her flesh—this was no ordinary act of nature. Nature is not so cruel.”

“Nature is relentlessly cruel. You forget what you are.”

“What we are.”

“So polite of you to care.”

“Write!”

The halfblood’s shoulders slumped and her chin dipped, scratching Ruvalos’ words in cobalt ink.

“We were lucky to have met them when we did, the Lhavitians. They were stranded, as we were by the storm. We told them Kalinor was safe, untouched by the chaos, but really, we only prayed that it was. More will come. This upheaval, it is larger than our mountains. It has to be.” The symenestra rasped a breath, and rolled over onto his back. Sutures littered his thighs and calves, and gauze wrapped his ribs where two were bruised, another broken. Compared to his associates, one dying in a bed across their small room, another already thrown to the endlessly hungry mouth of their cavern floor—he had come out relatively unscathed.

The Place of Purging had provided the remaining pair with every comfort one could ask for, and the attentive ear of a halfblood woman from the Cribellum, dispatched to gather their stories of the upheaval before one or both perished. She was less than thrilled with the prospect, having spent the past several hours and days thumbing through sordid accounts of death and destruction from foreigners and symenestra alike.

Dra-Nesyria had a weak stomach and an even weaker ambition for her lot in Kalinor. Solanir would not have it any other way—she was to care for her brother, and work a respectable job. Kalinor is no place for a slattern. He only knew the half of it.

“… That’s when we arrived here. I feared the worst, when I found an entranceway without guards, but it seems the gods have favored us. Imagine that,” a wheezing laugh escaped the man. It pained him to laugh, by the twisted look on his face. “Gods favoring us.”

Bare feet make for silent approach. Dra-Nesyria nearly jumped when a lissome hand slid over her shoulder, and the unmistakably stern cadence of Svorador Hellebore filled the room. “You’ll leave us, Dra. If Lilium or his associate has any more valuable information concerning their journey, you will be the first to know.”

Dra-Nesyria was not one to be told twice, not from a Hellebore in the Place of Purging. She stood, spun on her heel, and moved to leave.

“Stop, librarian.”

Her feet froze, as if Hellebore had taken control of her muscles and ground her in place. There was a pause, and a sigh. “I have work to do. This man,” he gestured to the symenestra at his side—how had she missed him before? “He is to be shown what is important. It seems we are thinner spread, as of late. No one has time to give tours. You do not have any pressing concerns at the Cribellum, do you?”

“Uh—”

“So long as no one is dying there, and I cannot imagine why they would be, please take Luvadros and show him the facilities, here. He will be working with us, in our time of need.”

“Right. Yes. Right away.” Dra-Nesyria tipped her abashed crimson stare in Luvadros’ direction, paused, and turned. “Come with me.”

[Luvadros Orthilia]

Having spent the last several years within a web that had grown to believe that he made his every decision on what would most go against their collective wishes, Luvadros was out of practice with holding himself in reverent awe at his company. Still, it was not difficult to adopt the manner once more as he followed Svorador Hellebore through the passages of the Place of Purging, the strict master of the entire facility. The older man was easy to admire from his perspective: disciplined, direct, unapologetic, brilliant. He knew what he had to do and went about it with methodical precision. Truly the only thing making itself readily apparent on which they would disagree was the harvesting issue, and even there any dissent would take a different tone than it would between the elder Symenestra and most other Esterians. All musing aside, Luvadros let his eyes wander the halls and brief flashes of rooms he caught as he followed the swift, agile gait of his superior. He'd been within the Purging before, of course, multiple times. His birth notwithstanding—and hardly counting since he couldn't recall it—one did not extensively study medicine in Kalinor without visiting the medical center. It would be akin to a young acolyte who had focused on nothing but Viratas' will and ways for more than half a decade, and yet had yet to actually step foot in his temple. The numerous, brief forays he'd made into the hanging structure, however, had by no means familiarized him with the whole of it, and despite himself he looked a good deal more the wide-eyed youth than he'd have approved of had they passed by a mirror. As they at last came to where Svorador was leading, the final bits of dictation were overheard. A scoff at the notion of any god offering true favor to the Symenestra was repressed because of his company, but it served admirably to harden his gaze. Viratas had yet to see fit to alleviate their birthing troubles, and any hope of divine aid had fled years before. He would heal and strengthen this community, but it would not be because Viratas willed it. Again any noise of disgust was subdued before it could escape his throat, though a plain grimace twisted his lips as he was handed off to a simple halfbreed who didn't even regularly work there, from what he gathered. Though the older physician had seemingly already focused on his own tasks and relegated any thoughts of Luvadros elsewhere, the new hire still gave a deferential nod and quietly spoke, “Doctor Hellebore,” by way of thanks and farewell before falling into step behind the female. Falling back into his comfortable silence until he could be reasonably sure they'd exited earshot, he turned toward the mixed-blood and observed, “I gather this is not a place you spend most of your time. Are you remotely qualified for this?” Condescension was apparent in his tone, but his expression had gone stoney and impassive, as if she were hardly worth his time. OOCI wasn't sure if the doctor title was anachronistic or not. I can remove it if so. Would some other formal way of addressing Svorador be appropriate?

[Macabre]

“Not remotely.”

Dra-Nesyria, or Nes, as her closest acquaintances—or just Vesirio—called her, was flipping absently through the weathered pages of her journal, her careless footfalls leaving little to be discovered about the pair’s whereabouts in the stony Place of Purging. A page loosed and fell, fluttering noiselessly to the ground. She stooped to retrieve it, and then looked up, as if only now she had realized her obligation to show the waif of a stranger about.

“There’s a birthing room, in there,” she pointed, mottled black and pink nails drawing curious eyes to her fingertips, rather than the silk curtain she gestured toward, “indicated, of course, by the small sign on the ceiling above it.” Her glibness was not lost on her own amusement. “I assume there are a lot of those. I’ve never given birth in Kalinor.”

The halfblood straightened, shuffled the rogue page among the mess of worn parchment. “I’m Dra-Nesyria, by the way. I work at the Cribellum.” She began to walk again, reaching above her head as she went to brush those peculiar fingers along the top of the low ceiling. Her stature was less than impressive; she had to walk on her toes. “Sometimes, I’m allowed my own harvest around Kalinor. Lately, I’ve found a lot of good information here. Men and women coming back from the above, with stories of a storm—magic, unnatural—I wish I could have experienced it, myself.

“What about you?” Her mouth continued to make sound, as if some mage had planted the compulsion to blather mindlessly in her head as a child. “What’s your story? Anything noteworthy? You look like a Nerium—or maybe you’re an Orthilia, or a Vervain. You violet-eyes all look the same, to me. Pretty boys your families make, I’ll give you that. Have you seen the mess of the world above?”