Solo Way of the Endal

[Raif]

10th of Fall, 512 AV

A startled gasp for air and Raif was awake, the disembodied voice of a departed sister still echoing nightmarishly in his head. Mabiri… Lifting a hand through the linens and furs draped across his bed, he captured the side of his scalp with the palm of his hand, tugging at the scarlet locks of hair while his glistening eyes stared blankly at the dapple gray ceiling. Just a dream. Two seasons were gone and yet the only dream the Endal could conjure to his subconscious was of his sister‘s grizzly death. He wondered if it wasn’t some trick of the gods, or perhaps the repression of all his emotions seeking vengeance. Regardless, it all felt as real as the world he was in now, and no matter how many times it kept happening, he could never quite convince himself that it was only just a trick of his own mind.

Catching his breath as the weight of the blankets embraced the rest of his prone body, another figure stirred to life beside him. A crown of molten fire peeked over the edge of the sheets as though the sun itself were dawning, rising to a tanned forehead that cascaded down to supple features and a slender neck. A single arm came sliding out from beneath, reaching across the sheets to brush her fingers lightly upon the Endal’s sloping shoulder. The sensation drew Raif’s eyes sideways to the Chiet he’d wooed into bed the night before, staring at her impassively for a few long agonizing moments before a lukewarm smile graced his lips.

“Is everything alright?” Concern scrawled lines of sympathy against the allure of her features, drawing her body closer to the heat of his own as she propped herself up on an elbow.

“Everything’s fine,” he muttered, brows darkening as he seemed almost insulted she would even dare to ask such a question.

“I was just trying to--” Her hand drifted down against the gently rising hill of his pectoral, flattening her palm against it as she could feel his heart still racing.

“It is not your place,” he scowled in cutting her off, realizing what it was she was feeling as he brushed her hand quickly away and slipped his legs out from underneath the sheets where his feet padded the floor. He would have gotten up immediately if it hadn’t been for the dream that still haunted him, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bed in vain attempt to wash the memory from his mind. “I must get ready for the day. The hunt before the snows settle in starts tomorrow. See yourself out.”

Giving the woman a cursory and nondescript glance over his bare shoulder, Raif pushed his naked body from the bed and made his way to the common room and then the bathing chamber. Ever since the eruption on the Mount, the dense oak door that separated these rooms had taken some effort to open. It was a point of mild frustration to the Endal, but he’d found neither the time nor the inclination to order an Avora up to his aerie to fix it. Pulling all his weight against the black iron handle, it wrenched open with a loud cr-pop! The sudden give mixed with weight of his body had him stumbling back a step, though his hand attached to the handle anchored him to the spot.

The bathing chamber was lifeless and cold, lacking the distinct gentle touch of a woman’s hand. Pieces of crumbled stone still littered the floor from where the ceiling had fractured two seasons ago. Only two small paths were dusted clean where the Endal’s feet didn’t take a risk being slashed by one of the jagged pebbles. One led around the edge of the room where large basined copper sconces held candles suspended in small pools of water. The other was a direct path to the bronzed tub in the middle that was large enough to hold three bodies, taking the shape of a clover with three small holes that ran flush with the tub on the inside bends that served as faucets.

Raif had never once asked whom he had acquired the aerie from in the decade since it had fallen into his possession. What had been left to him was no more than the bed and bathtub with a few wall fixtures that served as lighting. At first he suspected the previous occupant had been a great minimalist, but in all his years of living here, subtle clues had revealed themselves as to the type of Endal that had abandoned this aerie. Traces of paint along the wall that had not been completely washed away could be found from where it appeared a child’s hand had a part in crafting. The tub alone was obviously large enough to fit a trio of bodies, and lighter stone prevailed where it looked as though a host of furniture once stood. Perhaps the family had graduated to a bigger loft to accommodate their numbers, or perhaps they had been disgraced and all their trappings had been destroyed. Either seemed possible from Raif’s perspective.

Reaching his hand down blindly in the dark, fingers fumbled around an iron spigot that he clumsily turned. Warm water poured into the tub almost immediately, steam rising against small shafts of light that peeked from behind the Endal’s unclad frame. The metallic rich scents from the natural springs filled the air in a balmy sweet fragrance, entreating him to step into the bath and close his eyes. As the waters slowly rose around him, tucked against one of the leafs of the bath itself, Raif’s mind drifted to the forests of The Unforgiving that awaited him just over the horizon of tomorrow. Zibas would be looking forward to stretching his wings and catching the thermals as he soared around the Bay hunting for the late autumn schools of fish.

Raif wasn’t entirely sure where he would be posted along the forward camps, but a dark brooding feeling had him suspecting he’d be tossed to the far reaches of the north. There was a fair chance snow had already found its way to those regions, which made hunting all the more easy when tracking for prey, but did little in the way of making the week long stay a comfortable one. Yet the Endal would accept his task as he always had, with a stiff upper lip and a curt nod of the head. He constantly and quietly reminded himself he was born for this, and to be of lesser station only meant he was not living to his fullest potential. His sister had taught him what that meant, and now she was gone…

Cracking his eyes open to mere slits, he had felt more than heard the presence of another figure entering the room, the way a shadow intrudes on the mind but lacks a certain cognizant dimension. Looking towards the door, the Chiet woman stood there with one slender arm braced against the threshold and one leg crossed modestly over the other. It didn’t take a mind like Raif’s to understand what her intentions were, noticing first and foremost that she’d failed to take his direction, but that she was also still undressed. Perhaps it was the heat of the water loosening the tension in his muscles, or the pang of loneliness that obstructed his toiling rage, but the Endal lifted one hand from over the edge of the tub and turned the spigot closed. “Come on then…”

Red strands of her hair glimmered like the fires beneath the earth in the fading torchlight from behind her as she pushed away from the metal frame of the door and slid the oak slab almost the entire way closed. All Raif could hear was the gentle shuffling of her footsteps and then a careful splash into the tub. Perhaps another go would do him some good.

[Raif]

”So you’ll be gone for a week?” She was quite the pillar of persistence.

“Ten days.”

“Do most Endal stay out that long?”

“Some.”

“Isn’t The Unforgiving…unsafe?”

What was she, daft? “Very.”

“I hope you make it back.”

Her lingering attachment had Raif’s entire countenance sparking like metal to the grindstone, a murderous hiss pouring from flared nostrils. “Out. Now,” he growled succinctly, chestnut eyes shifting ever so slightly as he subtly converted his djed on a level that bent the laws of nature, twisting fear and compliance onto his tongue. Hypnosis had the benefit of driving a dagger to the heart of the matter when mannerism did not.

The Chiet balked at his command, her expression faltering as though she were a child that just been slapped by his hand. But pity did not befall the Endal. Staring coldly into her eyes, It slipped beneath Raif’s skin to know one could be so emotionally feeble. Perhaps she would soon join the ranks of whispering crones who hated the very idea of him. There were already several faces that came to mind, but remembering their names was always a matter he did not roost on. The only attachment Raif wished to keep was to that of Zibas, a feathery companion who understood him better than most. Turning his back on her one last time, the Endal only listened as the door opened and shut closed.

Finally. Peace.

Back into the master bedchamber, he pulled a cotton shirt from a natural wall hangar and slipped the button-down across his shoulders. The linen smelled sweetly of lavender and fresh spring water and felt crisp when it whispered across his skin, cleaned by the very hands of the Inarta whom he’d just ordered out of his aerie. It had been the reason for their meeting in the first place, but the Endal quietly suspected that she wouldn’t be doing him any favors in the future. Not that she’d dare to refuse him if it came out as an order. There was still a hierarchy that demanded respect despite personal reservation, after all.

***

Closing the door to his home behind, Raif turned the iron key and slipped it back into the pocket of his shirt. There admittedly wasn’t much to protect from thieving hands in his aerie. The place was abysmally devoid of character, but decorating it had never once been given slightest consideration in the decade since he‘d lived here. It was a space that would call out to any Inarta that appreciated their artisans, but for the Endal it was just another space. He was getting rather tired of only having one piece of comfortable furniture to relax himself in, though.

The silver threaded embroidery on his navy blue bryda caught the dancing shafts of torchlight littering the halls as the fabric swished against his legs. The warrens had once been an intricate cave system that had confused the initiate endlessly when he’d first moved in, but a decade of time’s passage had given him more than enough time to get acquainted with his surroundings. His path today would lead him down to the Top Notch, a locale for the Endal to hone their archery skill before they all fled the nest to hunt. Had Raif not spent the time indulging his own licentious appetites earlier, he might have arrived early enough to practice in peace. That, however, had quickly become nothing more than a pipe dream.

A quiver of arrows bobbed over his left shoulder, their pine shafts rattling like wind chimes as the fletching was caught in a draft of air flowing through the passage. Unstrung and clasped in his left hand, Raif’s longbow was in need of a few touch ups that would have to wait until after the hunting season had ended. He could ill afford to waste time when the colony was so desperate for food since the rupture of the Mount. But something in his confident gait made none of these troubles seem burdensome to him. Life for the Endal was lived in the moment, and concerns for the future would be met when the time arose. For now, all that remained within his power was to make the moment count, so as to stifle the dangers of the future.

As he had suspected, the Top Notch was crowded with his caste’s ilk, the hum of bowstrings being tried coupling with the sing-song whisper of arrows gliding mortally through the air. It was a welcoming atmosphere he indulged only a moment's worth of his time in, closing his eyes and breathing deeply of the air.

Several faces turned to glance in Raif’s direction as he entered, a few begrudging smiles shared here and there as the majority seemed intent on focusing on their training. Recognizing a more than familiar face out of the flock, Raif’s demeanor brightened to the surly presence of the fletcher named Symai who greeted him by spitting candidly off to the side.

The Inarta had a gut that could hold triplets, born from a disease he'd had as a child, though muscle rippled from his chest and down along his arms. Middle age brought with it a receding hairline, graying in areas where once a brilliant red had flourished. He’d been Endal in his youth, proud as the man standing opposite him now was. But the loss of an Eagle had shattered all hope of rising tall amid their folk again, a story never to be retold unless one wished to see what else Symai’s hands were more than capable of. “How’s the season looking, Symai?”

“Petchin’ poor, Raif,” the other grumbled, swallowing a wad of phlegm caught in his throat. “Word is that we’re severely under stocked for the season. Expect a lot of Dek to die.” It was spoken so matter-of-factly that even Raif found it hard to digest.

A table strewn with freshly made arrows whose tips had yet to taste the blood of the hunt sat before the fletcher in a chaotic pile. It was evident that he’d been working around the clock just to produce enough for those Endal who trusted in his product. But as Raif picked up one of the arrows for a less than expert consideration, he was pleased to find that Symai’s craftsmanship had not faltered through the rising demand. With arrows that always flew true to their design, it was his manner in dealing business that had attracted Raif from the beginning when he was naught but a fledgling hunter: to the point and brief. “What do you want for a quiver more?”

Perhaps their relationship had become so predictable over the years that Symai knew what to expect when dealing with the younger Endal, the leather casing he produced already filled to the brim by arrows fletched in a brilliant red and speckled with a lime green. Raif admired the man for his shrewdness, the contrasting colors making fallen prey much easier to distinguish over the thick brush of the Unforgiving. These were things the average man simply did not dwell on, which was perhaps the reason the fletcher was a cut above the rest in terms of wealth. “See if you can’t find me a decent fur. ‘Bout wolf sized?”

A knowing smirk fled from the Endal’s lips as quickly as it had surfaced, taking the quiver into his free hand and tossing it over the same shoulder along with the other he'd brought down from the aerie. With an arsenal of rounds simply begging to be assessed, Raif dipped his head once in acknowledgement towards Symai and then turned towards the range. It didn’t take long to find an open slot amid the ranks of archers, the spacious cavern providing enough room for a small army. Much as he suspected, all the moving targets were occupied by intrepid hunters wishing to test their mettle, the bob and weave of their bows signaling who was firing at them down the line. For Raif, he was reluctantly pleased to find a station adjacent to another familiar face. “Symai says the season’s looking grim--”

“Petching…!” An arrow sprang well wide of its intended target as the voice of Virro spit a dozen expletives to the air. Raif’s tongue had evidently gotten the jump on him as the other Endal spun around on the heel of his foot and was seething at the cheeks. Upon seeing his friend, though, the he dropped his risen shoulders and sighed heavily. “Symai never has anything good to say. How’s Zibas?”

“Itching to get wet.”

“And you?”

“Looking forward to some peace and quiet.”

Virro chuckled dryly as he pulled another arrow from the quiver he’d placed up against the stone slab that split the ranges into lanes. “Only you would think The Unforgiving could provide that.”

“Give me a better reason to be Endal.” Raif’s coaxing smile would be missed by Virro who was already lining up for another shot, his persistence somewhat admirable if not a touch too telling as to what thought was rolling around inside the man’s head. It was obvious the hunter was nervous about the prospect of his own return, and making sure his aim was true seemed his only coping mechanism for it. But Raif had been with Virro since they’d graduated from Yasi, becoming indoctrinated into the Endal caste around the same time as one another. It seemed perfectly acceptable for him to know this about a man entwined on the same path with him.

Another hiss of air and another arrow let loose, this one striking the target a foot from the center as it’s fletching rattled on its end. “Love, Raif,” Virro intoned with an almost philosophical air of pretension about him. “Love for the colony. Love for one’s Wind Eagle. And… love for one another.”

“Here we go again…” Raif’s eyes rolled hopelessly in their sockets while Virro continued right along.

“Have you spoken to her lately?”

“No Virro,” the Endal sighed as he made to string his bow, setting both quivers down to the side as the other had done. “Nyteri and I don’t speak to one another. You know this.”

“You don’t speak to her.”

Raif looked up for a moment with a sudden intensity burning across russet eyes, quickly looping the string tautly over the ridge of the bow, giving it its signature bend. Rather than respond and let the conversation devolve on its own, the Endal bent down and retrieved his first arrow from the new quiver. Notching the fletching to the string, Raif quietly raised the bow and aimed for his target. He had not come to have his patience tested.

It was a matter of focus when firing for effect. You closed your mind off from the world around you, and focused on… “She would like to see you, I think.”

Before he could even release the string to wash out the troubles of the world, Virro’s insistence became the fires of Ivak’s rage boiling within his chest. Heaving a noticeable grunt of displeasure, Raif pulled the bow back down and simply stared at the target for a moment in stoic judgment. “Don’t stand between my sister and I, Virro. You did not lose--”

The cold undertones in his voice were cut short by the admonishing lilt of the other. “We all lost someone that day, Raif. How dare you forg--”

It all unfolded so fast that even Raif’s mind could not collect what had transpired until after it happened, his knuckles aching horrendously as Virro’s body was suddenly sprawled out across the floor, his hand clutching a nose that flowed a stream of iron rich blood across a pallid face. All the bows in the range quieted for a moment as Raif could feel their eyes turning to gaze upon them. He knew what their lot expected. They expected a fight. But Virro simply lay there, a horror stricken face looking back up to the man responsible. He was rendered speechless, and incapable of movement from shock alone. But before he could retaliate, through word or by equal measure, Raif was picking up his belongings and heading quietly for the door. A hurricane of emotion raged within him, though his exterior was as placid as the eye. “Thanks again, Symai,” he spoke politely in passing, dipping his head once more in appreciation for what the fletcher had done.

It looked like archery practice had been stripped from the menu.

[Raif]

The halls outside the Top Notch gallery were filled with a brooding quiet. The sort of pressing silence that made one uncomfortable to loiter in for more than a few ticks as Raif wasted little time. Where he was going did not seem a concern of his though, face so tightly knit with contempt that one could smash a boulder against his steep jaw line and find the stone shattering in their hands. Virro did not have the right to speak to him that way, and was lucky to have escaped with just a swollen cheek and bruised ego. The Endal spit bitterly off to the side, as if that would somehow clear his conscience of the matter.

Raif’s right hand was still flexing impulsively against the throbbing that radiated from his ghost-white knuckles, blood drawing around beneath the mounds of flesh like fire slowly encroaching on snow. His only regret at that moment was that it would likely affect his aim in the following days when he needed the steady poise of it the most. Had he approached the confrontation more methodically perhaps, one of the ends of his bow might have served him better. Hindsight, however, was a gift that was wasted on his kind. It felt more visceral and intimate brushing flesh against flesh. Like Virro‘s pain was his to possess.

The beating of a troubled heart eventually matched the slowing pace of his footsteps in the empty halls that gradually collected the sounds of life, voices of the day rising as more of his people joined together to eat and work. It was a busy time for all within the colony, preparing for the coming months where Morwen’s kiss would lock them snugly away from the outside world.

And while words of it were shared amid only the softest of whispers, this winter especially would test the resolve of the Inarta as a people. A shortage of food meant quarrel was no more than an ugly glare away, and it would be the job of the few to put the starving voices of many back in their place. Strangely, or perhaps not strangely at all, Raif found himself looking forward to the task with delight.

Slowing down to a grinding halt, the Endal took the time to unstring his bow in the privacy that the empty hall still afforded him. Leaning the unbent length of slender yew up against the wall, he quickly wound the string around the unblemished knuckles of his left hand and slid the finished coil into his pocket. Only at the end did he think to examine the persistent needling sensation stemming from his right hand, a small flap of white skin clinging by a thread to his middle knuckle.

At one time it had been filled with the same soft olive tones as the rest of him. Now it was nothing more than a piece of waste his body did not deem fit for supplying nutrient to. For what he had thought was a simple punch, it made Raif realize that either Virro had neglected to shave that morning, or he had struck his friend much more savagely than intended. Ripping the excess away without another passing thought, a small bead blood quickly pooled into the tingling gap, growing until it began to drool down the back of his palm. His eyes did naught but watch with mortal fascination.

Raif knew he would be better off getting it looked at. Some packed snow would help to reduce the swelling, and wrapping it in soft linens would prevent him from aggravating it further. An ointment might even quicken the time it would take to heal, and give the Endal a real chance at recovering before having to return home from the hunt. But against such seemingly prudent thoughts, Raif knew a trip to the infirmary would result in more than he wished to bargain.

That section of Wind Reach still belonged to Mabiri, and her memory was not something he desired to dwell on outside the realm of dreams. Not yet. Not until more time had soothed the gaping wounds of his conscience. For now she was nothing more than a dormant event in history so long as his eyes remained open…so long as his hands kept themselves busy. For one born from the fires of Mount Skyinarta, this danced seductively with sin. Their kind did not fear emotion--they embraced it.

Realizing he was standing in the vacant hall for much longer than seemed suitable, Raif picked up his bow and made his way back to the aerie, ignoring the thin trail of blood that gravity now pulled down across his trembling fingers. Thoughts quickly turned towards his most faithful of companions, a giant raptor whose wingspan stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and claws so sharp he made the toughest hide look like mere scraps of moth-eaten cloth. But despite appearances, the Wind Eagle had as gentle a personality as one could find on the Mountain. Unless of course he was feeling particularly feisty today.