It had been a whole season since Sybel had arrived amongst the Drykas, and she still had yet to ascertain what exactly her life had become. It had been a trip to Riverfall that enticed her toward the Sea of Grass, hearing of its risk and reward. At times she wondered how self-destructive she truly was, for those who cautioned her against it far outnumbered those who encouraged the endeavor. Still, she’d managed to catch a Drykas mid-pilgrimage and convince him to take her along on. It had taken some physical persuasion as well as verbal, but in the end she’d achieved her goal. Still, staying amongst the Drykas was not always easy. She had the pretense of being a merchant, but other foreign women were not so fortunate. The females eyed her with suspicion that fringed resentment, and the men just eyed her. Having a skill boded well and helped her keep her nose clean. The problem was finding crafts to utilize it with. Sybel had haggled for some import, just simple things: woolens, statues, utensils, books. Just some things to trade with when she arrived. It would appear incredibly suspect to show up empty handed after the pretense of being a merchant. Merchant was a safe enough title, until she had nothing to sell. Suddenly it would become ‘thief’ and she’d rather avoid the horse clan’s perverse sense of justice. Therefore she’d taken to hanging about the ale tents and brewing tents, keen eyed and full of inquiries. Of course, it took a bit of bartering and a lot of negotiation, but after parting with what seemed a whole library of novels, she managed to find her niche there. She’d been staying near the Opal Clan, her tiny travelers tent a meager comparison to their brightly-colored pavilion. For the most part they’d leave her alone, which was nice. The Drykas who’d shown her there was a member of the Emerald Clan by the name of Roric Rainsong, a jovial fellow whose skill was gemcrafting. He’d shown her around briefly in the summertime before the migration, but it was Fall and she’d become lost. It was a wonder to her how they dedicated so much energy to movement. Sybel had arrived early in the Summer, as they slowly crept closer to Syliras. It had afforded more opportunity to hawk her wares among the natives. But with the coming of Fall she’d settled in as an novice brewer and barmaid, with immense amounts of free time. They currently sat closer to Zindal Bay, an area she’d never been before. The vast expanse of water had the desert-dweller within stunned. She hadn’t seen that much water in her life. Excepting her stay in Riverfall of course. It was one such day she sat near the fire at the Stalk Meet, deftly re-braiding her long mass of hair. The one thing the women did appreciate about her was that one feature, as it fit with the culture well. Sybel had the day off, which filled her with maddening curiosity and wanderlust. A middle-aged man sat near, encircled by young boys and girls, telling a tale of their people. He was built as broad as a keg, with a beard near as long as his chestnut hair. It was strange, but he spoke in common rather than Pavi. He had been telling tales of their creation, the harmony between Zulrav and Semele that had birthed the claybank colt. With his hooves he flattened the earth on which he trod, and up sprang the Sea of Grass, the precursor to their illustrious Cyphrus Striders, the finest steeds in all of Mizahar. Enraptured, Sybel listened as she worked. Serifal Drykas came to know this horse known as Ravikas, and together the created the horse clans that comprised their fine culture. The children ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed appropriately. She observed them closely. The man seemed to notice her, and gestured for her to sit near. She rose, letting the coil of her braid fall and approached. “You seem a strange sort of lass,” he remarked, looking her over. “You’re not a Drykas?” “Oh no, I’m a Benshira, from Eyktol.” She responded anxiously. The little girls and boys gaped, then giggled, the murmur of “ben-shee-rah” rippling through their murmured conversations. The man seemed pleased by her response. “Yes, you look like desert sort of woman.” He replied conversationally. “Take a seat lass, and tell me some of your stories.” “Well,” she began. She told them of endless sand and raging storms, of the hot streets of Yahebah and their dedication of Yahal. She spoke of the Sons of Rapa and their priesthood, of their livelihoods and the hearts of the people, and their endless gratitude for the lives they’d been given. She even spoke of industry, of the carpenters and craftsmen, so vastly different than the Drykas, and finally of the hearty fig trees and shepherds that helped them break their bread. When her speeches ended, the children sighed with imagination and wonder. The man eyed her speculatively. “That is quite something, young lady. Now then, tell this old soul what you want in return for such splendid tales!” His generosity was overwhelming, she thought. “Oh I couldn’t,” she said but he just shook his head, as if not taking ‘no’ for an answer. “Well,” she said meekly, “perhaps a tour of your culture, your life? I hunger to know more about Endrykas, to know it truly through the eyes of your people.” The man rose from his seat immediately, and bowed low. “It would be my honor.” He spoke simply. The two of them trailed to where Eplah grazed, her eternal companion. He looked over her Eyktolian Desertbred with awe. “This is your steed?” He asked. She nodded emphatically. “She is a wise one, full of woe. I can feel it.” It saddened her to think of it, but she knew why. Eplah had been her Father’s horse, just as Sybel carried her Father’s sword. She’d loved him with all her might, despite his domineering ways. It had been a posthumous realization. They both mounted and he rode her around the encampment, moving at times in a canter and others a walk. When walking he spoke expansively about the Zibri and their meat and hide, what they called ‘the Run,’ or the migration of their herds, and their focus on sustainable practice and an overarching sense of responsibility to the earth’s bounty. He talked of glassbeaks and their powerful legs, and the danger they posed even to Endrykas itself. Quietly Sybel lusted over their beaks and talons, sighing over the price they’d bring. In all she was fascinated. He told her in other areas of the webbing they were all taught, and how interwoven the culture truly was. “They even know of you lass, of our talk right now. So long as you’re in our land, they will know your location, and your deeds.” “But is it magic?” She puzzled. “Indeed, lass, a special kind. It weaves us together, makes us strong.” That still confused her, but she chose not to say. Finally, he spoke of the Ankals and horsemen and windmarks. It was all so unique, she could barely contain her glee. “So you’re saying Ankals take more than one wife?” She questioned, slightly disturbed. “Isn’t that a little greedy?” He roared with laughter. “Lass, we all take more than one wife. There are more women than men for the taking, and the ladies don’t seem to mind.” She was shocked by the thought. “Even so, what would you think if you’re not the first wife? Isn’t there jealousy?” He considered that for a moment. “Aye, sometimes, but the man must be strong enough to quell it. A woman can choose whatever she likes, but us menfolk have our ways of persuasion, if you know what I mean.” He winked suggestively, and it was her turn to laugh. “Okay, fine.” She said, smiling. “So the men and women are equal totally.” He nodded. “You haven’t had any men clubbing you over the head, have you?” He grinned wickedly. “We look, but don’t touch. You ladies have every right to club us over the head, but we wouldn’t dare.” Her laughter returned in force. “How impossible.” Sybel observed breathlessly. “But still, I think I rather like the idea. I have been known for my mean clubbing arm.” She swung at the air. They continued their walk, the rugged gentlemen finding less and less to speak about, until they found themselves back where they began, the sun setting. Politely he helped her dismount, and together they walked back toward the center of the city. A strange silence fell between the two of them, a comfortable silence. He felt like an old friend. “You never told me your name.” She said. He turned and smiled. “Well dear,” he intoned, “you’ll have to catch me first.” With that, he took off. Sybel was incensed! This person hadn’t even introduced himself despite his endless kindness. “Hey!” She called and was hot on his heels, until he began to weave between tents. For a bit she was sure she had him – Sybel was long-legged and fast as a whip, but he disappeared around a corner and when she turned it, she’d lost him for good. Digging in her heels to stop, she looked helplessly at the onlookers. “Excuse me,” she solicited. “Did you see where that man went?” “What man?” A peevish woman asked, holding an ornate vase. “The one I’d been chasing…” She trailed sadly. They would be no help. Throughout many years, she never saw the mysterious man again. Sybel would always remember him fondly, as the unknown encounter had illuminated so much she hadn’t previously known. Yet she could never find him, and those she asked didn’t seem to recall. Perhaps it had been a cruel trick, or something more. But in time she’d resolved to find him again, one day. |
desired skills
Anthropology, Observation
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