28th of Winter, 513 A.V.
The snow crunched easily beneath his feet as Wingard left his aerie. Taking a look around, he tucked his katinu tightly against his body to protect it from the sickening cold that seemed to permeate in the air. His breath is visible before him as he began walking down the steep path, his fingers protected from winter’s bite in an extra fold in his scarf. He had unceremoniously wrapped it around his head to protect his barren ears from the cold, but it seemed to hardly make a difference as the wind swept through the openings around his face. It caused his teeth to chatter against one another, and he inwardly detested such a sound. It was an obvious sign of weakness to him, and even though it was only natural in such conditions, he wished it would merely end.
Burying his nose into his scarf, Wingard studied the empty path before him idly. Normally, this path was bustling with activity as Endal either walked with purpose to their next location or lounged languidly in between shifts, but it was barren. As the white ice of Morwen settled into the season, the Endal disappeared as they became overworked in the disparity of the season. Hunting was no longer plentiful, so their trips became longer, while others were reassigned to mob control and couldn’t even cool their heels in their home. Sleep was for the weak after all, and considering all that needed to be done, one was lucky to get the amount they needed to properly function.
It was somewhat of a paradox to the Eagle, considering that Wind Reach was bustling with more activity in the warmer months. The Endal worked less when everyone else was busy and Wingard began to believe the statement that idle hands led to mischievous decisions. Everyone that had been told to stop working was one more mind that suddenly had too much time on their hands to plot and think about the bitterness of hunger. The Eagle was lucky that he had enough to do as it distracted him from the gnawing that clawed at his stomach and begged to be sated. It wasn’t like he was left to starve either. Considering his position as an Avora, he received far more to eat than those of the lower ranks and for a moment he pitied their hunger. Death, although common and part of life, was no fun when it was a slow journey of starvation.
It was a relief when he finally escaped into the Inner Warrens. Although the intricate paths were cold and drafty, the absence of the wind made them appear warmer. Pressing a single finger against the freezing stone, the man shivered involuntarily and continued walking, his mind still contemplating Inartan life in winter. Turrin and himself were at the top of the food chain, living where they had hot water, full meals, and easy access out of Wind Reach. Cabin fever was one of the worst aspects of winter and he could only imagine how he would feel if he knew he was trapped in a city for ninety or so days. Grimacing, his thoughts strayed to Ainyi, the young Chiet he had met some days ago. At least she wouldn’t be stuck any longer, he mused, recalling Turrin’s offer of apprenticeship. It still struck him as surprising that such an invitation was extended without conditions, but it really didn’t affect him in any way so it hardly mattered.
As the long walk continued, Wingard’s mind drifted. He thought about his recent hunts and the failure that seemed to follow him. Inwardly, he was stiff miffed at the fact that he brutalized that pelt so badly that it couldn’t be of use to anyone. It wasn’t every day someone killed a lynx singlehandedly and considering how petching cold it was, that fur would have been incredibly useful to anyone. Nearly as valuable as food, the warmth that pelt could have provided would have been a hot commodity that he could have sold for a tidy sum. Oh well, he mused, sighing; there wasn’t much he could do now at this point.
He passed a few other bodies as he went, but the Avora doesn’t bother redirecting his gaze from in front of him. The appearance of others hardly ever drew him from his own musings and today would hardly be any different. Wingard just watched as each passerby went, their movements rushed as they headed somewhere or slow and languid as they struggled to get their limbs to move appropriately in their hunger. It was a rather unsightly thing to witness but the Eagle didn’t turn away, recognizing this as the way of winter and accepting it wholeheartedly. Those that couldn’t bear the sights of reality were weak and the rapture refused to be seen as such. Reality was as they say, a vicious lady, but Wingard was never one to back down to anyone – let alone a woman.
The snow crunched easily beneath his feet as Wingard left his aerie. Taking a look around, he tucked his katinu tightly against his body to protect it from the sickening cold that seemed to permeate in the air. His breath is visible before him as he began walking down the steep path, his fingers protected from winter’s bite in an extra fold in his scarf. He had unceremoniously wrapped it around his head to protect his barren ears from the cold, but it seemed to hardly make a difference as the wind swept through the openings around his face. It caused his teeth to chatter against one another, and he inwardly detested such a sound. It was an obvious sign of weakness to him, and even though it was only natural in such conditions, he wished it would merely end.
Burying his nose into his scarf, Wingard studied the empty path before him idly. Normally, this path was bustling with activity as Endal either walked with purpose to their next location or lounged languidly in between shifts, but it was barren. As the white ice of Morwen settled into the season, the Endal disappeared as they became overworked in the disparity of the season. Hunting was no longer plentiful, so their trips became longer, while others were reassigned to mob control and couldn’t even cool their heels in their home. Sleep was for the weak after all, and considering all that needed to be done, one was lucky to get the amount they needed to properly function.
It was somewhat of a paradox to the Eagle, considering that Wind Reach was bustling with more activity in the warmer months. The Endal worked less when everyone else was busy and Wingard began to believe the statement that idle hands led to mischievous decisions. Everyone that had been told to stop working was one more mind that suddenly had too much time on their hands to plot and think about the bitterness of hunger. The Eagle was lucky that he had enough to do as it distracted him from the gnawing that clawed at his stomach and begged to be sated. It wasn’t like he was left to starve either. Considering his position as an Avora, he received far more to eat than those of the lower ranks and for a moment he pitied their hunger. Death, although common and part of life, was no fun when it was a slow journey of starvation.
It was a relief when he finally escaped into the Inner Warrens. Although the intricate paths were cold and drafty, the absence of the wind made them appear warmer. Pressing a single finger against the freezing stone, the man shivered involuntarily and continued walking, his mind still contemplating Inartan life in winter. Turrin and himself were at the top of the food chain, living where they had hot water, full meals, and easy access out of Wind Reach. Cabin fever was one of the worst aspects of winter and he could only imagine how he would feel if he knew he was trapped in a city for ninety or so days. Grimacing, his thoughts strayed to Ainyi, the young Chiet he had met some days ago. At least she wouldn’t be stuck any longer, he mused, recalling Turrin’s offer of apprenticeship. It still struck him as surprising that such an invitation was extended without conditions, but it really didn’t affect him in any way so it hardly mattered.
As the long walk continued, Wingard’s mind drifted. He thought about his recent hunts and the failure that seemed to follow him. Inwardly, he was stiff miffed at the fact that he brutalized that pelt so badly that it couldn’t be of use to anyone. It wasn’t every day someone killed a lynx singlehandedly and considering how petching cold it was, that fur would have been incredibly useful to anyone. Nearly as valuable as food, the warmth that pelt could have provided would have been a hot commodity that he could have sold for a tidy sum. Oh well, he mused, sighing; there wasn’t much he could do now at this point.
He passed a few other bodies as he went, but the Avora doesn’t bother redirecting his gaze from in front of him. The appearance of others hardly ever drew him from his own musings and today would hardly be any different. Wingard just watched as each passerby went, their movements rushed as they headed somewhere or slow and languid as they struggled to get their limbs to move appropriately in their hunger. It was a rather unsightly thing to witness but the Eagle didn’t turn away, recognizing this as the way of winter and accepting it wholeheartedly. Those that couldn’t bear the sights of reality were weak and the rapture refused to be seen as such. Reality was as they say, a vicious lady, but Wingard was never one to back down to anyone – let alone a woman.
