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..51st Autumn, 514
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..51st Autumn, 514
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Zhol wasn't sure what time it was, but that didn't seem to matter much: knowing how late it was wouldn't have made it any easier for him to sleep. There was no reason for it, or at least no new reason, and yet here he lay, staring upwards, his eyes searching for patterns in the undulating texture of the cave ceiling.
Finally he surrendered, the hunt for familiarity in the stone abandoned as he rolled onto his side. Back in Endrykas it had been comforting, following the weave of the fabric overhead, or looking up into the night sky for star patterns even in the summer months, surrounded by the reassuring flutter of canvas in the breeze, the sputter of restless horses, the groans and breaths of a pavilion full of familiar souls. Here in the warrens of Wind Reach though, the cave walls blocked and absorbed so much of the sound, trapping the reassurances of the living within their chambers; and those few sounds that did escape were twisted into distant, chilling echoes that sounded more like the groans of monsters in the shadows than anything that might help soothe the dislocated boy from Endrykas to sleep.
He extended an arm and focused, picturing the flickering candle inside his soul, waiting patiently for a trickling stream of molten wax to flow from his imagination into his arm, and seep from his pours as res. His mind guided it to a fingertip and ushered it into flame, which he gently laid to rest against the wick of a real candle waiting patiently beside his bed. A few flickering moments later, and the flame slowly grew, a fresh set of brighter shadows dancing their way across the stone walls.
Zhol sighed gently, and clambered to his feet, bare souls flinching momentarily against the cold floor. He crossed the room to his table, scattered and strewn with almost everything he owned. Even his bow rested atop it, discarded after his return from the range. He spared the evening a passing thought as he carefully bundled his most expensive possession back into it's case; many days had passed since his first lesson of sorts from Khara beside the lakes, and while her responsibilities in readying the city for winter had been far more deserving of her time than he was, archery had been the one easy excuse to spend time together. Khara assured him that he was improving, but Zhol wasn't so sure; perhaps he would bring his target and equipment with him to the Hideaway next time; perhaps a little seclusion would have the same faint impact on his archery skills as it had on his reimancy.
He sighed again, and collected the book he had come for: a story for children, borrowed from the Enclave. His feet padded against the floor as he paced back to his bed, fumbling through the pages for the place he had last left off. It wasn't a thrilling read by any stretch, but with his paltry command of Nari, it was as much as he could manage: Asi the Yasi was on a journey, experiencing events that taught him about the lives of the different areas of the city, and the different Inarta castes. At first, Asi had found his way to the hydroponic gardens, and had learned about the reimancers there who helped control the waters there, and how essential it was that the city was provided with sustainable foods like mushrooms and moss for the winter months; though as yet there had been no mention of the vital role that the stables played in providing the manure that helped those crops to grow. Last night, Asi had helped the dek transport food supplies to the kitchens, and had learned about the roles people played there: not only cooking and serving the food, but also washing the dishes, cleaning up after each meal, and protecting the food stores; an uncomfortable bit of prescience on the part of the author, given what had transpired last winter.
Where Zhol had stopped, and where he began again, was with the entry of a hunting party, delivering meat for the next meal. He tugged aside the scrap of paper that marked his place, and traced his fingers over the page to find the words that had twisted his stomach in knots and forced him to set the book aside the previous night. He glanced at the illustration as he found it, the young girl that Asi had spoken to: the same red hair, the same attire, as any other Inarta who travelled the outdoors, but six specific words set her apart; six specific words of Nari that burned themselves into his mind.
Actually, I'm just a game scout.
The story continued to expound upon the difference, gently but insistently, the others in the hunting party explained to Asi how the scout was a mere Chiet; how she hadn't been good enough; how she was somehow inferior despite possessing skills that Zhol knew many of the hunters in reality were lacking. It was presented as a consolation: it was okay not to be good enough, because even Chiet had an important role to play; just not quite as important as the hunters who would be utterly lost without them, apparently.
The knot returned, and tightened; it was all Zhol could do to stop the book from busting into flame in his hands. He looked inside himself again, as the meditation books he'd borrowed suggested; he pictured the candle, focused on the flame; imagined it swaying and flickering with each slow and steady breath; imagined that his frustration was the fire; breathed hard to extinguish it, his annoyance transferring from flame into a delicate, curling spiral of smoke, drifting away into the dark nothingness.
He wished it had helped more than it did.
The third sigh of the evening escaped as he set the book aside on the mattress beside him, hands running across his face, as if he could scrub away his thoughts like they were nothing but grunge and grime. His fingers threaded into his hair as they continued upwards, still short, but not as much as it had been; ruffled and unkempt from the way he'd been laying. That was another unwanted thought; another dilemma. Should he cut it short again, once more depriving himself of what in his old home had been a sign of status and prestige; or should he let it linger, through the winter at the very least, trading a little warmth for his scalp against the risk that he might mistake himself for someone less insignificant than he was every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection?
A knock on his door summoned a stomping mule of confusion that stubbornly shoved his other thoughts aside. There was something faint and feeble about the sound, and for a moment he almost thought he hadn't heard it at all; but he could hear the subtlest sounds of someone beyond the door, of a pattern of breathing that he didn't quite recognise. A frown creased his brow as he rose from the bed again, a stray thought wondering if he should arm himself just in case. Slowly, cautiously, he clicked the latch, and opened the door.
Zhol wasn't sure what time it was, but that didn't seem to matter much: knowing how late it was wouldn't have made it any easier for him to sleep. There was no reason for it, or at least no new reason, and yet here he lay, staring upwards, his eyes searching for patterns in the undulating texture of the cave ceiling.
Finally he surrendered, the hunt for familiarity in the stone abandoned as he rolled onto his side. Back in Endrykas it had been comforting, following the weave of the fabric overhead, or looking up into the night sky for star patterns even in the summer months, surrounded by the reassuring flutter of canvas in the breeze, the sputter of restless horses, the groans and breaths of a pavilion full of familiar souls. Here in the warrens of Wind Reach though, the cave walls blocked and absorbed so much of the sound, trapping the reassurances of the living within their chambers; and those few sounds that did escape were twisted into distant, chilling echoes that sounded more like the groans of monsters in the shadows than anything that might help soothe the dislocated boy from Endrykas to sleep.
He extended an arm and focused, picturing the flickering candle inside his soul, waiting patiently for a trickling stream of molten wax to flow from his imagination into his arm, and seep from his pours as res. His mind guided it to a fingertip and ushered it into flame, which he gently laid to rest against the wick of a real candle waiting patiently beside his bed. A few flickering moments later, and the flame slowly grew, a fresh set of brighter shadows dancing their way across the stone walls.
Zhol sighed gently, and clambered to his feet, bare souls flinching momentarily against the cold floor. He crossed the room to his table, scattered and strewn with almost everything he owned. Even his bow rested atop it, discarded after his return from the range. He spared the evening a passing thought as he carefully bundled his most expensive possession back into it's case; many days had passed since his first lesson of sorts from Khara beside the lakes, and while her responsibilities in readying the city for winter had been far more deserving of her time than he was, archery had been the one easy excuse to spend time together. Khara assured him that he was improving, but Zhol wasn't so sure; perhaps he would bring his target and equipment with him to the Hideaway next time; perhaps a little seclusion would have the same faint impact on his archery skills as it had on his reimancy.
He sighed again, and collected the book he had come for: a story for children, borrowed from the Enclave. His feet padded against the floor as he paced back to his bed, fumbling through the pages for the place he had last left off. It wasn't a thrilling read by any stretch, but with his paltry command of Nari, it was as much as he could manage: Asi the Yasi was on a journey, experiencing events that taught him about the lives of the different areas of the city, and the different Inarta castes. At first, Asi had found his way to the hydroponic gardens, and had learned about the reimancers there who helped control the waters there, and how essential it was that the city was provided with sustainable foods like mushrooms and moss for the winter months; though as yet there had been no mention of the vital role that the stables played in providing the manure that helped those crops to grow. Last night, Asi had helped the dek transport food supplies to the kitchens, and had learned about the roles people played there: not only cooking and serving the food, but also washing the dishes, cleaning up after each meal, and protecting the food stores; an uncomfortable bit of prescience on the part of the author, given what had transpired last winter.
Where Zhol had stopped, and where he began again, was with the entry of a hunting party, delivering meat for the next meal. He tugged aside the scrap of paper that marked his place, and traced his fingers over the page to find the words that had twisted his stomach in knots and forced him to set the book aside the previous night. He glanced at the illustration as he found it, the young girl that Asi had spoken to: the same red hair, the same attire, as any other Inarta who travelled the outdoors, but six specific words set her apart; six specific words of Nari that burned themselves into his mind.
Actually, I'm just a game scout.
The story continued to expound upon the difference, gently but insistently, the others in the hunting party explained to Asi how the scout was a mere Chiet; how she hadn't been good enough; how she was somehow inferior despite possessing skills that Zhol knew many of the hunters in reality were lacking. It was presented as a consolation: it was okay not to be good enough, because even Chiet had an important role to play; just not quite as important as the hunters who would be utterly lost without them, apparently.
The knot returned, and tightened; it was all Zhol could do to stop the book from busting into flame in his hands. He looked inside himself again, as the meditation books he'd borrowed suggested; he pictured the candle, focused on the flame; imagined it swaying and flickering with each slow and steady breath; imagined that his frustration was the fire; breathed hard to extinguish it, his annoyance transferring from flame into a delicate, curling spiral of smoke, drifting away into the dark nothingness.
He wished it had helped more than it did.
The third sigh of the evening escaped as he set the book aside on the mattress beside him, hands running across his face, as if he could scrub away his thoughts like they were nothing but grunge and grime. His fingers threaded into his hair as they continued upwards, still short, but not as much as it had been; ruffled and unkempt from the way he'd been laying. That was another unwanted thought; another dilemma. Should he cut it short again, once more depriving himself of what in his old home had been a sign of status and prestige; or should he let it linger, through the winter at the very least, trading a little warmth for his scalp against the risk that he might mistake himself for someone less insignificant than he was every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection?
A knock on his door summoned a stomping mule of confusion that stubbornly shoved his other thoughts aside. There was something faint and feeble about the sound, and for a moment he almost thought he hadn't heard it at all; but he could hear the subtlest sounds of someone beyond the door, of a pattern of breathing that he didn't quite recognise. A frown creased his brow as he rose from the bed again, a stray thought wondering if he should arm himself just in case. Slowly, cautiously, he clicked the latch, and opened the door.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara, the letter Q, and the numbers 87 and 13.
