Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
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Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
Last edited by etchmarc on Wed Sep 27, 2006 1:14 am, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
[OOC: Sweet! =) ]
[ ... <viagra for post> ]
[ ... <viagra for post> ]
Jelathnia, Kasarinia, KianShi, Maethro, ShuaLi, and OPaxie (Arispotle)
TeiJeng (Leanon)
ï = ALT+0239 | advice for mission design | Zoraï masks
long-distance communication | some foods and drinks | Zoraï pictograms
"Ryzom: We dare to be different. Do you dare to adapt?" - Acridiel
TeiJeng (Leanon)
ï = ALT+0239 | advice for mission design | Zoraï masks
long-distance communication | some foods and drinks | Zoraï pictograms
"Ryzom: We dare to be different. Do you dare to adapt?" - Acridiel
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
“I am fine. I just... I don’t live with Hominids. It is, unusual, for me to even to have spoken to you this long. The only one who listens to me is my Lord; no one else pays me any attention.”
– Kas, speaking with Jelathnia.
Year of Jena 2535, Summer, 12th day. Almati Woods Region.
The chitin was still slightly warm, in part helped by the sinking sun, in addition to the fact that the Kizoar had only recently been killed. It was odd to note the patterns that the dark blood, leaking from the crack in the upper carapace, made as it wove its gradual way down the hill. The counterpoint of the bright flowers was glaring, even in the fading light.
Kas frowned to himself, reclining against the corpse that was much larger than his Mektoub packer back in Yrkanis. Not enough. Still not enough. The small scent nodules were sorted out in a large blanket of skin beside him. The larger of them came from the Kipees to the north, past the circle of Dorotea trees. The smallest originated from the quite vigilant Kizoars that were much closer to the Karavan transporter; piles and piles of these small thumb-sized glands, each with its own unique properties, messages and hormonal triggers. Most of them were unknown to Kas, but he had been spending a significant amount of time trying to determine their uses through many tests, often ending with violence when a scent trigger was found to be hostility, panic, or apparently pain oriented odors. But it was not yet enough.
Not enough to sustain Kas and his lord Enon, to trek back into the Old Lands.
With a slow sigh, he rose and gathered the groups of scent nodules into separate pouches, and folded up his blanket. Nightfall was coming; it was time to prepare for the Kinchers. They were too smart to be fooled by the passive scent hormones that Kas had smeared his armor with, to all but the smartest Kitins, he was one of them; to a point.
There was much work to do, his Axe said to him, a sibilant voice in his mind.
"Yes… much work." Kas had long since stopped worrying about the voice. He was convinced it was just a part of him, speaking up its opinion in some personified way. At least, that's how Enon had put it.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]Kas watched the energy fence of the Karavan Teleporter compound glitter in the distance. The yellow and orange flashes sparkled on the small pool before him. Away from him, deeper into the Almati Woods, the Kipee sang their loud songs in the night, sounding their presence with great roars. It had taken him a while to really understand their habits and movements, but his camp was now safe enough. Ringed with Dorotea trees, he had marked the territory with enough Kipee and Kizoar scent glands that every other occupant of the Woods should not scent anything interesting here.
Lying on the ground, enjoying the slow ebb of heat given off from the firm soil as the sun was setting. His chin resting on his folded arms as his upper body extended beyond the cover of his camouflaged bow shelter in a comfortable, even if unusual, position. It was one of his evening rituals after eating, watching the laser light dance until that little place in his mind clicked off enough to allow him to sleep. Secondly, it allowed him to clear his mind, waiting for the call of his Master that habitually caught him just before such said sleep.
But tonight his mind was not unwinding. Seriously strange events had occurred in the past two or so days, enough to disturb him. Not that any of it was really any of his affairs, as a servant, but Enon had re-written his bond contract, pulling out some names from Kas's list of priorities. He no longer had to look after, serve or even deal with them, so in essence life was simpler now.
His breath cast up some of the dry earth as it sighed out of him. None the less, it was still troubling. One becomes used to certain people, and social allowances had been made.
And then there was Lady Jelathnia, asking about his past, his family. That had been weird at best, some things are best not to think back on, and some gave him splitting head aches when he attempted to remember back before the injury of his youth.
"Kas… Asleep yet, my friend?" Enon's mental voice echoed through his mind suddenly, with all the apparent aspects of dried leaves in the wind. Kas started slightly, but nodded. Then, feeling fairly foolish for nodding to no one, he answered.
"Of course my lord. Do you require anything?"
"No, I am simply harvesting for Resin. Were you successful today?"
Kas glanced over to his storage containers, now mostly full. Just enough scent oils to keep them safe for several months. "Yes sire, Lady Jelathnia killed enough Kinchers for me to collect what we needed. Tomorrow I will attempt to test if there is some sort of dominance or threat scent gland within this cache."
The flow of information over the Seed-connection was always one sided, thanks to Enon's skill of foraging and crafting. Any time he thought about it while talking to Kas, it was hard to keep direct focus. "Good. I will let you get your rest. The Dragonblades have graciously showed me a path that some of them use to get back into the Old world, and I think we shall begin our journey soon. I will contact you tomorrow, for the Dragonblades' Day Out."
"Yes sire." Dutifully, Kas shied his mind away from the connection, allowing it to gradually close incase either one of them had last minute statements. But none were to come, the rush of information guttering.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow… should be fun." Kas said to himself, adjusting slightly in his armor. Tomorrow.
Last edited by etchmarc on Sat Sep 30, 2006 9:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
Jeziellia took a deep, slightly unsteady breath. “If I… ask you something, you won’t laugh at me, right? F-for something?” She fidgeted a little. […] She looked up at Enon and asked, barely in a whisper, “Kiss me?”
Year of Jena 2535, Summer, 12th night. Towerbridge Way.
Enon knelt in-front of the angry resin node, his harvesting pick increasingly heavy in his hand as his blows rained down upon it with certain recklessness. His dark hair was soaked, perspiration bleeding over his brow to burn in his eyes. Lips pursed and mouth dry in concentration, thoughts of a drink pursued his consciousness, but he had been putting off the opening of the bottle of rum Emaelle had sent from Silan. He was uncomfortable, sleeves long since discarded, but his vest was still sticking to his chest, not enough to inhibit his work -- just enough to irritate him. Like a struck beast, the node began to rumble, making known its agitation; promising dire consequences should it not be appeased.
The thin bone plates on his leggings ground together as he rose to step back, glaring all the while down at the node. He hefted his pick – his mind filled with a sudden growling darkness – and then hurled it at the node; it's much worn piercing prongs sinking deep. The node gurgled once before exploding in a thick cloud of boiling green gas, and Enon turned his face, shutting his eyes against the sting. After the wind had done its work to clear the ground, he returned to inspect what was left of the node and retrieved the handfuls of resin that had been gleaned by this careless operation. The old pick, however, was a lost cause. Chuckling and shaking his head at the uncommon outburst of emotion, he moved to the nearby tree where he had dropped his pack much earlier in the evening, and was thoroughly satisfied having accomplished very little.
With disinterest, the resin was tossed in the same side pouch which held the rest of the night's harvested materials. His eyes drawn to the unlabeled wine-bottle filled with Tryker rum. Lights from the hovering Karavan device above the Border Guard emplacement, made the bottle glint and glitter with a green glow, a good enough Sign of blessing in his current mood, all things considered.
Enon glanced up at the stars, somewhat visible through the leaves above him, thankful for the surprise gift from Emaelle; if not for her letter. He was tired, but as with all of his nights recently, he could not sleep. The rum would help, or at least that would serve as a reasonable excuse. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over recovered the letter he had discarded, and considered leaving, near his pack. He scratched idly at the wax seal that was already broken before pulling the letter out to read it once more.
"Oh, Ema..." Enon spoke to himself, sighing in a slow and soft rush of breath. "Next time, send more rum."
The letter is written in carefully practiced script on a rather fine piece of parchment.
Greetings Enon!
I can imagine the surprised look on your face when you receive this. Being friends with my sister, you were likely lead to believe I was some sort of uneducated Fyros heathen. Illiterate, even.
I write for two reasons; I'd love to know how you are faring out in the great wide world, and I received some kind of incoherent letter from my sister. I don't trust her to tell me the full truth, and I'm worried. Please don't repeat that to anyone, you'd certainly ruin my reputation as carefree.
When you were speaking in the Haven and seemed anxious, I suspected it was not this tiny island you were missing. A fool could see the way you looked at my sister. What she did to deserve it, only Jena knows!
Her letter was vague, as my sister has always been, and made no real sense. What is going on? I understand if you feel it is not a concern of mine, but please try to understand that I love my sister and am concerned at least for her welfare. I also happen to think you are a decent fellow, and am concerned about you. Jeziellia is not the easiest person to handle. I've had years of experience, and failures.
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and Matisian prosperity. Enclosed in the package is a bottle of Tryker rum. I don't really drink the stuff, but I've accumulated a small stock of it in gifts. If you know anyone who might want more, I have plenty!
Take care of yourself, Enon.
Sincerely,
Emaelle Mara'tyr
The sunlight of the new day was threatening to break on the horizon as Enon's eyes drifted over the empty wine-bottle, which heralded a wave of self-loathing that quickly washed over him; disgraced in his own mind. He simply did not find his increased frequency of inebriation appealing. Less concerned now about his troubles with Jeziellia or what exactly it is he had spent his time doing for the last few years. A powerful voice had begun to lash and hiss in his mind, echoing from old memories. "Weakness… Weakness is not an Etchmarc trait..."
[RIGHT]-- Jeziellia, Year of Jenna 2534, Summer, 12th night. The Spire, Silan.
[/RIGHT]Year of Jena 2535, Summer, 12th night. Towerbridge Way.
Enon knelt in-front of the angry resin node, his harvesting pick increasingly heavy in his hand as his blows rained down upon it with certain recklessness. His dark hair was soaked, perspiration bleeding over his brow to burn in his eyes. Lips pursed and mouth dry in concentration, thoughts of a drink pursued his consciousness, but he had been putting off the opening of the bottle of rum Emaelle had sent from Silan. He was uncomfortable, sleeves long since discarded, but his vest was still sticking to his chest, not enough to inhibit his work -- just enough to irritate him. Like a struck beast, the node began to rumble, making known its agitation; promising dire consequences should it not be appeased.
The thin bone plates on his leggings ground together as he rose to step back, glaring all the while down at the node. He hefted his pick – his mind filled with a sudden growling darkness – and then hurled it at the node; it's much worn piercing prongs sinking deep. The node gurgled once before exploding in a thick cloud of boiling green gas, and Enon turned his face, shutting his eyes against the sting. After the wind had done its work to clear the ground, he returned to inspect what was left of the node and retrieved the handfuls of resin that had been gleaned by this careless operation. The old pick, however, was a lost cause. Chuckling and shaking his head at the uncommon outburst of emotion, he moved to the nearby tree where he had dropped his pack much earlier in the evening, and was thoroughly satisfied having accomplished very little.
With disinterest, the resin was tossed in the same side pouch which held the rest of the night's harvested materials. His eyes drawn to the unlabeled wine-bottle filled with Tryker rum. Lights from the hovering Karavan device above the Border Guard emplacement, made the bottle glint and glitter with a green glow, a good enough Sign of blessing in his current mood, all things considered.
Enon glanced up at the stars, somewhat visible through the leaves above him, thankful for the surprise gift from Emaelle; if not for her letter. He was tired, but as with all of his nights recently, he could not sleep. The rum would help, or at least that would serve as a reasonable excuse. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over recovered the letter he had discarded, and considered leaving, near his pack. He scratched idly at the wax seal that was already broken before pulling the letter out to read it once more.
"Oh, Ema..." Enon spoke to himself, sighing in a slow and soft rush of breath. "Next time, send more rum."
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]The letter is written in carefully practiced script on a rather fine piece of parchment.
Greetings Enon!
I can imagine the surprised look on your face when you receive this. Being friends with my sister, you were likely lead to believe I was some sort of uneducated Fyros heathen. Illiterate, even.
I write for two reasons; I'd love to know how you are faring out in the great wide world, and I received some kind of incoherent letter from my sister. I don't trust her to tell me the full truth, and I'm worried. Please don't repeat that to anyone, you'd certainly ruin my reputation as carefree.
When you were speaking in the Haven and seemed anxious, I suspected it was not this tiny island you were missing. A fool could see the way you looked at my sister. What she did to deserve it, only Jena knows!
Her letter was vague, as my sister has always been, and made no real sense. What is going on? I understand if you feel it is not a concern of mine, but please try to understand that I love my sister and am concerned at least for her welfare. I also happen to think you are a decent fellow, and am concerned about you. Jeziellia is not the easiest person to handle. I've had years of experience, and failures.
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and Matisian prosperity. Enclosed in the package is a bottle of Tryker rum. I don't really drink the stuff, but I've accumulated a small stock of it in gifts. If you know anyone who might want more, I have plenty!
Take care of yourself, Enon.
Sincerely,
Emaelle Mara'tyr
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]The sunlight of the new day was threatening to break on the horizon as Enon's eyes drifted over the empty wine-bottle, which heralded a wave of self-loathing that quickly washed over him; disgraced in his own mind. He simply did not find his increased frequency of inebriation appealing. Less concerned now about his troubles with Jeziellia or what exactly it is he had spent his time doing for the last few years. A powerful voice had begun to lash and hiss in his mind, echoing from old memories. "Weakness… Weakness is not an Etchmarc trait..."
Last edited by etchmarc on Wed Oct 11, 2006 10:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
Jela was explaining to Kas, When you join a guild, your Seed integrates with the consciousness of the guild so all members can communicate with each other while awake. Kas paused for a moment before replying, ... I am not sure that a sharing of my consciousness would be a good idea... it does not sound healthy.
Year of Jena 2535, Summer, 15th day. In the Circle of Dorotea, Almati Woods Region.
"For longer than I can remember, I have trained in the ways of strategy and personal combat. At the age of thirteen I fought a duel for the first time. My opponent was named Adamadri Kehlini, a practiced swordman of the Perusha family; I defeated him. At sixteen, I defeated Tur-Ginsha, an adroit combatant, who hailed from an esteemed prefecture of the Zorai. At twenty-one, I journeyed to MatGia. There, I fought duels with several adepts of the sword from several prominent Families, but I never lost. All of this at my Master Ramasa's command, and only honor have I received.
Leo Dim Ojin's voice, the voice of Kas's father, coiled through his mind like an oiled snake. The strength and assured statements were not lost to the many years since his demise. The solid convictions and trust of a man secure in the price of honoring his own traditions. Holding to his faith in the higher power that was his family Bond; both were pure and untarnished by Kas's age or experience. The longing to feel such freedom of decision, the simplicity of life, the purity of action was encircled now around his mind; the Chains of Xia almost complete. His meditative state of mind shifts for the first time, however not unexpectedly.
Kas practiced the ancient tribal art that had been passed down gradually though the Ojin servant dynasty, from their most distant ancestors amidst campfires and wild unknown stars; til now. Xia, the fighting spirit, the mind of men in battle was the only true translation for the word, pronounced much more akin to See-I-a, than any other. Only those worthy were initiated into the ritual, as the meditation and amount of concentration, was sometimes too much to bear for some.
With a remembered slam as mental tumblers unlocked, the trance like state took hold with a slithering, bone-chilling thrill. Like one would snap fingers, the reality around him became memory.
"Accept everything just the way it is." Uncle Jver said, his eyes glazed from the homonigol.
"Be indifferent to where you live." Eldest brother Tquin, his expression lost in the fire.
"Be detached from desire your whole life long." A figure lost in memory speaks, dim but remembered.
"Never let yourself be saddened by a separation." A woman this time, from the shadows.
"Resentment and complaint are appropriate neither for oneself or others." This line was his.
"Do not fear death." Kas's father, at the head and greatest of them all.
"Do not regret what you have done." In a synchronized union of voice, bound by ritual.
In the heady rush of memory the ritual returns, the drums beating softly, the drug strong. Only the head of the family knew the secrets to brewing the mystical substance that opened the mind to pliability. Throughout the night, fell oaths renewed again, blood in debt and word; life was transacted on a silver plate, resurrecting the ancient bonds between the Ojins and the Etchmarcs. Each of the other servant families had their own rituals, but this one was theirs.
"He will surely honor his words, and definitely carry out his actions. Whatever he promises he will fulfill. He does not fear for his bodily self, putting his life and death aside to aid his master. He does not boast of his ability, nor shamelessly extol his own virtues. This, is Xia." The breath and voices of those around the fire, and quietly repeated by those who married into the family that host in a ring removed beyond the light; rise and twist, more voices than the old home could have contained. Some said that the ancestors themselves presided upon this ritual, no matter what form it was taken in.
Partial reality reasserted itself. Through slit eyes, the moonlight was glinting down on his weapons and armor, ceremonially arranged before him on the crest of the small hill. No fire this time, none of the lost family narcotic, but the power of the ritual remained with him as always.
Entrenched in his consciousness by both time and dedication, it rose once more in another wave of memory, heavy with pride and shame.
The scenes running amok in his mind shifted sideways, his father speaking to him before leaving, for what would be the last time. The effort to throw the following Kitin onto another trail failed, claiming his father in the wake of destruction. Most of the men in the retreating families had tried this, and had failed at one point or another. But in doing so, they fought to buy their loved ones time to run.
"Kas, you must be the head now. Remember your lessons, my son." His voice muffled by the cup against his lips, only momentarily. Then he turns at the table, his stern gaze metaphysically gripping Kas's attention. There are only three times that an Ojin should be away from his master." Leo held up one finger, chopped to smoothness just below the nail, "When he is carrying out his master's work." The second finger was relatively undamaged, except for a hairless spot that was won from a successful, if not messy, assassination, When he is making other Ojins." Young Kas did not understand at the time, but the irony was definitely not lost upon him now. "And last, when the master is attending family court; which is the Liss entitlement." The name Liss rolled off Leo's tongue with a soft inflection, a tone that only hinted at distrust. It was more of a family jest than true feeling. The three other servant dynasties that served the Etchmarcs had their own place and roles in the Matis life.
"And finally never, ever, die after your master does; always before, my son always before." Leo nodded solemnly, his thoughts haunted by the scene at the Kregash fortress, the united end of all of the master bloodline of the Etchmarcs. Leo had been charged moments previously to serve Lord Enon in retreat, and help protect other groups of children fleeing from the vengeful forces. The pain of losing such a charge as his personal dedication to Ramasa had never truly left him.
With that unexpected but seemingly congruent vision, his thoughts began to slow; the shards of his personality weaving themselves together again. Nodding himself after many minutes of silent inward reflection, Kas arose, his heart light and his hands heavy.
Their journey was about to begin. But somehow, Kas felt that they had begun their journey down this road, many years ago.
"The state of Homins eventually degenerates into a brutish condition without law or morality, at which point Hominid Races must adopt institutions of law or perish. In the degenerate phase of the state of nature, homin is prone to be in frequent competition with his fellow homin while at the same time becoming increasingly dependent on them. This double pressure threatens both his, or her, survival and freedom. But, by joining together through the social contract and abandoning their claims of natural right, individuals can both preserve themselves, and remain free. This is because submission to the authority of the will of a group of homins as a whole guarantees individuals against being subordinated to the wills of others and also ensures that they obey themselves because they are, collectively, the authors of the said law."
[RIGHT]- A conversation between Jela Tinia and Kas Dim Ojin
[/RIGHT]Year of Jena 2535, Summer, 15th day. In the Circle of Dorotea, Almati Woods Region.
"For longer than I can remember, I have trained in the ways of strategy and personal combat. At the age of thirteen I fought a duel for the first time. My opponent was named Adamadri Kehlini, a practiced swordman of the Perusha family; I defeated him. At sixteen, I defeated Tur-Ginsha, an adroit combatant, who hailed from an esteemed prefecture of the Zorai. At twenty-one, I journeyed to MatGia. There, I fought duels with several adepts of the sword from several prominent Families, but I never lost. All of this at my Master Ramasa's command, and only honor have I received.
Leo Dim Ojin's voice, the voice of Kas's father, coiled through his mind like an oiled snake. The strength and assured statements were not lost to the many years since his demise. The solid convictions and trust of a man secure in the price of honoring his own traditions. Holding to his faith in the higher power that was his family Bond; both were pure and untarnished by Kas's age or experience. The longing to feel such freedom of decision, the simplicity of life, the purity of action was encircled now around his mind; the Chains of Xia almost complete. His meditative state of mind shifts for the first time, however not unexpectedly.
Kas practiced the ancient tribal art that had been passed down gradually though the Ojin servant dynasty, from their most distant ancestors amidst campfires and wild unknown stars; til now. Xia, the fighting spirit, the mind of men in battle was the only true translation for the word, pronounced much more akin to See-I-a, than any other. Only those worthy were initiated into the ritual, as the meditation and amount of concentration, was sometimes too much to bear for some.
With a remembered slam as mental tumblers unlocked, the trance like state took hold with a slithering, bone-chilling thrill. Like one would snap fingers, the reality around him became memory.
"Accept everything just the way it is." Uncle Jver said, his eyes glazed from the homonigol.
"Be indifferent to where you live." Eldest brother Tquin, his expression lost in the fire.
"Be detached from desire your whole life long." A figure lost in memory speaks, dim but remembered.
"Never let yourself be saddened by a separation." A woman this time, from the shadows.
"Resentment and complaint are appropriate neither for oneself or others." This line was his.
"Do not fear death." Kas's father, at the head and greatest of them all.
"Do not regret what you have done." In a synchronized union of voice, bound by ritual.
In the heady rush of memory the ritual returns, the drums beating softly, the drug strong. Only the head of the family knew the secrets to brewing the mystical substance that opened the mind to pliability. Throughout the night, fell oaths renewed again, blood in debt and word; life was transacted on a silver plate, resurrecting the ancient bonds between the Ojins and the Etchmarcs. Each of the other servant families had their own rituals, but this one was theirs.
"He will surely honor his words, and definitely carry out his actions. Whatever he promises he will fulfill. He does not fear for his bodily self, putting his life and death aside to aid his master. He does not boast of his ability, nor shamelessly extol his own virtues. This, is Xia." The breath and voices of those around the fire, and quietly repeated by those who married into the family that host in a ring removed beyond the light; rise and twist, more voices than the old home could have contained. Some said that the ancestors themselves presided upon this ritual, no matter what form it was taken in.
Partial reality reasserted itself. Through slit eyes, the moonlight was glinting down on his weapons and armor, ceremonially arranged before him on the crest of the small hill. No fire this time, none of the lost family narcotic, but the power of the ritual remained with him as always.
Entrenched in his consciousness by both time and dedication, it rose once more in another wave of memory, heavy with pride and shame.
The scenes running amok in his mind shifted sideways, his father speaking to him before leaving, for what would be the last time. The effort to throw the following Kitin onto another trail failed, claiming his father in the wake of destruction. Most of the men in the retreating families had tried this, and had failed at one point or another. But in doing so, they fought to buy their loved ones time to run.
"Kas, you must be the head now. Remember your lessons, my son." His voice muffled by the cup against his lips, only momentarily. Then he turns at the table, his stern gaze metaphysically gripping Kas's attention. There are only three times that an Ojin should be away from his master." Leo held up one finger, chopped to smoothness just below the nail, "When he is carrying out his master's work." The second finger was relatively undamaged, except for a hairless spot that was won from a successful, if not messy, assassination, When he is making other Ojins." Young Kas did not understand at the time, but the irony was definitely not lost upon him now. "And last, when the master is attending family court; which is the Liss entitlement." The name Liss rolled off Leo's tongue with a soft inflection, a tone that only hinted at distrust. It was more of a family jest than true feeling. The three other servant dynasties that served the Etchmarcs had their own place and roles in the Matis life.
"And finally never, ever, die after your master does; always before, my son always before." Leo nodded solemnly, his thoughts haunted by the scene at the Kregash fortress, the united end of all of the master bloodline of the Etchmarcs. Leo had been charged moments previously to serve Lord Enon in retreat, and help protect other groups of children fleeing from the vengeful forces. The pain of losing such a charge as his personal dedication to Ramasa had never truly left him.
With that unexpected but seemingly congruent vision, his thoughts began to slow; the shards of his personality weaving themselves together again. Nodding himself after many minutes of silent inward reflection, Kas arose, his heart light and his hands heavy.
Their journey was about to begin. But somehow, Kas felt that they had begun their journey down this road, many years ago.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]"The state of Homins eventually degenerates into a brutish condition without law or morality, at which point Hominid Races must adopt institutions of law or perish. In the degenerate phase of the state of nature, homin is prone to be in frequent competition with his fellow homin while at the same time becoming increasingly dependent on them. This double pressure threatens both his, or her, survival and freedom. But, by joining together through the social contract and abandoning their claims of natural right, individuals can both preserve themselves, and remain free. This is because submission to the authority of the will of a group of homins as a whole guarantees individuals against being subordinated to the wills of others and also ensures that they obey themselves because they are, collectively, the authors of the said law."
[RIGHT]- Liratissi Dovoos, Historic Atys Culture, 2459.
[/RIGHT]
Last edited by etchmarc on Mon Oct 16, 2006 8:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
“No kind of sensation is keener and more active than that of pain; its impressions are unmistakable.”
Year of Jena 2535, Autumn, 23rd Evening. In the Circle of Dorotea, Almati Woods Region.
His mind was reeling, grasping for precedent, his master was definitely not himself – he couldn’t be, could he? Kas sat, radiating an outward sense of calm despite his inner turmoil. His hands resting on his knees, his gaze centered on the bag Enon had all-but thrown at his feet. It was one of Jelathnia’s bags, recognizing it somewhere in the back of his mind. The bag’s mouth gaping open, grinning at him, piles of catalysts glittered up at him like jagged teeth.
Enon spoke calming, assuring Kas. “It is time, brother. Time to take up the tools we have available to us and put them to use.” He had called him by many names, brother, cousin, Ojin… Enon had many names for him, each with their own purpose. “We have been stagnating, decaying in the name of preparation.”
Voicing no response, Kas’s finger twitched as his eyes lifted from the grinning bag to engage Enon in an unspoken act of resistance.
“You are not your father, you must not fear of his folly.” He paused, watching Kas for a reaction. Receiving none, he continued, “I know as well as you that which broke his Xia, and letting my father perish was merely a symptom, not the cause… You must face this fear; I do not give you a choice. You must prove your worth, and the strength of your will, your Xia, and everything that is Ojin in your soul. I can not trust to have you by my side any longer, not knowing if you will chip and shatter under something as base as a catalyst.”
Frowning and his eyes narrowed, weaving a fine web of lines near the corners of his eyes. He resented the words, stinging at both his memory and his sense of self. Enon had not doubted him before; did he truly doubt him now? In silence, his fingers curled around the edge of the bag, dragging it into his lap before jerking the drawstrings shut. Tying the bag to his belt, he regarded his master in silence.
Sighing softly, Enon shook his head and moved to pace the inner circle of dorotea trees.
[RIGHT]- Marquis de Sade
[/RIGHT]Year of Jena 2535, Autumn, 23rd Evening. In the Circle of Dorotea, Almati Woods Region.
His mind was reeling, grasping for precedent, his master was definitely not himself – he couldn’t be, could he? Kas sat, radiating an outward sense of calm despite his inner turmoil. His hands resting on his knees, his gaze centered on the bag Enon had all-but thrown at his feet. It was one of Jelathnia’s bags, recognizing it somewhere in the back of his mind. The bag’s mouth gaping open, grinning at him, piles of catalysts glittered up at him like jagged teeth.
Enon spoke calming, assuring Kas. “It is time, brother. Time to take up the tools we have available to us and put them to use.” He had called him by many names, brother, cousin, Ojin… Enon had many names for him, each with their own purpose. “We have been stagnating, decaying in the name of preparation.”
Voicing no response, Kas’s finger twitched as his eyes lifted from the grinning bag to engage Enon in an unspoken act of resistance.
“You are not your father, you must not fear of his folly.” He paused, watching Kas for a reaction. Receiving none, he continued, “I know as well as you that which broke his Xia, and letting my father perish was merely a symptom, not the cause… You must face this fear; I do not give you a choice. You must prove your worth, and the strength of your will, your Xia, and everything that is Ojin in your soul. I can not trust to have you by my side any longer, not knowing if you will chip and shatter under something as base as a catalyst.”
Frowning and his eyes narrowed, weaving a fine web of lines near the corners of his eyes. He resented the words, stinging at both his memory and his sense of self. Enon had not doubted him before; did he truly doubt him now? In silence, his fingers curled around the edge of the bag, dragging it into his lap before jerking the drawstrings shut. Tying the bag to his belt, he regarded his master in silence.
Sighing softly, Enon shook his head and moved to pace the inner circle of dorotea trees.
Last edited by etchmarc on Tue Oct 10, 2006 9:43 am, edited 1 time in total.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
"In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember."
Year of Jena 2535, Winter, 12th Night. First Camp, Old Lands, near the Antanas settlement.
The headache was worse tonight. The slender Kipesta stinger point, long since embedded in his frontal lobe and prefrontal cortex, was never removed from the injury of his youth, and it pained him greatly on some nights.
It usually throbbed when Kitin were in the local proximity, but Enon said it was just a phantom pain. Kas disagreed, but that contention was reserved within him, never voiced in refutation. This sense, whatever it was, was eerily accurate.
The injury occurred during the Kitin attack at Kregash fortress. The true falling of the Etchmarc legacy, unbowed by the banishment and persecution from their own people, only to be brought low by the pride that it had gained them.
Precious few memories remained.
With the wallowing sun on the horizon, tinted scarlet by the dust of the gradually winding caravan of arrivals, came the storms from the south. Hot air clashed with the cool present evening, vapors gathering and rolling above the crumbling fortress. Dark clouds and shafts of brilliant lightning fought to find a place of view in the sky, thunder smashing down onto the valley and mountaintops surrounding the fortress below. Standing defiantly, this defensible relic had long been forgotten after the Swarming.
Enon and Kas tossed a smooth piece of bark between them, lying on their backs while observing the meteorological war above. The crenulated battlements had crumbled decades ago, though their Fyros construction still heralded them as technically stable. Below, in the preliminary court, the sounds of merry greetings and many voices were raised in joyous tones.
The family was gathering once again.
Since their banishment, the Etchmarcs had split into separate groups and traveled out beyond Matia, lest the King's forces find and kill them. It had been twenty long years; the family had struggled to survive, fragmented.
But survive they had.
In celebration of the new establishment of the Matis Government, in lands far removed from the Old World, the Etchmarc's had risen from their hiding, claiming Kregash Pass and Fortress for their own.
"Uncle Rulisus is here come, Kas." Enon said, suddenly happy in the twilight. The two of them rose and scampered down the crushed stairs, darting between the legs of startled Mektoubs down into the courtyard. For the first time in many years, the family was returning, and the walls were alive with sound and texture.
Leather, dyed black beyond recognition of its origin, swirled like a fan around Rulisus Etchmarc, timing the motions to the music with a perfectly ordered step and swing. The polished sharp thorn studs and binding bark buckles glittered in the light of the sconce fires, grindingly low harps counterpointing the thunder of the drums as their ancestral celebration cycled slowly to peak.
Around him, the other highest members of the Etchmarc family collected, moving in graceful and intimately practiced steps. Brothers, cousins, sisters, daughters, and sons were all arrayed in unspoken bands stretching outward from Rulisus and Ramasa in the center.
Lord Ramasa's coat and ceremonial armor gleamed white in the flickering aspect of light, a stark contrast to Rulisus' opposing darkness. Where the first's accents were set with a brilliant, sickly purple, the second's was a deep red of a battlefield floor.
The center of the grand ballroom was dominated by the dance of the old family. Above them hanging just haphazardly enough that one might consider it dangerous, was an epic chandelier that lit the room even as it tipped precariously to one side, wax sometimes falling to splatter unheeded near or on the dancers.
With every rich custom and every courtly mannerism, one tends to forget the aspects and thoughts of that which brought them to that place of action. One family, however, never forgot.
Under the banners and signs of Zachini, the Etchmarcs had been at the forefront of every battle with the Momos, at the beginning of Matis history. To each king had been given an advisor, an Etchmarc to serve in his court, and many young of the line had died serving their country and king in wars long past.
It was from that ancestry, one of martial discipline and magical prowess, but also with an unbroken line to the past and history remembered, that this gathering was born.
The beat of the drums, slow deep and ringing, was accented with the tapping of hollow bones against each other, the intoxicating sounds added to the scents of priceless incense burned on old tribal altars all clashing beautifully with the grace and statesmanship of the motions, dance and organization found within the ball room.
Blades flashed between Ramasa and Rulisus, crashing together and glancing away in swift combination. Well disciplined movements between the two brothers brought razor edges centimeters from vital flesh, only to whip away at the perfect moment.
All about them, the family danced, heady in remembrance and treasured company so long removed.
Outside the ring of dancing, the young ones of the Etchmarcs were grouped together. Along the walls stood the Ojins, each stoic, dressed for death, silent as the stone spot they guarded. Their dance would come later.
The Liss courtiers moved like liquid around the dancing Etchmarcs, moving about in confusing patterns armed with food and drink, or playing on instruments that were just as much a part of the intricate dance rather than idly placing them on a stage. Each of their faces painted in bright colors, adorned with soft gowns and robes that flowed with their sinuous movements, displaying the training and devotion universally throughout.
Beyond the walls of the ballroom, the Yat family prowled, unseen in the brightest light, ranging from the crumbled halls to ruined battlements, to skulking dangerously in the sparse woods about the fortress. Always in search of danger, hints of blood, and sparks of pain that would be devoured uniformly in duty.
Each servant family in tune with each other, synchronized with the celebration, perfect unity within trust and all within the will of the Etchmarcs.
"But... they will lash me!" Kas whispered hurriedly as he and Enon spoke beneath one of the hissing braziers, trying to conceal his youthful tone of eight years of age. Enon, older and sneaky for his age, was just a tad shorter than Kass latest unusual growth spurt, simply nodded.
"They might but its not like it won't heal," he rasped his reply.
"I " He paused, a youngsters scowl covering Kas's face, hidden behind the bark mask that he wore in tradition of the celebration. "Youre not the boss of me " He said, unsure as his composure began to crack.
Enon smirked with an expression past his age, "I soon will be, and you know it. Now switch me masks."
Sweaty palms wiped against matching breeches, Kas nodded slightly, looking up at the Ojins positioned strategically on either side of the sconce above them, just outside the pool of light.
Quickly the deed was done, their similar clothing not betraying, as the masks were moved from one face to another, one amused and the other disgruntled but morbidly curious.
The dance had slowed somewhat as the masks had become prevalent, stature and position lost in the free mingling of the casts in old ritual patterns. Food and drink, ritually prepared and months in the creation, circled waif like through the throngs of bodies, where some were dancing, others talking. This was the time dedicated for the four families that made up the Etchmarc organism to mingle and enjoy themselves; though in truth it was easy, from a practiced eye, to pick out who belonged with or to whom.
Lady Theressa, scooped Kas up into her arms on the mingling floor. With strength belying her fragile frame withered by stress of unknown proportions, she pressed Kas against a bosom trapped by stiff leather armor and white spidery lace. "Oh you little devil
Kas gulped against himself, returning the embrace with absolute fear. On scant words, his life could be extinguished by her or the many guarding Ojins that waited, as by switching masks with his soon to be charge, he had vastly over stepped his grounds.
Probably feeling Kas stiffen in response, Theressa, mother of Enon and second wife of Ramasa, chuckled. With a soft whisper, not overly enjoyable but not unkind, she spoke into his ear. "Kas, has Enon put you up to this?"
The boy within her embrace nodded slightly as they spun slowly on the dance floor, outwardly looking no more than a mother dancing and enjoying the company of her son.
"Ahh what an interesting boy he is You will take care of him, for me?"
"Yes, always, mistress..." Kas whispered, fear tinting his soft voice, unheard over the slow music.
"Good... he will need you soon." With that, she set him down and twirled him away, though his own steps were clumsy.
Confusion, doubt, and fear tightened in his young gut, for truly the first and definitely not the last time.
Though, as remembered, there was an indistinct time of actual enjoyment for Kas, as he was greeted and spoken to as if he was young Enon. He really didn't understand at the moment why, but just assumed that it was normal.
It wasn't until the three Liss retainers came for him, with all their scents and soft touches, that he felt something mysterious was going on. Easily and without fuss, they lifted him from his feet and carried him into a side chamber to be preened. They quickly tied a short cape over his shoulders, and tittered softly between themselves about the state of his hair, fussing with it without disturbing the bone mask that covered Kas's face.
Still unmodified by the Xia conditioning of the Ojins, but true to his bloodline, Kas was terrified. But still. Very still as the beautiful courtiers of the Liss doted on him, though the sensual movements and clothing they wore was lost on him due to his age. They tightened his armor straps, polished out any smudges, and stood him up. Three light kisses landed onto the top of his head, and he was scooted back out into the dance hall.
Fighters instincts, trained from when he was able to stand, tensed as he immediately sensed that something was horribly wrong; it became more obvious as the small amount of experience that he did have, came to bear.
The music had all but stopped, except for a slow, heart shuddering strike of a huge drum lost in the press of people. And everyone was looking at him.
Gradually, the crowd began to part with a silent expectance, eventually to reveal Lord Ramasa and Lady Theressa at the opposite end of the large chamber. Between them, up on a dais that had been partially repaired over the last few days, was a chair. The stone had been worn with countless days of occupation, though now that the fortress had laid fallow for so long, the back had crumbled at the edges, leaving only the rough outline. Over it, the purples and greens of the Etchmarc's large traveling flag had been laid, hiding the decay beneath.
Kas trembled imperceptibly behind his mask before catching view of the switch-masks-culprit, standing in the shadow of his father. Enon made a slight come here gesture with his hand, familiarity registering between them in the form of sullen twitch of Kas's head, in negation. Again the gesture was made, but in conjunction with a youthful indication of Enon punching his hand silently.
Feigning sure steps, Kas began to move forward down the isle, looking up at pearly faces and eyes veiled by masks. Silent. Brooding. Ancient blood. In each, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the depth of tradition stretching back to ancestors covered in mud and fighting for scraps in their lack of sophistication. Something something of that predatory instinct lingered yet, like a spirit shadow, just beyond perception. It was not alone there, at that.
"The time has come, the age has passed. No longer will we run. The old kingdoms are destroyed, their arrogance fallen into disarray. Rise up, Etchmarcs! Our days dawn anew and with renewed vigor as the Kitin become less passionate. We will stand here!" With this, there was much clapping and voices high in their accent to their leader's statements.
Rulisus stepped forward through the crowd as Ramasa gestured, bringing his much lower and gravelly voice to notice. "Our warriors gather from all the corners of Atys. Months and months of travel away, they come none the less to sister Theressa's call. Even now our lesser servant tribes are mingling once again, rising up from the deep to come to us. We will be great once again." Kas knew what he meant by the call that the Lady had sent forth. On the appointed hour each day, the myriad children throughout the fortress, for the few weeks they had occupied it now, had been sedated for several hours. He and Enon had discussed it... but there was nothing to remember except half faded memories of madness and pain, such was the power of her call through the Seed.
The drums suddenly thundered loudly, striking at unseen signal. Kas almost jumped, though he was the only one who seemed to notice.
"We gather here to celebrate our bonds of family, though there is another celebration to be heralded as well. Some of you have met my son, Enon." Theressa gave a slightly chastising look at the two brother Lords, and continued. "He has reached the age where he can, and will be heralded as the next successor to my husband's place." She gestured with a skeletal but manicured hand towards Kas, keeping the illusion in place for a moment, though only Jena knew why.
Ramasa nodded, taking the lead. "Tonight, we crown him prince of this fortress, for him to run when he reaches the proper age and hold him before you now as the future guide of our family."
Kas gulped back bile. His tiny amount of time spent in this life having pretty much ground into his thoughts that Ramasa was not one to be crossed, much more so than any other. He knew he was dead, or soon to be. He looked to the side, past Lady Theressa, desperately hoping his mother was visible. But, doomed to disappointment, only Detri and the young Triplets were to be found. Detri, baby brother of Enon, was typically in the arms of any one of the three Liss sisters, eerily similar in appearance, grace, and thought. Theressa however, had little to do with him but carry the child to term.
Ramasa waved with his hand towards the chair, Kas looking once more over the sea of faces, the corridor of the way he came in now closed by the press. Matis eyes, in their multitudes of shades looked back at him. He was suddenly beginning to realize why it wasn't a completely good thing to be within their number; leading from the front is not always good, everybody is watching you, he thought. Too much attention can be just as harmful as too little.
Kas placed one foot, and then the other, onto the dais. Then, with Ramasa's silent scowl, he sat. The family cheered as he did so, Enon bearing now a wide pillow bearing a hair-thin crown that had been polished to brilliance. Kas knew not of the item, though he figured on its importance through childlike reasoning. Enon's dark eyes flashed from behind the white mask, with amusement.
Then alarm. That was the only warning Kas had.
The knife was fast. Faster than hominly possible. Fast enough to have to be asked about later, but it glittered in his peripheral vision, its point running across his neck from ear to ear. It was not enough time to even blink.
Several people in the audience gasped, though no one screamed. No one directly made any move as Lady Theressa flicked the knife from her hand to thud hilt deep in the stone floor. Blood poured from Kas's throat, coating the children's armor he wore, as slippery hands instinctively tried to catch the blood spewing forth, impossibly struggling.
Her cackling laugh stopped the drums, but it was the resident madness barely constrained in her posture that froze the room, eliciting dangerous grins to some behind bone masks. "Tonight, if not more than most, my son Enon has proven his worth." This said as the life gurgled from Kas, his violent thrashings slowing as the precious vitae was lost; spilling down the throne, onto the dais, and pooling on the floor.
Leo shifted slightly in his stance behind Ramasa, but didn't move or speak as he subtly felt his son's Seed begin to die, confirming his suspicions.
"Many times from now... there will be those who will try to strike you down, my son." Theressa spoke, looking down to a stoically confused Enon, his hands still holding the pillow bearing his own crown. "Through a child's game, you have learned the way to use your future retainer." She turned slightly, nodding to Detri's keepers. Two stepped foreword, manipulating sap as they went, gathering it into incandescent balls that tinted the flickering light with a supernatural shade.
The bolts thrown from deft hands struck Kas's stilling form, healing him of the cut and gradually restoring the life and stamina to his blood. Lady Theressa nodded to Leo-Dim-Ojin, to take his son from the chair. With a soft motherly touch, she smeared away a small spot of blood from the bottom of Kas's chin. Take care of him. He has served well." For a moment, there was a slight tilt of Leo's head, from Kas's black spotted view. But then it was gone, and so was he. Being carried and held tight against his father's armored chest.
As they were leaving the ballroom, all he remembered was the slow but snowballing chant of Enon's name in glory, til it seemed to shake his very consciousness.
[RIGHT]- Edgar Allen Poe, from "Ligeia"
[/RIGHT]Year of Jena 2535, Winter, 12th Night. First Camp, Old Lands, near the Antanas settlement.
The headache was worse tonight. The slender Kipesta stinger point, long since embedded in his frontal lobe and prefrontal cortex, was never removed from the injury of his youth, and it pained him greatly on some nights.
It usually throbbed when Kitin were in the local proximity, but Enon said it was just a phantom pain. Kas disagreed, but that contention was reserved within him, never voiced in refutation. This sense, whatever it was, was eerily accurate.
The injury occurred during the Kitin attack at Kregash fortress. The true falling of the Etchmarc legacy, unbowed by the banishment and persecution from their own people, only to be brought low by the pride that it had gained them.
Precious few memories remained.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]With the wallowing sun on the horizon, tinted scarlet by the dust of the gradually winding caravan of arrivals, came the storms from the south. Hot air clashed with the cool present evening, vapors gathering and rolling above the crumbling fortress. Dark clouds and shafts of brilliant lightning fought to find a place of view in the sky, thunder smashing down onto the valley and mountaintops surrounding the fortress below. Standing defiantly, this defensible relic had long been forgotten after the Swarming.
Enon and Kas tossed a smooth piece of bark between them, lying on their backs while observing the meteorological war above. The crenulated battlements had crumbled decades ago, though their Fyros construction still heralded them as technically stable. Below, in the preliminary court, the sounds of merry greetings and many voices were raised in joyous tones.
The family was gathering once again.
Since their banishment, the Etchmarcs had split into separate groups and traveled out beyond Matia, lest the King's forces find and kill them. It had been twenty long years; the family had struggled to survive, fragmented.
But survive they had.
In celebration of the new establishment of the Matis Government, in lands far removed from the Old World, the Etchmarc's had risen from their hiding, claiming Kregash Pass and Fortress for their own.
"Uncle Rulisus is here come, Kas." Enon said, suddenly happy in the twilight. The two of them rose and scampered down the crushed stairs, darting between the legs of startled Mektoubs down into the courtyard. For the first time in many years, the family was returning, and the walls were alive with sound and texture.
[CENTER]******
[/CENTER]Leather, dyed black beyond recognition of its origin, swirled like a fan around Rulisus Etchmarc, timing the motions to the music with a perfectly ordered step and swing. The polished sharp thorn studs and binding bark buckles glittered in the light of the sconce fires, grindingly low harps counterpointing the thunder of the drums as their ancestral celebration cycled slowly to peak.
Around him, the other highest members of the Etchmarc family collected, moving in graceful and intimately practiced steps. Brothers, cousins, sisters, daughters, and sons were all arrayed in unspoken bands stretching outward from Rulisus and Ramasa in the center.
Lord Ramasa's coat and ceremonial armor gleamed white in the flickering aspect of light, a stark contrast to Rulisus' opposing darkness. Where the first's accents were set with a brilliant, sickly purple, the second's was a deep red of a battlefield floor.
The center of the grand ballroom was dominated by the dance of the old family. Above them hanging just haphazardly enough that one might consider it dangerous, was an epic chandelier that lit the room even as it tipped precariously to one side, wax sometimes falling to splatter unheeded near or on the dancers.
With every rich custom and every courtly mannerism, one tends to forget the aspects and thoughts of that which brought them to that place of action. One family, however, never forgot.
Under the banners and signs of Zachini, the Etchmarcs had been at the forefront of every battle with the Momos, at the beginning of Matis history. To each king had been given an advisor, an Etchmarc to serve in his court, and many young of the line had died serving their country and king in wars long past.
It was from that ancestry, one of martial discipline and magical prowess, but also with an unbroken line to the past and history remembered, that this gathering was born.
The beat of the drums, slow deep and ringing, was accented with the tapping of hollow bones against each other, the intoxicating sounds added to the scents of priceless incense burned on old tribal altars all clashing beautifully with the grace and statesmanship of the motions, dance and organization found within the ball room.
Blades flashed between Ramasa and Rulisus, crashing together and glancing away in swift combination. Well disciplined movements between the two brothers brought razor edges centimeters from vital flesh, only to whip away at the perfect moment.
All about them, the family danced, heady in remembrance and treasured company so long removed.
Outside the ring of dancing, the young ones of the Etchmarcs were grouped together. Along the walls stood the Ojins, each stoic, dressed for death, silent as the stone spot they guarded. Their dance would come later.
The Liss courtiers moved like liquid around the dancing Etchmarcs, moving about in confusing patterns armed with food and drink, or playing on instruments that were just as much a part of the intricate dance rather than idly placing them on a stage. Each of their faces painted in bright colors, adorned with soft gowns and robes that flowed with their sinuous movements, displaying the training and devotion universally throughout.
Beyond the walls of the ballroom, the Yat family prowled, unseen in the brightest light, ranging from the crumbled halls to ruined battlements, to skulking dangerously in the sparse woods about the fortress. Always in search of danger, hints of blood, and sparks of pain that would be devoured uniformly in duty.
Each servant family in tune with each other, synchronized with the celebration, perfect unity within trust and all within the will of the Etchmarcs.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]"But... they will lash me!" Kas whispered hurriedly as he and Enon spoke beneath one of the hissing braziers, trying to conceal his youthful tone of eight years of age. Enon, older and sneaky for his age, was just a tad shorter than Kass latest unusual growth spurt, simply nodded.
"They might but its not like it won't heal," he rasped his reply.
"I " He paused, a youngsters scowl covering Kas's face, hidden behind the bark mask that he wore in tradition of the celebration. "Youre not the boss of me " He said, unsure as his composure began to crack.
Enon smirked with an expression past his age, "I soon will be, and you know it. Now switch me masks."
Sweaty palms wiped against matching breeches, Kas nodded slightly, looking up at the Ojins positioned strategically on either side of the sconce above them, just outside the pool of light.
Quickly the deed was done, their similar clothing not betraying, as the masks were moved from one face to another, one amused and the other disgruntled but morbidly curious.
The dance had slowed somewhat as the masks had become prevalent, stature and position lost in the free mingling of the casts in old ritual patterns. Food and drink, ritually prepared and months in the creation, circled waif like through the throngs of bodies, where some were dancing, others talking. This was the time dedicated for the four families that made up the Etchmarc organism to mingle and enjoy themselves; though in truth it was easy, from a practiced eye, to pick out who belonged with or to whom.
Lady Theressa, scooped Kas up into her arms on the mingling floor. With strength belying her fragile frame withered by stress of unknown proportions, she pressed Kas against a bosom trapped by stiff leather armor and white spidery lace. "Oh you little devil
Kas gulped against himself, returning the embrace with absolute fear. On scant words, his life could be extinguished by her or the many guarding Ojins that waited, as by switching masks with his soon to be charge, he had vastly over stepped his grounds.
Probably feeling Kas stiffen in response, Theressa, mother of Enon and second wife of Ramasa, chuckled. With a soft whisper, not overly enjoyable but not unkind, she spoke into his ear. "Kas, has Enon put you up to this?"
The boy within her embrace nodded slightly as they spun slowly on the dance floor, outwardly looking no more than a mother dancing and enjoying the company of her son.
"Ahh what an interesting boy he is You will take care of him, for me?"
"Yes, always, mistress..." Kas whispered, fear tinting his soft voice, unheard over the slow music.
"Good... he will need you soon." With that, she set him down and twirled him away, though his own steps were clumsy.
Confusion, doubt, and fear tightened in his young gut, for truly the first and definitely not the last time.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]Though, as remembered, there was an indistinct time of actual enjoyment for Kas, as he was greeted and spoken to as if he was young Enon. He really didn't understand at the moment why, but just assumed that it was normal.
It wasn't until the three Liss retainers came for him, with all their scents and soft touches, that he felt something mysterious was going on. Easily and without fuss, they lifted him from his feet and carried him into a side chamber to be preened. They quickly tied a short cape over his shoulders, and tittered softly between themselves about the state of his hair, fussing with it without disturbing the bone mask that covered Kas's face.
Still unmodified by the Xia conditioning of the Ojins, but true to his bloodline, Kas was terrified. But still. Very still as the beautiful courtiers of the Liss doted on him, though the sensual movements and clothing they wore was lost on him due to his age. They tightened his armor straps, polished out any smudges, and stood him up. Three light kisses landed onto the top of his head, and he was scooted back out into the dance hall.
Fighters instincts, trained from when he was able to stand, tensed as he immediately sensed that something was horribly wrong; it became more obvious as the small amount of experience that he did have, came to bear.
The music had all but stopped, except for a slow, heart shuddering strike of a huge drum lost in the press of people. And everyone was looking at him.
Gradually, the crowd began to part with a silent expectance, eventually to reveal Lord Ramasa and Lady Theressa at the opposite end of the large chamber. Between them, up on a dais that had been partially repaired over the last few days, was a chair. The stone had been worn with countless days of occupation, though now that the fortress had laid fallow for so long, the back had crumbled at the edges, leaving only the rough outline. Over it, the purples and greens of the Etchmarc's large traveling flag had been laid, hiding the decay beneath.
Kas trembled imperceptibly behind his mask before catching view of the switch-masks-culprit, standing in the shadow of his father. Enon made a slight come here gesture with his hand, familiarity registering between them in the form of sullen twitch of Kas's head, in negation. Again the gesture was made, but in conjunction with a youthful indication of Enon punching his hand silently.
Feigning sure steps, Kas began to move forward down the isle, looking up at pearly faces and eyes veiled by masks. Silent. Brooding. Ancient blood. In each, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the depth of tradition stretching back to ancestors covered in mud and fighting for scraps in their lack of sophistication. Something something of that predatory instinct lingered yet, like a spirit shadow, just beyond perception. It was not alone there, at that.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]"The time has come, the age has passed. No longer will we run. The old kingdoms are destroyed, their arrogance fallen into disarray. Rise up, Etchmarcs! Our days dawn anew and with renewed vigor as the Kitin become less passionate. We will stand here!" With this, there was much clapping and voices high in their accent to their leader's statements.
Rulisus stepped forward through the crowd as Ramasa gestured, bringing his much lower and gravelly voice to notice. "Our warriors gather from all the corners of Atys. Months and months of travel away, they come none the less to sister Theressa's call. Even now our lesser servant tribes are mingling once again, rising up from the deep to come to us. We will be great once again." Kas knew what he meant by the call that the Lady had sent forth. On the appointed hour each day, the myriad children throughout the fortress, for the few weeks they had occupied it now, had been sedated for several hours. He and Enon had discussed it... but there was nothing to remember except half faded memories of madness and pain, such was the power of her call through the Seed.
The drums suddenly thundered loudly, striking at unseen signal. Kas almost jumped, though he was the only one who seemed to notice.
"We gather here to celebrate our bonds of family, though there is another celebration to be heralded as well. Some of you have met my son, Enon." Theressa gave a slightly chastising look at the two brother Lords, and continued. "He has reached the age where he can, and will be heralded as the next successor to my husband's place." She gestured with a skeletal but manicured hand towards Kas, keeping the illusion in place for a moment, though only Jena knew why.
Ramasa nodded, taking the lead. "Tonight, we crown him prince of this fortress, for him to run when he reaches the proper age and hold him before you now as the future guide of our family."
Kas gulped back bile. His tiny amount of time spent in this life having pretty much ground into his thoughts that Ramasa was not one to be crossed, much more so than any other. He knew he was dead, or soon to be. He looked to the side, past Lady Theressa, desperately hoping his mother was visible. But, doomed to disappointment, only Detri and the young Triplets were to be found. Detri, baby brother of Enon, was typically in the arms of any one of the three Liss sisters, eerily similar in appearance, grace, and thought. Theressa however, had little to do with him but carry the child to term.
Ramasa waved with his hand towards the chair, Kas looking once more over the sea of faces, the corridor of the way he came in now closed by the press. Matis eyes, in their multitudes of shades looked back at him. He was suddenly beginning to realize why it wasn't a completely good thing to be within their number; leading from the front is not always good, everybody is watching you, he thought. Too much attention can be just as harmful as too little.
Kas placed one foot, and then the other, onto the dais. Then, with Ramasa's silent scowl, he sat. The family cheered as he did so, Enon bearing now a wide pillow bearing a hair-thin crown that had been polished to brilliance. Kas knew not of the item, though he figured on its importance through childlike reasoning. Enon's dark eyes flashed from behind the white mask, with amusement.
Then alarm. That was the only warning Kas had.
The knife was fast. Faster than hominly possible. Fast enough to have to be asked about later, but it glittered in his peripheral vision, its point running across his neck from ear to ear. It was not enough time to even blink.
Several people in the audience gasped, though no one screamed. No one directly made any move as Lady Theressa flicked the knife from her hand to thud hilt deep in the stone floor. Blood poured from Kas's throat, coating the children's armor he wore, as slippery hands instinctively tried to catch the blood spewing forth, impossibly struggling.
Her cackling laugh stopped the drums, but it was the resident madness barely constrained in her posture that froze the room, eliciting dangerous grins to some behind bone masks. "Tonight, if not more than most, my son Enon has proven his worth." This said as the life gurgled from Kas, his violent thrashings slowing as the precious vitae was lost; spilling down the throne, onto the dais, and pooling on the floor.
Leo shifted slightly in his stance behind Ramasa, but didn't move or speak as he subtly felt his son's Seed begin to die, confirming his suspicions.
"Many times from now... there will be those who will try to strike you down, my son." Theressa spoke, looking down to a stoically confused Enon, his hands still holding the pillow bearing his own crown. "Through a child's game, you have learned the way to use your future retainer." She turned slightly, nodding to Detri's keepers. Two stepped foreword, manipulating sap as they went, gathering it into incandescent balls that tinted the flickering light with a supernatural shade.
The bolts thrown from deft hands struck Kas's stilling form, healing him of the cut and gradually restoring the life and stamina to his blood. Lady Theressa nodded to Leo-Dim-Ojin, to take his son from the chair. With a soft motherly touch, she smeared away a small spot of blood from the bottom of Kas's chin. Take care of him. He has served well." For a moment, there was a slight tilt of Leo's head, from Kas's black spotted view. But then it was gone, and so was he. Being carried and held tight against his father's armored chest.
As they were leaving the ballroom, all he remembered was the slow but snowballing chant of Enon's name in glory, til it seemed to shake his very consciousness.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
[Narrative continuation concerning the morning after the masquerade ball]
Ramasa looked out on the writhing mass of Kitin, their cold cries rising up like a buffeting wind against the old walls he stood upon. Silent Ojins girded in their traditional heavy armor stood along the crenulated walls, where there was an area to stand.
"The last of the Yat are accounted for. They slowed them, somewhat, but we have lost nearly seventy genebrothers." Leo noted calmly, his low voice only audible enough for Ramasa’s ear. The Lord nodded, dark eyes cold with silent anger. "We would have known they were coming, but… there is a tunnel near by; they must have breached through."
"It was too soon, my friend. We should have waited…" Ramasa muttered, almost to himself. Below, the Kirostas screamed in hate. Off in the distance, like a black cloud, the flying soldiers of the Kitin approached. It would not be long; the fortress would not hold.
Ramasa let go a slow breath, his mind decided. Turning, he gripped the side horn on Leo's helmet, forcing his retainer to his knees. "Leo... we have had a long time together. Good and bad. You have served us and your family with the distinction and dedication that is expected…" For a moment, Ramasa's worn face creased and softened with a slight smile. "…and appreciated, my friend. But now, I charge you with something else." The face hardened again. "Take our sons and any other children you can gather; command Fer-No-Yat to take you all out of here through the bolt-hole. Guard them, as you would me. Me and mine... we will stay and hold them for as long as we can."
Leo shivered slightly beneath his armor, the grip on his helmet keeping their gazes locked. This was not supposed to be how it happened. "I cannot sire. You know the Laws, I cannot."
With a hiss of electricity, Ramasa's spell blew Leo onto his back and several feet down the battlement. "Go fool. I command you!" The lightning danced about Ramasa's form, crackling between the folds of his armor.
Leo rose and retreated in shame…
"A pity this, rabble, coming to meet us here so soon." The soft, light voice of Lady Theressa turned Ramasa from his sad gaze, watching his favored retainer denied his final honor. Her tone was flippant, though she was girded tightly within the light purple armor he had made for her long ago.
"It is… such a tragedy." Ramasa said, looking into the eyes of his loved one. His wife, madness unchecked, looked back. "And no one will ever know how hard we strived."
"They will know. I have hidden away our notes, and your father's book. Someone will know." With a slow sigh, Theressa turned to lay light, polished fingertips on one of the vertical stone juts. "Quite a force... perhaps fitting... the final test of our work. The Keepers of the Flesh are ready, keys in hand."
Ramasa nodded, moving up beside her, the Ojin that stood there moving to the side in seamless motion. "True… It would be good to finally test them…" Ramasa slowly drew his long obsidian and bone sword from its scabbard on the back of his other High Guard, Jver-Ret-Ojin who stood silently nearby.
With one last survey over the walls, the courtyards below filled with the Etchmarc blood, and those Liss who stood ready to die with their masters. All eyes were on him, Rulisus calmly awaiting their pending doom, leading those Ojins that would be the first to try and plug any breech in the walls. Above all, there was calm, a peacefulness that prevailed and rallied against the overwhelming odds. As the Etchmarcs had lived, so would they die...
Raising the sword high, even as he begun to hear Theressa begin casting beside him, dainty feet lifting up off the wall – Ramasa cried out with the sudden overwhelming vehemence that comes to a true leader when he has failed those in his charge. "Today, we begin living!"
"Release the Vrear'sahn!"
And thunder split the clear sky asunder as the Kitin began to swarm.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]Ramasa looked out on the writhing mass of Kitin, their cold cries rising up like a buffeting wind against the old walls he stood upon. Silent Ojins girded in their traditional heavy armor stood along the crenulated walls, where there was an area to stand.
"The last of the Yat are accounted for. They slowed them, somewhat, but we have lost nearly seventy genebrothers." Leo noted calmly, his low voice only audible enough for Ramasa’s ear. The Lord nodded, dark eyes cold with silent anger. "We would have known they were coming, but… there is a tunnel near by; they must have breached through."
"It was too soon, my friend. We should have waited…" Ramasa muttered, almost to himself. Below, the Kirostas screamed in hate. Off in the distance, like a black cloud, the flying soldiers of the Kitin approached. It would not be long; the fortress would not hold.
Ramasa let go a slow breath, his mind decided. Turning, he gripped the side horn on Leo's helmet, forcing his retainer to his knees. "Leo... we have had a long time together. Good and bad. You have served us and your family with the distinction and dedication that is expected…" For a moment, Ramasa's worn face creased and softened with a slight smile. "…and appreciated, my friend. But now, I charge you with something else." The face hardened again. "Take our sons and any other children you can gather; command Fer-No-Yat to take you all out of here through the bolt-hole. Guard them, as you would me. Me and mine... we will stay and hold them for as long as we can."
Leo shivered slightly beneath his armor, the grip on his helmet keeping their gazes locked. This was not supposed to be how it happened. "I cannot sire. You know the Laws, I cannot."
With a hiss of electricity, Ramasa's spell blew Leo onto his back and several feet down the battlement. "Go fool. I command you!" The lightning danced about Ramasa's form, crackling between the folds of his armor.
Leo rose and retreated in shame…
"A pity this, rabble, coming to meet us here so soon." The soft, light voice of Lady Theressa turned Ramasa from his sad gaze, watching his favored retainer denied his final honor. Her tone was flippant, though she was girded tightly within the light purple armor he had made for her long ago.
"It is… such a tragedy." Ramasa said, looking into the eyes of his loved one. His wife, madness unchecked, looked back. "And no one will ever know how hard we strived."
"They will know. I have hidden away our notes, and your father's book. Someone will know." With a slow sigh, Theressa turned to lay light, polished fingertips on one of the vertical stone juts. "Quite a force... perhaps fitting... the final test of our work. The Keepers of the Flesh are ready, keys in hand."
Ramasa nodded, moving up beside her, the Ojin that stood there moving to the side in seamless motion. "True… It would be good to finally test them…" Ramasa slowly drew his long obsidian and bone sword from its scabbard on the back of his other High Guard, Jver-Ret-Ojin who stood silently nearby.
With one last survey over the walls, the courtyards below filled with the Etchmarc blood, and those Liss who stood ready to die with their masters. All eyes were on him, Rulisus calmly awaiting their pending doom, leading those Ojins that would be the first to try and plug any breech in the walls. Above all, there was calm, a peacefulness that prevailed and rallied against the overwhelming odds. As the Etchmarcs had lived, so would they die...
Raising the sword high, even as he begun to hear Theressa begin casting beside him, dainty feet lifting up off the wall – Ramasa cried out with the sudden overwhelming vehemence that comes to a true leader when he has failed those in his charge. "Today, we begin living!"
"Release the Vrear'sahn!"
And thunder split the clear sky asunder as the Kitin began to swarm.
Meeting the gaze of the Abyss
"There are no little events in life, those we think of no consequence may be full of fate, and it is at our own risk if we neglect the acquaintances and opportunities that seem to be casually offered, and of small importance.”
Year of Jena 2535, Winter, 15th Night. Antanas Settlement.
The water was cool, just as the map promised. Kas stared with a lingering curiosity at the strange fish that swam close to the Mektoub's trunk. Perhaps the fish was just as curious with the foreign trunk as Kas was with the fish. It had small, thin spines along its back, vaguely green in color with a long tapering stripe down its side. It could have easily fit in his palm, though he truly hated the way fish felt; now that he thought about it.
Enon mumbled something from behind him. The writing on the map was beyond Kas's reading ability, but Enon seemed to grasp it just fine. They had hooked north of the Antanas settlement at first, though Kas was unsure as to exactly why. Enon seemed rather unexcited about arriving, though it was inevitable. Someone in the settlement would show them a route through the Dead Lands. Most now used the Ring to skip over it, straight into the Old lands. However, their trip would be logged and noted for anyone with the right authority to see. That was not a good option for them.
This was a truly dangerous area, no hint of Karavan reconstruction to be felt, and they were out of the range of any resident teleporters. Kas had taken to studying his pact tickets at night, seeing which was more illuminated than the others, as if he could get some sort of position by them. So far, it had continually eluded him.
Enon pulled back his hood, tired eyes looking up to the sky, at the sun languishing on the horizon, threatening to be pulled down by its own brilliant bulk. "Come cousin, we should not linger. Let us get this over with."
Kas simply nodded, strapping his helmet back onto his head.
Life was always easier when in armor.
Kas's fist thundered into the wood, jarring the door in its moorings. The soft, timid knocking had not proven to be of any significant result. Fine. That got something, Kas thought, satisfied in his own simple way as something broke inside the building. "Open up! My Lord requires your presence!" Kas shouted, his voice doubly loud as it resounded behind his helmet.
A few moments went by. "A little much, don't you think Kas?" Enon whispered laconically, his face cloaked in the shadow of his hood, the dark glint of his eyes visible in the starlight.
Kas simply shrugged, turning his full attention to the door as it opened. An organic light wavered as it flickered to life beside the doorframe. The face illuminated by the light was aged, as well as suspicious and sleepy.
"Can I help you?"The face asked, squinting in part at the light and part in curiosity as to who it was standing on his doorstep in the early night, in full Matisian armor none the less.
Kas nodded once, and then stepped down to the side. Enon pushed back the obsidian robes from him, revealing his intent and young countenance, cooled with Etchmarc grace from what ever emotion was running through him at the time.
"Calaith Mara'tyr?"
"Yes…"The man tilted his head to the side slightly, seeming no more inclined to open the door however.
Kas moved back to the night-shadowed lane, tending to their Mektoubs. Enon began, "I have come, to bring you word of Jeziellia." A beguiling ebony bird shrieked, clipping the edge of Enon’s sentence. Calaith's eyes widened slightly, seeking the source in the darkness somewhere past this stranger at his door. Following an apprehensive pause, he nodded as he opened his door, inviting Enon in with a motion of his hand.
Kas turned his head, watching them retreat indoors as he retrieved his Axe from the mount. With experienced eyes, he set about in a slow patrol. Ludicrous as it may have looked, in a peaceful settlement such as this.
Never let your guard down. Not ever.
The night watchman bumped his helmet into Kas' own in reply to the mutual silent challenge. Neither would back down, and neither had moved from the spot for several minutes; they had seen each other coming. Silently, almost daring him to do something, Kas pushed back.
The only two armed individuals, at night, in armor, in a quiet refugee settlement, had met. Both were suspicious, for their own reasons, internally justified but intrinsically peaceful. Well, Kas assumed that the watchman was peaceful, though they had not shared any words. There was no doubt in his mind that he could smash him asunder if he was so ordered…
There usually wasn't.
Slowly, they rotated around each other, spreading apart as they did so, weapons at bear but not in play. Again, gradually they stepped away from each other, returning to their individual pattern of patrols.
For some reason, that really bothered Kas.
He mocks you...the now-familiar voice hissing in his mind. The edges of his thin lips twitched, hinting at a frown, and his hands tightened their grip on the haft of his Axe.
Kas took a slow pull from the bitter tasting flask; the boiled and herbed Kipee secretion always gave him a sour stomach. The lasting effect of alertness and sharp mental intensity that the concoction brought far outweighed any undesirable annoyances it inflicted. He had discovered this on his own, through the uncounted seasons spent training in Almati Wood, all for this very trip.
The door opened, and Enon poured from it in the hazy but steadily growing light. Calaith stood in the door way and waved to Kas, but he did not receive one in return.
"Come... I have the map."Enon raised the rolled scroll of pressed leather. "Let us hope it gets us through expeditiously." Without another word, he leapt up onto his mount, taking the reins from Kas's proffered grasp.
"Thank you for telling me, Lord."Calaith spoke in a loud voice, to reach them. "I will write to her soon, and… and thank you for delivering this." He flashed a lock of red hair, held lovingly in his hand, to them as he waved.
Enon looked at him in return, but only nodded before drawing his hood low against the coming sun.
The light was crimson, as an indicator for the days to come.
[RIGHT]- Amelia E. Barr
[/RIGHT]Year of Jena 2535, Winter, 15th Night. Antanas Settlement.
The water was cool, just as the map promised. Kas stared with a lingering curiosity at the strange fish that swam close to the Mektoub's trunk. Perhaps the fish was just as curious with the foreign trunk as Kas was with the fish. It had small, thin spines along its back, vaguely green in color with a long tapering stripe down its side. It could have easily fit in his palm, though he truly hated the way fish felt; now that he thought about it.
Enon mumbled something from behind him. The writing on the map was beyond Kas's reading ability, but Enon seemed to grasp it just fine. They had hooked north of the Antanas settlement at first, though Kas was unsure as to exactly why. Enon seemed rather unexcited about arriving, though it was inevitable. Someone in the settlement would show them a route through the Dead Lands. Most now used the Ring to skip over it, straight into the Old lands. However, their trip would be logged and noted for anyone with the right authority to see. That was not a good option for them.
This was a truly dangerous area, no hint of Karavan reconstruction to be felt, and they were out of the range of any resident teleporters. Kas had taken to studying his pact tickets at night, seeing which was more illuminated than the others, as if he could get some sort of position by them. So far, it had continually eluded him.
Enon pulled back his hood, tired eyes looking up to the sky, at the sun languishing on the horizon, threatening to be pulled down by its own brilliant bulk. "Come cousin, we should not linger. Let us get this over with."
Kas simply nodded, strapping his helmet back onto his head.
Life was always easier when in armor.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]Kas's fist thundered into the wood, jarring the door in its moorings. The soft, timid knocking had not proven to be of any significant result. Fine. That got something, Kas thought, satisfied in his own simple way as something broke inside the building. "Open up! My Lord requires your presence!" Kas shouted, his voice doubly loud as it resounded behind his helmet.
A few moments went by. "A little much, don't you think Kas?" Enon whispered laconically, his face cloaked in the shadow of his hood, the dark glint of his eyes visible in the starlight.
Kas simply shrugged, turning his full attention to the door as it opened. An organic light wavered as it flickered to life beside the doorframe. The face illuminated by the light was aged, as well as suspicious and sleepy.
"Can I help you?"The face asked, squinting in part at the light and part in curiosity as to who it was standing on his doorstep in the early night, in full Matisian armor none the less.
Kas nodded once, and then stepped down to the side. Enon pushed back the obsidian robes from him, revealing his intent and young countenance, cooled with Etchmarc grace from what ever emotion was running through him at the time.
"Calaith Mara'tyr?"
"Yes…"The man tilted his head to the side slightly, seeming no more inclined to open the door however.
Kas moved back to the night-shadowed lane, tending to their Mektoubs. Enon began, "I have come, to bring you word of Jeziellia." A beguiling ebony bird shrieked, clipping the edge of Enon’s sentence. Calaith's eyes widened slightly, seeking the source in the darkness somewhere past this stranger at his door. Following an apprehensive pause, he nodded as he opened his door, inviting Enon in with a motion of his hand.
Kas turned his head, watching them retreat indoors as he retrieved his Axe from the mount. With experienced eyes, he set about in a slow patrol. Ludicrous as it may have looked, in a peaceful settlement such as this.
Never let your guard down. Not ever.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]The night watchman bumped his helmet into Kas' own in reply to the mutual silent challenge. Neither would back down, and neither had moved from the spot for several minutes; they had seen each other coming. Silently, almost daring him to do something, Kas pushed back.
The only two armed individuals, at night, in armor, in a quiet refugee settlement, had met. Both were suspicious, for their own reasons, internally justified but intrinsically peaceful. Well, Kas assumed that the watchman was peaceful, though they had not shared any words. There was no doubt in his mind that he could smash him asunder if he was so ordered…
There usually wasn't.
Slowly, they rotated around each other, spreading apart as they did so, weapons at bear but not in play. Again, gradually they stepped away from each other, returning to their individual pattern of patrols.
For some reason, that really bothered Kas.
He mocks you...the now-familiar voice hissing in his mind. The edges of his thin lips twitched, hinting at a frown, and his hands tightened their grip on the haft of his Axe.
[CENTER]*****
[/CENTER]Kas took a slow pull from the bitter tasting flask; the boiled and herbed Kipee secretion always gave him a sour stomach. The lasting effect of alertness and sharp mental intensity that the concoction brought far outweighed any undesirable annoyances it inflicted. He had discovered this on his own, through the uncounted seasons spent training in Almati Wood, all for this very trip.
The door opened, and Enon poured from it in the hazy but steadily growing light. Calaith stood in the door way and waved to Kas, but he did not receive one in return.
"Come... I have the map."Enon raised the rolled scroll of pressed leather. "Let us hope it gets us through expeditiously." Without another word, he leapt up onto his mount, taking the reins from Kas's proffered grasp.
"Thank you for telling me, Lord."Calaith spoke in a loud voice, to reach them. "I will write to her soon, and… and thank you for delivering this." He flashed a lock of red hair, held lovingly in his hand, to them as he waved.
Enon looked at him in return, but only nodded before drawing his hood low against the coming sun.
The light was crimson, as an indicator for the days to come.