Closed [Stone Garden] Speaking to the Dead (Nya Winters)

[Wrenmae]

72nd, Fall 513 AV,

Night touched Syliras differently than it did Lhavit, or Alvadas. Even Sunberth in its anarchic roil and Zeltiva in hushed solemnity did not quite offer the same nocturnal experience as Syliras did. Wren walked along a moon-soaked path, imagining he could feel the life of his city rising and falling like some immeasurable tide. It rose against him, overcame him, and swept onward. Although he had put off this journey, he wasn't long for the city of the Knights and he promised himself that before he left...he would visit the memorial.

The pallid, moon-dappled riverstones in the Stone garden.

Seasons ago, when he was brittle-thin and young, his father had taken him here to appreciate all that Syliras had offered. He told him a story there, just the two of them, of how the brave men and women of Syliras had laid down their lives so that the great walls could be raised and so the people could be protected. They made a game of counting the stones and thanking the dead, faceless bodies in gleaming steel-skin.

All at the behest of their Lord liege, the massive tree for which they took their sigil.

What a strange, strange world it all was.

In Wrenmae's creed, the strong would always consume the weak. According to Vayt, Mizahar's failure to survive was in part due to the state of the leaders that followed in the wake of the Valterrian. Sure, the initial ones pulled the ruins of the civilization midway from the ashes...but just when they were close to something, they cloistered and festered like cesspools. Mizahar's grand kingdom of man had come to rest in a place of city-state diversity.

To think of all that could be accomplished with the right leaders, the correct political pressure.

Kneeling, he ran a finger across a few of the stones. One day, someone would take from this solemn place the same idea and construct a wonder thrice its size...for the lives lost when Mizahar stood united...and rebuilt their empire lost.

Even here, tucked away from the looming presence of the Knights, when all their deeds were stripped to mere riverstones, he could not help but hate them. Once before, he had been told they were the protectors of the meek and the weak...the feeble and the undefended.

But in that wild mountain range of snow and death, there were no Knights to save him and his family. Instead, only Vayt had come.

And he promised no life, simply the power to survive on ones own.

Had he not, then? Through all the chaos of his own life...had he not proven that he would survive above all else?

Praise Vayt then. May the strong inherit the earth they were meant to control.

He was alone here, oblivious to the outside city and with eyes only for the enormity of the stones that dwelt here. Among the ranks of honored dead he stood like a thorn in the soft skin of their paradise. Swallowing bile, his own childish hatred of the Sylirans he spoke to the stones, as if they could hear.

"More than two thousand seasons past, we stood unchallenged at the height of our civilization. Came the cataclysm and it was your sacrifice that brought Syliras to where it is." The wind pulled against his hair and skin, his eyes shifting in the gloom almost unconsciously, glowing the dusky red of Symenestra. The air itself seemed to call 'no hope, no hope' in it's throaty, moaning way. Wren took a breath of that air, swallowed, and continued. "All of you fought till death for the values you held dear, built this place from your bones and blood and laid to rest in its foundation. Now behind its closed walls, do you feel accomplished? Is this the grand dream you imagined for Mizahar? Will it be Syliras that will one day rule this world...or perhaps will you grow to become something else, something greater than the sum of your parts? In age or violence, death has found you...whether you died strong or weak is your own secret to bare."

He kneeled again on the walkway, sitting and crossing both legs.

"I would not seek to bring down your city, nor blame you for the folly of my father...but my presence here is no threat to your dreams, your ambitions."

Explaining himself to ghosts...perfect. But for some reason, he continued.

"Mizahar is the untested metal before it is put to flame. If I must be that flame to ensure we have the strength to rise again, to rise past the point we were...I will be that flame."

He held out a hand, cupping a small wisp of res and coaxing it above the stones, lighting a small glowing tongue to flicker as he finished.

"I may not have any right to lie with you in memorial when all is done, but I will sacrifice no less, achieve no less, than what is necessary to ensure this world is prepared for what comes next." He pulled back at the flame, the last of his rest igniting and then fading into the night. Wren smiled grimly and ran his hand along the stones.

"We are a broken, frightened people...and perhaps you knew that better than most. Is that why you built the walls? People are afraid of the outside, of what lies beyond your Kabrin road...and maybe that's the only way you could protect them, if they believed they needed it."

Slapping the stone, he drew back his hand and put both into his lap, shivering.

"How then," he said quietly, "Could you call yourselves guardians...and not jailers?"

[Nya Winters]

The Stormwarden clung to the shadows of the memorial, a place that was for her now familiar. She'd returned as promised, bringing with her greater winds that were willing to scrub clean the stones and create for the garden its own centralized storm. When she'd met others here, she'd departed with a promise. And she'd came back to honor her word once more. At first it had been just a simple visit, but Nya had been coming here regularly at night, as if she somehow saw herself as some sort of caretaker of the space. It was large enough she could stretch out in her true form, when her human shape just could not hold the energy in her skin any longer.

Nya rarely slept through the night.

Shai had grown used to her restlessness and sometimes came with her. But tonight she was alone. And she was busy in her work, involved in the task of honoring the fallen by scouring clean their names, when the interruption had happened. Stepping backwards, the forest cat had molded to the shadows, her own slight form lost among the decorative plants that lined the edges of the inlaid stone decoration.

And she'd heard his words, at least most of them, and so far she did not agree. In fact, they had made her angry to the point she could hold her tongue no more. Not knowing him, the cat moved forward boldly, but with extreme caution. Once, she would have pounced, but such time had long since passed. Nya was well aware that her size and strength had very little to do with true power. Power simply was, and if she ran into it, she would respect it for what it was. But she'd never be a slave to it again, and that meant moving cautiously and without arrogance.

"You are wrong." She said simply, stepping out from the shadows. The winds tangled her hair and the cloak she wore that hid her features.

"No one here is broken down and frightened. What you witness is a people that have been broken down, unmade, and then reforged into something new. In the times past, the world was dead and stagnant. People forgot what was important. Generations lived their whole lives without lifting a finger while others tolled without rest. Here, the balance has been restored. People have moved forward. Sanity has been reclaimed. Here is a vast strength that couldn't exist in the times before... a strength that was lost to sloth and the craving for power." The woman said, certain in her words, a witness to times past by living a life the man before her would not believe nor understand.

"People played Gods then. Now, they have an inherent understanding of their own nature and have grown humble again with that nature." Nya said, certain of her conviction and completely certain of her words.

She paused then, waiting for the man's reaction.

[Wrenmae]

A voice.

It broke the silence of these solemn graves and carried up across his skin like fresh wind. Every instinct in his body flared into action and his body moved with automatic purpose. Rolling forward across the uneven stones, he stood and turned as dexterously as he was able, his right hand dropping to the long dagger on his waist. Dull, ember eyes blazed, and he was prepared to attack...even before his mind had made the connection that the woman held no apparent weapon, nor held herself prepared to attack.

Much of the nervous violence dissipated from Wren with the cold wind that dragged its fingers across his features. Her hair was breeze-tangled and she wore no shoes...the rest was obscured by a cloak. But she had slunk from the darkness with practiced grace, a kind that suggested experience.

He could make no grand inferences as to her purpose here...or her nature, just enough to know that she had come upon him at a moment of weakness and chosen to speak rather than strike. Perhaps that was indicative of the Syliran way, but were this Sunberth he would almost certainly be bleeding out on the cold ground.

"You speak with a conviction suggestive of experience," he answered her after a moment, stepping back onto the path and letting his hand stray from his blade and back to his side, "Ethaeful? Nuit? Some other long lived race?" He shook his head, as if dismissing the question.

"Forgive my inexperience, then. Perhaps I am not the best to judge Syliras for their accomplishments." he held out his hands, as if presenting the memorial to her. "The dead tell me no tales of their exploits or trials, I know only what I've seen."

His hands dropped to his sides, "Two thousand seasons is a long time," it was more to himself than her, "Did it take that long to build only this?" An eyebrow raised, quizzical challenge, but not offensively.

"Perhaps it would be wiser for me to hear your story first...if you'd care to tell it."

He didn't turn away from her completely, but indicated out over the stones, "I'm sure the dead would enjoy a little tale as well."

[Nya Winters]

Nya met his gaze and frowned. "Two thousand and fifty one seasons." She automatically corrected, then frowned, momentarily startled that she knew that without much thought. "And I am none of those things. Kelvic. Sometimes a short life gives you clarity of vision for you do not get as much time as perhaps an average human would." Nya said, shifting the cloak about her and drawing the hood off her head. Bare feet peeked out of the hem as the winds in the garden teased the fabric.

"The dead tell no tales because they are dead. Spirits are obnoxious and can not particularly be trusted anyhow. And ones that would lurk here are particularly stupid. Why haunt a place of dead and not be dead? Haunt places of life and enjoy the distinction. All the spirits you would want to converse with would be elsewhere, in places far more alive than this one." Nya offered, moving forward more clearly into the light.

"Only this? This is a testament to survival and a barrier towards Dira's future endeavors. The entire city is a monument to survival. And you want more? You think it took two thousand and fifty one seasons to build this, but it did not. It took season upon season to survive, to let the land come back, to let the seed of ideas grow. This construction, this city, was done in the blink of an eye for the history of these people. You of all people should know that. Human. You should understand them best of all, being one of them." She said, reading his clean healthy scent as clearly as day.

"I have no story." Nya said, offering him a smile. "At least not yet. There are stories about though, good ones, if one cares to know them. I particularly like the ones about the wizards of the past, the ones long dead and gone from this world. I am only a few years old, a child in your eyes, so I haven't had the time to craft a lifetime of knowing and doing. But I will, someday, because there is much to do so more of this...." Nya gestured around with her chin, still keeping her hands buried in her cloak. "... can keep happening. Our children and our children's children need to be safer than our mother's mother and their mothers were. My name is Nya." She offered, moving forward again until she stood beside him to share his view companionably.

"What about you? Do you have a story? You appear far older than me." She asked, curious about him as well now. "You sound so angry or at least convicted. I would like to hear why." Nya asked, a brindled eyebrow raised as she stood beside him looking out over the vista of stones.

[Wrenmae]

Kelvic.

The word tasted dirty in his mouth, like a curse or insult. In Sunberth he'd been awash with the creatures, animals playing at human and universally misunderstanding the urgency of his plans. He fought to keep the feelings from his face, swallowed them, and let them dwell in his stomach...hissing and biting for release. There was the circumstances to think about, after all. In Syliras he was a guest, and an unwelcome one at that. Part of what the city tried so hard to keep beyond its walls now walked among them.

He brought Vayt's gift in his wake and curbed the unworthy from the purity of civilization. But if he made something of himself now, there was always the chance she knew a Knight. He'd learned since Sunberth that the Kelvic was a particularly adept tracker...and even if he morphed, his scent would not completely shift with him.

The picture of manners...and besides, she was not so impulsive or stupid as the others had been. There was a marked competency to how she spoke, a pride and at the same time, caution. So for the first few moments he was silent, processing all the details he'd gathered before finally letting out his held breath and racist sarcasm.

"Wrenmae," he said to her, pushing two fingers into his own chest before letting them fall, "And perhaps I am old compared to you, but there are those who would still consider me fairly young."

Inexperienced, underestimated

"I come from Kalea, across the seas, where no road exists between the cities." His hands instinctively rose up, tracing the jagged line of teeth on the horizon of his home, "The strong survive in Kalea and the weak die...it is a mantra I have lived by since I was ten."

Cloying cigar smoke, that sneering smile.

"By luck and research, I learned about Alahea that was...the sprawling empire that once dominated these lands. There was a time when the strong built a massive civilization, dominated the fields of magic and science...and then it all vanished during the Valterrian and those left..." he trailed off, indicating out across the stones, "Struggled to build what we have now. But two thousand and fifty one seasons of work has only built so much. People seem content to cling to their city-states rather than vie together for greater strides." Both hands rose up, as if he were presenting a castle that could pierce the very heavens. "All my life I have watched those close to me wither and die, succumb to their weaknesses. So many find peace and purpose within the Knights or organizations dedicated to preserve the status quo...inch forward bit by bit, but does no one think we move too slow?"

His hands fell. "The djed storm tore everything asunder again and we've only just managed to rebuild what was lost. Sometimes it feels as though humanity is too weak to follow through with what they used to be, too feeble to climb that mountain again and stand at the top."

He sighed, almost aiming to kick one of the stones but thinking better of it and simply scuffing the path. "I'm tired of friends and family dying, Nya, I'm tired of people being too frail."

Sighing, he brought up both hands and wrung them together, as if washing himself of some responsibility. "So I've made it my goal to speed up the process and to find those that won't wither and die, those who can stand on their own two feet and do what is necessary to keep us moving forward."

A heartless kind of chuckle escaped from his throat and died on the open air, he looked down at his feet, "It is as much as a speck like me can do, and I can't figure out why I'm telling you all this..." he trailed off with a half laugh that sagged into a sigh.

"It's a rare kind of evening, I suppose."

[Nya Winters]

Nya noted the disdain on his face when she told him her race. It did not bother her overly much. In fact it made her smile slightly. And when he paused, seemingly giving up on his distaste, she raised an eyebrow as he mentioned Alahea and the Empire that once was.

"They destroyed themselves, you know. It wasn't just the Valterrian. There was so much about them that was doomed. People were too powerful, playing Gods in their own rights and the Gods themselves were amused enough to let them. Even now I can see some of them in you. You stand alone unarmed as far as I can see in a city you hate, for whatever reason you hate it. Weak you call them, a city full of bulky knights that wield weapons that can part your head from your shoulders? You have not the strength of a warrior being so lanky, and you do not move like an animal, but like a man trapped in his skin. You have the carriage of a wizard or a priest. At worst a scholar, though I have no use for those that study and do not do. I've seen it a million times. I've been it in the past." She said, tasting his arrogance and recognizing it as power.

"Your arrogance smells like power in my nose." Nya observed.

His light dusting of scars did not miss her observation as well. She half turned, standing with him, too close for perhaps the comfort of an enemy, but close enough she'd know if he was a threat or made a motion to harm.

"Not everything is as its seems. Perhaps we can pick what we come back as after we die. Maybe I found humanity to weak. Maybe I found eternal death too morbid. But a kelvic can be strong, Wrenmae. They can be the strongest of all, with senses a wizard might need to navigate the world and survive in it. And the lifespan can be overcome. The manners can be refined or else allow them to have more leeway than most. Being smart isn't always hating blindly. Being smart is thinking differently than others." She said softly, almost amused, before she glanced up and glared at a particularly fierce gust of wind that played across the Garden. It paused, did an impossible turn, taking leaves and debris with it, and then circled them a moment before leaving skyward.

Nya signed.

"The winds in Syliras are rude at best, tricksters at worse. That one liked you. Does that mean you are as wicked as it was capable of being? Or do you just talk to yourself a great deal and keep them amused?" Nya asked.


"Kalea." She nodded. Nya didn't know if it, other than it was somewhere west and formidable. "Isn't that how it is everywhere? That the strong survive and the weak die?". As for things moving slow, Nya wasn't so sure. Maybe. He continued speaking and she continued listening.

"Rare indeed." She agreed, then started speaking her mind as well.

"Maybe things are moving around you faster than you realize. People are often like trees in a forest, making it hard to notice individuals. But the extraordinary exists. And there are dangerous times because of the extraordinary. These people don't know what goes on around them. Even I do not. But I know my own life and it moves so fast I cannot slow it down. I think it is the same way for others as well. You just stand outside of things and don't see the speed the world moves and indeed how the gods interact within it. Always, around us, they are here or their operatives. Agendas layer over agendas. I would think you should know that, standing here cloaked in your anger. You feel like you have an agenda as well... one to speed things up. Tell me, do the Gods back you?" Nya asked, curious.

[Wrenmae]

When Nya moved towards him, Wren instinctively stepped back. His eyes narrowed, subconsciously they shifted in the darkness from the dusky red of a symenestra to the blazing yellow of a Zith, always keeping her in his sight. This was not at all like any of the kelvics he had ever seen before. Where their demeanor was chaotic, even playful, there was nothing but measured confidence here. But it was the words she spoke that hollowed out a pit of nervous energy in his stomach, the ease at which she spoke about Alahea, the way she 'smelled' his power. It was nothing but unnerving.

And when he caught her gaze and lifted his skyward, watching the breeze deflecting and skittering away with a veil of autumn leaves to follow it, a terrible coldness filled his blood. All intent to harm vanished from him, all resistance.

She was a Goddess, surely. She commanded the winds...she knew too much of the past. What Kelvic acted like her? What Kelvic had ever been like this in his memory?

None sprang to mind, but her casual power unbalanced the cautious hypnotist and put him immediately on the defensive. It wasn't enough that she had simply appeared to catch him unawares, but she spoke with such direct and unguarded curiosity...topics that should have been led into carefully, flippantly expelled.

Wren swallowed, hard. If she was a goddess, she would already know who backed him...and then what was this? Was she testing him? Hesitantly, Wren reached into his being and pushed djed through his eyes, examining her aura in a brief blink, too curious to guard against the possibility an aura that bright might blind him.

But there was no brilliance there, nothing that he had not seen before. She was not a goddess. Or just very well disguised.

He licked his lips nervously.

"I have entertained important guests," he began guardedly, "Some consider my presence here on Mizahar to be a boon. What I can do...what I am capable of doing, I have some patrons that have shown interest in my time." He trailed off, leaving it as poorly as that. Much of him quailed in her presence, but not because of what she represented, but the snapping logic by which she spoke. Even had he not feared her to be a goddess in disguise, he would have been floored by how she spoke.

Kelvic lifespans to be overcome, the benefit of their existence, the folly of man, overlaying agendas of the gods, the world moving faster and faster...was he simply blind? Did he not see what was already going on? His mind tore through the list of events in his past. What had tied into something else? What was larger than his recollection?

"Who...what are you?" He asked her, his body bristling with nervous lightning, "No Kelvic I have known talks like you, knows what you know...I do not believe you are as young or inexperienced as you claim to be."