8th, Winter, 514 A.V.
Late Morning
Bakr lead Moema to the stream. He and the beautiful mare had an odd relationship. Though both had genuine affection for the other, Moe’s willingness to obey was definitely lacking in the eyes of the half-blood. She would often toss her head and snort in a notably indignant way. She was thirsty though, so the task at hand was easy.
The horse followed her rider eagerly to the raised bank of the stream. Bakr was careful not to fall in as he too knelt to drink from the flowing water. It chilled his dusty fingers as he dipped a cupped hand into the gently flowing spring and lifted it to his mouth. Bakr sighed as the water coursed through his body. He felt the chill seep down his throat and into his chest, but it was refreshing.
As his mount greedily slurped up more water, the desert-born rider gathered his water skins from her saddlebags and began to refill them. With water that moved this fast, the chance for disease was significantly lessened. He was not worried about filtering it. When he was done Bakr returned the skins to their proper place and stretched his back.
He felt the soreness of the ride crack free of his bones and muscles as he looked about the clearing. For about three hundred yards along the stream there were not trees between it and the road, leaving a nice little spot for a wayward rider and his faithful companion horse to rest for a bit. The wonderful and agitating thing about wandering was that the destination was not so important as the actual travel.
If he was true with himself he would admit that he was not really wandering. For a while now he had been pointedly staying near the great stone city of Syliras. Especially since winter was setting its roots in the land. Morwen did not touch his homeland, but here in Sylira she reigned in this frigid season. He needed to be careful or he might freeze and leave Moema to starve. The Eyktolian Desertbred mare was a keepsake that hailed from the same golden sands that he himself called home. The connection was the reason he had purchased her in the first place.
Moe neighed and stomped her hooves in the soft earth. Bakr looked askance at her. She shook her head and he saw the dark, beautiful eyes flicker towards him before she turned away.
“What is it Moe?” Bakr asked the horse as he approached. He laid a gentle hand on her neck to sooth the disgruntled animal. She did not answer, as always. Their conversations were decidedly one sided. She settled and Bakr found a particularly soft patch of grass and plopped down, digging his heels into the dirt and pulling a wooden flute from where it was tucked into his belt.
He began to play, play being a very general term for blowing into the instrument. He had absolutely no skill with the thing. He had bought it on a whim in Syliras upon his very first visit to the city. He experimented with the sounds created by the hollowed wood. He would play a note for an entire slow breath. Then he would move his fingers around one of the five holes and a different sound would come out. He found this was music enough for him. Although he had bought the thing many years ago now, he had not gave it much attention, or not enough to justify the long ownership. As he played, he found himself hoping to be skilled at the instrument one day.
Late Morning
Bakr lead Moema to the stream. He and the beautiful mare had an odd relationship. Though both had genuine affection for the other, Moe’s willingness to obey was definitely lacking in the eyes of the half-blood. She would often toss her head and snort in a notably indignant way. She was thirsty though, so the task at hand was easy.
The horse followed her rider eagerly to the raised bank of the stream. Bakr was careful not to fall in as he too knelt to drink from the flowing water. It chilled his dusty fingers as he dipped a cupped hand into the gently flowing spring and lifted it to his mouth. Bakr sighed as the water coursed through his body. He felt the chill seep down his throat and into his chest, but it was refreshing.
As his mount greedily slurped up more water, the desert-born rider gathered his water skins from her saddlebags and began to refill them. With water that moved this fast, the chance for disease was significantly lessened. He was not worried about filtering it. When he was done Bakr returned the skins to their proper place and stretched his back.
He felt the soreness of the ride crack free of his bones and muscles as he looked about the clearing. For about three hundred yards along the stream there were not trees between it and the road, leaving a nice little spot for a wayward rider and his faithful companion horse to rest for a bit. The wonderful and agitating thing about wandering was that the destination was not so important as the actual travel.
If he was true with himself he would admit that he was not really wandering. For a while now he had been pointedly staying near the great stone city of Syliras. Especially since winter was setting its roots in the land. Morwen did not touch his homeland, but here in Sylira she reigned in this frigid season. He needed to be careful or he might freeze and leave Moema to starve. The Eyktolian Desertbred mare was a keepsake that hailed from the same golden sands that he himself called home. The connection was the reason he had purchased her in the first place.
Moe neighed and stomped her hooves in the soft earth. Bakr looked askance at her. She shook her head and he saw the dark, beautiful eyes flicker towards him before she turned away.
“What is it Moe?” Bakr asked the horse as he approached. He laid a gentle hand on her neck to sooth the disgruntled animal. She did not answer, as always. Their conversations were decidedly one sided. She settled and Bakr found a particularly soft patch of grass and plopped down, digging his heels into the dirt and pulling a wooden flute from where it was tucked into his belt.
He began to play, play being a very general term for blowing into the instrument. He had absolutely no skill with the thing. He had bought it on a whim in Syliras upon his very first visit to the city. He experimented with the sounds created by the hollowed wood. He would play a note for an entire slow breath. Then he would move his fingers around one of the five holes and a different sound would come out. He found this was music enough for him. Although he had bought the thing many years ago now, he had not gave it much attention, or not enough to justify the long ownership. As he played, he found himself hoping to be skilled at the instrument one day.