1 FALL 517av
On the outskirts of Endrykas
At noon
On the outskirts of Endrykas
At noon
" Where is Ixzo?” A child asked, her round cheeks and dark eyes glowing in the warmth of the crackling fire in the middle of the Firstsong pavilion grounds. Embers licked at the dusky clouds, smoke curling languidly to the stars that were slowly glittering into life as Syna’s rays faded.
Rufio huddled by the fire-pit, a heavy blanket wrapped around her shivering frame. It had been days since she had sat by a proper fire, since she had something hot and decent in her belly, since she had taken to the company of the drykas where it was warm and safe.
Her ochre gaze traced patterns in the flames, which etched themselves into her vision long after she lifted her eyes to the child, Iollu. Iollu looked back, as she had before, that day Rufio had met the exotic foreigner who had adopted her during a hard season. Ixzo. Rufio's fire-dappled gaze flickered with mirages of ebony skin, of a rare smile, and intense, curious, watchful, protective eyes. It made her smile faintly, sadly.
Rahle—the Firstong ankal—was the one to disturb the awkwardly quiet chime that had stretched on the tail of the child’s innocent wondering. His cloak rustled as he gathered up his family and ushered them into the pavilion. “Our guest has had many hard days travel, let her rest.”
Shooed in to their beds, they left the Stormblood alone with the Firstsong ankal. Rufio tugged the blanket about her shoulders tighter and, on looking down at its tasseled edges, noticed the intricate patterns that had been stitched into the weave. She marveled that hands could make coloured threads into artworks so intricate and detailed.
Her thoughts turned to her grandmother—Raen would adore this style—who was a weaver. There was that faint smile, tinged with sadness, contentedness and nostalgia nudging in to tug at her lips. Rahle came to sit a little beside her on a cushion, though he said nothing.
He let the quiet of the night linger between them. A peaceful, unreadable expression set across his copper-skinned, angular features. His booted feet were set softly apart on Semele, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped patiently. He let Rufio tell her story when she was ready; she was grateful for that...
⌔
It was hot. Syna radiated in abundance across the Sea of Grass. Sweat licked at Rufio's freckles, and her shoulders tingled under the mustard crochet vest she wore where her skin was beginning to burn. She had rolled up her brown wool pants but there was no breeze to cool her this day.
Her sandals crackled in the dry dirt, water parched from Semele’s skin, dry and chipped. Rufio panted heavily at the crest of a grassy knoll, taking a chime to pause and breath. She unhooked her waterskin from a plaited leather belt, but when she rose it to her chapped lips she found it empty. She sighed.
Letting the waterskin dangle lazily in her hand by her hip, the drykas brushed her sweat-laden mop of short waves from her gaze and looked out across the syna-parched grassland. Squinting against syna’s generous glare, Rufio caught a glimpse of white on the horizon. Tents. Her heart lifted and she called over her shoulder, “Loha, there are tents! They may have water, c’mon!”
There was a light nicker behind her and the clomp of hooves dully against the dirt as a strider rose up over the knoll and joined her. His red-dun hide was frothy with sweat and his ears were flat with exhaustion. Rufio bumped his shoulder with hers and grinned.
We are almost home, she signed, then, follow. They wandered across the barren steppe towards the white tents. As they got near, Rufio’s heart leapt. White denoted the Diamond Clan. Home was within reach. Now, though, she needed water, and Loha needed rest.
As they approached the edges of Endrykas, Rufio’s ochre gaze wandered across the pavilions and she found herself feeling strangely shy. Without having had the luxuries of a pavilion for some days, her short, charcoal hued waves had matted lightly, her clothes were stained and wrinkled horribly, her caramel skin smudged with caked dirt to fend off Syna’s intense rays.
She looked
w i l d.
With pink tinging her cheeks, her gaze fell on a small tent laying on the very, very outskirts of the clan. A four-person tent, not more than a few people must have set their camp here. Rufio became aware of a fluttering sensation in her belly as her gaze wandered to the mosaic of tents beyond this tiny camp.
After spending two seasons living rough in the Sea of Grass with only the Firstsongs as her adoptive support, Rufio was feeling a little overwhelmed by the prospect of the horde hustling and bustling before her.
The fluttering tightened and wove into a knot when she thought of her own pavilion. Azmere’s scarred face flickered in her thoughts, his stern expression and intense, star-filled eyes. Dread and apprehension prickled at her. She was not ready to go home, not yet.
So she made for the small camp, seeking a stranger whose judgements she need not mind. As she approached, she called out to the man she glimpsed by the tent. “Hai, hai there!” Greetings, respect. “Do you have water?” Great need, willing share, trade.
