Summer 5, 518
8th Bell
Sunberth
Sunberth sang with the voices of a thousand restless dead. Anja had felt it as the speck of the distant city grew ever closer, swelling into a agonized, echoing dirge. Countless tormented souls screamed their regrets into the sea. The cacophony swelled. Quietly, the man bowed his head. There was nothing resentful in the gesture. Anja wasn’t, bitter, merely resigned in a thoughtful way. This was Anja’s purpose. More than any city Anja knew, Sunberth needed the firm guiding hand of an Eiyon.
Anja and Maisa stepped off the rickety docks into the sprawling streets. The pungent scent of rot stung the man’s throat and tensed his jaw. Sunberth swarmed, but the patterns were unfamiliar to the Drykas. In Endrykas, every person had a purpose and movement was coordinated. All moved as one. Here, there seemed to be no grand purpose, or at least none that Anja was capable of discerning. The people were less like a swarm of bees, and more like flies: their own greed and motives fueling their paths. Anja watched dispassionately as a man approached a beggar staring unguarded towards the sea and slid a knife into his back, then snatched whatever paltry coppers the man carried. Not a single passerby reacted. No surprise, disgust, or remorse. Nothing.
Anja approached the collapsed beggar and kneeled beside him, touching his shoulder lightly. The man stared up at him. Blood flecked his lips and stained his rotten teeth.
“The next run will be better than this one,” Anja said, his voice thick with a Pavi accent.
“Petch you stranger,” the begger snarled, and died. Anja watched a faint mist pull from the man’s mouth, leaving an invisible distortion in the air. Anja waited, and watched.
“Ain’t nothing left,” the spirit growled. Slowly, the mist dissipated to nothing.
Anja straightened and wiped his bloody hand against the corpses’ shirt. The ever vigilant Maisa had followed Anja and stood by his side during his ministrations, and had faithfully stood guard with her hindquarters to him and her face towards the writhing masses. When Anja pushed himself to his feet, Maisa glanced at the Drykas, her expression a look of enquiry that only Anja, having been bonded to the mare for three years, could decipher. Three years in the constant presence of any creature would create an understanding, but Maisa was also a strider. Anja was convinced she was smarter than him sometimes.
The spiritist indicated to the mare that the soul had departed. She snorted and turned to face back towards the swarm, wary eyes scanning the crowds. Anja rested his hand against his companion’s neck and felt the tension making her body rigid. She hadn’t been a fan of the boat, and Anja doubted that witnessing a murder had done much for the strider’s comfort level. Anja gently hooked his arm underneath Maisa’s head and pulled her against his chest. She nickered, soft and sweet. “Let’s go my friend,” Anja murmured, and swung onto her back.
(Words 503, Total 503)
8th Bell
Sunberth
Sunberth sang with the voices of a thousand restless dead. Anja had felt it as the speck of the distant city grew ever closer, swelling into a agonized, echoing dirge. Countless tormented souls screamed their regrets into the sea. The cacophony swelled. Quietly, the man bowed his head. There was nothing resentful in the gesture. Anja wasn’t, bitter, merely resigned in a thoughtful way. This was Anja’s purpose. More than any city Anja knew, Sunberth needed the firm guiding hand of an Eiyon.
Anja and Maisa stepped off the rickety docks into the sprawling streets. The pungent scent of rot stung the man’s throat and tensed his jaw. Sunberth swarmed, but the patterns were unfamiliar to the Drykas. In Endrykas, every person had a purpose and movement was coordinated. All moved as one. Here, there seemed to be no grand purpose, or at least none that Anja was capable of discerning. The people were less like a swarm of bees, and more like flies: their own greed and motives fueling their paths. Anja watched dispassionately as a man approached a beggar staring unguarded towards the sea and slid a knife into his back, then snatched whatever paltry coppers the man carried. Not a single passerby reacted. No surprise, disgust, or remorse. Nothing.
Anja approached the collapsed beggar and kneeled beside him, touching his shoulder lightly. The man stared up at him. Blood flecked his lips and stained his rotten teeth.
“The next run will be better than this one,” Anja said, his voice thick with a Pavi accent.
“Petch you stranger,” the begger snarled, and died. Anja watched a faint mist pull from the man’s mouth, leaving an invisible distortion in the air. Anja waited, and watched.
“Ain’t nothing left,” the spirit growled. Slowly, the mist dissipated to nothing.
Anja straightened and wiped his bloody hand against the corpses’ shirt. The ever vigilant Maisa had followed Anja and stood by his side during his ministrations, and had faithfully stood guard with her hindquarters to him and her face towards the writhing masses. When Anja pushed himself to his feet, Maisa glanced at the Drykas, her expression a look of enquiry that only Anja, having been bonded to the mare for three years, could decipher. Three years in the constant presence of any creature would create an understanding, but Maisa was also a strider. Anja was convinced she was smarter than him sometimes.
The spiritist indicated to the mare that the soul had departed. She snorted and turned to face back towards the swarm, wary eyes scanning the crowds. Anja rested his hand against his companion’s neck and felt the tension making her body rigid. She hadn’t been a fan of the boat, and Anja doubted that witnessing a murder had done much for the strider’s comfort level. Anja gently hooked his arm underneath Maisa’s head and pulled her against his chest. She nickered, soft and sweet. “Let’s go my friend,” Anja murmured, and swung onto her back.
(Words 503, Total 503)