81st of Summer 518 AV
Azmere rested his back against a tree. Had the thick trunk not been there, he may have taken a very horrid tumble down the road outside the tower of Nysel. The roar of the falls thundered in his ears but it only served as static against the waves of memories that had been unlocked in his mind. The priest was adamant about a few things and though the ordeal was not painful- the surreal experience had left the Drykas reeling. He was a Drykas! So much to process, though and his mind felt like mud.
The revisited thoughts, relics of another life and place, tumbled against preconceived notions and new memories in a tumultuous soup that exhausted Azmere’s senses. One hand held fast to the wooden column of a plant that kept him upright while the other squeezed his head and massaged at his temples. The scarred man was shown the origins of his disfiguration, the face of his mother, the corpse of his grandfather, the moment he became a Drykas and so much more. An endless sea of Grassland sign encircled everything that took place whether it was faces or places and the constant flickering of fingers made Azmere feel dizzy.
Through time and maturity, the memories shifted from haphazard and carefree to guilt-laden and painful or impossibly wonderful. Az relived meeting Daleina then watched her die. He watched himself, as a boy, strike down a merchant. The blue and gold stare witnessed love and triumph that were always short-lived as well as the pile of death and decay that he left in his wake. The archer brutally murdered a man with a wooden post though that seemed an equally shared sentiment. He’s the one who drove a rod into Azmere’s thigh, killed his strider and peeled off layer of skin from his chest. Despite these things, the man living in Riverfall found the bloodthirsty image of himself unnerving.
There was a strange woman who tried to blind him, an assassin of old, yet Azmere gouged out her eyes with his thumbs. It was a brutal thing to watch as he taunted the smaller being. The mounting guilt grew heavy and the warrior staggered to his knees while he still held the trunk for support. Visions of family, not blood but one forged on common ground, drifted here and there. A woman with scars and the eyes of a lion, another with blonde hair and a mean face worn for the sake of her kids, an old man with kind eyes, a redhead who fled into the grass, a brunette whose spirit was as big as the steppe and a brother who felt as stubborn as the dirt but bled loyalty in everything. Children, horses, livestock, companions and in the midst of it all stood a man who could barely remain upright at present.
There were many stories which revolved around a bubbly blonde with eyes like the sky and a smile like the sun. She was warm, playful and strong. The memories of their time together warmed the blood in Azmere’s face and chest. He had a love- a woman before Taurina.
Taurina.
The indigo stare flooded his mind and poured from his chest as the first encounter with Taurina replayed again. The days she was gone and his rage when she returned with the strange man. The anger at the time was masked as worry but the Azmere of now understood it to be what it was; jealousy. What a fool he had been! No longer; the ankal was going to find his gavee and make right by all of the people he had left behind. It didn’t matter that the situation was out of his control. He was in charge of things now and a decision had been made...had to be made.
All of this confused and elated the man but the Drykas slogged through the stories to find a purpose- a reason for everything. Like a jewel left in the middle of a riverbed, the ankal reached down into his soul and plucked out the answer; family. He made the sign with his hands several times before slowly venturing up onto his boots again. He gathered himself and jogged lightly towards the road which led to the city’s second tier. He managed to keep his strides at a medium length which made everything much easier to control and minimized the impact on his old wound. The limp held off for a time until he made his way up the hill and the pain was substantial enough to make him pause. When he resumed, it was a brisk walk.
Chimes passed as the blue and gold eyes scanned the buildings for the one known as Riverfall Ink. A few wrong turns soaked up the better part of a bell but he finally stumbled to the building nestled into the cliff. The astute observer spotted the hanging banners of symbols and drawings easily enough and the closer he got, the easier it was to see the smaller, Drykas version of Taurina working away at her job. He burst through the heavy door like a storm and walked directly towards the woman with sun-kissed skin and thin but defined muscles. Without looking to the proprietor, Azmere spoke Common in his booming baritone. “She quit today.” By the time he reached her, his arms would be out and then thrown around her torso beneath her arms in a cinching embrass that would lift her from her feet. The watchman buried his face in her neck and hair as he uttered professions of apologies, affections and jumbled experiences. When he finally set her down, he kept the woman close enough so that more than just his hands touched her. In his native tongue, he smiled a half smile. “We’re going home.”
Azmere rested his back against a tree. Had the thick trunk not been there, he may have taken a very horrid tumble down the road outside the tower of Nysel. The roar of the falls thundered in his ears but it only served as static against the waves of memories that had been unlocked in his mind. The priest was adamant about a few things and though the ordeal was not painful- the surreal experience had left the Drykas reeling. He was a Drykas! So much to process, though and his mind felt like mud.
The revisited thoughts, relics of another life and place, tumbled against preconceived notions and new memories in a tumultuous soup that exhausted Azmere’s senses. One hand held fast to the wooden column of a plant that kept him upright while the other squeezed his head and massaged at his temples. The scarred man was shown the origins of his disfiguration, the face of his mother, the corpse of his grandfather, the moment he became a Drykas and so much more. An endless sea of Grassland sign encircled everything that took place whether it was faces or places and the constant flickering of fingers made Azmere feel dizzy.
Through time and maturity, the memories shifted from haphazard and carefree to guilt-laden and painful or impossibly wonderful. Az relived meeting Daleina then watched her die. He watched himself, as a boy, strike down a merchant. The blue and gold stare witnessed love and triumph that were always short-lived as well as the pile of death and decay that he left in his wake. The archer brutally murdered a man with a wooden post though that seemed an equally shared sentiment. He’s the one who drove a rod into Azmere’s thigh, killed his strider and peeled off layer of skin from his chest. Despite these things, the man living in Riverfall found the bloodthirsty image of himself unnerving.
There was a strange woman who tried to blind him, an assassin of old, yet Azmere gouged out her eyes with his thumbs. It was a brutal thing to watch as he taunted the smaller being. The mounting guilt grew heavy and the warrior staggered to his knees while he still held the trunk for support. Visions of family, not blood but one forged on common ground, drifted here and there. A woman with scars and the eyes of a lion, another with blonde hair and a mean face worn for the sake of her kids, an old man with kind eyes, a redhead who fled into the grass, a brunette whose spirit was as big as the steppe and a brother who felt as stubborn as the dirt but bled loyalty in everything. Children, horses, livestock, companions and in the midst of it all stood a man who could barely remain upright at present.
There were many stories which revolved around a bubbly blonde with eyes like the sky and a smile like the sun. She was warm, playful and strong. The memories of their time together warmed the blood in Azmere’s face and chest. He had a love- a woman before Taurina.
Taurina.
The indigo stare flooded his mind and poured from his chest as the first encounter with Taurina replayed again. The days she was gone and his rage when she returned with the strange man. The anger at the time was masked as worry but the Azmere of now understood it to be what it was; jealousy. What a fool he had been! No longer; the ankal was going to find his gavee and make right by all of the people he had left behind. It didn’t matter that the situation was out of his control. He was in charge of things now and a decision had been made...had to be made.
All of this confused and elated the man but the Drykas slogged through the stories to find a purpose- a reason for everything. Like a jewel left in the middle of a riverbed, the ankal reached down into his soul and plucked out the answer; family. He made the sign with his hands several times before slowly venturing up onto his boots again. He gathered himself and jogged lightly towards the road which led to the city’s second tier. He managed to keep his strides at a medium length which made everything much easier to control and minimized the impact on his old wound. The limp held off for a time until he made his way up the hill and the pain was substantial enough to make him pause. When he resumed, it was a brisk walk.
Chimes passed as the blue and gold eyes scanned the buildings for the one known as Riverfall Ink. A few wrong turns soaked up the better part of a bell but he finally stumbled to the building nestled into the cliff. The astute observer spotted the hanging banners of symbols and drawings easily enough and the closer he got, the easier it was to see the smaller, Drykas version of Taurina working away at her job. He burst through the heavy door like a storm and walked directly towards the woman with sun-kissed skin and thin but defined muscles. Without looking to the proprietor, Azmere spoke Common in his booming baritone. “She quit today.” By the time he reached her, his arms would be out and then thrown around her torso beneath her arms in a cinching embrass that would lift her from her feet. The watchman buried his face in her neck and hair as he uttered professions of apologies, affections and jumbled experiences. When he finally set her down, he kept the woman close enough so that more than just his hands touched her. In his native tongue, he smiled a half smile. “We’re going home.”