[Flashback] Gravity (Duvalyon)

[Laszlo]

Mostly, Laszlo had been musing to fill silence. Duvalyon seemed like a heavy thinker, a very analytical man. The silence made Laszlo uncomfortable because he feared the physician was mulling over his thoughts, which could be about the Ethaefal himself or any number of more important things. He hoped a little conversation would solve it and bring those thoughts into the open, but Duvalyon proved a Symenestra of few words. What he did say though… it caught Laszlo off guard. Looking toward the source of Duvalyon's voice, the Ethaefal smiled broadly, true appreciation sparkling in his golden eyes. The grin remained there for quite a long moment, even as his eyes slid away and he looked down, swiping back his hair. That concisely worded sentiment had actually meant a great deal to the Ethaefal. Perhaps Duvalyon was merely pointing out the obvious, but the underlying message of encouragement was there. Laszlo remembered then that the Symenestra were also a deeply spiritual people. Even if Duvalyon's beliefs were elsewhere, he understood Laszlo's connection to his goddess. Laszlo remained silent for a while after that. Duvalyon had been exceedingly kind to him, knowing there was no reward in it. So the Ethaefal was courteous in kind and thought not to bother his host, at least not yet. He had questions, plenty of questions about the Symenestra, but they could wait. He was in Kalinor now. All the information he wanted about his earthbound race would be waiting for him at his convenience. As they neared the physician's home… his web… Duvalyon was the one who spoke up. A minor teaching tool? Laszlo tilted his head thoughtfully. How quaint. "Yes, of course. That's all right with me." Bit flattering, actually. Perhaps Laszlo should have felt objectified, but being heralded as "special" almost made it worth being back among mortals again. As Duvalyon spoke on, he suddenly sounded a little more somber or… almost threatening. Laszlo looked up in the low light, making out Duvalyon's silhouette. "She's not a Symenestra like you?" he asked, completely ignorant to the physician's grim implication. Still relatively newborn to this world, Laszlo had yet to rediscover exactly which "Symenestra practices" he was referring to. He thought little of it, assuming Duvalyon meant tedious things like dinner etiquette and how to treat outsider races. "Then this will be educational for me, too." Duvalyon's silhouette crawled across the thread like no human form ever should. Yet, Laszlo was relieved to be among people who were different than the Sylirans he'd first become acquainted with. It was unpleasant to consider himself an oddity. The Symenestra however were odd in their own right. Humans would be absolutely lost down here. The physician's navigational advice was a bit odd, and standing in near pitch black darkness, Laszlo wasn't sure to trust it. Something suddenly slid into his field of vision, and Laszlo belatedly realized it was Duvalyon's hand. His sharpened nails glittered in a familiar way, but Laszlo didn't hesitate long. He placed his hand in the other man's and took a long stride forward. While his back foot swayed on the uneven basket, his front landed on solid ground. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps, given his recent experiences, he should have been more afraid of heights (or at least afraid of falling), but he wasn't, not really. He was, however, extremely relieved to be back on a firm surface. Laszlo's hand left Duvalyon's immediately, and he tried to shake off the odd feeling of those long, thin fingers. Was that what his hand felt like during his night phase? It felt a bit… eerie. Waiting for Duvalyon to lead him inside, Laszlo politely stepped aside for the physician and allowed him to pass by. "Thank you. For this, and my head, and my arm, all of it. I owe you quite a debt of gratitude." He left it open to whether the physician should expect some sort of repayment.

[Dor]

Duvalyon Hellebore's "pet" was sound asleep. The various and sundry blankets that she had managed to collect over time were in a perfect tangle, fluffed into a makeshift nest in the bed nook carved into the far wall of the suspended house. This was not unusual. The girl kept odd hours, typically maintaining those in which her keeper was likely to be at home as her "day". Of course, that meant it was his night. But seven hundred feet away from the sun and moon, who was to argue? Well, maybe the creature Duvalyon had just brought home. The sound of an unfamiliar voice roused Dor as if it were a thunderclap in her ears. Never in all of her short life had Duvalyon allowed anyone but his sister to enter their home when he knew Dor would be present. Blankets flurried as she popped upright, uncurling in revelation of endlessly tangled hair the color of true blood -- it was, of course, that hue many redheads would be had they never known Syna's light. Dark eyes blinked large and sleepily at the vision before her, sharpening in the dim before widening comically. She was not wearing her feathers, having shrugged them off before plopping down to roost. It meant that a young woman wearing no more than a tangle of bedding sat staring at them. "Duv?" She questioned, voice throaty with sleep and bewilderment. "What is that?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

The Symenestra blinked in mild surprise when Laszlo expressed gratitude. He mumbled an answer, clearly not enjoying the recognition. "Owe Viratas, not me." Duvalyon happily moved onto a different subject, his cool composure returning. "Wait here." The Symenestra chose to ignore Dor's question until everything was in an order satisfactory to him. Grateful for the dim, he only gave a flat command in Symenos: "Choose your feathers, Dor." It was a common request, as Duvalyon maintained Dor had to wear either true feathers or "human-feathers" (clothing) amidst others. Anything less and he had an uncanny ability to pretend she didn't exist. "Then introductions." The Symenestra endeavored to draw Laszlo's attention away from Dor and her nook, by gesturing the Ehaefal toward a chair and table facing the opposite direction. His invitation was an equal mixture of courtesy and demand. "Please, sit." In a marvelous show of self assurance, Duvalyon gave no hint in expression or word that keeping a red-headed girl stuffed in the wall was anything but banal normalcy. He walked into an area that looked suspiciously like a hearth and climbed briefly to reach a higher shelf of glass jars. When he returned to Laszlo, he had a bottle of watered wine and a glass for the Ethaefal and a jar of what looked like jam for himself. Duvalyon knew better than to offer any of what he was eating to his guest. The Symenestra seated himself opposite Laszlo and ate his supper with a spoon. Between them was a table littered with books, mostly medical tomes. One was open, showing a nondescript head turned gracefully to the side, the beautiful pattern of neck muscles exposed. Words and notes were written in tight columns beside the drawing. The hand was fine and spidery, requiring concentration to translate. "From the library of the Purging," Duvalyon explained, "Having the head medic as your father has the occasional benefit." The word "occasional" had more emphasis than "benefit". To show the artistry of the books, the Symenestra opened a box on the table and pulled out a lambent opalgloam. It's pale light exposed finer detail and deeply colored ink. When Dor joined them, the Symenestra breezed through formalities. "This is Laszlo, Dor," he opened his clawed hand towards their guest, "He is an Ethaefal, one of Syna's chosen." There might have been the briefest flicker of satisfaction on his mouth as he spoke, as if glad to bring his pupil some bright thing from the outer world. "Recall when I read to you some of Bead's Collection of Ethaefal Accounts..." Continuing in a different, pragmatic vein, he added, "I need you to keep him awake while I inquire after a position for him. He injured his head and it's best he not sleep for a time."

[Laszlo]

In what little light there was, Laszlo found himself studying Duvalyon more than he should. The Symenestra was short with his speech, and his burgundy eyes seemed to sag with fatigue. The physician was exhausted, Laszlo could see that, but the expression he wore on his face betrayed the visage of a thinker, an observer, a quiet analyst. The Ethaefal, feeling especially studious, speculated that Duvalyon was concise with his wording because he knew precisely the message he wanted to convey and that it would be a waste of energy to explain his train of thought. Complexity in simplicity. It gave Duvalyon a certain alluring charm. Laszlo found himself surprisingly intrigued by this quiet man. A lot of people got carried away with tedious little things. Duvalyon seemed above that. It was nice. The Ethaefal shoved his hands in his pockets as he obediently waited as he was told. There was a woman's voice, and then a man's speaking the same foreign language he'd heard earlier. He wondered if he could trouble Duvalyon to teach him some of it. It would help to learn the local dialect if he was going to be staying here and taking the appearance of the natives. Laszlo felt at the burns on his hands, brushing his fingertips against his palms. They weren't all that bothersome, but the reddened skin still stung. The dull pang in his shoulder, at least, seemed to be fading. Duvalyon returned for him, and walked Laszlo through the room. In the low light, Laszlo could see someone shuffling inside… inside what looked a bit like a grave niche dug into the wall (wait, when had he ever seen one of those?). The paleness of Dor's flesh stood out a bit in the darkness, and Laszlo realized rather quickly that she wasn't properly dressed, and that that was probably the reason Duvalyon was whisking him toward a chair. Respectfully averting his eyes (after sort of rolling them and giving an embarrassed grimace), he obediently followed Duvalyon's spoken command without a thought of resisting. My, did that man have a way with authority. It was a little uncanny. "Thank you," Laszlo mumbled as Duvalyon offered him wine and a class. The Ethaefal wasn't feeling particularly thirsty, but found the rich scent of the wine rather pleasing as he filled his wineglass halfway. The idea of ingesting it was a little nauseating, though he sipped at it anyway. Tiny, miniscule sips. Just enough to wet his tongue. The taste was bitter and he didn't care for it, but he endeavored to be polite. Duvalyon seemed to notice Laszlo studying the anatomical illustration in the open book upon the table, because he offered an explanation without any prompt. The Ethaefal nodded, absorbing the information, as he leaned forward and drew a fingertip over the picture of sinewy-looking neck muscles. Was that what it looked like, under the skin? The opalgloam light revealed the detail of the drawing. It was rather remarkable. The writing, however, was in another language. Laszlo recognized some of the letters but couldn't make out what they meant. Still, the drawing was fascinating. Laszlo wished he could read the captions. "I would imagine so," Laszlo murmured numbly as he studied the picture. He sipped from the glass, and took a little more of the liquid than he meant to. It felt warm in his throat. "Having a father at all would be novel to me." His stare flicked upward briefly under his brow. The look was almost contemptuous, and in honesty there was a slight flare of jealousy. Duvalyon offered Dor a stiff introduction when she joined them. Laszlo politely rose to his feet to greet the lady, etiquette which he'd learned in Syliras. He would sit back down after she did. "A pleasure, Miss Dor." Dor, Dor, Dor. Very odd name. Upon the mention of Duvalyon inquiring after a position for Laszlo, the Ethaefal gave the Symenestra a grateful look (even if he got the impression it was so he could escape having to socialize). "I'm afraid I'm, uh… at a bit of a loss, here. New to Kalinor, and all. I don't know any of the local customs. Should we shake hands, or something? Humans do seem to like touch."

[Dor]

The young woman ruffled at Duvalyon's pronouncement regarding her feathers. It was with a wrinkling of her nose and a shrugging away of blankets that was daringly disdainful that she kicked and cluttered, stomped and fumbled her way to the floor and then to grabbing out the first article of clothing to come to quick fingered hands. The rumpled but cloud-soft shift went over the head, an end flipped over a shoulder, wrapped more than worn as she bounced from one foot to the next, thereby causing absolutely as much noise as was possible to follow her keeper and his guest into the other room. "What did you do to your head?" Dor wanted to know first thing. This was with her coltish half walk, half bounce into the room. One received the impression that, somehow, in some way, she did not actually spend much time walking any where. "Didn't you fix it, Duv? Or is like that time I thought the cliff jut was there," and here she used her hands, little still but porcelain graceful as she swooped one flat fingered to the side, "But it was really here." She clapped, palms gravitating away from each other from the impact; and it was therefore impossible to not picture a bird bopping right into a closed window and tumbling off dazed and buzzing like a bumblebee. "Hullo," her attention diverted, sharp and bright as stars she had never known, at the ethaefal and when she glanced at his hand it was with clear uncertainty. "Why would we do that?" She wanted to know. Her own hands came up, dragging and fluffing an interminably tangled mass of blood colored hair out from inside the back of her shift. A particularly obnoxious strand was puffed out of her mouth when she plunked down to a perch on the edge of a chair. A bare foot knocked out, bumping into Duvalyon's ankle. Once. Thrice. Again. "Are you tired? You think it'll be hard not to sleep?" Oh, oh! She went still and staring. "Are you from Up?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

“Dor is a Kelvic, not a human.” Duvalyon explained, glancing at Laszlo’s ignored hand. “Social niceties are not her talent,” a vast understatement. The girl’s errant, tapping foot was smoothly pushed away, treated like an inanimate irritant. There was nothing in Duvalyon’s attitude that spoke of tenderness towards Dor, only a dogmatic diligence to her upbringing. How this pair had been made was anyone’s guess. One was like a tongue of fire, threatening to break loose from its wick and the other as cool and unyielding as a scalpel’s edge. When his charge asked if Laszlo was from “Up”, Duvalyon’s mouth slipped into a wry shape. “More than most, Dor.” His eyes flicked briefly to Laszlo, considering whether to elaborate or let the Ethaefal tell his own story. The Symenestra decided to only tell what he knew, more at ease with fact than conjecture. “And yes, Dor. I fixed it, partially. Laszlo… slipped,” a lighter description of what desperate fumbling had probably occurred by the look of the Ethaefal’s shoulder. The terror of falling was a rare emotion for any Widow. There was often a cruel amusement towards those afraid of heights. Any Symenestra that fell into the cavern’s chasms was purposefully answering the call of the void. Duvalyon’s circumspection regarding the incident was more courtesy than indifference. Details were often vulgar things. Changing the subject, he tried to use his instructional prop while he had one. “There is a short collection of Ethaefal accounts Dor and I were reading,” a strangely sweet picture, though whatever warm image it might evoke for Laszlo was probably inaccurate. “It mentions that Ethaefal arrive to Mizahar in water, was that true in your case?” It may have been a question he already knew the answer to, but it didn’t matter. Duvalyon was trying, for once, to provoke Dor’s spirit of curiosity by setting an example. Viratas knew what kind of questions she would ask, but the Symenestra was feeling mildly optimistic.

[Laszlo]

Turning back toward the woman, Laszlo placed his golden eyes on Dor's angular face, trying to associate her with the word 'Kelvic'. Though the term was familiar, sounding like an average word he should have known, he had absolutely no idea what it meant, and Duvalyon didn't seem eager to explain it to him. 'More than most.' The physician answered Dor's question before Laszlo could even work out what she meant. He glanced up at Duvalyon, observing the dry amusement in his features. A little relieved to know that someone else knew where Ethaefals came from, he managed a weak smile, offering a helpless shrug as he looked back at Dor. "Yeah. I'm from 'Up.'" Dor's brief and vague anecdote was strangely worded, and Laszlo couldn't remotely understand what she was trying to convey, except that she probably ran into something. He did concede privately that perhaps the girl's wits weren't all there and accounted for. Maybe that was why. So Laszlo "slipped". That was putting it kindly. He shivered at the recent memory, recalling the exact moment when he realized he was going to fall. The flash of light had startled him, but not enough to cause him to let go of the cavern's rock face. It was the loss of his adhesion to his grip, as if gravity had become a living force and forcibly pulled him away. Losing the useful, tiny hooks used to latch onto surfaces, Laszlo remembered the feeling of his skin relaxing and letting go of the rock, as he simultaneously, and unhelpfully, became about thirty pounds heavier. Upon the mention of a book about Ethaefal, Laszlo perked up. He was as eager to learn about his own kind as Duvalyon was to teach Dor about them. Briefly he wondered if the collections were written in Common, and if Duvalyon wouldn't mind lending the volume. Looking between Duvalyon and Dor, he couldn't quite picture them sitting together, enjoying a good read. Yet in the physician's cold and placid demeanor, there was something dutiful, almost avuncular, even. The relationship between them was still unclear, but clearly Duvalyon held a sort of dominion over her; she was his ward. She could be his servant, his wife, or another stray like Laszlo, and he'd probably regard her the same way. And even though there wasn't a grain of joy in the physician's tired face, the fact that he was so gentle in his teaching method hinted at an underlying warmth. "Yes. The Suvan Sea." Reaching behind his head, Laszlo threaded his fingers into his long, curling, blond hair. That question had been easy, but he felt somewhat uneasy under the scrutiny of Dor's curious stare. Her eyes were wide, beautiful, and sharp—almost like a bird's. It was a little endearing, but at the same time, Laszlo was almost afraid to move. "It was just last Winter. I nearly froze to death after I swam to shore. A fisherman and his family took me in." Laszlo shook his head, trying to shrug off Dor's piercing eyes. "I'm sorry, Duvalyon said you were a Kelvic? Excuse my ignorance but I haven't the faintest idea what that is. Could you enlighten me?" The Ethaefal sent an apologetic glance to Duvalyon. With the addition of Dor, he felt as though he were burdening the poor man. Laszlo probably needed more education that this Kelvic woman did. Ethaefal accounts. Remember to ask about the Ethaefal accounts.

[Dor]

"Why did you do that?" Dor wanted to know, her expression a coupling of fascination and confusion. "If it was cold, why did you go swimming? Why didn't you land in a soft bed somewhere? Or in a tree. I heard trees were nice and they're tall," and with this she lifted up her hands, spine straightening in an attempt to elongate herself for the sake of clear communication. "You could have maybe lived in a tree," she went on, "At least for a little while and then you would be high and so closer to your stars. Isn't there where ethaefal come from, Duv?" A glance was shot at the Symenestra as she sunk back into an indolent slouch. "The stars? There aren't any stars in Kalinor, Laszlo. The gorge swallowed them all." A sober slant took the line of her mouth with those last words, accidentally wise with her sense of metaphor. Dark eyes traveled slowly up, fixated on the luster of his skin -- shiny! -- and stopping at the sleek curve of his horns. "What are those? What do you use them for? Defense?" A small hand slid hopefully across the table. "May I touch them? Yes, I'm a kelvic. I'm a girl and a bird," she explained in the way she had which typically resulted in little actual explanation happening at all. "I skinwalk. Like you. You transform when the stars shift in the Up, don't you? Will you transform in Kalinor if there are no stars?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon had adopted a facilitating posture, watching and attempting to smooth the interaction between his guests more than trying to insert himself. There was often a vague sense of distance about him. He had an aptitude for manners through good breeding and self-discipline. This and an occasional dose of charm proved enough to put others at sufficient ease in the absence of warmth. Others at the Purging wondered what he would do if they ever pressed into the realm of his personal feelings. The latest top consensus was "bestow a withering glance" with "a painful but nonchalant use of forceps" in a close second. Laszlo's apologetic look skimmed off of Duvalyon. He didn't require an apology. His expanding understanding of the Ethaefal's predicament discouraged any scorn for ignorance. While Duvalyon professed it was Dor that required an education, Laszlo might have got the feeling part of the orchestration was for his benefit as well. Dor's questions were straightforward in their logic, but complicated in their explanation, touching on broad and even unknown concepts. Though both the Kelvic and heavenly creature were speaking Common, their language differed. Duvalyon attempted to translate pieces between them. When Dor looked pointedly at him for reassurance as to the Ethaefals' original home, he didn’t shy from an unwieldy answer. "They are from the realm of the gods, Dor. Wherever that may be. Picture it more as the space between the stars rather than the stars themselves... When you see 'Up' it will make greater sense." For a brief moment he was troubled by her ignorance of something as simple as sky. It was for the best. If she saw it too soon, she would throw herself into it headlong, and she was still too young to survive the sudden solitude and wildness of the world. Duvalyon's rumination was broken by Dor's rude request to touch Laszlo's horns. His mouth made a quick, displeased line. At least, she was asking first. It was progress. "She's a falcon to be precise," Duvalyon finally contributed.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo looked upward at Duvalyon as he described the Ethaefal's origins, but found he couldn't keep eyes with him for long. He hadn't anticipated how uncomfortable it would be to talk of where he'd come from, especially now as he was starting to suspect that Dor wouldn't have the capacity to understand it. Bothered by being reminded of the peace and serenity he'd lost, Laszlo deflected his deep amber stare at an easier level, faintly studying Duvalyon's Kalinor attire and busily noting the differences from the Alvads and Sylirans he'd known.

His eyelids dipped gradually as an unexpected wave of fatigued poured over the Ethaefal. Laszlo shook his eyes back open, rubbing at them insistently. Duvalyon had alluded to the importance of staying awake with his concussion, so he forced his eyes wide briefly in an attempt to fight off the fatigue.

To keep his mind alert, Laszlo tasked himself toward comprehending the explanation Dor had given about Kelvics. A girl and a bird? Skinwalk? "A falcon?" was the only question he asked, sidestepping Dor's unusual request for the moment. The image of the animal came to mind: a sharp-eyed creature with a hooked beak, wicked talons, and a sleek, streamlined body.

Though still mostly unsure what being a Kelvic entailed, Laszlo could see that in the girl now. Her eyes were large, round, and curious. Her nose was narrow and pointed, and her jawline was unusually triangular. She did look like a falcon, if it were a human girl.

"Sorry, Dor, yes." Laszlo turned back toward the woman as he remembered her inquiry, seeing her as suddenly more animal than a person, the way she looked at him. It made sense now. She wasn't so much childish, or simple, merely… selectively observant. Dor absorbed the information that was useful to her. "Evidently I do still transform here. You can see it, if you want, in about another twelve hours."

Ugh, that sounded like such a long time to go without sleep.

"It's alright." Laszlo flashed a patient look at Duvalyon. "My horns aren't brittle. You can touch them, if you wish. They're not for defense, they're for…" Actually, he wasn't entirely sure, either. "Well, I like them, anyway. They look nicer in the light."

Laszlo felt at his head wound tenderly, wearing a frown as his eyes darted back to his barely-touched glass of wine. His thoughts were in a barely decipherable tangle, and the conversation had grown difficult for Laszlo to attach himself to. Sleep would refresh him, but that option as closed to him. The next best thing would seem to be seclusion, but he wondered if he was rude for thinking so. Duvalyon was kind, but guarded and quiet. Dor was intrigued by the Ethaefal, but he was finding it difficult to relate to her as a person.

"Does anyone else live here? Family? Siblings? A wife?" Laszlo's eyes sidled back to Duvalyon. "Children?" He turned to Dor. "Or just the two of you?"