51st Day of Fall, 512 AV
Soft gray light illuminated the horizon, the sun’s newborn rays delicately streaming through bloated cumulus. It was barely dawn and the Benshira was awake, her pale eyes alight with nervous energy. It had been too long since she last ventured into the dim uncertainty of a quest. Normally she’d be with a larger group, but the Watchtower subtly implied peril rather than screamed it. The two women would be fine as long as they stuck together. Speaking of which, Sybel had asked her new scaled partner-in-crime to meet her just outside of their destination. The plan was to set forth at first light. She pulled the strings of her cloak fast, tightened her sword belt and set out.
As she hit the street, she noted the decreased temperature. Mid-fall was always relatively brisk, but being farther north amplified the effect. Sybel’s breath steamed out before her, and within minutes the end of her nose was quite cold. That was the only real lament she had about the season; her ears, nose and fingertips tended to be half-numb most of the time. Sybel rubbed her hands together vigorously as she walked.
The buildings that lined each street had the peculiar sense of purity about them, most white or the color of cream, as if all the imperfection had been leeched out. There were water gardens decorated by verdant plants emerging from a fine layer of morning mist. There were portly communal structures, edges rounded off to create smooth, streamlined surfaces. As she walked, she reflected how distinctly female the architecture really was. Women abhorred angles, adored circles. Mura was an artistic representation of their gender. For some reason, Sybel found it heartening.
The idea of finally doing something had eased her mind a bit. It really wasn’t making her any money, but taking any sort of action was better than the inactivity she’d become trapped in. She’d been feeling more like a tourist than the trailblazer she claimed to be, and that saddened her terribly. She was becoming lazy in her dotage, she thought deprecatingly. Twenty-six wasn’t terribly old, but it also wasn’t something she liked to dwell on. Clearing her throat quietly, she tried to channel more positive thoughts.
The Watchtower was once literally the heart of Konti society, connecting the Silver Lake and the rest of the settlement. The tower itself was slender and pearlescent, spires rising proudly into the vivid sky. When you stood near it, you definitely got a sense of antiquity. The Valterrian had stolen away its magical ability, but it couldn’t knock it down. The sentiment lived on as the tower continued to shift, marking the passage of each season.
As Sybel finally rounded on the front, she didn’t see Naeya anywhere. That was odd – she figured she’d be the late one. Tables had a way of turning though, so dutifully the woman waited, huddling in the thick fabric of her cloak. She ended up leaning against a pastel-colored pillar, the ridges pressing uncomfortably into her spine. Her hood was drawn up to protect her ears from the onslaught of cold, as they had already become bloodless and like stone. Sighing, she watched how her breath danced in translucent wisps before her.
Steps echoed in the distance, and she rolled against the surface to the other side, suddenly hidden from view. The grooves hurt her back when she did it, so she silently hoped it was worth the pain. When the sound drew closer, she stealthily peered around one side to observe who was there. Naeya, she hoped. But you never knew at such an early hour.
