[Riverfall] The Old Man's Whelp (Griffith)

[Puck]

11th of Spring, 508 AV Vincent stood on the banks of the Bluevein River outside of Riverfall. The great city was in sight on the horizon, but the elderly man had decided to camp out. This would be his last night on the road for a while, and Vincent wished to relish this last bit of freedom before entering the city. He had inquired of several caravans he passed about the nature of Riverfall, and had learned that while what Vincent sought might be found there, life was full of discipline. He would be required to get a job, which did not appeal to Vincent. But if he could only find what he was looking for, then it would be worth it. The elderly man stood straight as a post despite his age, and he felt about twenty years junior to his current sixty one. His spectacles were worn, looking as if they sustained one more accident they might fall to pieces. Steel grey hair adorned his head, and his eyes looked sharp despite the crags and gullies that lined his face. He had already set up his tent, having taken a break from setting camp to consider the river and its bounty. Vincent would eat well tonight. But now the short man turned to the pile of firewood he had assembled in the middle of his camp. There was a noticeable lack of tinder or small pieces of wood that could be easily lit. The man clapped his hands together rather loudly, and opened them up. arcing between his hands, now about a foot apart, was a thin gas that excitedly wove about in the open air. Vincent examined the gaseous substance, shrugged, and then pulled his hands out to two feet apart. He blew on the Res, sending it to coil and weave about the wood. Dramatically, he snapped both hands and suddenly the gas ignited, a large pillar of flame erupting from its previous location. Truthfully, only about a quarter of the Res Vincent used was actually needed to light the fire, but the old man was fond of his flourishes. The bonfire died down after a few seconds to a normal sized fire as the Res was consumed. Vincent pulled an iron rod and two forked stakes from his pack, stabbing the two forks into the ground and examining the tip on the rod. He set this across the fire to clean, and walked back to the shoreline. A bit stiffly, Vincent got down on all fours and plunged his head into the river. Clear, cold water lazily drifted by him. His eyes scanned the deeper waters for prey, and the old man settled on a rather large fish swimming not too far off. Res sprouted from his fingertips, snaking out to the fish. Immediately, the gaseous substance froze the water around the animal, and Vincent pulled the entombed fish to him. With one last yank, the icy fish rolled out of the water and onto the bank. Vincent stepped on the cage, breaking it. The fish flopped about and the reimancer snatched him up. Yes, Vincent would eat very well tonight.

[Griffith]

One of the lead bullets had actually flown true. Griffith had been pleased for the brief moment before he reminded himself that it had been a fluke more than anything. Then he'd simply sighed, scooped up the rabbit, cleaned it, and laid it across Ebrah's back. The Zavian mare was categorically lazy, but the Benshira who guided her appreciated the horse's efforts nonetheless.

Now he was walking back towards Riverfall leading his packhorse along the Bluevein River. He'd been out further than he thought. It would be dark soon, and the scholar had no intention of ever again spending a night alone in the Sea of Grass if he could avoid it. The cliff-side city was almost in sight. He'd make it in time.

As he walked, he rounded a blind in the road created by the presence of a large rock formation. Just beyond it, he spied a campfire, complete with a fish spitted over the fire and a visible occupant. An old man.

The refugee glanced from the camp to Riverfall, weighing his options. He had originally planned to bring the hare in to the Kulk, where he could have it prepared and served to himself in the form of a meal for a small fee. But a lit campfire meant he might be able to cook the rabbit and eat it without quite the same charges. Yet it meant getting close to fire.

It's prepared in a pit, for Benha's sake! he told himself. The Benshira was a bit pyrophobic, to say the least. After a moment of debate, he turned towards the camp, leading Ebrah close enough so that the flames would light their silhouettes without revealing their appearances too much. "Excuse me," he said to draw the elderly Human's attention. "Would you share your fire with a traveler? I've got my own food," he added. Best not to give the impression that he intended to steal half this man's meal.

[Puck]

The flames called to Aren with their painful and seductive tongues. Its heat, so simultaneously necessary and frightening, washed against the old man's glasses as he sat before it. He remained completely oblivious to the fire's danger as he stared absent minded into its depths. His eyes looked up at the boy as he approached, flitting from his face to the rabbit in his hands. Making short work of pleasantries, he spoke, "Welcome welcome well come indeed, I am Vincent Callatori. I thank you for bringing me dinner!" A chuckle erupted from his lips. Vincent made a flourish with his left hand, and three spheres of flame jumped from the pit like whipped dogs. Each homed in on the rabbit as if magnetized, three hawks diving for the same kill. Flames erupted on its fur as each lightly kissed the small creature. The fire did not expand, burst, or do anything spectacular- no, it simply ignited the rabbit. A loud cackle erupted from Vincent, and he yelled with mock urgency, "Quick, quick, drop it boy! Drop my rabbit!" He stood up, springing over to the boy, continuing to speak, "You can have the fish, but I like rabbit better." A small sphere of Res appeared in his hand, transmuting to water. Before it could hit the ground, he pulled it back into his hand to wait for dinner to drop.

[Griffith]

Griffith reached out, pulling the hare carcass from Ebrah's pack as he stepped into the light, intending to let the stranger see his catch, as proof that he did indeed bring his own meal.

When the young man stepped into the light, his countenance was revealed. As far as his own people went, he was of about middling height for a man at 5'11". He wore the trademark dust-darkened tunic of his people, yet lacked the turban and veil which would have placed him as a Benshira without question. Instead of the headpiece, dark-brown hair - almost black - fell about his head, reaching his shoulders. His tan told that he was no stranger to the sun, but he was still on the lighter side for his kind. Hazel eyes reflecting the light of the fire flitted about the campsite with a touch of uncertainty. The scholar wasn't usually one to talk to passerby on the road.

He had barely finished asking his question when the old man was welcoming him cheerfully and saying something about someone bringing him food. Griffith had time to open his mouth to ask just what the old man meant when three things leaped from the fire. With something of a frightened squawk, the refugee backed up, holding out the rabbit as a reflexive desire to put something between himself and the source of a good share of his nightmares. When the flames stopped coming for him, seeming content to eat at the carcass, the Benshira was dropping it almost before Vincent's insisting demands registered in his mind.

Griffith backed up a few more paces, fighting the urge to outright flee. His mind was still trying to process just what was happening, but his mouth was working ahead of him. "W-Wa... What..."