44th of spring
Dawn had come slowly that morning. The night had been entrenched in heavy rain, a rain that had come to a close just as Syna’s first rays began to caress the horizon. She had not yet fully awoken from her slumber, but no canvas of fiery colors would herald the dawn. The rain goddess still walked, and the Sea of Grass was enshrouded in a veil of mist. Light somehow touched the deep recesses of the fog, casting them in swirling white and silver. Instead of a display of red and gold, today’s dawn was altogether different. Almost… ethereal in the churning of the shadows.
The traps had sprung empty over the course of the night, and the last of their hunted grouse had been eaten for the same night’s dinner. They would have to dip into the store of preserved meat that had made its way into the rest of their belongings if they wanted to have breakfast, which was something he was not looking forward to.
He stood alone, completely isolated in his own small world of shifting silver. It would be another half-hour, at least, until he had to rouse Slither and the falcon, and so he let them sleep.
Now that the soreness of traveling had worn into silence, he once again found himself awake in the gray hours of the morning. It had been a dream that had woken him; this dream, however, had not been as abstract as others.
He had been atop a hill, watching a man below dance with a sword. Slowly, carefully, he made the same movements over and over, giving the silent observer the strange feeling that he’d seen this before. Then he caught sight of the dancer’s face, and it hit him: the Syren, the odd man with the odd curved sword.
Why are you doing that? he asked the Syren.
I am fighting, the Syren answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
No, you are dancing, the hunter insisted.
Yes, the dancer agreed, but it is to fight.
How do you fight by dancing?
Do you remember Orkis?
Of course he does! said the Orkis from beside hunter, eliciting a violent jump.
The hunter eyed the Orkis warily, but he was gone in the blink of an eye. The bemused observer looked around.
Where did he go?
I am fighting him, the Syren explained.
The hunter continued to watch the Syren’s dance, quite thoroughly confused. The man spun slowly and brought his sword above his head, then pivoted and lowered it in an odd, diagonal path until it pointed to the ground. A calm step back, then to the side, bringing the sword in a wide arc across his shoulders, then another turn to bring the sword above his head once ore.
Then, in an instant, the Orkis was there. He and the Syren were locked in battle, and the raised sword was blocking a blow. Pivot, slash across the Orkis’ chest, and the drykas was suddenly gone, and the Syran was just dancing.
Step back, to the side, then the Orkis was back—and the Syrak was evading a blow. The tulwar arced again, cutting slowly through his blink-attacker, and the Orkis was once again gone.
Do you see? asked the Syren.
Dawn had come slowly that morning. The night had been entrenched in heavy rain, a rain that had come to a close just as Syna’s first rays began to caress the horizon. She had not yet fully awoken from her slumber, but no canvas of fiery colors would herald the dawn. The rain goddess still walked, and the Sea of Grass was enshrouded in a veil of mist. Light somehow touched the deep recesses of the fog, casting them in swirling white and silver. Instead of a display of red and gold, today’s dawn was altogether different. Almost… ethereal in the churning of the shadows.
The traps had sprung empty over the course of the night, and the last of their hunted grouse had been eaten for the same night’s dinner. They would have to dip into the store of preserved meat that had made its way into the rest of their belongings if they wanted to have breakfast, which was something he was not looking forward to.
He stood alone, completely isolated in his own small world of shifting silver. It would be another half-hour, at least, until he had to rouse Slither and the falcon, and so he let them sleep.
Now that the soreness of traveling had worn into silence, he once again found himself awake in the gray hours of the morning. It had been a dream that had woken him; this dream, however, had not been as abstract as others.
He had been atop a hill, watching a man below dance with a sword. Slowly, carefully, he made the same movements over and over, giving the silent observer the strange feeling that he’d seen this before. Then he caught sight of the dancer’s face, and it hit him: the Syren, the odd man with the odd curved sword.
Why are you doing that? he asked the Syren.
I am fighting, the Syren answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
No, you are dancing, the hunter insisted.
Yes, the dancer agreed, but it is to fight.
How do you fight by dancing?
Do you remember Orkis?
Of course he does! said the Orkis from beside hunter, eliciting a violent jump.
The hunter eyed the Orkis warily, but he was gone in the blink of an eye. The bemused observer looked around.
Where did he go?
I am fighting him, the Syren explained.
The hunter continued to watch the Syren’s dance, quite thoroughly confused. The man spun slowly and brought his sword above his head, then pivoted and lowered it in an odd, diagonal path until it pointed to the ground. A calm step back, then to the side, bringing the sword in a wide arc across his shoulders, then another turn to bring the sword above his head once ore.
Then, in an instant, the Orkis was there. He and the Syren were locked in battle, and the raised sword was blocking a blow. Pivot, slash across the Orkis’ chest, and the drykas was suddenly gone, and the Syran was just dancing.
Step back, to the side, then the Orkis was back—and the Syrak was evading a blow. The tulwar arced again, cutting slowly through his blink-attacker, and the Orkis was once again gone.
Do you see? asked the Syren.
