Open but give us roses.

[Caelum]

But Give Us Roses As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men, for they are women's children, and we mother them again. Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes; hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses! - James Oppenheim. Timestamp: 01 Fall 513 Afternoon light showered the Sanctuary. It located door hinges and water puddles alongside troughs off which to bounce and reflect darting brilliants of color, daffodil sun and jasmine steel, lilac shadow and hydrangea blue sky. The slow shed skin of summer was sloughing off into the very air, shimmering and somnolent, and inch by fantastic inch, it was beginning to unveil the unadulterated glory of an autumn sky. Since the hour of Caelum's fall ten years to the season past, the soul in him had always gasped at the bowl of the heavens when it was framed in autumn hours. Night or day, it was possessed of an irrevocable promise -- that in service there could be integrity, in death dignity, in plea pride, and in desire morality. The sun exalted over the ethaefal, this first sip of the season ushering in the inevitable change to the colors of his construct. The gold summer had used to gild his hair smoldered into a deep, rich auburn, but there was a breath yet of that gold left, dusting through the rest in determined streaks that would die within days all the same; and the pale patterns of peach and pearl tones to the elegiac curve of his horns was slowly being stained with blood colors. There was still sun in his skin, however, unfading, offsetting the shimmer of Rak'keli's favor to his hand. The mark of his third goddess was hidden; and, well, he sometimes thought, it should be if for no other reason than his personal safety. Rak'keli's gnosis, declared boldly on the back of his right hand, was in enough habit of tripping him into dangerous and inconvenient situations without the strangling kiss of Nikali beckoning strangers too. As the mirror-masked goddess was herself the most misunderstood, as were her followers. As it was, Caelum was even still in recovery from seasons spent in mingled thrall, constantly disturbed and uprooted by things so simple as the brush of another's hand. Notably, it was far from the first time he had fallen in thrall to a god. His beloved Syna was at once kind and cruel in her lending of him. Following Rak'keli's appearance to him in the very grasses that sprawled beyond the Sanctuary and Riverfall's protective cliffs he had wandered in unfocused shock, healing with nothing but fingertips over and over again. He was passed such hours now, or so he held hope. There was not a thing in him diminished in service, and the marrow of his bones itself had a habit of singing with a driving need to run, to chase, to seek and suss out every injury of body and mind, heart and spirit that riddled this world. Yet for now he intended to try and catch his breath. Morning had found him stretching the legs of a yearling in what was no doubt too fast a pace out into the wilds. The buckskin horse had a hunger for the wind and Caelum had a desire to drink it, so they were well matched companions. With him, he brought a supple leather bag that, untied, spilled out in a line as long as his arm to reveal pockets and pouches perfect for gathering. He had filled it with bunches of the precious myrdas flower before it could gasp itself out of bloom and next with orangeroot and wild onions. While the yearling grazed and he drifted, he stumbled into a grotto by a tributary of the Blue Vein that was swallowed with long green shadows and a collection of cattails and wildflowers days from fading. These gathered remnants of summer's bounty was what dominated the porch with him now. Wildflowers chosen for nothing but their beauty and the pleasant scent they would produce when dried and made it potpourri spilled in handfuls from the tables. He was cutting twine from a ball and braiding the stems even now, scarred fingers deftly sliding through the knots. Half a dozen already hung from the porch rafters like windchimes. A bucket's worth of wild onions sat at the top of the steps, waiting to be washed and trimmed for the kitchen; and more precious was the myrdas flower and orangeroot, carefully arranged on a table of their own, needing slivered and plucked and ultimately jarred and preserved for extended implementation of their medicinal purposes throughout the fall and winter. On his own, Caelum had a good few hours of work left to do. He went about it steadily, humming an old, half forgotten tune under his breath and his shadow puddling far darker than the rest of him could dream along the weathered boards.

[Sybel]

Melody soared on the wind, spiraling as it went, wafting through sheets of autumn sunshine with irenic grace. It soothed, it sang out and drew near to the man at his quiet work, stuttering very slightly as it came to pass. Sybel very rarely sang, only when she worked and when she assumed to be alone. Caelum, a friend from Kavala’s past, had recently arrived and this new presence skewed her otherwise established schedule. But still, she sang. He seemed a person who might understand.

”The flowers I saw in the wildlands
since dropped their beautiful leaves,
and the many dear friends of childhood
have long forsaken me,

and, oh, the bloom of flowers I remember,
and the smiles I shall never see
for the cold, chilly winds of the blackest sun,
stole my flow'rs and companions from me”

As she sang, she gathered his onions, settling in to peel at their fleshly leaves. It always struck her as sad, severing them of their earthbound past. Sad because it was a metaphor, too true to the song she sang. Sybel sighed, looking upon the bitter, wrinkled skins. All things were connected, indeed, as Lhex saw to that.

”but with Dira, I can but remember
When from soil my soul shall be free
That no cold chilly winds of blackest sun
can part my companions and me”

When finished the refrain she continued to pare, unable to muster a greeting. They’d met in passing but as autumn gloried, so too did the hearts of man. She was content to sit in his presence, dappled by the light of the aquamarine sky. Caelum was beautiful, quite unlike Vanator, yet he was of the Ukalas; that much set him apart from the beginning, making for hopeless contrast between he and mere mortals such as they. Sybel liked his unhurried disposition and thus they sat, together in the glorious woodsmoke kiss of the Fall.

[Caelum]

Sybel's song drew him like a flower to the sun. It lifted his eyes with a smile, a private affair to tuck against the curve of his mouth while his chin remained down. Golden eyes followed her even as his hands kept moving steadily through their work, braiding the flower stems in swift, tight bundles. He slumped back against the porch railing and let out a long and quiet breath while listening to her sing. Caelum was far from an open book, but it was easy to see that he had not been able to enjoy something as simple as a fair women's singing in some while. It relaxed the line of his shoulders and made his movements to be be more languid when he finished the gathering of flowers in his hands and stretched himself upright again. He reached up, catching a scuffed riding boot against the lower rung of the rail to give him an extra foot of height so he could fasten the flowers to the same cord he had strung along the eave for the others. "I haven't heard that song before," he spoke at length, long after her song faded, his speech comfortable and low. His accent was alien as ever, incapable of taking root in this world and seeming occasionally hampered by his mortal tongue. "Where did you learn it, Sybel? Or is it yours?" He stepped down, giving her a glance out of the corners of his eyes before he dropped into a crouch to gather up the next bunch of wildflowers, sorting them through his fingers by scent bouquet. "It's been a long time since I sang. I've lost the talent for it, I'm afraid." His smile eased toward a smirk, wry.

[Sybel]

Sybel laughed lightly, continually peeling onion flesh. ”Zeltiva,” she replied. ”Though I suspect it to be from Avanthal. Vantha have a talent for story and song, or so I’ve learned.” She continued to smile, infectiously happy. She peered up momentarily, tracing the brilliant auburn streaks of his hair. Caelum was in transition, something exclusive to the Ethaefal. They seemed to shed their colors from one season to the next, ever changing yet eternal. It was a strange dichotomy, to be sure.

”You never really lose a talent,” she continued, cornflower eyes alight. ”But rather you hide it somewhere, buried deep within the conflicts of your mind. Sometimes, you can manage to dig it up if you try.” She remembered a time where she too, could not sing. Not for lack of want, either. Life had a way of bearing down without remorse. Her words were light, conversational, bearing no ire or pressure to comply.

”I am also proficient in joke-telling,” she said with a grin, easing toward a different topic if he so chose. The onions were ripe, and their ocher skins came apart rather easily. ”Heard any good ones lately?” It could be considered odd, that these two strangers sat like old friends. But to Sybel, it was as easy as breathing. ”Akalak tell the same jokes over and over, so I’m seeking a fresh perspective.”

Comfortable silence settled in over the pair.

[Caelum]

Graced unexpectedly with Sybel’s grin, Caelum lowered his eyes. Worn fingers, nonetheless coated in the same sun burnish as the rest of him, sifted with a new purpose through the fresh bunch of wildflowers in his hands. Their stems were handled with care as he listened and eventually unraveled from his crouch to step over the remaining flowers toward the table. An absent kick was delivered an open chair, skidding it a few inches back and around so that his back could be to the wall and the tall, iron gates of the Sanctuary within his sights. It was the sort of act that spoke more about him and his history than any words so far spilled out of his mouth. “I’ve found that to be true as well,” he remarked. “Before I regained full memory of my former life, somehow my feet had already stumbled onto a healer’s path. I was one before, and I am again now. I don’t know if I have a proper talent for it, but I’ve certainly discovered an inclination.” He sat, dropping heavily into the seat, and he leaned back with a creak of wood to stretch long legs out. A single flower was finally selected from those he had gathered, its petals a delicate burst of gasping, heaven blue. He leaned forward, lifting his eyes long enough to offer Sybel strange, wry smile of his. It was his most common – half a smile, and half a broken heart. The cornflower was placed on the table beside Sybel’s elbow, a silent, easy gratitude, and he slumped comfortably again. A length of twine was pulled out of the bundle on the table and he quickly began to knot it into the braid of the remaining flower stems. A soundless chuckle thrummed through him and he gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m horrible at jokes, Sybel. The only ones I know are the dirty ones.” He glanced up again, smile sharpening toward a smirk. “I’d hate to offend. But singing, well.” An entire Drykas bloodline, still surviving today, had been named after a fashion for his singing: the Sunsingers of Endrykas. “That might offend even more. Teach me an easy tune?” He raised his eyebrows a touch. “And promise to only make fun of me for it every other day?”

[Sybel]

She glanced over as he settled against the wall, eyes darting there and back again. That she understood all too well. His body spoke in silence, betraying a past darker than she might’ve originally thought. ”Talent and inclination might as well be in bed,” she said with a chuckle. ”They’re so tangled, you can hardly see where one begins and the other ends.” One led to the next, after all. Talent and inclination also bred skill, which in turn spawned purpose. It was all a conceptual love affair.

She took the cornflower and beamed, marveling at the simple beauty. It was sweet, a token of endearment, and much like a child she tucked it behind her ear at once. ”Thank you,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.

”I’m not easily offended,” she replied with a smirk of her own, ”as you might’ve guessed.” Perhaps the dirty jokes would come later. ”But I can teach you a little melody, if you’re of a mind.” She stripped the last of the skins from the wild onions. ”I promise I’ll keep it to once a week, minimum.”

Very softly, emboldened by their easy talk, she began to sing once more:

”I’ve walked the seven roads so long,
saw the watchstones shed their skin
but never have I met a man,
like Sivah the Summer King,”

She grinned, eyes downcast.

”He’s got hair of gold and eyes of green,
and a flowing robe of linen
and with the greatest cask you’ve ever seen,
he stole away my women.”

Her voice was rich with remembered joy. This was a song she’d learned among the Drykas. With a stab she remembered those she’d lost in the djed storm, a sea of faces called back to the web, to be seen nevermore. Her smile was suddenly bittersweet.

”Now you try.”

[Caelum]

Caelum listened transfixed as she sung, golden eyes hanging on her face with an intensity that was likely neither polite or necessary. Yet that sharpness of regard was as ingrained in him as putting his back to a wall and was not liable to leave him any time soon. It was buoyed in him by a vast curiosity and a pitch deep well of ambition, that drive with kept him flying in the face of the gods as if he even had the strength to make them notice. Slowly, he smiled. It was a wide and wicked smile, far more bold than his previous offerings. He had a great appreciation for the Summer King, the divine osiris basking in the glory that sweet Syna brought him. Yet Sybel's song bore grief to him, the tune brushing along his skin like the rub of a great cat, massive bodies rolling past him in the darkness. He could not quite define it, but he knew its scent, he understood its shape -- sorrow was familiar to him as anything. Sybel's stirred Nikali's chains coiled heavy at the bottom of his soul. ”I’ve walked the seven roads so long, saw the watchstones shed their skin but never have I met a man, like Sivah the Summer King,” He completed the tied of the wildflower bunch in his hands and roamed back to his feet, intending to hang it with the others. He tried, bless him, to sing and to sing well, but whatever talent he had was still out of reach of his voice. He could carry the tune, at least, but his voices was hushed and bitter, made rough by the passage of time rather than worn smooth like the stones in Tanroa's river. He begged for a little polish. ”He’s got hair of gold and eyes of green, and a flowing robe of linen and with the greatest cask you’ve ever seen, he stole away my women.” The song trailed away with him stretched tall, tying the flowers to the line. He kicked down again and scooped up the final pouch of his day's foraging. He could have said a lot of thinks when returning to the table, answers without questions to keep them in line or pretty compliments just to distract her with smiles. There was nothing wrong with such things, but he knew in the bones of him that was not what was needed. "Tell me about the people who taught you this song," he requested. A long glance, a raised eyebrow, and the lines of him spoke of invitation.

[Sybel]

That smile of his elicited a tiny flutter in her belly, much in the same way Vanator often did. She dropped her eyes away from a moment – a sign that was no doubt, telling – as she tried to compose herself. The man was inhumanly beautiful and charming. She felt well within her rights to feel a little weak in the knees, if only for a moment.

Her gaze was called back by his singing. It sounded better in his voice; hers was too light, too airy whilst his was distinctly male, of the earth. It was the voice of a man who understood the fearsome pride of the Drykas, even if he did not know it himself. Sybel smiled, feeling content to hear it sung in another voice, reminded of the home she once knew and had turned away from.

Caelum sought to know. How could he possibly have drawn that desire up from the well of her sorrows? It was so deep and so vast, yet none drew near it, eternally passing it by in favor for the sunnier parts of her soul. Which usually, suited the woman just fine. She’d spent many years having reconciled the need for sympathy. But even so, he did not seek to comfort her, not in that way. He knew the right thing to ask, to say. It was just too perfect.

”It was taught to me by a member of the Sapphire Clan, in the sprawling tents of Endrykas. At the time, I’d just left home, an orphan seeking a life of adventure. This was many years ago, mind you. After my first stop in Riverfall, I convinced a trader,” the term convinced being wickedly emphasized, ”to take me back with him when he went home. I worked as a merchant for a bit, before I was finally resigned to taking a regular job.” She smiled, the light touching her eyes. ”That was how I met Vanator and Kavala, so many years ago.”

It was a better time, she decided. ”Anyway, I worked as a barmaid at the Trough, which was the local tavern for the Clan. Drykas as a rule, do a lot of singing when they’re drunk, so it behooved me to learn a few of their songs. I think that one was my favorite.” She smiled deeply, with such nostalgia that it nearly brought her to tears.

”Drykas are loud and boisterous,” she continued. ”Always making noise. But not Vanator. Well, not most of the time anyway. The Denusks were conspicuously quiet. And in a town where everyone is shouting, singing and laughing, that sort of thing draws the eye.” She thought of Kavala’s quiet determination, the very same that she saw in her lover’s eyes.

”So, there you have it. I’m indebted to Ovek many times over. Being amongst the horseclans, finding the two people I love somehow, again. Managing to stay alive.” She trailed, finding it difficult to speak past the sudden lump in her throat.

”And of you, Caelum? You’re a mystery. I’m sure it’s part of your rugged charm, but I’d like to know. Tell me about yourself.” The Benshira deftly shifted the emphasis from her life to his.

[Caelum]

“Rugged charm,” Caelum muttered, casting Sybel a sideways look. “Sounds like something from a sonnet or a trouper’s song. I’m not altogether sure I like it.” The sharp curve of his mouth made it clear that he was teasing as he dropped back down into his seat. Elbows hit the table and he brushed the fallen petals off the edge of the table and into his hand. From the bag rolled out, he selected an empty glass jar and very carefully poured the petals into it, using the cup of his own hand as a funnel. He stoppered the jar with a chunk of cork and then set it aside. Arms stretched over his head as he mulled over Sybel’s words and let heavy lidded eyes roam over the collection of work left to be done. The orange root and myrdas flower would be next. He choose the myrdas flower first, pulling the bright, striated blooms from their pocket in his bag and neatly snipping the bit of twine he had used to bundle them with when gathering. They spilled over the table in blush and burnt orange bursts, their jagged leaves dusted with tiny hairs. A single stem was lifted and he flipped a small paring knife up to begin quickly and efficiently stripping the leaves away from the thick stalk, setting them aside in a pile of their own. “Myrdas flower,” he offered absently. “It’s great for infections, better for clearing the mind. Helps the blood clot at open wounds. Never give it orally to anyone in the winter of their lives or with a history of heart problems.” He fell silent again, still ruminating over Sybel’s story, laying the steps of it alongside the steps of his own in the privacy of his mind. There was some likeness. He was a traveler, eternally attempting to hunt up home. “Well,” he drawled out at length. “I’ve been back on Mizahar for ten years end of this autumn. That makes me a child in the eyes of some.” His smile lingered, dry with amusement. He was far from a child. There was ancient wisdom, the weight of multiple lifetimes, heavy in his eyes. “My favorite color is gold. Shocking, I know. I am overly fond of bitter ales and sweet wines. My horse is Vega and he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, not to mention the oldest.” He could have continued in this litany of mundane little facts for hours, probably. It was interesting only to him, but that was because there was nobody left who was likely to know any of them. He had been a stranger nearly everywhere he went. He wasn’t accustomed to being known. He did, however, have a job to do. He was still sifting through the flower stalks, stripping them steadily of leaves. “And I’m Cytali. I’m here to help Kavala rebuild Nysel’s faction. I was a Drykas in my last life, and I didn’t travel much out of Cyphrus until the end; but I’ve traveled a great deal in this life, and I understand what it takes sometimes to keep going.” He lifted his eyes to look at her again, expression considering. “And that every now then it takes more to stop. You strike me as a seeker, Sybel.”

[Gossamer]

XP AWARD!
Thanks for threading in Riverfall.

Character: Sybel
Experience: Singing +2, Socialization +1, Teaching +1, Herbalism +1
Lore: Caelum: His transition between day to night, Caelum: Knows Dirty Jokes. Caelum: Thinks He Doesn’t Sing Well, Myrdas flower: Great for infections, open minds, and clotting of the blood. It’s taken orally.

Character: Caelum
Experience: Foraging +1, Socialization +1, Singing +1, Interrogation +1, Teaching +1
Lore: Vantha: Noted for Singing & Storytelling, Sybel: Sings nicely, Sybel: Orphan Among The Drykas, Sybel: Barmaid at The Trough

Additional Note: There is a sadness to unfinished threads. This one would have proven very interesting indeed.