
The thirty-first day of Fall, 513 A.V.
"Revenant, with gentle green of curl,
Avoid her gaze and presence lest she smite you with her ailment.
What sickness, between her dexterous fingers does she twirl?
Like a thief and his knife, lying in wait for one of poor judgement.
Upon that man she'll swoop, delivering her terrible curse:
A mark of death turning all that is bad to worse."
The little poem had been one he'd heard recently from a young Snowsong the other day. It had struck him as odd to hear something so very dark from one so young, though he'd certainly had plenty a brooding thought during that age. Curiosity had led him to ask from where the child drew her inspiration and was very factually told "Etori Whitevine". The name was followed by a fascinating tale of a young Snowsong who abandoned her Hold in favor of the wilderness, only to return to study among the healers of the Whitevine hold. What really sparked his interests however, was the misfortune that surrounded her to the extent that the child would think to name her cursed. From what his little informant had relayed, the woman called "Etori" had certainly had it rough.
Meville was not the most religious fellow. He prayed when it suited him, but his allegiance was to no god, save, perhaps, Dira and Lhex. Thus, he found himself drawn to that which could only be explained by divine power or magical interference. It wasn't so much he didn't believe such things as curses to be true. If anything, he believed in them all to much, seeing as he himself was cursed to bear the "gifts" his father had sought to impart to him. "Etori", however, was a different story. Her misfortune seemed external as opposed to Meville's internal strife. He had made up his mind shortly after giving the child a tip of several copper Mizas that he would seek out the cursed woman of the Whitevine hold.
She wasn't very difficult to gather information about. Most of the Snowsongs were more than happy to share whatever gossip they'd heard about the young woman (as Meville soon discovered her to be from a particularly acidic gossip). It seemed the main cause of her retreat into the wilds was due to the death of her brother. Everyone agreed it had been a tragedy, but none seemed to think the path Etori (though most of them referred to her as Avori) had chosen was the correct one. Everyone had a theory or postulation as to why she acted as she did. The majority had decided she was just plain strange. A few were happy she was gone, though more for their own benefit than for her own happiness. Overall, it certainly did seem the young woman had a knack for wrapping herself in pain, solitude, and misfortune.
With that in mind, Meville had decided today was the day to meet the once Snowsong, Etori. From what he'd gathered, no one was really certain where she ran off to when she wasn't in the Whitevine hold. Seeing as it was much easier to get to meet her in her place of residence and vocation, Meville had made his way over to the healing center in hopes of being able to meet her. Upon his arrival, he'd inquired whether or not "Etori Whitevine" was available. The look upon the nurse's face was almost worth the entire trek over from the Warrens, but when the woman had finally gathered enough of her wits to respond with a terse, "Yes, I believe so." Meville happily informed her he'd wait.
With the unexpected request to meet with one of the least desirable Vantha in the Whitevine hold, the nurse hadn't even bothered to ask for what reason Meville had come to the healing center. Usually, when it wasn't an obvious, bone-jutting injury, the attendants would inquire as to what ailed those who came in, that they might better assess who to fetch to help them. In this case, Meville supposed the nurse figured there was something wrong with his head, or at least that was the feeling he got from her concerned looks and fervent whispers to her comrades. It had certainly caused quite a stir.
After a short while, the nurse returned to inform him she was currently with a patient and would be out as soon as she was finished. Unperturbed, Meville thanked the nurse, pulling out a book he'd borrowed from the library: Vantha for the Common Fool. It wasn't the most friendly sort of title, but the practical application of the lessons made it one of the more desirable texts for a Common speaking individual to gain a better grasp of the Vantha's language. It was, surprisingly, the most difficult language book he'd found so far. His Vani, while passable in conversation, severely struggled in the department of rhythmic flow. His vocabulary as well was a bit more shallow than it should have been. Lately, he'd been lugging it around with him to peruse the pages when it suited him, which was a sporadic constant.
Settling down into a chapter discussing the different sort of inflections and tones used to emphasize non-verbal cues, Meville made himself comfortable in one of the many chairs meant for those waiting to be treated. He had the entire to day to wait for the young, green hued woman and was in no hurry to move things along out of natural sequence.
Meville was not the most religious fellow. He prayed when it suited him, but his allegiance was to no god, save, perhaps, Dira and Lhex. Thus, he found himself drawn to that which could only be explained by divine power or magical interference. It wasn't so much he didn't believe such things as curses to be true. If anything, he believed in them all to much, seeing as he himself was cursed to bear the "gifts" his father had sought to impart to him. "Etori", however, was a different story. Her misfortune seemed external as opposed to Meville's internal strife. He had made up his mind shortly after giving the child a tip of several copper Mizas that he would seek out the cursed woman of the Whitevine hold.
She wasn't very difficult to gather information about. Most of the Snowsongs were more than happy to share whatever gossip they'd heard about the young woman (as Meville soon discovered her to be from a particularly acidic gossip). It seemed the main cause of her retreat into the wilds was due to the death of her brother. Everyone agreed it had been a tragedy, but none seemed to think the path Etori (though most of them referred to her as Avori) had chosen was the correct one. Everyone had a theory or postulation as to why she acted as she did. The majority had decided she was just plain strange. A few were happy she was gone, though more for their own benefit than for her own happiness. Overall, it certainly did seem the young woman had a knack for wrapping herself in pain, solitude, and misfortune.
With that in mind, Meville had decided today was the day to meet the once Snowsong, Etori. From what he'd gathered, no one was really certain where she ran off to when she wasn't in the Whitevine hold. Seeing as it was much easier to get to meet her in her place of residence and vocation, Meville had made his way over to the healing center in hopes of being able to meet her. Upon his arrival, he'd inquired whether or not "Etori Whitevine" was available. The look upon the nurse's face was almost worth the entire trek over from the Warrens, but when the woman had finally gathered enough of her wits to respond with a terse, "Yes, I believe so." Meville happily informed her he'd wait.
With the unexpected request to meet with one of the least desirable Vantha in the Whitevine hold, the nurse hadn't even bothered to ask for what reason Meville had come to the healing center. Usually, when it wasn't an obvious, bone-jutting injury, the attendants would inquire as to what ailed those who came in, that they might better assess who to fetch to help them. In this case, Meville supposed the nurse figured there was something wrong with his head, or at least that was the feeling he got from her concerned looks and fervent whispers to her comrades. It had certainly caused quite a stir.
After a short while, the nurse returned to inform him she was currently with a patient and would be out as soon as she was finished. Unperturbed, Meville thanked the nurse, pulling out a book he'd borrowed from the library: Vantha for the Common Fool. It wasn't the most friendly sort of title, but the practical application of the lessons made it one of the more desirable texts for a Common speaking individual to gain a better grasp of the Vantha's language. It was, surprisingly, the most difficult language book he'd found so far. His Vani, while passable in conversation, severely struggled in the department of rhythmic flow. His vocabulary as well was a bit more shallow than it should have been. Lately, he'd been lugging it around with him to peruse the pages when it suited him, which was a sporadic constant.
Settling down into a chapter discussing the different sort of inflections and tones used to emphasize non-verbal cues, Meville made himself comfortable in one of the many chairs meant for those waiting to be treated. He had the entire to day to wait for the young, green hued woman and was in no hurry to move things along out of natural sequence.
Note: :
Common | Vani