|.42nd Autumn, 514 AV
The hardest part of being in Wind Reach wasn't the fact that he missed home. It wasn't the difficulty of adapting to a culture he struggled to understand. It wasn't the feeling of being an outsider, or the glances and mutterings that were thrown his way just because his hair wasn't the same colour as everyone elses. It wasn't the fact that he only understood a fraction of what was said. It wasn't the constant weight of feeling that he didn't deserve the prestige of his status as an Avora, or the knowledge that so many others felt the same way. It wasn't even the twisting in his gut every time he was forced to witness or participate in the Inarta customs that jarred so intensely with the morality and worldview he'd been raised to have back in Endrykas.
It was the fact that everything was so slow.
That wasn't to say that the Inarta were lethargic, or lazy, or any possible permutation of that word that might reflect badly upon them. On the contrary: setting the handful of morally dubious aspects of their society aside, the Inarta were a people deeply worthy of respect and admiration. They lived in one of the most remote, most harsh corners of the world, surrounded by dangerous woods filled with countless predators that would kill them without a second thought, and beset by deathly-cold winters that they spent every moment of every day preparing for and readying themselves against. Their mountain might awaken from it's slumber at any moment, and drown them all in molten stone. A slow season of hunting and, as Zhol had witnessed first hand during the winter just past, famine had the potential to tear the city and society to ruins. Yet amid all that adversity, all that danger and plight, the Inarta cultivated joy and beauty at almost every turn. What the city's artisans could do with glass or steel defied belief; and the lascivious and sordid behaviour that transpired in the city's deep, dark corners in the dead of night had to be seen to be believed.
The Inarta were many things, but dull, and boring, and slow they were not. Yet, Zhol could never quite manage to shake the anxious patience that constantly lingered in the back of his mind. There were no tents to dismantle every few days; no supplies to periodically store and stow. Each morning, he woke from the same bed, in the exact same surroundings, and walked the exact same path to the kitchens, to the stables, to everywhere else he went with any kind of frequency. While the Unforgiving might have been more dangerous than the Sea of Grass - though Zhol wondered how Kalea’s predators would hold up against a rampaging flock of Glassbeaks - for Zhol himself, the city of Wind Reach offered more safety and protection than he’d ever known; and while dangers and emergencies did plague the Inarta from time to time, most often they were so far beyond the scope of Zhol’s life that he was utterly powerless to play any part in them.
Worse were the days when work wasn’t there to offer it’s distractions. Zhol’s status as an Avora entitled him to three days of rest in every ten; but Zhol struggled to find enough distractions to fill up even one of them. Where possible, he arranged his days of rest to match with Khara’s, but as a Chiet she was entitled to fewer than he; and of late it had become harder and harder to find time to spend with her. Perhaps that was the real reason that Zhol found his abundance of free time so frustrating; not that he’d admit it of course, to himself least of all.
Today was one of those days. Khara was beyond the safety of the city, risking her life for the betterment of people whose ingratitude towards the dangers she faced was one of the greatest sources of Zhol’s frustration with Wind Reach. Worse, of late she had been spending more time with the insufferable Azira; if today was one such day, her life was perhaps in even greater peril than usual. Zhol tried to push those worries aside with little success: his concern for Khara’s safety never really went away, and he had no idea what he’d do with himself if anything ever happened to her because he wasn’t there to try and prevent it.
Zhol sighed, leaning back a little harder against the edge of his bed’s frame, relishing the feeling of the structure digging a little into his back. It was strange, the things that he found comfortable, and comforting: there were far better places in his room for him to sit, but on the floor, fingers hooked loosely together, arms around his knees, ankles crossed, back against the bed, was almost always the way that he settled down. Perhaps the bed was too comfortable; it was certainly more substantial than anything he’d had back in Endrykas, or the bedroll he’d slept on for the several seasons it had taken to traverse Kalea and reach here. Perhaps he wasn’t used to having so much space; you’d have crammed an entire family into a space like this back in Endrykas, and Zhol hadn’t been nearly important enough to have luxuries like a chair of his own to sit on.
He eyed his bow case with suspicion. There was always that option, though he wasn’t sure if he was feeling brave enough to test his skills on the range again, in front of so many witnesses. Practicing in private was one thing. There was a space tucked away out of view behind the stables that Zhol exploited for a little out of sight practice on slow market days, and when the weather was less favourable he’d taken to using the vast cave that the stables used for lessons and exercising the horses during the colder months. Today though, those spaces weren’t an option: Zhol had been half-threatened not to allow himself to be seen at the stables on his day off - not even to borrow that petching colt you like so much, Hansi had warned.
Unfortunately, if he were to indulge his reticence to allow his archery practice to be witnessed, that didn’t leave him with an abundance of alternatives. He could visit the Hideaway, he supposed - sneak out of the gate and hope he wasn’t spotted - but that seemed like something he would need to better prepare for; more books perhaps, different techniques to study and attempt. There was always the Enclave, he supposed; but there were only so many hours he could spend struggling to find books and texts that he was capable of comprehending with his limited linguistic skills. With Khara off being a valuable, contributing member of society, it wasn’t even like there were people around who could serve as distractions. Perhaps Drusilla? But then, Zhol wasn’t even sure where to find her; if by some fluke she also wasn’t working today, he had no idea where she lived, or where else she might be. Something about the eeries but beyond that, he didn’t know. Was a person like him even allowed up there?
He unleashed a sigh, resigning himself to the only course of action that seemed to have the vaguest opportunity of yielding some sort of interesting distraction: aimlessly wandering the city, in the hopes that some sort of opportunity would stumble across his path.
It was the fact that everything was so slow.
That wasn't to say that the Inarta were lethargic, or lazy, or any possible permutation of that word that might reflect badly upon them. On the contrary: setting the handful of morally dubious aspects of their society aside, the Inarta were a people deeply worthy of respect and admiration. They lived in one of the most remote, most harsh corners of the world, surrounded by dangerous woods filled with countless predators that would kill them without a second thought, and beset by deathly-cold winters that they spent every moment of every day preparing for and readying themselves against. Their mountain might awaken from it's slumber at any moment, and drown them all in molten stone. A slow season of hunting and, as Zhol had witnessed first hand during the winter just past, famine had the potential to tear the city and society to ruins. Yet amid all that adversity, all that danger and plight, the Inarta cultivated joy and beauty at almost every turn. What the city's artisans could do with glass or steel defied belief; and the lascivious and sordid behaviour that transpired in the city's deep, dark corners in the dead of night had to be seen to be believed.
The Inarta were many things, but dull, and boring, and slow they were not. Yet, Zhol could never quite manage to shake the anxious patience that constantly lingered in the back of his mind. There were no tents to dismantle every few days; no supplies to periodically store and stow. Each morning, he woke from the same bed, in the exact same surroundings, and walked the exact same path to the kitchens, to the stables, to everywhere else he went with any kind of frequency. While the Unforgiving might have been more dangerous than the Sea of Grass - though Zhol wondered how Kalea’s predators would hold up against a rampaging flock of Glassbeaks - for Zhol himself, the city of Wind Reach offered more safety and protection than he’d ever known; and while dangers and emergencies did plague the Inarta from time to time, most often they were so far beyond the scope of Zhol’s life that he was utterly powerless to play any part in them.
Worse were the days when work wasn’t there to offer it’s distractions. Zhol’s status as an Avora entitled him to three days of rest in every ten; but Zhol struggled to find enough distractions to fill up even one of them. Where possible, he arranged his days of rest to match with Khara’s, but as a Chiet she was entitled to fewer than he; and of late it had become harder and harder to find time to spend with her. Perhaps that was the real reason that Zhol found his abundance of free time so frustrating; not that he’d admit it of course, to himself least of all.
Today was one of those days. Khara was beyond the safety of the city, risking her life for the betterment of people whose ingratitude towards the dangers she faced was one of the greatest sources of Zhol’s frustration with Wind Reach. Worse, of late she had been spending more time with the insufferable Azira; if today was one such day, her life was perhaps in even greater peril than usual. Zhol tried to push those worries aside with little success: his concern for Khara’s safety never really went away, and he had no idea what he’d do with himself if anything ever happened to her because he wasn’t there to try and prevent it.
Zhol sighed, leaning back a little harder against the edge of his bed’s frame, relishing the feeling of the structure digging a little into his back. It was strange, the things that he found comfortable, and comforting: there were far better places in his room for him to sit, but on the floor, fingers hooked loosely together, arms around his knees, ankles crossed, back against the bed, was almost always the way that he settled down. Perhaps the bed was too comfortable; it was certainly more substantial than anything he’d had back in Endrykas, or the bedroll he’d slept on for the several seasons it had taken to traverse Kalea and reach here. Perhaps he wasn’t used to having so much space; you’d have crammed an entire family into a space like this back in Endrykas, and Zhol hadn’t been nearly important enough to have luxuries like a chair of his own to sit on.
He eyed his bow case with suspicion. There was always that option, though he wasn’t sure if he was feeling brave enough to test his skills on the range again, in front of so many witnesses. Practicing in private was one thing. There was a space tucked away out of view behind the stables that Zhol exploited for a little out of sight practice on slow market days, and when the weather was less favourable he’d taken to using the vast cave that the stables used for lessons and exercising the horses during the colder months. Today though, those spaces weren’t an option: Zhol had been half-threatened not to allow himself to be seen at the stables on his day off - not even to borrow that petching colt you like so much, Hansi had warned.
Unfortunately, if he were to indulge his reticence to allow his archery practice to be witnessed, that didn’t leave him with an abundance of alternatives. He could visit the Hideaway, he supposed - sneak out of the gate and hope he wasn’t spotted - but that seemed like something he would need to better prepare for; more books perhaps, different techniques to study and attempt. There was always the Enclave, he supposed; but there were only so many hours he could spend struggling to find books and texts that he was capable of comprehending with his limited linguistic skills. With Khara off being a valuable, contributing member of society, it wasn’t even like there were people around who could serve as distractions. Perhaps Drusilla? But then, Zhol wasn’t even sure where to find her; if by some fluke she also wasn’t working today, he had no idea where she lived, or where else she might be. Something about the eeries but beyond that, he didn’t know. Was a person like him even allowed up there?
He unleashed a sigh, resigning himself to the only course of action that seemed to have the vaguest opportunity of yielding some sort of interesting distraction: aimlessly wandering the city, in the hopes that some sort of opportunity would stumble across his path.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
Dad Thoughts | Dinah Thoughts | Khara Thoughts
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This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
Dad Thoughts | Dinah Thoughts | Khara Thoughts
...
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
