Closed With The Morning Sun

[Aoren]

8th of Spring, 515 AV
Early Morning

Winds swept across the open landscape of the great grasslands. Syna was just beginning to peak over the horizon. Aoren stood with one boot propped up on a stone, his arm resting upon his thigh, the other hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his bastard sword. It hung from his hip but it felt strange to him. The weapon was not something that he was accustomed to carrying. Across his back was slung the composite shortbow that had been gifted to him by a foe turned friend. It was also foreign to him but nevertheless, whether he knew how to use the weaponry or not it was better to carry them than to be left without them. The Sea of Grass was no place to be caught unawares. That lesson he’d learned all too recently. Still, he would have been more comfortable with the weight of his staff in his hands. The iron staff had become a familiar counterpart to the wooden quarterstaff that he was moderately skilled in.

He had risen at some time during the night to relieve the watch. It was a routine that he had seen the guardsmen of the caravan that he’d accompanied from Syliras practice. Each able bodied man and woman stood watch over the camp site in shifts. At his side stood the midnight black hound that was ever his faithful companion, Isikai yawned pawing at the ground eliciting a chuckle from Aoren. The Drykas carded his fingers through the dog’s fur. During the journey Isikai had become acquainted with the other animals that traveled with them, most particularly some of the large hunting cats that the others had brought. It had been brief interactions but it had been amusing to watch Isikai get outsmarted on one or two occasions.

“What does today hold, hm?” He of course knew what the day would hold. They would pack up their camp, they would rally up the animals, and they would continue their journey to Riverfall. That was what the day held. Beyond that though, any number of things could happen along the way. Aoren wasn’t completely inexperienced with living in the wilds. He certainly didn’t live in them with the expertise and finesses that Caelum and the others seemed to display but it was growing on him. He could see why the Drykas lived the way they did. There was something freeing about being removed from the troubles of organized society. It was a simple life. It was a life that resonated with him. He could liken it to the way he was living at the Sanctuary. His days were filled with chores and the tending of the injured both animal and person. It often made for long days but he did not mind.

Aoren scanned the horizon for signs of anything that might bring danger to their group. The whole of his watch he hadn’t seen any but it was always better to be vigilant than oblivious. While he trusted Isikai to give him fair enough warning, even the dog’s senses weren’t perfect. As if on cue, Isikai’s ears perked up. His head turned as he emitted a soft growl of warning. Aoren wrapped his fingers around his sword a bit more tightly. If he moved quick enough, perhaps his completely unfamiliarity with the weapon might not be a hindrance. His eyes came to rest not on a predator of the grasslands but on one of the people that traveled with he and Caelum. Aoren inclined his head signing welcome to the curiously silent man who was as a shadow wherever he went.

Greetings. Welcome.

.

[Colt]

Shahar had risen before the sun today, as he did every day. The not-quite-darkness of the tent showed little, but he could feel the outside pre-dawn grayness in the depths of his bones, ached for it, and he had no reason to linger in the bedroll. He roused himself carefully, unwilling to wake Naiya, and dressed with as much silence as he could muster. It was still early spring, and winter’s chill had not yet let go; the sheepskin vest would give him heat, and his cloak would keep it in.

The cold breath of the outside world felt like the embrace of an old friend; breathing deeply until his lungs hurt, Shahar shouldered his javelins and secured his axe to his belt. He didn’t intend to hunt or confront anything, but there was a certain measure of security to them; to go out without them would have felt… incomplete.

He had come to expect the rustling from underneath the travois as Tuka untangled herself from her siblings and slipped drowsily into the open air. Yawning massively, she padded over and bumped his leg in greeting; she had done remarkable well with the sudden increase of fellows the Dawnwhispers had seen, and was relaxed and happy as she fell into step beside her partner, both of them heading into the open grasses.

He had no traps to check, as he had not had the time to set them the night before as they set up camp and settled in to rest. Still, he itched for productivity; just because there were no traps didn’t mean there was nothing for him to do. There were still mouths to feed, and more than usual; the bounty of the grasslands was not limited to animals.

It was purslane that he sought, which grew in flat clusters over the ground. He knew it to be a reliable filler of soups, or something to be eaten straight from the ground if fires were not there to be used. Common and plentiful; it was a versatile plant, and it was not long before he found a purslane plant hiding on the far side of a rock.

He took about half of the cluster, which created a bushel of leaves and stems he had difficulty wrapping a hand around. It wouldn’t feed the entire group, but it would probably be enough to thicken a soup pleasantly. Enough of a reward for him to turn back towards camp, Tuka tagging cheerfully along behind.

The presence of another upon his return was not vastly surprising, but neither was it quite expected; pausing to examine the dark outline of a man and dog against the rapidly lightening sky, Shahar did little to prevent Tuka from padding up ahead, more than happy to greet the black dog she had so recently begun to befriend. Shahar followed her after a few moments; there was no reason to avoid the man, after all––Aoren, he remembered––when there was a camp to be tended to.

Shoulders somewhat cautious, Shahar made his way towards Aoren with his armful of purslane. He was met with a short, wary growl from the dog and a signed greeting, welcome from the Drykas––for Aoren was Drykas, if the palomino strider’s behavior was any indication. Above Pavi, above culture, above upbringing, the strider had decided upon this man, and so this man was as much of a Drykas as Shahar.

Greeting, Shahar replied. The sign had a slight inflection, one that might or might not have stood out to Aoren; the half-inclusiveness, half-kinship was a different greeting, the greeting of one Drykas to another. Not family or friend, but of a certain degree of common ground.