Closed Retrocognition

[Lorcan Gregory]

37th Fall 516av
19th Bell

Zulrav’s might tore across the black nebulous skies with a resounding boom! Lightening illuminated the evening with a solemn, cold light. Soaked to the bone, Lörcán trudged through the thick sludge of Endrykas, his head hanging in the rain as he led his Zavian home; battered, bruised and bushed. The sultry climate did nothing to improve his mood; the sweat from the day clung stickily to every inch of his swarthy skin.

The last few days had been more than trying. After the horrific Zith attack a few days ago, the city was on edge. Lörcán hadn’t slept much in fear of their sudden return; all sense of security he had was ripped asunder. The battle that had ensued on the 34th had thrown Lörcán into disarray. He fought with the desire he felt towards bonding with the community of Endrykas; their strength and passion an inspiration to him – yet he knew this wasn’t his home.

He couldn’t even remember his home. After the skirmish, Lörcán had discovered that something had reawakened within him. He wanted to better himself, to learn everything there was to learn about the Horse clan nomads. All so that he could help protect the people that had taken him in; the people he had come to admire and care for.

It terrified him. It confused him.

He felt as though he were betraying someone – something - by wishing to amalgamate himself into Drykas culture, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember?! The frantic longing to regain his memories burned fiercer than ever. The frustrations of seeing small glimpses of his forgotten life in nightmares - only to forget them when he awoke was crushing him.

He needed to know who he was. He needed to know if he had someone waiting for him back home – wherever it may be. He just couldn’t shake the deep pang of treachery seething in his gut.

Lost within the storm of his dilemma, it was as if the Gods themselves pushed him towards an answer! Glancing up to gauge his way through the thick drizzle, Lörcán suddenly realised he had no idea where he was. He didn’t recognise the braided colours of the Clan; he didn’t recognise any of the Pavilions. Halting mid-step to appraise his whereabouts, his bulky stallion continued - accidently knocking Lörcán forwards into a blunder!

The mud beneath his boots slick as ice, he gawkily sailed headlong into a tiny woman!

[Rufio]

　　
　　　　 restless, restless.

　　　　　　As Zulrav spake into the miserably humid, hot din Rufio couldn't settle herself.

Restless in the stormy weather, fed up of the rain. Anxious tension roiling in the pit of her gut. Rufio loved Zulrav dearly, nevertheless fear prickled down her spine whenever he threw lightning across the sky. Every time the dim gloom flashed with light, she started.

Rufio got up from her and Ixzo's bed where she was lying idly, and stretched out her limbs, feeling the stiffness of tension popping in her joints pleasantly.

Where is Ixzo? Thoughts tinged with concern, as well as with a childish yearning for her bond-sister. She wandered to the pavilion doorway to peer out at the grey shade that Zulrav had thrown over the Clans.

Rufio slid on her leather, woven mocassins and stepped out.
　　　　Tentatively,
　　she braved her fear.

▵　▿　▵

　　　　　　　 when a stranger gawkily sailed headlong into the tiny Wildmane-become-Stormblood!

　　　　Rufio "oomffed" as a stranger bumped into her, raising her hands to grip his arms to steady them, nearly bundled over by the nine inch height difference, her back curved as she leant back to look up at a Walahk.

The Drykas found herself peering into a chocolate gaze, set within a square face with gentle, freckled features. He could have been a cousin, with those features.

Hers mirrored his in her rounded jaw, caramel complexion scattered with like-minded freckles. Her ochre gaze danced over his face a while.

Rufio felt an unsettling Deja-vu quiver through her bones—he reminded her of Louka.

Hesitating lightly with this unbidden reminder of grief, the Drykas caught her wits. As her usual sense of relaxed confidence drew into her demeanor, she cast a chuckle into the din.

She took her hands from the fellow's arms to straighten the beige, fringed, crochet vest that she wore over a breast-wrap scarf (style influenced these days by her Myrian Bondmate) and dark hide-leggings.

Where is his strider?—at once inquisitiveness silently sparked. A spark turned to fire—as she struck out intentionally. "Rufio, Wildmane-come-Stormblood." Diamond Clan, well-met. Her introductions lilted with an unconscious pride, weaving the old with the new into her name and titles.

The Drykas tossed her overgrown fringe from her eyes—her unruly cropped mane braided tightly against her crown behind it messily—and held her forearm out for the stranger-to-be-friend to clasp.
　　

[Lorcan Gregory]

Supported by a firm grip, Lörcán lurched himself upright to regain poise; boots tottering in the drenched swill as his pensive gaze fixated on the sapient, sorrel gape of the small Drykas before him. With Ahiro’s lead rope clutched in one hand, the Zavian nudged its owner’s shoulder; offering a tentative apology for the rear-ender. Tearing his brooding stare away from the searching, freckled complexion holding him steady, Lörcán absentmindedly patted Ahiro’s neck in acceptance of the stallion’s act of contrition.

The lilting chuckle snapped Lörcán’s perusal back to the woman; barely in time to distinguish the brief glimpse of grief flicker over her distinctive features – but only for a tick before it was washed away with her casual deportment. His heart panged ephemerally, as a spirit of curiosity flashed through him as to what or who it was she had lost.

This sentiment felt strange and it momentarily stunned him. From the day he awoke in the Sea of Grass without a notion of who he was; Lörcán had since discovered himself to be self-serving, only worrying about himself as he struggled to survive in the wilderness. Yet, in rare moments such as this; he found that perhaps he was capable of more. It felt – right. It felt like him.

As the very thought entered his mind, the Drykas before him began spewing the native tongue of the Horse Clans. Instantly Lörcán was drawn back to reality. His rugged features scrunched in perplexity, an eyebrow raised as he stared at the woman’s lips – listening for her tone, only half attempting to decipher her meaning for he knew it was useless.

Her hands suddenly waved in the air, as if speaking for her before thrusting towards him in what he could only assume was a greeting. His face fell flaccid and his hazel gape glazed over as an awkward smile broke his solemn mood. He hesitantly clasped the offered wrist without an inkling if he was doing the right thing or not, “I have no idea what in the shyke you are saying – but whatever – yeah, hi.”

Restlessness grew in a disconcerted churn in his stomach as the pair’s arms remained entwined for a moment stretched too long. Lightening cracked across the dank clouds above, giving Lörcán the opportunity to retract his hand which instantly ran through his soaked mop clinging to his skull. “Look, sorry for falling into you. I don’t suppose you speak Common? Or know where we are? Or know which way to the what-do-you-call-it clan? The err, one with, the healers?”

In an attempt at communication Lörcán pointed to the healing scar above his left eyebrow, “Healer clan?” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug and gestured to the pavilions around them, “You know which way?” Sodden, despondent, drained; Lörcán simply wished to return to his tent, get dry and mope; his brain frazzled, his emotions spent opposing with two sides of himself.

[Rufio]

　　
" i have no idea what in the shyke you are saying –"

Rufio's brow quirked with surprise. He was not Drykas. This was the reason he was without Strider. As his common flowed freely, Rufio struggled to keep up with it, her ken of it broken and patchy.

What she understood was very little and her brow furrowed in clear confusion as she strove to hone in on specific words. She deciphered "sorry", "speak common", "clan" and "healers". With a shake of her head, she spoke his tongue with hesitancy.

"Er, common, little."

With a furrowed brow, and seeking gaze, the fortune-teller took in the stranger's healing wound. Her gaze held his, as she sensed the slump of spirit in his stance. Despondent, drained. The little Wildmane-Stormblood reached up her hands to grasp his head and pulled his face down towards hers.

Unabashed by her boldness, she inspected his injury. It was healing well, though it was a deep cut, and would take time. With her hands still clasping his face within a hand's breadth of hers, she peered into his eyes.

Hers reached into his feelings. Wondering who he was and what lay there. What had befallen him? From where had he come?

"Follow." Came her single word, as she released his head and flashed him a smile. She turned towards the Opal Clan, and gestured for him to come.

As they walked between the tents, the half-Drykas peered up at him often from beneath an unruly fringe and freckles. Her lips puckered thoughtfully. With a sniff, she pulled out a little pouch from her pocket.

"Bones." She said in Pavi, uncertain of the word in Common, less certain he would understand. She jangled the pouch a little so the bones within clinked together lightly.

Then she gestured with her hands - see, future, past, path. "I tell story-" She spoke in Common, her bones went back into her pocket and with her hand she tapped his chest. "Story, here."

When they reached the healing tent, Rufio went in. It seemed she was sticking by him. She greeted the healers within with a friendly smile, and sat herself in a waiting chair. Letting them tend to the stranger.