Tethers and Feathers [completed]

[Evarette Karmine]

Winter - Day 20 - Year 509 AV

Pale feathers drifted down from the cloud-smothered sky, bathing the earth in a blanket of downy white. Some spiraled, some drifted, others swirled in eddies…it was as though each pallid plume had a mind of it’s own as it made a winding descent. Those gathered on the earth pooled into glowing drifts of white, shifting as though encouraged by some mystical tide…the ebb and flow of the downy quills was like a hypnotic balm, soothing, lulling…

Where am I?

A swirling net of plumes obstructed Evarette’s view as she got shakily to her feet, sapphire eyes narrowed to slits as she strove to peer past the falling curtain of feathers…

Am I dead?

The question arose cautiously from the back of her mind, ringing with awe, confusion, and perhaps a hint of panic. Did a group of Glassbeaks happen upon her in her sleep? Feathers didn’t just fall from the sky and pool at your feet. Evarette’s eyes shifted to the earth, buried in drifts of plumage, and she tested a step forward. It was like…weightless snow. Her eyes widened, and she cried out into the ringing silence…

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

…She still couldn’t see anything past the swirling eddies of white painting the surrounding air. Not a sound awaited her—save the satiny whispers of feathers sliding against one another. Her voice had been swallowed, muffled by the heaps of down tumbling from the sky…not even an echo could be traced in the distance. Evarette sucked in a deep, shaky breath, turning about—

And what was that? A spear of ebony caught her eye. She froze, turning only her head, as though afraid of spooking what lurked behind her. A greater shock awaited her, however...Thick, tufted shards of ebony stood out stark against the backdrop of white plumage. Wings. Black wings. Gleaming blue-black where the muted light kissed them, they sprouted from her shoulders like a death shroud, drooping partway to the earth, the weight of them allowing the long, dark pinions to sink into the cloud of white coating the ground.

“What…” Evarette whispered, the last of her breath having been sucked from her lungs in the shock of it. Her head rang with the silence that followed, and the only thing she could bring herself to do was trade a stunned expression between each fan of black plumage attached to her shoulders. How was this possible?? What was happening to her???

Suddenly her eye caught it…a small prick of light in the darkness. Another white feather. This one, instead of sliding gently from the mass of black shafts that curled away from her shoulders, stayed...it lay pinned between it’s dark, ebony mates, defiant in it’s very existence. As Evarette’s focus narrowed on this small, white feather…another flicker of movement caught her eye. Yet another feather—this one, black as pitch—lost it’s hold, and slipped from the rest to go spiraling down…down to meet the cloud of white plumage churning at Evarette’s feet. A chip of ebony in a sea of Ivory. Evarette’s dark brows rose as another fell. Then another. She spared a glance to her other wing…only to find more white plumes shivering into place, peeking from between the jet slivers of existing feathers.

“I don’t understand…” Evarette’s voice faltered, a trace of insolence souring its tone. This couldn’t be happening. Things like this just didn’t…happen…She was no Kelvic, no winged half-breed, she was Drykas!

Breaking from her frozen stance, Evarette cried out wordlessly unto the shrouded horizon, her voice splitting the silence in a howl that was rich with implications…Her legs plowed through the dunes of white, a stream of ebon shafts peppering the air in her wake. The ground gave way beneath her, swallowing her whole, her muffled cry lost in the downy froth that washed over her plunging figure...

Evarette woke with a start, lungs sucking in great gusts of air. Her eyes were wide, burning chips of dark azure, combing the surrounding darkness, following the phantoms of her dream as they bled into the canvas walls of her tent. Just a dream, she told herself, just a dream...But the whispered reassurances in the back of her mind were not enough to prevent her from trembling, shadows of feathers falling behind her closed eyes. Ivar could be heard shuffling outside, no doubt awakened by her cries and thrashing. Evarette flipped back her heavy blanket, wincing as the frigid air stropped its icy teeth on her bare arms. She needed air...

Air. It was why she was out here to begin with. Seeking solace in the rippling grasslands of her origin, away from the clustered oppression of the city, Evarette was searching for answers. The past few weeks spent confined to the walls of the city had earned her no answers in regards to her brother. He could be anywhere...His description matched that of a hundred other inhabitants of Riverfall, not to mention he could be going by another name entirely...That is, if he even passed through Riverfall. The endless possibilities, coupled with the hopes and optimism that were wilting beneath the obstacles and misinformation, had taken it's toll. Evarette found her heart aching for the open plains, the endless, swaying horizon, the silence...Her soul needed it, just as her physical being needed water. A few days of peace away from the throng of city life, if just to clear her head long enough for her to formulate her next move.

Evarette stepped from the tent, greeted by Ivar's familiar hulking shape. Her breath clouded beyond her lips, and she knelt to pull her cloak free from the possessions tucked at the mouth of her tent. Tucking it tight about her shoulders, Evarette plucked a stick from the earth and began to stir life into the fire she'd built earlier that night. A plume of pale smoke drifted up, mingling with the moonlight to create a spiraling beacon above her camp. She tossed on a few more chunks of kindling, and a tongue of flame began to dance to life. The night was devoid of wind, and silence settled on the land like a heavy blanket. It was so reminiscent of her dream that Evarette felt a stir of unease in the pit of her stomach.

Ivar whickered, drawing Evarette's attention. The stallion's head was lifted, velveteen nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. His ears drawn erect, he gazed out into the plains as though expecting...something. "Ivar?" Evarette notched a brow in the Nightwalker's direction, her indigo eyes flitting between him and the direction of his scrutiny. Her pulse kicked in her veins...Despite Ivar's intense awareness, he was not intimidated, nor did he appear anxious. Clearly, he seemed to see, smell and hear something she could not...but on a frigid night like this, what in all of Mizahar could be lurking out there that would not ignite her mount's trepidation???

[Rhylen]

“I saw a light,” came a voice out of the silver blackness. It was immediately followed by the soft footfalls of a man, and the easy clip clop of hooves. Rhylen emerged from behind a tall shrub, a mellow look in his moonlit eyes, and a cloak of grayish furs concealing the rest of him. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest,” he murmured, uncomfortable to be lurking in the shadows now that he knew he’d been spotted. He pulled back the hood, revealing a mess of wild hair. “I thought that you might be… someone else.” His eyes fell then, how long had he been searching for Raghnall? Too long. The ache in his gut had grown steadily worse since the shaman’s departure, and Rhylen needed answers.

Each laborious breath crystallized as he exhaled, near misery shone in his eyes, but his jaw was set firmly and he still bore the weight of his pack without difficulty. “May I share your fire?” he asked, softer now, not moving any closer. Sparking any form of conflict now would be more than his body could sustain. If she said no, he would continue on for a bit and make his own camp. “I promise to be off again shortly. It’s just… very cold,” he said with a shudder, his eyes meeting hers again.

She was Drykas. Easy enough to spot, even in the moonlight and yet she rode a nightwalker, rather than the typical strider. To each their own, he thought to himself, considering the rarity of this find. Nightwalkers were unusually intelligent beasts, not often found in the Cyphrus, though he’d heard enough description of them to know what it was he was looking at. Rhylen wondered at what could possibly mean about the small rider, if the mount had chosen her, though, he’d never heard of such a thing. She also looked a bit young to be out on the plains alone, and though Rhylen himself was still young, lately he felt as though he bore the weight of several more seasons.

A twinge of pain lanced outward from his middle, causing him to gasp and then inhale the frigid air deep into his lungs, causing further pain. “Please,” he whispered, his limitation finally catching up to him. It was stupid to travel this late at night, in the cold and feeling the way he did. Desperation to find the old man had driven him blindly onward and now he suffered the consequences of his folly. A look of barely contained anguish flickered in his eyes; Thalla whinnied softly and stamped her hoof, sensing his distress.

[Evarette Karmine]

"Oh!" Evarette's sapphire eyes sharpened on the figure that emerged from behind a screen of foliage, surprise etched in her features. She rose to her feet, the fire-stirring limb clutched in one hand, it's tip a glowing ember. The fact that Ivar stood frozen, looking on as though it were some sort of amusing scene played out for his entertainment, irked her mildly. However, the man appeared to be no threat, and when his words fell softly between them Evarette's fears were alleviated. Just another Drykas wanderer... not unlike herself. He seemed...withdrawn. His eyes were glazed over, and judging by his flinch and the way in which he huddled into his clothes, she guessed it was either due to pain, or cold...perhaps both.

"Of course, please...come sit. Stay. A fellow Drykas is always a welcome sight, even on a bitter night such as this. Ivar there wont bother your mare, I assure you..." she encouraged quickly, thankful he wasn't some brigand come to take advantage of her solitude...though no doubt Ivar would have stepped in by now, had that been the case. Evarette lowered the stick, and bent to stir further life into the embers, adding a clump of dry grass and a few more sticks she'd stock piled alongside the pit. Kneeling down, she bent close to breathe a little more encouragement into the trembling flames. The fire surged to life, extending it's glowing reach. Evarette sat back, laying the limb aside and drawing her cloak around her shoulders a bit tighter...Indigo pools stole sideways glances at the man. He was...handsome, in a rugged, wind-tossed kind of way. His unkempt hair reminded her of the very grasslands themselves, and he looked born to roam them. She pondered his cryptic approach, and Ivar's expectant calm...perhaps he'd scented the Stryder. Auburn brows furrowed with concern as he winced, sucking in a sharp breath that mirrored the pain in his eyes.

"Are you alright? Can I get you...anything?" Evarette struggled with the words, wondering what she really had to offer apart from a warm seat by the fire. "I have tea," she suggested, turning to dig a small metal pot and several pre-made satchets of herbs from her provisions.

[Rhylen]

“Tea would be nice,” he said with a smile, ignoring the pang in his stomach. He watched the woman from beneath his brow as he lead Thalla to where the other horse stood calmly, removing the saddlebags from their position just below her shoulders and placing them near the fire. He scratched her softly behind the ear and down the side of her neck before turning his attention back to the young Drykas. “An unusual mount, “ he murmured, half to himself as he neared the warm glow of the fire. “Very sturdy looking.”

Small talk was far from Rhylen’s strong suit and his discomfort did little to make matters any easier. He had no desire to concern the woman with his growing anxiety. Nor did he plan to take on any of her burdens, so long as he could help it. This would be a brief encounter, one born of a need for warmth and rest. His troubles were not hers, and they would remain as such. “I am Rhylen,” he offered out of formality. He sat with his hands nearly touching the flames, rubbing them together after a time and breathing into them so as to improve his circulation.

He grew wearier by the moment, his eyelids drooping. His muscles became less tense and the pain in his stomach subsided to a dull ache. The bright tongues of flame tasted the star speckled sky. He remembered a time in winter’s past when he and the old shaman would speak of many things by firelight; of things alive, and things dead. They would contest the will of the plains, and even speak of dreams and things from the past. It was times like these when Rhylen had felt the most at ease. With Thalla nearby the scene was nearly home. His thoughts went on like this for some time, the light fading from his eyes.

[Evarette Karmine]

Pouring water from her waterskin, Evarette set the small pot on a flat rock situated near the licking flames so that it could heat up. The idea of tea was reviving in itself, and the warmth of the drink would undoubtedly do them both good. Returning to her provisions, she plucked free a small, earthenware cup and a vial of honey. She was not prepared for company, and so one of them would have to drink from the pot. His voice drew her from her rummaging, and she offered him the flash of a brief smile as she returned to the fireside.

"Ivar is my brother's," Evarette elaborated, her hair falling between them in a dark, wavy curtain as she leaned forward to lay out the cup and vial, tucking the herb sachets in with them. "He was a gift...I'm sure you can imagine the looks received when my father returned from one of his lengthy journeys, a Nightwalker foal in tow. All in all, they were well received, but...he's no stryder. When my brother left...well, Ivar stayed," her eyes followed the flames as she spoke, her voice reverberating soft and low between them...Something told her the man beside her was not given to many words, a concept that Evarette was not at all unfamiliar with. Given naturally to open conversation, her father used to tease that she'd ramble on for hours with nothing but a tree for company.

Evarette took a seat off to the left of the man, and grazed the side of the pot with her fingertips, checking it's temperature. Not yet. It was then that the man offered his name...Rhylen. She considered this for a moment, indigo pools sneaking a sideways glance as she committed it to memory. "I'm Evarette," she offered, tucking one leg in close so that she could drape an arm over her knee, pulling the flap of her cloak with it. For a while, she allowed her eyes to stray upwards, following the writhing, spiraling path of smoke as it traveled above. It's silvery motions were almost...hypnotic. It brought to mind the feathers in her dream, which in turn inspired a chill to creep across Evarette's skin that had nothing to do with the weather. She blinked, swallowed tightly, and dropped her eyes.

"So, Rhylen...when you arrived, you mentioned you thought I was some one else," an auburn brow rose inquiringly as she settled sapphire eyes on him, "who were you out here searching for?" There was no doubt that Evarette could sympathize with a fruitless pursuit. Half of a smile warming her lips as she awaited his answer.

[Rhylen]

Much of what the girl was speaking washed over him, cast into the oblivion of his current state. Her name, Evarette, then nothing until awareness of her scrutiny shook him from his reverie. “I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I do not wish to speak of it.” He glanced shamefacedly in her direction. It was uncouth to act as such about a fire, especially when sharing it with a Drykas courteous enough to prepare tea for him, but Rhylen was determined to keep the uncertainty of his situation private.

“Pardon my disrespect,” he breathed, adjusting the cloak about his shoulders so that the back of his neck wouldn’t feel so cold. “Perhaps I can tell you a story,” he offered. “As an apology.” The vacant look on his face shifted to one of delight, a favored tale wearing away thoughts of Raghnall and his queasy stomach. “I have no gift for recounting legends, but I’ll do my best.” Rhylen’s eyes came alive, and he began to breathe deeply, rhythmically, focusing his attention on the Djed that lingered just beneath the surface of his conscious mind.

“When the Drykas first walked the plains,” he began, denoting the land in the earth between them, forming a bowed line with his finger, “they could not learn her ways.” He drew another line and then a smaller one half the length, a forked figure detached from the land. He held the power firmly, using only what was necessary to craft the appropriate forms. “Some of us died because of hunger, others died from disease,” he began to speak more quickly, his finger moving faster. A careful eye would notice a feint luminance in the lines, pale green against the orange glow of the fire. “Many more died at the hands of our enemies!” His voice peaked suddenly, the lines suddenly coming to life, his fingers working furiously, drawing famine, sickness, and foe.

“We were broken, defiled, and nearing annihilation when the stryders found us,” the sign for friend linking land and Drykas. The whole image suddenly swelled upward, earth rising to meet Rhylen’s hand, which hovered just over top. “We learned how to eat and became strong against sickness, eventually driving our enemies away.” Soil trickled down the sides of his creation, the movement marking the story’s resolution. “We became one with the land,” he hummed, “and with the air.” This he whispered, followed by a puff of air, clearing the remaining dirt. “We became one with the striders, and they with us.” He regarded the small statue with a smile, “Which is why they must continue to choose us, and why we must honor their friendships above all else.”

The small effigy, a Drykas atop a styder, remained standing as the green light faded and eventually ended, allowing the glow of the fire its rightful dominance. Rhylen gazed fixedly at the figure; the rush of power had momentarily quelled all other thoughts. The focus was intoxicating.

[Evarette Karmine]

His rebuttal stung, causing Evarette to blink and retreat into silence...mentally berating herself for traipsing over Rhylen's personal boundaries. It was not the first time her credulous questioning had earned her such a sharp retort...and nor would it be the last. Her eyes studied the quavering glow of the coals, and Evarette hoped that the flush of her cheeks could be explained away by the bitter cold. One hand fell to pluck a dry stem of grass, and she began to wind it around her fingertips, seemingly absorbed in the task...

His voice drew her out of her abstraction. A story? ...Struggling to conceal the child-like spark of fascination that had--until recently--been dwelling beneath the surface of those dark azure eyes, Evarette shifted her position to gather a better view. Though a question or two hovered in the back of her mind, she clung to silence, her lips pressed into a thin line...Then, Rhylen reached forward, pulling a line in the dust between them. His movements captivated her, the illustration echoed by his voice and the story he began to weave through both his words and his fingertips. As the image began to glow, Evarette's eyes widened in unexpected delight. The earth rose and played beneath his hands, and she looked on in wonder.

The end of his tale left the figure of the rider and his mount suspended, the luminescence of his craft fading so subtly that several moments slipped past before Evarette could draw her eyes from the little model. She watched the play of emotions sweep over Rhylen's features, her own bearing hints of reflection as she allowed her mind to comb over his story. Stryders...their existence among the Drykas was core to many of their legends, particularly those that coincided with their origins. Evarette thought back to the times she'd wished to earn the heart of one of the beautiful equines her people were known for. It was a mark of pride, a coming of age, a note of recognition that could not be earned otherwise... And, it was something that Evarette felt was lost to her now. She parted with a glance over one shoulder, locating Ivar's hulking, black form in the darkness...His liquid eyes shed pin-pricks of reflected firelight, dancing and watchful as always...

"You clearly have some gifts," Evarette pointed out softly, a grin swooping in to replace the pensive melancholy that lingered there a moment before her eyes returned to Rhylen. A hissing drew her attention, and she looked to discover the water boiling, sloshed out of the pot in all it's enthusiasm. "Oh!" She jumped forward, tucking her cloak around her hands for protection before lifting the pot from the fireside to place it between them. Her eagerness earned her a splash of scalding water, to which she uttered a soft hiss of indignant surprise, shaking her stinging fingers into the frigid air. She shot the offending pot a glower before adding the sachets of herbs, breathing deep as the sweet aroma permeated the air...

[Rhylen]

”I did not mean to come across as boastful,” Rhylen said softly when he was sure that the woman had not burned herself too severely. “My talents are inferior to those of my teacher and I have not practiced them in some time.” He still felt the tingle of his Djed, now alive within him and willing to perform greater tasks. For once in many days the pain in his stomach had subsided to a bearable ache. He was no longer short of breath and even his minute movements, ones concerned with gaining further warmth from the fire, did not cause sharp pains. This startled him.

As liquid in the pot grew darker so did his thoughts begin to blossom on the cause of his continued malady. Perhaps it had something to do with his magical abilities. The power to see spirits had always flowed in his veins from birth, but the ability to shape the elements had come, rather painfully, from the shaman. Could Raghnall’s absence be the cause for the sickness in his gut? Did it have something to do with the bond of shared Rez? These were questions for an experienced Reimancer. Questions for Raghnall. How he missed the old man; missed his stern guidance and ability to solve Rhylen’s problems as he blindly walked through the realms of magical learning.

He held on to the restless energy within himself. Keeping his breaths even and searching its strengths and weaknesses. Clarity was a fortunate side effect of holding onto one’s Djed. He could see further into the darkness, and could feel the warmth of the fire as it thawed his lethargy and the sting of mildly frost bitten hands. He could clearly see that the tea had reached a desirable level soaking and noticed for the first time how lovely Evarette’s sapphire eyes were, not typical of the Drykas at all. This same clarity brought something unsettling to his attention. He could now clearly feel the presence of something else near the fire, not the horses, nor his busy companion. It was something not of this world. Something dead.

He was immediately on edge, his hands grasping dumbly for the ceremonial dagger that lay within his belongings. The cold steel would do little in the face of a truly malevolent spirit, but his instinct of self-preservation was not finely tuned enough to realize a difference in the danger which only his will could deflect against. ”We are not alone,” he murmured as a courtesy to the young woman, afraid that she might not understand the effects of a spiritual attack.

[Evarette Karmine]

The way in which he spoke of his teacher intrigued Evarette. There was a revered aspect to his tone that echoed every syllable. He is so humble, she thought to herself, marveling at such a rare quality in an individual. It was not often she encountered some one familiar with their own shortcomings, or so readily willing to own up to them. Perhaps too readily, she noted further with a wondering little smile. He was too modest, if anything...

Shaking her head softly in a silent rebuke, Evarette leaned over to check the steeping tea, tucking back a coil of dark hair that threatened to spring free. Judging by the rich coloration and the heady scent of the soaking herbs, it was about ready. Eva reached for the earthenware cup, on the brink of inquiring after Rhylen's preference on honey...but her words were frozen in her throat, and her next move arrested by Rhylen's disconcerting announcement. The gleam of a blade drew her eye as the fire's light licked it's silvery length. Indigo eyes flew wide, and she set the cup down very slowly.

"What..."

She jumped as a heavy footfall cracked upon the soil, cutting her off. It was Ivar, no doubt responding to the tension thickening in the air. Striving to soothe the nerves that Rhylen had so recently served up on tenterhooks, Eva reached for her satchel...fingers questing for the ivory handle of her own, small blade. Whatever it was, she wished to be ready in whatever way she could. Combat had never been one of her strengths, but accompanying her brother and father during their training sessions had amounted to a small wealth of knowledge when it came to defending herself. Evarette's skills were meager in comparison to that of her brother, but sufficient when pitted against the fighting knowledge of other Drykas women.

Her eyes remained glued to Rhylen, awaiting an indication as to what angle the impending threat may arrive. Vaguely, she was aware of Ivar shifting his weight in the dark, the low reverberation of a nicker falling soft upon her ears.

[Rhylen]

An excruciating silence stretched out between the two of them as Rhylen, his senses suddenly on fire, attempted to glean what information he could from the approaching entity. He shut his eyes against the light of the flames and took hold of his Djed. His mind scanned the nearby clearing, secretly praying that what he sensed was some wayward spirit and not a shambling corpse. Only the most powerful of ghosts could bring harm to the living; he gained some solace from that thought. But only a skilled Spiritist could defend against anything that strong, and Rhylen’s training had only involved his own possession. He knew not of Evarette’s fortitude, and that terrified him.

”Stay behind me,” he said, gaining his feet and crossing to the other side of the fire so that his eyes could read the darkness. He felt suddenly numb, a babe left to brave the elements on his own. His fear was gaining the better of him, and fear was the greatest weapon of the dead. ”Steady yourself,” he said, somewhat hypocritically. He felt more than saw the outline, some fifty paces into the darkness. Not more than a spirit, he thought, suddenly able to breathe again. But of what kind and in what state of madness?

As the shape grew closer Rhylen could see it with his naked eye, like a miniature fog, hindered by the memory of movements made in life. It was expending great effort to make itself seen, which might suggest peaceful intentions, or a malicious desire to toy with them first. ”Can you see it?” he asked, aware that he was not as terribly alone as he felt. ”A ghost. And it comes this way.” He cared not whether she believed him, for few had ever experienced such things, but he was determined to spare her any harm. This ghost was here for him.

”If I say so, mount your horse and fly from here.” His voice was unexpectedly resolute. ”Do not return. And should I follow you, continue to flee. You must not believe anything I say. I will not be myself.” He desperately hoped it would not come to that, but there was no other choice in the face of failure. ”I’m sorry,” he added at last, his attention returning fully to the approaching specter.