Weaving an Encounter (Pain)

[Wrenmae]

45 Spring, 511 A.V

Crime was a fading echo in Lhavit, the night turned against the stalker and transformed into a pseudo-day for the populace. Instead of shifty eyed merchants, owling their eyes into every shadow, boring through the cloaks of hard-pressed rogues, dancers and civilians sashayed street to street in perfect dusktime rhythm. An outsider would have trouble adjusting, as most did. Still, it was oddly comforting to imagine smirk-jawed thieves sitting on their hands in a holding cell now.

Not from any personal misgivings, but simply an appreciation of the culture here.

Wrenmae was immersed in story, the tickling words of a thousand life experiences slithering past his ears like sliver bellied fish in a mountain stream. So fast they came and went, bits and pieces of fragmented sentences, dreams, hopes, and ambitions. Astride Weaver, his faintly glowing Gildling horse, the young storyteller was a captain navigating the inky seas of muted color. Waves washed and pulled with ebbing voices, hands, and eyes. Weaver was none too amused, still tired from his damaged sleeping schedule, the horse foully plowed through people with scarce a care to their comfort. Wrenmae pulled back on his reigns briefly, a helpful reminder of respect and of who was riding who. The horse snorted, a disgruntled promise he'd have his revenge.

Ket raised her head and eyed her willing captor suspiciously. Full of feline intuition, the cat had handled the change easier than Weaver. Still, she questioned Wrenmae, questions his purpose and reason for spending so long in this place. Once he had promised open roads, kingdoms to rise and fall behind them, fading into memory. For nearly the entire season he had stayed within Lhavit, catering to the swaying folk with their stories and dance. Wrenmae couldn't return her gaze, his smile wandered toward a frown. Imagined or not, the cat spoke true. He hadn't found a job for himself here, a life. He had entered with earnest dreams and a mind to stay but little, sampling air and stone before departing. Now he was drifting through uncertain waters, not quite satisfied with leaving nor at ease with static living. Perhaps he had set out too early, still young by most standards he may have been too green.

Twisting Weaver to the side of the road, he slid from the saddle and immediately lost himself within a crowd of heads coasting a foot above his crown. Shaking his head, a smile wearily crawling snug against his skin, the storyteller took a seat against the wall.

His purpose unclear, his path the shady remnants of a once avid dream, he watched the feet and hands of people walking by him. They, the people, carried much of their life in hands or feet. The calloused grips, practiced sway, enfeebled shaking, or carefree skip to every third step. It was a lesser known fact, but stories could be told merely from the clap of foot against stone. It was difficult to discern, but the basics might be established.

So he watched their hands and feet, following their patchmarked beat upon the dusk-drowned streets. He set himself a goal, to speak with the next interesting hands he saw.

Lhavit, night gem of a dangerous mountain, it would not disappoint.

[Elhaym]

Pain's robes barely garnered her passage through the crowd, despite her commanding shouts. Any Lhavitian who knew what was what did little to move from the path of a mere Acolyte. Still, Pain was not most Acolytes, and more than one stubborn man or woman was shoved harshly from her path as she descended upon her prey like a starved hawk. She was in no mood for this. No mood at all. So much was crammed into a single day in Pain's life, she could scarcely keep track. Her standard classes among the Shinya as an Acolyte, of course. Yet there were her private lessons with the Sanim, her own personal training regiman (which had gone quite soft), spending time with her dog Tanny, eating, and numerous other important functions of life that she couldn't remember anymore. So, her irritation at having been snagged by a passing Shinya and instructed to find a particular individual in the middle of the crowded Surya Plaza was quickly mounting.

"Step aside, step aside!" Pain yelled, her voice drowned out by laughter and song. The grinding of her teeth filled her head, her hands clamping down on a particularly fat man who was waddling entirely too slowly in front of her. "Step aside!" she shouted into his ear, and with a start he jumped away. Pain let out a snicker, noting that his 'jump' appeared to have been more of a roll, but she quickly clenched her jaws shut. She was an Acolyte, and at times needed to remind herself to retain a certain amount of poise in public. At long last, she located a man who slumped near a horse, and Pain could have sworn she heard the distinctive meow of a feline nearby. The crowd was thinner here, the noise less. If Wrenmae was watching hands, he would find two approach him dead center, balled on the hips of a bulky young woman dressed as a Shinya Acolyte. There was no mistaking her for what she was, for if he could read hands then of hers he would read the tale of battles; real battles.

"You there. You realize your horse took a shy... defecated several times in the middle of the Surya Plaza, don't you?" Pain said, catching herself before she cursed and switched mid-sentence to a more formal tone. She spoke in Common, as was best when dealing with foreigners. Then again, she had been a foreigner up until a few months ago, though she didn't look it. Her face had the same distinctive round shape as many others in Lhavit, dark eyes and hair, and olive skin.

"Hey. Speak up, or I'm gonna take you over there and show you. Might as well clean it up if we go on and do that, right?" Pain muttered, tightening her fists at her hips. This wasn't how she had wanted to spend her brief amount of free time.

[Wrenmae]

Fate was a curious child, spinning lives together in tangled tapestries. The smallest gesture could build blocks of friendship while an astounding show of generosity could be met with hatred. People were people, infinitely varied like the spinning colors of a spectrum. Here and there were patterns, small shelves of metaphorical rock to cling to in classification, but traditionally everyone was everyone.

It was a simple concept, boggling to talk about.

He may have stood, had he the time, smaller fists clenched with frustration doing little to wash the olive of her skin with blood. There were nicks on her knuckles, small criss crosses of scar tissue too small to be otherwise noticed. They told the story of a fighter, but the hand was unmistakeably female, almost frail looking...perhaps more lithe. Her feet were lost in Acolyte robes, but the steps were accented over the usual staccato of muted hurry with a sort of dread purpose.

Wrenmae looked up, her eyes lancing through the soft bemusement of his own with trained tension. Her manner pressed against the boy, forced his back further against the wall and eyes wider as her hands raised. The energy she emanated, like a furnace of leaping sparks. Annoyance and duty brought her here, but there was little keeping her here...speaking...being merciful. Putting up both hands, the boy tried to calm the storm in her expression with his own soft smile. Stranger in Lhavit or not, few did not recognize those robes, or treat those who wore them lightly.

"I...apologize," he said at last, tossing his head up in a meaningful glare at Weaver "The crowd was loud and I was unaware." Weaver watched him calmly, dark brown eyes reflecting Wrenmae's annoyance gleefully. This was revenge the horse could not have planned, and it reveled in the moment. With a nicker it tossed its head and shook its glowing mane, sending Ket loose from the saddlebags to yowl surprised into the street. The tabby raced between legs, an orange mess of startled hair and scuttling legs, and took shelter in Wrenmae's lap, the storyteller falling back with the surprise of the cat's assault and sliding against the wall to a prone slump. Weaver whinnied triumphantly, likely the happiest it had been in days.

Sighing heavily, Wrenmae stood and rand a hand along the cat's back, holding up its body with his free arm. He did not think the girl amused and tried to chuckle away his clumsiness and regain a measure of composure. All his throat managed was a fledgling, weak sound that died somewhere between his throat and his lips.

It sounded like something dying.

Placing the cat back in the saddlebags and flicking Weaver's nose irritably, he returned her gaze hesitantly. His strength was minimal, marked by his unwillingness to hold her eyes with his. He glanced away, ups or downs, trying his best to match her intensity but finding little spine beyond the laid back demeanor he had carried through the city.

"I...Of course, If you'll but answer me a question I'll be more than happy to clean up my mess."

He waited, baited his breath and forced their eyes to meet. Hers, so dark and turmoiled, like wind across a dark lake. There was anger in there, but only a hint of it. This was...beneath her, perhaps she saw it as beneath her to lecture a strange, an outsider, about his responsibility. It was understandable.

"I want to know your story."

[Elhaym]

Pain pursed her lips as the young man began to explain, her eyes darting from his horse to the cat that seemed intent on burying itself within the folds of his clothes. Her face went slack when he began to stutter a response, and his eyes seemed unwilling to meet her own. Pain let out a small sigh as she relaxed her stance, clasping her hands in front of her in a slightly more affable position. She needed to keep her personal irritation out of her dealings with civilians if she were to become a Shinya. After all, it wasn't a big thing. Simply informing a man of a small wrong doing and seeking to correct it, not as if she had been asked to mediate a heated argument over coin.

She even managed to maintain her composure when he demanded something of her in return for doing as she had asked. He seemed to recognize the uniform, but if he wasn't truly aware of what was expected of him, lashing out would do no good. She motioned with arms, back towards the area Wrenmae had come. As she did so the sleeve to her robes slipped back, revealed the length of her forearm. Whatever lithe qualities her hands may have held, the hardened muscle of her arm shattered the notion of daintiness. She was a warrior if there ever had been one in Lhavit.

"My story? I've no time for stories." Pain said, but her words didn't carry the bite that one would have expected. In fact, her speech was smooth, as if her mentor Kota had spoken them rather than her. Much had changed since her days in Syliras. She took a step forward, leaning in to Wrenmae. "The Shinya do not fraternize with civilians while we are in uniform. Listen, I have to get this taken care of before I can relax for the evening... just, go get this cleaned up. If you swear to me you will, I'll come back in a bell and you can have your stories. There's things I need to take care of in the Surya Plaza anyhow." Pain said in hushed tones.

It was true, in a sense. She had needed to stop and have a talk with Anya at the Touch of Fire about honing one of the swords she had been given by the Sanim, as well as a few other things she was interested in there. Not only that, but she had broken three of Kota's pots in their new home, and they needed replacing. In a sense it may have seemed odd that Pain would openly offer to spend time with a perfect stranger, but she was confident that she could take care of herself, and in truth sometimes longed to speak with someone who was at times as lost in the glory of Lhavit as she. Everyone whom she spoke to of the wonder of the city acted as though she were a child, but Pain knew they simply took it for granted. Plus, she did have a few interesting stories to tell, though a little bloody.

"It's back up that way, where you see the sign hanging down with the red and gold letters? Yes, right there. There should be a young man there with a broom and a bucket of water for you, dressed like me. Get that done, and like I said i'll be back in one bell."

Pain nodded, and turned to leave. She trusted the foreigner to do as she had asked, though she would likely take his place on the ground scrubbing if he decided to flee his responsibility to Lhavit. Even if that responsibility was scrubbing horse droppings off the grounds.

"Oh, hey. If you finish early, I like hot tea. Just saying." Pain said as she looked over her shoulder. With a final nod, she stomped her way back through the crowds. Wrenmae would hear the stifled cries of those who chose to ignore her and were pushed aside fading slowly into the rhythm of Lhavit's nightlife.

[Wrenmae]

Withdrawing fangs from her words, the Lhatvian seemed to relax. For an instant there was weakness, the sort of wistful reflection Wrenmae would dare not say aloud. There was no questioning her ability, the poise of her form and the lithe motions of each minute movement spoke degrees of rigid training. But there was more than force behind the woman, more a softness pushing against the barriers of skin and bone to glint lightly in her eyes and the relaxation of her finger muscles. Wrenmae was no expert on people, a child in the raw sense of the world, but he sensed an acceptance. Whether she was moved by pity for such a simple request, interest, or a curious sense of duty was an unknown factor, almost irrelevant.

"One bell, yes, of course." The words in his head somehow sounded smoother than when he uttered them, as though his tongue had splintered them with fine thorns. He swallowed and tried again, bowing even as she turned from him down a street of crowded guests, "Thank you for humoring my request."

Leaving his horse to watch the storyteller's progress blearily, Wrenmae stepped into a river of flesh and cloth with as much grace as he could muster. How the Lhatvian managed to struggle her way through these single-minded figures was beyond the boy, dancing step by step between moving bodies and throwing both stomach and hips wide and around to avoid being trampled. In a certain sense, survival became the art of moving...shifting with the weight of larger people and quickly taking advantage of smaller gaps. He was a squirrel, a mouse, a rabbit leaping through fens and tall grasses trying to keep from being eaten alive by the environment. It was dark, it was loud, had he fallen it may have been an embarrassing way to end a coming of age journey.

With deft footwork and a noticeable stumble burying him headlong into a rather irate merchant's stomach, Wrenmae reached his destination and smiled sheepishly at the Viraya with the bucket.

By now the horse dung had been smeared, clung and trailed to the feet of many uncaring passers. The people moved by, giving it only the briefest berth although the smell touched the air with a paralyzing odor.

The Viraya pointed out the defecation, his face set in stone. How many others had been pulled away to take care of this? How many times, more likely, had this same acolyte been forced to clean the result of their carelessness? There was brief sympathy between them, eye contact and a frown matched only by Wrenmae's loose smile. Through that link he sent a shiver, the barest hint of optimism in the form of hypnotism. Ordinarily Wrenmae saved his abilities for jobs or when he was truly facing some heated adversity, and without a doubt if discovered he might be doing more than scrubbing a dangerous path. But there was a weariness in the Viraya's eyes that touched Wrenmae, at least briefly. It was a brush of under appreciation, a city open to outsiders who took its soaring spires and artwork for granted.

"Worry not," Wrenmae reinforced, magic sifting through his words like sweet honey, "I will not leave a mess for you to clean, the fault is mine to bare."

The Viraya blinked, maintaining his stony visage but nodding almost appreciatively to the foreigner. At the time the man could not quite put his finger on what he trusted about the lanky child, there were hundreds like him in the rest of the visitors, but his words seemed almost truer...in a certain sense.

Taking the bucket and mop, Wrenmae faced the crowd again. Eyes narrowed he held out the end of the mop like a jousting lance, ferrying the crowd around him as he pushed past the bustle.

Hands and knees he scrubbed, ignoring the chuckles of those passing beside him. Theirs were the tone of cool satisfaction. For every persecuted soul, five escaped punishment. Holding themselves in high import, it was doubtful they considered Wrenmae a brother in status. He was servant, scrubbing dung from the stones in an effort to break the grime of travel hard-clung to their shapes.

Nearly half an hour of scrubbing passed before Wrenmae was satisfied, slinking back toward the Viraya and returning the bucket and mop. Bowing sheepishly and apologizing again, sending another wave of practiced optimism through his words, Wrenmae scuttled back toward his horse with the care and speed of a spider.

Pausing only briefly, currency exchanged for two cups of hot tea, Wrenmae was soon beside the irritable Weaver and the sleeping Ket. Kneeling on the road, placing one cup to a quieter side, he placed the other just in front of his own lap.

He left his book in the saddlebag, content to listen for now and transcribe details later. Watching, eyes level with the swinging hands floating by him, Wrenmae focused on the memory of her eyes, cold and dark with light brimming beneath a rigid surface. Smiling to himself he breathed in deeply, suffusing his lungs with night air.

Tonight was a night worth breathing for.

[Elhaym]

With that business all taken care of, Pain made her way back to the Shinyama Monastary without much trouble. It was only upon entering Kota's home - her home - that her plans changed ever so slightly. Kota lounged in the main living space of his home, clutching a cloth bound book of some sort but peering at Pain as she entered. When she announced that she had a few things to take care of in the Surya Plaza, he thought of it so far as to wish her well and continue her reading. When she mentioned she had met a young man who she would be meeting for tea and to swap a few stories, Kota lurched to his feet and disappeared into their bedroom.

When he emerged, he was dressed in a collared shirt of wool, a pair of long black pants and a matching set of fine boots. Not typical Lhavitian styling, but Pain had mentioned that he looked good in them when a trader had sold them in the Plaza and he begrudgingly had purchased the set. He'd never so much as looked at the eastern style clothes save tonight. Pain had to hold back her grin as she too changed out of her Acolyte's robes, donning instead a simple black dress and a pair of gleaming black high heels. Whatever plans Kota had in mind for the evening were moot; he seemed intent on accompanying her this night. Better yet, Tanny had stirred and seemed inclined to venture out. With their hands clasped, Pain and Kota made their way back down to the city with Tanny tugging on the leash in front of them.

It took same effort, but Pain managed to lead her band through the crowds until she spotted Wrenmae's familiar form. More so did she remember the horse, as there weren't terribly many horses making their way around in Lhavit. Most seemed to have trouble getting them to the city in the first place, it seemed.

"Hey!" Pain shouted, her face bright in the presence of her lover and beloved pet. It was a different face he saw this time, hair let down and body relaxed. The gruffness seemed to have washed away from her. "I'm sorry, it took a bit longer than a bell. I had some stragglers who decided to come with me." She said, motioning to Kota and down to Tanny, who waited by her foot.

"This is Kota, my... err, well, and this is Tanny." Pain said, stuttering a bit over what title Kota would have in regard to their relationship. This seemed to pull a grin across his face, and he quickly draped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her a bit closer. "Oh gods, I forgot. I never even asked your name before, much less gave you mine. I'm Elhaym."

Kota and Pain both separated momentarily to bow towards Wrenmae, giving him time to introduce himself and bow back if he so inclined. Pain had explained to Kota that sometimes men from the east shook hands, or clasped each others forearms in greeting. If that were the case, he would respond in kind. Tanny seemed to have caught scent of something, and gingerly trotted towards Wrenmae's horse. There, he felt intent to curl up somewhere in the middle of everyone, though his nose was working. He smelled the cat, with whom he most likely wanted to play with or at least snuggle up with. Tanny was too old to bother with chases, after all.

"So, I hear you're interested in stories." Kota spoke up, odd in that despite his eastern clothes his Common was accented where Pain's was not. "I don't suppose you yourself are a storyteller? I had planned to spend the night reading, but hearing a good tale is just as good."

With that, Pain and Kota took places near Wrenmae and eased into a comfortable position. They were in a bit of a nook away from the main foot traffic of the road, and wouldn't be a bother to anyone. Pain reached out and took the tea Wrenmae had provided, taking a small sip as she awaited the debut of his skill.

[Wrenmae]

People change throughout the years, faces gaining weight against bones and sagging, or growing smaller with wrinkles. Some aged gracefully, some...not so much, but no being remained static forever. Without change, no one could grow. Most expect that it is the mind that bears the weight of life, growing to accommodate experience. In reality, the mind is only a small part of what changes. The body responds to the world around it in astounding ways. Men hardened by years of travel can lose their callouses with a few months living easy on land, and the soft man grows hard during a year at sea. Emotions play merry with the body as well, opening doorways in eyes to the hidden worlds beneath and transforming the merciless tyrant into a blubbering father in the presence of his children.

People were remarkable, regardless the race. So many stories, so many tales woven into each wrinkle or scar. It was unfathomable. Each man and woman, each thinking being was years of a story bound tightly within a finite space. The Shinya returned, a bit longer than she had promised, but the boy wasn't going to fault her. She was smiling now, her hair loose and transforming the irate warrior before into a softer woman, a lighter woman. Remarkable. At her side was another Lhatvian, a man with an easy smile and light eyes. They walked in unconscious tandem, Pain almost instinctively shifting him from oncoming merchants and travelers with the grace of a native. At their side plodded an older dog, tongue lolling sideways in a perpetual grin. His step, to, was light and almost bouncing. There was care in his healthy fur and tired energy, the sort of care Wrenmae worked into his own companions.

Everyone changes...defenses go down, doors open, and those solid in grim-face before would show their weaker side.

Strange that the world seemed to associate happieness with weakness.

Wrenmae nodded to the couple with a short bow, inviting them to sit. Weaver eyed the strangers with the same innate distrust he directed at everyone. Turning away the corona of soft light glancing from his fur, the horse nickered. Somehow its defecation had been turned around on it and lightened its rider's evening. Irate and tired, the horse pushed its head against the stone wall, as if willing it to collapse on them all in some ironic death of sudden revenge.

Ket, the curious feline she was, peeked over the horse at the dog beneath her. Idly curious, she cocked her head and balanced a precarious watch on the canine. When Tanny made no effort to snarl or bark, Ket leaped from Weaver's back and landed gingerly beside the dog. The two regarded each other, long histories of stereotypical race wars between them. Finally, Ket rubbed her tawny head against the dog and laid down, inviting Tanny to do the same.

Ket, always a Lady of first impressions.

Wrenmae grinned, pushing the cup of his own tea toward Kota. "If I had known you were bringing guests I would have spent more money, please, take my own tea...my stomach hasn't adjusted to it yet so I'll stay cooler water." Reaching up into a saddlebag, Wrenmae wrenched free a skin of water and drank deeply. Setting it aside he regarded the both of them with equal curiosity. "My name is Wrenmae, from Alvadas, a pleasure to meet you both."

Taking a moment to let Kota and Elhaym enjoy the tea, Wrenmae pondered on what story to tell, what tale to weave. He wasn't well traveled, knowing only a handful of stories from the merchants in Alvadas and a few more from the superstitious travelers within the Kalea ranges. Few seemed appropriate for the occasion, save the one he was perfecting for the festival of stories.

"I cannot say my stories are the best," he answered shyly, averting his eyes despite himself, "Most are superstitions and ghost stories for the open road and smaller fires, if you are still interested however, I would be happy to recount a few."

So young in the world, Wrenmae was eager to make friends...connections, as he knew them, chapters for a tale of his own. While his initial goal had been to set out in earnest and tell the greatest story, he was far from such a lofty ideal. Instead he practiced with tales of imagination and legend, easier to hold the attention of bored travelers than a Shinya guard and her...interest, both likely grown on the fantastic stories in Lhavit.

Still, there was a charged aura to the air, a sort of hushed expectation of connection the boy could not yet touch or feel tangibly. It was potential, the beginnings of his own personal tale, stirrings of ripples across the collected pond of sentient experience.

[Elhaym]

Pain raised an eyebrow at the mention of Wrenmae's hometown. She'd been through Alvadas, an experience she wouldn't duplicate unless she was forced. To Pain's surprise, Kota spoke up before she could.

"I imagine you do have a few tales Wrenmae of Alvadas, but El here has a story that might be of interest to you. Tell him about the Azure Lady, El." Kota said, taking small sips of the tea he had graciously taken from the foreigner after he finished speaking.

"Kota, he was going to tell a story first. That was rude!" Pain snapped, but turned her head back to Wrenmae with a lopsided smile that seemed to have already forgotten her brief flash of irritation. Kota threw his hands in the air, smiling from ear to ear.

"I'm sorry, Wrenmae from Alvadas. It was rude of me to interrupt you. Still, her story is interesting. Won't you hear it?" Kota said, easing back into a more comfortable position. Unbeknown to Wrenmae, he too was a member of the Shinya order, and a fully initiated one at that. He was at least ten years Wrenmae's senior, if not a bit more. His face only betrayed his age around his eyes and lips, where the faintest of wrinkles could be seen when he laughed.

"Alright, well. I'm not very good at telling stories, so bare with me here. Erm... okay, it started with what was supposedly free passage from Syliras to Alvadas. Should have known that was a crock, right?" Pain said, lowering her tea to her side and talking with her hands as much as her mouth. She was no storyteller, and her method was not grandiose by any means. Where some could captivate with words, she spoke as if she were telling her neighbor about it.

"So, we walked down the docks to the awaiting ship. Me and four others gathered there, though come to think of it the odd one who wore all the make up... never saw him again. Hmm, that's kind of alarming..." Pain thought aloud, breaking down what momentum she had created when she thought of the man who'd called himself... Alfamino? Alcapino? She couldn't remember. "Anyhow, not one chime on board and these Alvadas Scholars are squawking at each other and us, and they go below deck. It was a big ship you know, the Azure Lady is what it was called. So anyhow, they stomp off inside all in a huff about something or other, and one of our little band follows them in. He was the scholarly sort, a bookish type. Well, I didn't have much to say to a couple squawking heads, so I set to looking around.

Pain stopped to clear her throat, and took a sip of tea. Her eyes darted to Kota, who urged her on with a nod. Wrenmae didn't seem to be asleep, though Tanny most certainly was. Maybe she wasn't doing too badly.

"I noticed straight away a face peeking from the Captain's cabin. The Captain himself was off ordering around the sailors, and I thought it odd. Something beckoned to me from there though. So I went in, me and Tanny. Damn stupid thing to do, walk straight into the Captain's quarters on a ship you've not been on five minutes. Gods, if I'd only known what I'd find in there. One of the others had followed me in, a street magician named Derric. He was a lanky man, not worth a lick in a fight, but I was glad to have him once the doors closed. A woman stood before us, pale as death and clothes in extravagant blue. I didn't know a thing about Alvadas other than it's spot on the map, and that I barely knew. When she started talking of illusions, plots, threads of fate..."

Pain broke off for a moment, her mind wandering and lost in that memory. Her face had contorted into something that resembled anxious fear. It would have taken the most ignorant of commoners to not understand that memory still shook her to the core.

"She offered us a drink, the both of us. Two vials, and wouldn't tell us what it was. Not a second after we drank she just vanished, and I did give some to poor Tanny there. The room began to flood. Real water, pouring from nowhere and everywhere at once. It tasted like the ocean, it felt cold and wet on my skin, and I knew I would die. Derric wasn't much help, stoic as he tried to be. It was Tanny who saved me though." Pain stammered along, giving her old sleeping dog a warm smile and a nod.

"Even when we were submerged, he just kept looking at me with that dog smile and wagging his tail, as if he wasn't underwater at all. Then it clicked; we weren't. Illusions, all of it. I swam down to the bottom, a damned weird thing to do considering I could breathe just fine. After a few seconds, we found a trap door that led below. When we went through, no water followed us. It was just a simple hallway in the ship."

The animal noises radiating from her own dog, Wrenmae's cat and his horse were the only backdrop to her story outside the ambient laughter of the night. It wasn't so grand. Pain grit her teeth together as she tried to figure out a way to tell the story better, but she couldn't. With a sigh, she continued.

"Well, in that hallway were three men. Huge men. If an Ox had given birth to human triplets, it would have been them. They didn't waste any time, pulling the whole 'You ain't goin' anywhere' routine. Derric managed to spit out a riddle, and that caught them off guard. Off guard enough to flicker out of our sight! More illusions, it was. Well, two of them were. The other one rushed me like a bull, and fought about as well. He got me good, broke my nose." Pain said with a wry smile, pressing against the bridge of her nose with a single finger. "I brought him down though, just knocked him out. When we got by that big oaf, we found a doorway that just... called to us. We opened it, and fell face first into a desert. A desert! Well, all of our friends were there, except that odd make up wearing fellow. Anyway, they stood over the limp body of one of those scrawny scholars from Alvadas, Curn was his name. Apparently it was all his doing, ehh... the woman from the Captain's cabin appeared too. Everything got strange then, asking us to... you know, I think you get the idea. We made it out, after all. Uhh..."

Pain didn't want to go any further, and didn't know if she could anyway. Just telling that story in full had brought back terrifying memories. Her last breath of air before being engulfed in icy water, the feeling of a fist shattering her nose, hot sand sticking to her bloodied lips and the crimson smeared portrait of her brother all whirled in her head.

"That's... that's enough from me. What about it Wrenmae, maybe you can tell something a little more interesting." Pain said absently. Kota reached for her, placing a gentle arm around her shoulder. He knew what was in her mind, and sought to bring her out of it.

"Indeed, Wrenmae. An Alvadas man such as yourself might not find that story as odd as many others would. Tell us a tale young man, and don't worry about the quality of it. El and I, we aren't exactly connaisseiurs of the art of spoken words." Kota said with a smile, bringing Pain's cup of hot tea to her lips for a drink. Her eyes seemed lost in themselves. Maybe a good story could draw her back from the memories.

[Wrenmae]

There was power in words, a sort of marked enchantment soaring through ears and caressing the mind. Wrenmae sat, quietly, enraptured, as Elhaym spun her halting story. The words were marked by personal pain, the maintained memories of misfortune. Still, Wrenmae nodded along as Elhaym continued speaking. Weaver leaned in, his brown eyes strangely contemplative. Perhaps by conditioning and a talkative master the horse had learned to listen, but it silenced its heavy breathing midway through Elhaym's story...an animal respect from the mischievous soul. Ket and Tanny pressed off-color fur against each other, warmed by the proximity of bodies and the words themselves. If Tanny remembered the events of the story, he seemed to make no show of its disturbing effect.

The boy was stock still, his eyes different now. They were open, almost too wide, as though he were swallowing the words with his vision and memorizing the shapes of her mouth, the texture of her syllables. His body was still, death-quiet, ever nerve suspended for the duration of tale. A religious fanfare could have pierced the din of the marketplace and Wrenmae would not have blinked an eye.

When she finished, he blinked and held his eyes closed for a few moments. When he opened them it was the boy again, not the listener. An easy smile found its way to his rough face and he nodded at Kota's suggestion. Elhaym was a new friend and making her revisit painful memories was not his intended purpose.

Alvadas...city of illusions, city of stories. What else happened to her, what had she seen?

Worst yet...what hadn't she seen that she should have?

Clearing his throat, Wrenmae took another swig of water. He did not stand for this presentation, opting instead to sub out dramatics for the more private audience. Idly his mind rode over the possibilities, putting pieces together. Finally, he spoke, his voice a strange lurid tone filling the empty spaces between them like a rushing wind...

Or a roaring river.

"There was a man born to the mountains, a child of stone and granite. His parents taught him to respect the peaks around him and the secret paths of goats and spiders, how to climb the tallest peaks without injury. The boy grew in this knowledge, and with each peak he crested he felt closer to a higher power...a God, the afterlife, transcendence...a different state of being." Pausing, Wrenmae shifted his gaze from Elhaym to Kota, marking their expressions. He did not smile, did not frown. His expression was the neutral ground between joy and sadness, a plateau of unbiased understanding. "As he grew, the boy climbed more and more, challenging the Unforgiving around him with only a burning candle and the thud of his climbing pick. He became a hulking man of peerless talent, no surface too difficult to scale or conquer. The Mountains grew uneasy with his success, fearing his exploits would invite more to try their peaks and conquer their slopes. To them, mankind was a fledgeling race of animals, nothing more, but their pride was disconcerting. It was not until the Mountains spoke, their voices a rumbling groan across the earth, that they settled on a way to rid themselves of the arrogant human. They called to their sister, Sky, and asked of her a favor...and she agreed."

Wrenmae sat back, planting both hands on the ground, almost listening for the mountain distantly speaking the story to him, whispering to his bones.

"They spoke to the man, the king of their slopes and peaks, and told him of a mountain he had not yet touched, a mountain none had dared to touch...that he would never reach. Ever confident, the man accepted their challenge. Upon the last word, Sky brought a mountain of clouds, dark and imposing, from every corner of the realm and piled them to an impossible height. There, she said to the man, her voice echoing through every breeze, is your mountain. You see, the Mountains had tricked the man. The kingdom of clouds has no height, no peak, or at least one far beyond the years of man to reach. The man was caught, stuck in his challenge to the Mountains...but he was born of rock and stone, bred to climb, and he vowed to reach the top no matter the length. Armed with pick and candle he ascended into the sky, driving the pointed blade into the first shelf of cloudrock to begin ascent. The cloud cried in pain, its tears showering the Mountains and they begged the man to stop. But the Climber would not be deturred, not be defeated. He continued climbing and climbs to this day, his bones animated by a challenge accepted upon the earth itself to reach the peak of clouds."

Wrenmae smiled, pointing up at the dark sky, as though indicating the man himself. "Whenever you see a storm, you can still feel the blood of the clouds, the thunderous strike of his pick, and the sparks of his guttering candle falling toward the earth...but whether he will ever reach the top? Who can know?"

Finishing the story, Wrenmae sat back and smiled, nodding to Kota. "Have you a tale to share as well?"

[Elhaym]

"That I do." Kota said with a wry grin, "Though I also don't have a way with words as you do. Actually, this is a work in progress of sorts…"

"I liked it, Wrenmae!" Elhaym said with a glimmer of a smile. Apparently his story had been enough to draw her from the sudden bleakness that had overtaken her. She turned her head to Kota, who cleared his throat as if readying himself for a speech to his students. She couldn't imagine he had any stories that weren't designed to scare an Acolyte into doing what he wanted.

"It began with a birth, as many stories do. A crying child, shrieking without inhibition and terrified at the new world it had been thrust into. Yet this child was different. It was born far from home, far from where it's destiny lay. Only the gods can say why this child's mother was taken when it was born, but such is not to be question be mortal men. Dira's loving caress found the child's mother soon after she gave birth, and whisked her away. It was not easy growing up without a mother. What role model could a young woman take without a mother? Ah, but she was not alone in the world. She had a brother, a beacon of light to look to. He would raise her as much as any parent could, even being a child himself. Love bloomed, a bond harder than steel and unshakable as a mountain."

Elhaym fumbled with her cup, staring at Kota with apprehension. She knew this story too well. It was her life. He was sharing her past with a stranger? Then again, it wasn't so bad. She had only come to terms with what had happened in her life when she faced it, and compared to some of the things the other people she had come to meet had experienced it seemed less earthshaking. Yet it was still her own struggle, and it would never matter less than anyone elses.

"The girl grew into a young woman, but even her brother could not stop her from emulating all the wrong traits the men in her life had to offer. She was rowdy, spirited, and loved to fight. Old Lhex laughed in the face of her brother and father as they slowly began to realize she was good at it. Such potential, but the girl's father shut her out. He wouldn't teach her his trade, the warrior's trade. Her brother learned every day, yet she did not. Why! Why!? She spent days, weeks in a fury. She watched them in secret, mimicked what she could catch and tried to teach herself. Her brother's willpower could only stretch so far, and soon he taught her what he had learned in secret. A father's wishes cast aside like so much rubbish."

Elhaym was shaking her head, but Kota gave her a firm look. For some reason, he wanted Wrenmae to hear this story.

"Life went on like that, and the girl slowly found herself happy. She was content, studying with her brother. Oh, it wasn't all fighting. Her brother actually detested the idea of being a warrior himself. He had dreamed of being a painter, filling the grand halls of rich merchant's manors with his work. He could only live those dreams in his mind, or out with his sister when they would practice their art. It would be one of the worst thoughts in the back of that young girl's mind, thinking that maybe if she hadn't stolen her brother away to paint so often that perhaps he would have become more skill in the way of the sword. In the end, such thoughts were trivial. His first venture out with his… no, their bounty hunter father ended in tragedy. Her brother came back with a sword lain across his chest and eyes closed for eternity."

"She wept. She wept, and raged, and screamed. Her father would tell her nothing. He stood motionless while she beat him, hit him with everything her small fists could muster. For years this went, until those small fists had become too big to handle. That young girl had become a young woman, and her anger had kept her from relenting her training in art. The only difference was that she no longer trained her skill in the visual art. Every day, she practiced the art of war. Her father could stand the sight of his daughter living this way no longer, and he left. Business, he claimed. She knew he was avoiding her. And so it was, she also left. A burning sunrise that rivaled any of memory greeted her that morning. She knew something had shifted in her life when she walked away, but she strove onwards. Of course, several years filled what is only the next few words between you and me, but all in all they were unimportant. Struggling with her abandonment, the girl built some semblance of a life. Until one day as if he had dropped from the sky above, her father sat in her rented room when she returned from her menial job."

Elhaym sighed, and looked at Wrenmae. Who could want to sit through this? Had he figured out that it was her life Kota was laying out so neatly in front of him? It was slightly unnerving, but in a way it was empowering. She had nothing to be ashamed of anymore.

"Her father was an old man now, and he knew he had made mistakes in his life. Yet, as he began to explain himself his daughter's anger folded. She could not believe her ears. For all those years he had hid secrets from her, but his rational was not born from spite as she had thought. No, he had done so to protect her. To reveal the truth was to send his daughter to her grave, and she was not ready. Her brother had been murdered, and his life had been consumed finding the killer. He had failed, and now sat crippled before her. Yet he knew she was ready now, and could handle the truth. She could handle the responsibility of her brother's memory, and master her own fate. He told her all he knew of the killer, this Crow, and sent her on her way. The father and daughter reconciled, of course. It was a good way to renew their relationship, but their time was short. She set sail with fate guiding her way."

Kota cleared his throat, noting that the whole story had taken a little longer than he had thought it would. "Well, Wrenmae… that is the prologue, so to speak. Of course, chapter one could come any day now... you just never know."

Kota glanced at Elhaym, who simply shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. It was a bit of an awkward silence, but at last Elhaym broke it.

"That story is rubbish, anyway. Wrenmae, I know you can do better than Kota boring us to death. Come on, do you know any funny ones? Maybe about that horse of yours, or some fool you've met. Anything's better than that."