Private Tales A hunter in the streets

[Wren]

Wren watched him, unimpressed with the show, and heaved a sigh heavy with irritation. He was really laying it on thick wasn't he? Just trying to find some new way to get under her skin, make them late. The whole playing with chagrin was getting old. How was she supposed-

The train of thought collided with the sight of the book as it flopped out of his hand and onto the edge of the roadway. She blinked, turning a narrowed gaze from it to the man. Wren dismounted and looped her rains over the branch of a nearby bush, heels pivoting over stone as she moved to pick up the discarded journal.

"Bury you?"

The fuck was he playing at? But the more she watched, the more she noticed slight changes taking over him. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. A sensation in her chest like a shard of metal growing hot. What was happening? Wren's gaze dropped to the book in her hand and quickly began to piece things together. Hastily she unwound the leather strings and pulled it open, sifting through the first chapter for information on their kind. Vedymin.

Bury ... bury ... bury. Burial. His hand writing wasn't the easiest to read, but as her eyes skimmed they lost their sheen of bitterness. "Gods above..." the book was promptly shoved into a saddlebag and fingers moved next to work open the latch of her travel cloak. A moment later she threw it over top of him to shield him from the sun and turned to look around their surroundings. Shale and stone - there was nowhere here she could bury him. But if she remembered through should be a small town up ahead called Larkton. Rainer had said something about orchards and Elbion. Where there were orchards, there was fertile ground. Fertile ground was easy to dig.

She turned back to him, lips drawn in a thin line as she bent to wrap her arms around his middle, "Hold on, just hold on." Flinging him sideways over the horse was going to be the easiest task of the morning, she could tell.

 

[Rainer]

He would have recalled waxing poetic when it came to the meager reaches of Larkton, drinking some stale vintage sitting across a table with Wren. It had likely been some night or another. The battle had been hard, no doubt, and they were topping off a blood meal with some souring brew that the inn was passing off refinement or unique regional craft.

Sweet Viez was what the locals called it. An odd name for a parish but one given affectionately due to the creation of a spectacular apple wine. They weren't particularly keen on calling it cider, given to the ubiquitous nature of the beverage. In fact, Rainer had found that as he neared the territory, the locals found insult in misspeaking about the sweet viez.

They even used the beverage for their holy hours, communions, and offerings. It was no surprise that they would pass Larkton, namely for the fact that it sat at one quarter the distance between Elbion and the occult town along the coast. And if Rainer were cognizant of her intentions or surroundings, he might have told her to push on and find somewhere else.

The people were kindhearted but pretentious, embroiled in the teachings of God. And he had had enough religion to last him at least a week. Maybe longer.

"Uhhh…" He let out a groan as she tossed him across the saddle of the horse, like a satchel filled with metal dishes and tenderized meat. His world was skewed beneath the veil of the traveler's cloak. Everything was dulled and darkened and the pain around his chest was only intensifying. As his breath turned ragged, he wondered through the panicked fog of his current predicament on how exactly he could have calculated the timing so poorly.

Her words were hazy, like something spoken deep beneath the sea. Fear overtook him as drifted in and out of consciousness.

 

[Wren]

The afternoon was gone so quickly. Before Wren knew it she was glancing back at the setting sun falling from the skies between the branches of the orchard trees. The horses were off eating fallen apples, she'd stolen a shovel from a small orchard barn upon their arrival, and Rainer lay on the ground just a few feet away, obscured from the light by her cloak.

A frantic pass through the chapter on Vedymin didn't reveal much other than the requirement for a burial every few months. Sun Stroke could prove fatal - it was imperative to recognize the signs of the onset. Had he missed them? Why hadn't he mentioned anything to her about this? There were no notes on how long one had before the ailment struck to find a place beneath the earth. What if she hadn't been there? He would have died on the side of that road in the bushes, shriveled and charred.

The thought made her sick.

Digging a hole in the ground had never been so easy before. Wren had buried plenty of friends in her lifetime, though she couldn't remember them all. But the earth relented without protest beneath the spade and her strength. By the time she figured it was deep enough the sun was nearly set. Heart growing heavy, lungs stinging from anticipation, Wren climbed from the hole and knelt down by his withering figure. Her arms scooped beneath him and as she lifted him from the ground she couldn't help but think he felt lighter somehow despite his size.

He just barely fit.

Beginning the arduous task of covering him with loose soil, every shovel-full added to the weight on her heart. Heavier and heavier, growing painful. Clenching tightly, stuttering in its beat, the woman bit back a sudden surge of tears. The ache was undeniable. With the last bit of dirt she collapsed to one knee, dry-sobbing. What was this overwhelming anxiety? Where was the warmth she'd felt from their connection?

Wren felt nothing but cold stillness in its place.

Had he died? Was she too late?

In a fit of emotion she threw the shovel aside and it sailed like a javelin into a tree, spearing it halfway through. She couldn't stay here. Had to leave.

 

[Rainer]

The orchard was filled with open swathes of land, finely manicured rows of apple trees of various sizes. Some were kept tall and wide branching while others were held up by wooden stilts, tied tightly with twine. Given the location, strong wind storms filled with ocean water were fairly common. Some would argue that it it was what gave the sweet viez it's particular flavor. Others would argue that it was the peculiar nature of the soil, the soft fibrous accumulation and high nutrient content.

Whatever it was, it remained a unique location. One that stood at a tempest while remaining of soft earth. One that might have helped Wren in burying her sire.

His consciousness faded in and out, like a flame struggling with every ounce of effort to stay lit amidst a strong gust. Vivid memories filled his mind. Memories that he understood, tied to various hunts before and after meeting Wren. Memories that he didn't understand, like the billowing of smoke and the way ocean spray felt against his face. Cool and soothing. And then memories that were beyond his comprehension, detailing feelings of a touch in a spring and the feelings of loss amidst the flooded waters.

His consciousness returned to the beat of a drum and the turning of the sky from blotted into entirely covered. Strength was fleeting and his breath was ragged, but it was there. He felt it hot against his face, stifled by the cloak. His voice was hoarse and failing as he tried to open up, to tell Wren that he didn't need to be buried entirely. It just took the majority of his body.

Panicking, he writhed in the cloak as the world grew far too dark for comfort. Grinding his teeth, he put everything he had into a single punch as his hand erupted from the soil. With no comprehension of time, he had no idea how long had passed since Elbion and now. Or whether Wren was still there. He could barely feel her, like she was miles away.

 

[Wren]

Larkton proper wasn't a terrible place to land and only a few miles up the road from the orchards. She'd taken the coin off him and kept the book on her person. The stables hadn't any room, but there was an open paddock for the horses to rest in and a small, empty farm cottage for herself.

Hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. The ache in her chest had only gotten worse the farther away she traveled. Felt like being stabbed. Like her lungs just couldn't keep the air in them. Couldn't catch her breath.

She'd always liked churches ... rather, places of communion and faith. They didn't call them churches in Loriden, but somehow she still likened them all the same. The townsfolk weren't particularly warm, but they weren't unwelcoming either. A gracious welcome to the church as she entered, but the people kept their distance.

Wren chose a seat towards the front where she quietly pricked her thumb on the tip of a dagger and painted on the symbol of her people's faith at her forehead, just over the third eye. She hadn't any capacity to know just how long it had been since she'd prayed to her mother's gods, but it was time to get reacquainted. Time to sit and find peace.

 

[Rainer]

Rainer clawed at the earth, struggling with every ounce of strength he had. There was no grass to be felt and even the soil that clearly hadn't been disturbed was soft and entirely useless for leverage. Writhing and wriggling his shoulders, he continued to pry as he shifted himself upwards. Relief came as fresh air crossed the travelers cloak. With a good deal of struggling, he unearthed the cloak enough to breath in the fresh air around him.

Bronze orbs scanned the dark horizon through various stages of canopy. Apple and aldehydes were fresh in the air, filling every noticeable scent for miles. It all came back to him as he recalled discussion of a specific orchard between Elbion and the coast.

He jumped, as much as someone nearly paralyzed by earth and weakness could, as a field mouse crept up and crawled across his face. "Fuck..."

It made it's way up his nose, nails sharp and poking. As it crawled across his mouth, it sat up on Rain's nose and looked the man in the eye. "Don't...imagine you could get off me-" A flash of white showed in the distance before the mouse screeched, pulling at Rains nose before lifting off. Contained within the claws of a barn owl, the bird pounced on the ground and killed the mouse.

"Fuck me!" He yelled as he turned his head, response time intensely delayed. Convinced it was over, he opened his eyes and looked left. Then right. Yellow eyes looked back as the owl knelt over and ripped at the mouses stomach, pulling at the hair. "...thanks."

 

[Wren]

It seemed to be working.

Finding peace, or whatever. Slowly but surely with her hands wrapped together and her forehead pressed against them, those age-old prayers she'd memorized as a child eased the ache in her chest.

Her people were said to have notoriously strong memories. Their treasure and wealth was in the lifetimes they kept within their minds and fed into their culture. Something she felt resentful of with her own ailing memory. Images of her childhood were hazy at best, though she could recall the face of her mother very well indeed. Sometimes she dreamt about her.

Dark hair, dark eyes, star-kissed skin, and the strongest hands she could recall. Hands that held a sword with natural confidence. Hands that braided her wheaten hair. Hands that brushed away tears of a broken heart. Hands that exacted a mother's revenge and yet embraced her with firm warmth.

Warm hands.

Wren made a noise in her silent prayer, uncurling a hand of her own to rub at the metal armor over her heart where the ache persisted, though lessened.

 

[Rainer]

He let out a whistle, the sort that was sure to call his horse if it was close by. He fed the thing well, saddled it proper, and did his best to not kick to hard when riding. Admittedly, when the chase got hot, the horse had to be kicked out of that trot. But he was kind to the beast and the years had been long, grey in the mane. He would have expected an ounce of loyalty. After all, for Wren this was a whole new world.

But for the horse? He had seen this show two times a year for the past ten. Rainer whistled again for good measure, feeling the strength come back to him. And the hunger.

He cursed under his lips, knowing that growl and the absence of a blood meal. It had been a day or maybe even two since the Alukrah. And Wren was nowhere to be seen. Smart, he thought. It was better to cut that cord sooner rather than later. Let the anticipation linger and it becomes worse than the act itself.

He shook his head and breathed a sigh of relief, despite himself. With strength came the hunger and with the hunger, came the comfort of her nearness. She wasn't far from this place, a few miles at most. A distant echo but an echo all the same.

He whistled again. "Come on you damn horse..." He growled, realizing he couldn't remember the beasts name. "Come on...uhh...horsey?"

 

[Wren]

"We do not see many elves come through Larkton," a Priest arrived, human and normal and nothing like the Priestess from the church in Elbion. Wren was silently grateful for this small favor from whatever higher power may be. She wasn't sure she could stand the pretentious vibes of another divine vassal tonight. Her mind was far too strung out.

He sat down in the pew with her, though left some space. If he was being cautious or simply respectful was hard enough to say without looking at him. Wren didn't look at him and she'd made an effort not to speak much since her arrival. The town assumed her burn scars effected her speech and she was plenty content with letting them believe whatever they needed to.

"The last came through very early in my life," the Priest set his hands gently on his thighs, looking upwards into the stained glass at the head of the church depicting scenes of a holy day, "He was quiet, like yourself, but darker of skin. His name was Draedamyr and I for the life of me do not know how I recall it."

Elves often made lasting impressions. Wren had never heard of this Draedamyr but from the sounds of it he may have done some good here. Enough for this elder man to remember his name.

"I remember he was peaceful, wise, but his eyes were strained with a quiet turmoil. What wars he'd faced in his own youth I imagine he still faced that day in his mind. What battles he must have fought in and witness, what wonders I thought he knew, and what more he would live to see still, far beyond my own days."

The Priest did not seem to mind that Wren was not responding to him. His hands had clasped lightly together in his lap as he smiled, "We had a very good harvest that year after he left. I don't imagine it had anything to do with his presence, but isn't that just something?"

 

[Rainer]

Rainer stretched. He stretched as he imagined himself a segment of hide, pulled taut while wet and left to dry. What he was reaching for was obvious for anyone who might have been watching. Too bad for that Owl that most of its brain space was used for its eyes and not much else. Otherwise, it would have perceived the Vedymin sneaking up on it.

Swipe

The Vedymin grabbed the owl by the neck and dragged it over to him, mouse still stuck in the talons. Gripping tight, he sunk his teeth deep into the owls chest. It let out a gasp and hoot before curling up in his hand. He made a silent promise to toss it in the grave after he vacated the ad hoc burial ground.

Once he was done with that, he made his way on to dinner number 2. Mouse a la carte.

 

[Wren]

"I suppose it's just the human in me, in all of us, wanting to attribute something good or bad to a power greater than we can know or comprehend. Perhaps it gives us hope," the Priest continued.

Wren finally looked over at him, giving the man a strained, quizzical stare. He glanced at her, his smile persisting, and rocked slightly where he sat.

"Oh, you know, that not everything is up to us. That we can," he gently cleared his throat, "pick and choose the things we wish to feel responsible for. It's too harsh a world for us to think that everything is our own doing. We're not magical people in Larkton, but it makes you wonder why magic chooses to appear some places and not in others."

 

[Rainer]

He finally managed to pull his other hand free from the earth. Feeling the warmth of the blood coursing down his throat, through his veins, he took to the graveyard pit like a man lounging in a tin bath full of sudsy hot water. Then it happened. The one thing that could ruin this whole ordeal beyond what it already was.

A light, indigo trails and pristine white gleams, sparking through the nights sky. The clap followed after, booming through the orchard and shaking a nearby tool shed. Rainer was feeling the strength come back to him, as well as his awareness, and he suddenly felt compelled to thank his lucky stars. Not because of the inclement rain, though drowning in his grave seemed oddly familiar to his moments in The Shallows.

He had no need to wretch. The mixing of blood like he had just done, with mouse and owl, was often a sure fire way to a stomach ache. And that was if he was lucky. Maybe it was the combination of factors or maybe it was the protection the earth provided. Whatever it was, he was grateful.

Leaning back, he rested the back of his head against the ground and started to wiggle his toes. And then the first drop hit his forehead.

 

[Wren]

The rumble of thunder was distant but it echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the church as if it were ten feet away. Wren wondered to the acoustics of the building, gaze traveling upwards to the arches.

The Priest made a noise of expectancy, pushing himself back to his feet, "A faint clap of thunder, clouded skies."
Wren looked to him, triggered into a distant memory.
"Perhaps rain will come. If so, will you stay here with me?" the Priest smiled.
"What?"
"It's a tanca," he replied.
Elven poetry. She knew it as well as she knew her mother's hands.
"Stay as long as you like. Time to light the candles."


It had started to rain by the time she had the horses saddled, the mare ponied to her mount. She left Larkton on the road, the shadow of the orchards on the hills before her.

 

[Rainer]

Larkton was hardly falling on hard times when it came to recent rain events. But as those farmers studied their gauges and consulted timeless almanacs, they would have come to terms that recent rain had been less than regular. The deficit had left the soil in prime position for reception, like giant swathes of absorbent sponges that swelled and gulped beneath the heavy rains.

Rainer had almost dozed off amidst the massaging pelts of the light rain. But when the thunder boomed once more, when the winds tugged and gusted so hard that the apple trees bent in reverence, burnt bronze opened up with a grimace.

"Gods be damned..." He winced as he gripped around. He could wiggle his toes, even curl his ankles, and the sensation of numbness was all but gone. A blessing and a curse, as the soil was soaking and drenched him to the bone. Water began forming in rivulets, eroded by the splash of fat rain, leading down into trenches that were carved out strategically between every other row of the orchard.

The drainage was truly quite impressive.

 

[Wren]

The journal had not been specific on a lot of things, especially not the burial portion. Something that struck her as off, considering how many burials he must have gone through himself if it had to happen every 4 - 6 months. It seemed to her, seething as she was, that this should have been one of the first things she'd have learned.

By the way, Wren, in about 5 months or so I'll need to put you in the dirt.

What the actual fuck, Rain.

The trees slowly came into view as she rounded the bend of the road following the flowing rolls of hills between meadow and pasture and crops. The rain was coming down harder now, a straight summer soaking on the way judging by the smell of it. Right now it was enough to slick her hair, armor, and the flanks of the horses. Soon she would likely be drenched to the bone.

If he was awake, she grit her teeth, and not already dug himself out then he was going to buy her a new travel cloak. A nice one.

 

[Rainer]

The rain had done the work on two fronts. First and foremost, the soft soil was made even softer with the drenching, moving in small ravines and erosional swales on top of him. But second, and far more importantly, it had made the Vedymin incredibly uncomfortable. The rain had soaked through the soil, completely saturated the cloak, and was dripping down through his clothing. He was nothing more than a soaking rag now, head plopped in a quickly forming puddle.

Kicking out like a man laid flat on a sheet of ice, making his way out of the frigid waters, Rainer propelled himself out of the pit with a bicycle motion of his legs. Slow and steady, he slowly unearthed his torso. Then his waist. Then he used his hands and kicked some earth skyward, grimacing in the act. He hated this part of the strain, more than anything else. He could take feeding on dead creatures, he could take abstinence from the light, hell he could even manage the very likely glares he would get from Wren about not being entirely forthcoming.

But pocks on the graveyards, pocks on the burial, and pocks and the drowning floods.

Rainer, now free of his self made and meager kurgan, came to a stand and blocked the rain across his brow as if it were a common ray of sunshine. Not entirely encumbered with his faculties, he dismissively dropped his shoulders and groaned. Leaning over, he grabbed the travelers cloak and wandered about until direction of the tool shed was clear. "Seems stable enough..." He muttered sarcastically. He decided it would have to do until the rain passed.

 

[Wren]

And so the summer soak came with a westerly wind, bringing in all manner of scents from distant lands that the humans of Larkton would never notice. Wren peered through it as she neared the fence of the orchard, dismounting to open the gate and lead the horses in to the cover of the trees. Her feet sank into mud and she recalled with some strange level of clarity that she'd always loved the rain but hated being caught in it with her armor. It made everything uncomfortable.

She tied her horse off to a low branch and made way in through the rows, counting them as she passed through. Rain's burial had been towards the back, in a corner of the orchard that looked as though it had been perhaps somewhat neglected. The trees there were older, maybe - the original plantings before Larkton had been fully established. Growing wild in the forest that had, many years ago, been cleared to make way for produce. A dozen rows back and she found the spade lodged into an unsuspecting tree - Wren made no effort to remove it.

Her eyes landed on the burial, now a disturbed and sunken patch of mud quickly becoming a Rainer sized puddle. What evidence of his departure had washed away, though there were signs that he'd climbed out. For one, she could not sense him there. Not even a little bit. Wren looked around, blinking water droplets from her lashes, a rumble of thunder and a flash to follow.

"Rain!" the irony of the name did not elude her, "RAIN!"

 

[Rainer]

The shed was a simple structure, built on a rock foundation with slats of properly hewn wood. Four sturdy walls, a floor of cold stone covered in straw, and an access door that descended into what the Vedymin could only assume was a cellar for apple storage or perhaps even viez. The place smelled of hay and aldehyde with various hanging herbs lining the northernmost wall. Sage, thyme, and rosemary were bundled up and drying in circlets of twine, hanging from a rafter.

Tools were strewn about as if used on a frequent basis. Saws and sycthes were strung against the walls and pinned with roofing nails, chattering against the wood with every gust of wind like some rustic form of wind chime. Pruning shears, loppers, and various hoes rattled against another wall. Some of the tools were greased and well kept while others showed curved dimples of rust, suggesting to the Vedymin that the keeper had favorites.

An old world sparrow had taken to nesting in the upper ceiling of the shed, lofted into a peak that was outwardly lined in mud and thatch. In greeting to the vampire intruder, the sparrow bounced angrily between two rafters that formed the cornered and hissed with a certain zeal.

"Alright, alright..." Rainer lifted his hands in feigned surrender as another clap of thunder drowned out any hope of hearing his companion in the rain. "I've had enough fowl for one evening, thank you." With his hands lifted, he bent over and slipped out of the drenched armor. The shirt came with it and after ringing it out with a sharp twist, he pinned both pieces of clothing to a set of free roofing nails.

A small wrought iron stove rested in the corner, with a flue vent twisting and exiting the ceiling from the opposite corner of the sparrow nest. However, that did not prevent ample curiosity as the bird made its way across the rafter. Watching intently with a crook of its head left and right, it furiously inspected the man as he made quick work of a whet stone, straw, and spare timber to get the fire going. Closing the door of the stove, he opened the flue vent and sat quietly in front of it.

 

[Wren]

Where the fuck was he?

No footsteps left behind in the swelling muck. No scent through the rain. Only the faintest, vaguest sense of presence - something Wren was still getting a handle on. She decided to head back, gather the horses, and get back to the farmhouse to dry off. Either he'd show up sometime through the night or tomorrow morning. Either way, it was clear he wasn't napping beneath the earth. Was hunger stronger afterwards? She couldn't recall if the journal mentioned anything and wasn't about to look in this downpour.

Wren turned and slowly trudged her way back up through the orchard, following the rows of trees towards the middle where they pulled the wagons through to collect the bushels. A raised road gained her better footing and a clearer vantage of her surroundings, even if it was growing ever darker and the rain ever heavier. She took a moment to peer through the gale, seeing if perhaps she might spy movement through the trees, but no such luck. Just the dance of branches in the winds and the flicker of firelight in the -

The hell?

Who in their right mind would be in the toolshed in this-

A growl resonated from within her chest.

You have got to be fucking kidding.


Several minutes later Rainer received a knock on the door of the toolshed. Should he open it he would find himself staring at one soaked and furious Wren. Should he stare too long (or more likely say something stupid) he'd be greeted with a fist to the face.

 

[Rainer]

The door groaned open, urged forward by her knocking and a sudden gale of wind, as if in reverence to the clear frustration and anger the woman felt. That anger had heralded her presence, sending out nearly palpable waves far prior to her rapping against the tool shed door. Rainer didn't stand up, knowing and recalling with a fairly confident certainty that the door had not been latched. Prior to entering or thereafter.

He remained seated, knees pressed against the stone and hay, as his feet rested just beneath his posterior. Seemingly hunched over, he paid his own form of prayer to the wrought oven and the coals sparking within the caged chamber. Making no sounds as she approached the shed, her presence becoming ever more apparent, the Vedymin exhaled and inhaled with obvious effort. Drops of rain plummeted rhythmically from the mid knot of his salt and peppered hair, still caked with mud, and coursed down the scars that detailed the contours of his back. His armor and shirt hung against roofing nails, and his boots rested just beneath them, sat atop strewn about tools that included pruning shears, a hammer missing its handle, and a particularly well worn hack saw.

His keen sense of smell and hearing had taken a turn skyward. He could hear her pulse, the oscillation as blood moved down the arteries and back up through the veins. Her hard and angry pulse was like a war drum, offering bass to an orchestra of sparrow heart flutters and the rattling of a soon to hatch brown egg. He could smell the sage and thyme, steaming in the ambient heat of the coals, and the mixture of thatch and hemp was intoxicating - to the point of disequilibrium. The blood of the owl had overwhelmed him and his eyes remained firmly shut, blocking the light from his dilated pupils. His prayer was for a quick passing of this onslaught.

Rainer made not effort to greet her or apologize because he did not know where to start. Having nowhere he start, he unceremoniously decided to simply not begin. He said nothing.

Silence and the amber crackling of coals were all the greeting she would receive. For now.

 

[Wren]

The silence was certainly a change of pace for the man, given the circumstances. Since knowing him he'd rarely passed up an opportunity to make a wise-ass crack, muttered just under his breath. Little smirks and private chuckles. Rainer truly must have found himself hilarious, which was good because someone had to.

A cracking of knuckles joint he chorus of fire from the little stove and Wren mentally stumbled at the sudden gust of warmth to greet her from within. It wasn't just the tactile heat of the stove brushing against rain-sodden cheeks, but that of his presence. Embitterment quelled suddenly by the unspoken greeting, the woman took a half step backward and braced a hand against the doorframe. A spattering of fresh rain at the back of her neck, dripping down from soaked wheaten strands to pool beneath slicked armor.

She remembered, suddenly, why she was here, and the anger flared back up again like a stubborn flame battling to stay alive on soppy kindling.

"Fuck, Rainer," was all she could manage, lifting her other hand to angrily wipe water from her face. Fingers itching for action reached into the leather pouch at her hip, withdrawing his journal and tossing it at him.

A sharp inhale through her nostrils followed as she forced herself to back off, cool off, recede into the rain again, head bowed over a frustrated snarl, "You owe me a new cloak," the accusing finger pointed at him before balling into a fist and then snatching at the door handle to yank it closed again.

"A nice one," he might hear from outside before she departed back through the orchard. Fuck these trees. Fuck this town. Fuck being a Vedymin. Fuck this rain. And especially fuck his goddamn, incomplete journal.

 

[Rainer]

He imagined that that was about as good as things could have gone, all things considered. He had effectively withheld a significant component of her new life, expected to affect her at least twice a year. Though by the looks of things, that could clearly vary. And rather than berating him over the lack of disclosure, something that would have likely included comments regarding a certain map, he got a few choice words. And a command for a cloak.

A cloak he could do.

What he couldn't have done was her voice, elevated any more than it had already been. The shear strain pressed an almost intolerable pain across the front of his head, spreading from temple to temple, that thudded as the door closed.

He exhaled and forced his veins to dilate, to push this feeling onward. Over and over again, through the heart, down the arteries, back through the veins. Rinse, repeat, and deplete. The rain was agonizing, like laying the innards of his ears across a platform and pelting them with nails, but began to dull. His eyes slitted open and he regained the power to control themselves, forcing the light out as he constricted in view of the oven.

It was all too much to feel her presence as he had in the spring though now, as the quiet came shuffling back in, he felt the tracing warmth and its departure.

"A cloak..." He uttered as he came to a stand, pulling his shirt on and clumsily pulling a boot on over each foot. The armor and cloak came after, though everything was still a bit damp.

It was a small bit of blood from the owl. While potent, the effect wasn't impressively lasting. "Wren, hold on!" He stated firmly as he opened the door, not realizing that time hadn't passed exactly as he had expected. She was gone. All he could do was follow in her tracks. So he did just that.

 

[Wren]

45 minutes.

Took the man 45 minutes to get his ass out the door. By then his companion was long gone, but he'd find his horse tethered to the main orchard gate. The mare looked particularly displeased with being left. Alone. In the rain. She was prancing and stomping, shaking her head and calling for Wren's mount who by now was far out of sight.

As a matter of fact Wren was just pulling the saddle off her horse and putting him back in the paddock where he turned with a snort and a buck before calling for the mare.

Tack set back in the barn, Wren made her way into the farmhouse, immediately beginning to pull wet armor off piece by piece. She was grumbling something under her breath, the strained line of aggravation set into her brow.

 

[Rainer]

A part of him thought the rain might be comforting. That part of him was wrong. The rain was coming down in varying degrees of force, gentle to painfully stinging in a strong gust. The sort of gust that forced the apple trees over and sent various debris across the otherwise open field. It took all of ten seconds for the effect of the oven to be undone.

Growling and flicking some of the rain towards the ground, he navigated his way to the angry mare. He was sure Mare's couldn't speak but even in the low light, he was certain the beast was glaring at him.

"You too, huh?" He uttered as he attempted to jump up into the saddle. The horse back-stepped and flared her nostrils as the Vedymin stumbled. He caught himself just before plummeting into the mud. "Ha ha..." Sighing heavily, he looked towards the nearest light. Thinking the horse was distracted, he tried again.

Same result.

"Fine!" He reached over and untied the horse, deciding that walking would be more fruitful. The mare seemed pleased with this as she trotted in the general direction of what he could only assume was a house at the end of the orchard.

 

[Wren]

Amazing what having a full coin purse could do for one's mood upon realizing what an extra silver piece bought her. The farmhouse hadn't been expensive - not compared to what they'd paid in Elbion for the evening - and it had come fully stocked with amenities. She raided the closet for a robe, having deposited sopping wet clothes on the rungs by the fireplace, and then went about getting a fire started in the hearth.

The land owner had provided a few bottles of apple wine - normally too sweet for her tastes, but after the last two days she couldn't spare the effort to care. Wren opened a bottle, skipping the part where she found a glass, and took the whole thing with her over to the chair by the fireplace. All in all, not such a bad end to the evening. The song of rain against windows and rooftop mingled with the crackling of a warm fire. The apple wine settled in her stomach like an over-sweet reward.

She hadn't punched him in the face repeatedly as she intended. Obviously that was worth something.