Fate - First Reply A Story to Share

[Yøren]

Taagi Baara Steppes - a few days’ travel west of Bhathairk



After another long day of travel with strangers, Yøren was glad to reach a town. He had joined a loose company of pilgrims and poor travelers moving west. It was quite the mixed crowed, mostly orcs, as one would expect, but he was not the only human who had traveled among them. There were elves too, and even a quiet dwarf woman who walked at a distance from them with a babe on her back and would only answer questions with a nod or shake of her head. The group settled just far enough down the road to not disturb the locals, speaking merrily as they tossed down bags, gathered wood for fire, and cleared a brush for the pit. Some of the more amicable villagers, with water and food to spare, came to greet them. They begged what news the company had to share. Having little news to offer himself, Yøren took a free spot on a rotting log by the newly piled up rick. He drew his smoking pouch from his bag and delicately transferred the herbs to the bowl of his pipe, tamping them down with his thumb. It was quiet enough to be heard without raising one’s voice where they gathered. An elf started the fire with a foreign looking device. Once with was properly blazing, Yøren dipped a twig in. He brought it up to his pipe.

One of the orcs began to speak loudly. He leaned in to listen, breathing deep so the fire could catch. It was the start of a story, judging by the tone of his voice. He was a sailor and, after a bit of meandering about weather and his captain and the quality of the ship’s bread, he spoke of having spied a mermaid, or something like one, while he was out sailing. She had sang, he said, beautifully sang in a tongue like that of the elves. Yøren had heard many such stories, had even spied the twirl of a fin once or twice himself, through the mists that blanketed the wharf of Grenil. He liked to dream it was a Kivren on some noble mission, but knew it was unlikely. Perhaps, more importantly, it was impossible to know either way.

His eyes, usually a cool gray-brown, were warm with the glow of fire scattered through the smoke and alive with interest. Yøren could not help but tap his foot to an unheard tune, already trying to take the ambling recollections of the orc and bend them to suit a simple meter. To occupy his hands, he drew a hank of twine. Neatly wrapping its loose end it around his gauge, he tied loop after loop, hardly taking his eyes off the speaker. The orc finished his story, an elf’s came to follow, then an orc with a song, and another with a tale. On and on, the company went, allowing the night to grow long with mild merriment. Yøren too shared a song, though not one of his own making. It was a bawdy one, coming from his home town. It told of a young couple that managed, though a comedy of errors, to be caught in bed by both partners’ parents at the same time. He wished he had an instrument to pluck to accompany himself, but he had not the wealth for it, and, if the laughter of the group was anything to judge by, its absence was not much minded.

Though many sat up, seeming not to tire at all, others began to bed down. The human who had sat quietly beside him went off a few paces to lay out a few of her furs beneath the starts. Someone new came to sit beside him, the newest of the travelers, who had joined just that morning. Yøren turned to them with a tired, open smile and asked, “Do you have a story you plan to share tonight? I’m afraid I gave most of my best to them days ago.”



((OOC: Looking for a traveling companion on the Steppe. I would love to explore Bhathairk, small towns, dungeons, forgotten tombs, whatever strikes your fancy. Not strictly opposed to combat or romance writing, but I would like to focus on adventuring and maybe intrigue or mysteries.))

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury was always a man looking to appease his own boredom. The long life of a fae meant, at a certain point, that it all became routine. One got bored of parties, champagne, orgies and the like. It was one thing to grow up in a pit of angry vipers where a faux pas could be the last mistake one made, and it was another thing to spot such a viper from a mile off a thousand years later. Put simply, Rosebury had too much time, money, and power on his hands to sit around enjoying it.

He found himself among the people more and more these days. He was intrigued by the struggles of the common man, their dreams and aspirations. One man could dream for a new vegetable cart as fervently as another man wished for fame and glory. Mortals lived in the muck, in sweat and tears and ecstasy and blood. It was hopelessly fascinating. It didn’t hurt that Rosebury was an attractive thing as far as mortal standards went, and fairly affable.

Besides, as the Lord of Luck, Tilter of Tables and Prince of Probability…didn’t he have a moral obligation to change the stars?

He had been following a ragtag group of people heading west for a day or so now. His warlock had been helpful enough to alert him to a gay group of mortals looking to change their fortunes, and Rosebury was looking for a decent stretch of the legs in autumn.

He was a hand’s breath below six feet, slim, with the sharp ears of his brethren. Pale skin was protected by an outrageous pink and Orange parasol he twirled over one shoulder. His dancing gold eyes scanned the streets for his traveling companions. It seemed they’d elected to camp just outside of town instead of in it. It was late, the stars were making their appearances, and Rosebury’s gaze was directed upward by their merry twinkling. Ah, it was cold but the cold was good for the bones.

He spotted the group easily, folded his parasol, and it vanished into a soft puff of gold sparks. As he sat on the furs next to Yøren, he looked hopelessly out of place in a white linen shirt, dark Orange trousers, soft deerskin boots, and a pink kerchief around his throat. He had a light pink silk coat on, more of an evening robe than anything else, embroidered with images of dancing skeletons drinking and making merry.

A story?

His eyes brightened.

“Perhaps better. About men on the plains wandering west, who seek to change their stars.” he kept his face serious but for a moment, then chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to be the mysterious stranger! I can’t keep that silly gambit up for long.”

 

[Yøren]

Yøren blinked a few times in astonishment.

He’d asked his question without thought, through the haze of smoke and the fatigue of a long journey long underway and yet far from its end. Now, looking at the… elf? fair-folk of some variety perhaps? the being beside him, he felt somewhat abashed and, all of a sudden, very aware of the mark of soot that was surely below his eye where he had rubbed it only a moment ago. His new companion was otherworldly, robed in delicate garb unsuited to travel under a strangely colored coat not of wool or linen. The man would have stood almost a foot above Yøren, had they been standing, but was willowy and fare with hands that fell from the air looking like they had never seen a day’s work. Hardly the sort of bold adventurer Yøren had pictured when he thought of curious folk from far abroad offering change.

He tried to think back through that day’s journey. This man had seemed distant, remote as the stars all throughout it. Had he caught his name? If it had been given, it had not been noted. Unsettled slightly, Yøren gave a final puff of his pipe before knocking out the ashes. He tilted his head, leaned back just a little, allowing his face to be cast in shadows, as assessed what he could perceive of the other: No bag in sight nor sign of obvious trade; a pilgrim then, in all likelihood, or visiting friend or family. Not shivering despite the cold; odd in their group, but those with them of the Eaglehead were hardy in any weather. Bones embroidered on his robe; foreboding sure, but not unheard of in heraldry and ornament. A glint in his eye, seemingly one of jest or japery. At whose expense?

Something in Yøren told him to trust the man, if not for any true trustworthiness of the being himself, then for the simple fact Yøren was sure he would recall this moment years hence and kick himself for refusing this proposition when it came.

After taking a moment to gather his words, he began, “Change you say? Now, one should not be so bold as to offer what they may yet not be able to deliver. I’ll not deny, I grow a little weary of the same stories night after night, and what young man does not thirst to be in songs of his own some day. But you hardly look fit for travels of the dangerous sort, and I,” he gestured broadly across himself, looking well cared for but just as well worn, “hardly appear fit for exploits so courtly as I’d guess are yours.”

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury smiled a bit as the man stared at him in complete wonder. He really wasn’t dressed for the weather, but the chill had never bothered him. Castigare in the Silent Court could get very chilly being subterranean. The plains were a lovely change by comparison. Ah, as much as Rosebury loved the common man he couldn’t abide their sense of fashion. One ached for color!

At the proclamation that he didn’t appear ready for adventure, Rosebury laughed. It was a light and musical sound, full of joy. “Those courtly exploits can be very dangerous indeed!” he chuckled. “Aluicious Rosebury, at your service. I have to admit I liked following along, but a young man with the world in his veins should be seeing it! I can show you such sights. Dragons in the desert, the power of a gryphon race or the gaiety of the Floiland grasslands. The strength and glory of a Saurian empire deep in the Xiuhatl jungles or the mysterious thrumming of Cortosi trolls in the foulest swamps. I may dress as I do, but my true love is the world for all of its beauty and ugliness.”

Rosebury winked at him, an idea slowly coming to light. “The truth is, I came for your help. You see, I have a bet with Death. He believes a person cannot possibly see all there is to see in Arethil before the cycle takes him. Especially not as short lived as your kind can be. I disagree. Such an ambitious soul as yourself might be up to the task. What do you say? Shall we dance with the dead and see the lightning storms of Volta? Shall we race the titans of the sky?”
It was a gamble. Many a young man fancied himself an adventurer but given the hardships of the road soon ached for home. Either way it was no loss for him. Either this youngling would visit six regions of Arethil with him and survive, or he would return here and Rosebury would merely be out a pile of gold. He could smell the betting in the House of Coins from here.

“Six regions. The Steppes, Floiland, Cortosi swamps, the Amol Khalit Desert, Xiuhatl wilds, and Voltese coastline. Survive them, and I will change your stars forever. The wealth and worldliness of a lifetime.” He extended a hand to Yøren.

 

[Yøren]

Bets with death were certainly the sort of stories he had been cautioned against as long as he’d lived. In fairy tales, strange beings who walk in on the wind and talk arrogant fools into deals they couldn’t hope to comprehend were as common as children who broke their parents’ rules. Yøren knew those tales well, knew how small transgressions like ill manners and imprecise assumptions were met with harsh, disproportionate punishments, as if fate itself grew furious with people like him rising above their foreordained station.

He had never held too much love for his station, even if he loved the world he held it in. But here there was an option to see that world as he had never even dreamed! In his wildest fantasies, he was a chronicler, a world-wise traveler who had spoken to heroes of old. Names of which Yøren had yet to hear fell off Rosebury’s lips with the ease of frequent speaking; then came the possibility to meet not only the names but the places and creatures themselves. To not only speak to dragon-slayers and dragon-speakers but to dragons, it was terribly tempting… if it was to be believed.

In all his eagerness, in the enthrallment of Rosebury’s speech, he had forgotten to spare a moment’s consideration to the simple cons of the charming. If this man was a charlatan, what could he have to gain from one such as Yøren, he wondered. Surely not riches, which he had not. He could guide a blind and foolish Yøren to whatever terrible end he liked. Yøren would just have to strive then, he decided, not to be blind nor foolish. That was easier said than done in matters of diablerie, though. He was not sure if the fair-folk, if that was indeed what Rosebury was, could truly capture mortals in an eternal dance as he had heard. Depending on which stories one put stock in, it was not the torment of dance but slavery eternal. That, at least, Yøren could understand as motive. He understood it better than ageless dances or bets with death, as if death was truly a being with which one could speak, could beat in a bet.

Looking into those gilded eyes, which seemed to glint brighter than the feeble light of the fire would allow, Yøren refused to hesitate any longer. Either his magic was true, in which case even torment by it would be an epic worth recounting, or it was false, in which case he had some chance, however small, to deal with what repercussions came himself. It’s not as if he had to fully believe Rosebury’s word to take his hand.

He drew himself up to speak with surety, “I am durable enough to survive a great many things, you’ll see. And as for the wealth of a lifetime? The worldliness itself is the only treasure I seek!” He lunged forward to clasp Rosebury’s hand with a firm grip.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

A fine and firm grip by a man who hadn’t the slightest clue who he was. Rosebury gave his hand a shake and a smile. A strong warmth spread from his palm, almost to the point of discomfort, winding around Yøren’s arm. It shivered through his very bones, and the deal with the fae was made. A deal that had made and broken far stronger men than the young fisherman in front of him.

“I never doubted that humans can live full lives, even with as short of a time they have here in Arethil.” Rosebury said warmly. He settled back into the furs with a smile on his face. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to roughing it. The Titan of Death is far too busy to be babysitting a mortal, and you do need some guidance. Besides, I always enjoy the company of young men. You always have so much energy!”

Rosebury gestured in the air above him, his wrist twisting lazily. “Tomorrow we head deep into the Steppes. I have a friend I’d like you to meet, and I believe she’ll do wonders for your education. The Abbey of Theleema is a strange and wonderful place, dear boy, for those with enough courage to understand it.” With a sharp flick he produced a small golden bird, around the size of the last joint of his thumb. He turned the little bird with its outstretched wings around in his fingers, then held it out to Yøren. A small gift, and something to ensure he didn’t lose the boy. This one was so confident and sure of himself, Rosebury didn’t put it past him to throw on his pack and go tromping out into the grass.

He closed his golden eyes, settling his hands on his chest. He was roughing it! How exciting. Maybe he would wake up stiff and sore like a true man of the road.

 

[Yøren]

Yøren thankfully managed to restrain his grimace when he heard Rosebury speak of ‘education’. He was plenty learned in what was to be taught in Grenil and the surrounding coastal towns. Unfortunately, it was unlikely his education would be applicable or in the slightest impressive to friends of Rosebury. At a great house of learning, as this Abbey sounded to him, they likely already had every bit of knowledge they cared for like his. Everything he knew could be down in books and scrolls; documents he would not be able to read. What he thought they were unlikely to know, by the same measure, he thought they were unlikely to want to know. The theory and art of their music, practices unique to Grenil, their knot-work, burial writes, foods, were too bucolic, by his estimation, to fit neatly into the archive of a grand library or temple where grimoires and venerable annals were kept. Beyond that, he was dubious that such living, breathing traditions could be captured in an unchanging tome were they to take interest.

Broken briefly from his thoughts by a casual feat prestidigitation from his compatriot, Yøren reached out to receive the little bird. It was plucked from the night-time air and set in his palm, pulsing with life. If he in any way doubted that Rosebury was one of the Other Crowd, this made it certain. The warmth, he could perhaps dismiss to himself, as he had strange lights in the sky or flashes of faces in the sea. Queer things stood out and were given weight beyond their desert in the mind of romantics. This small creature in his still outstretched hand was undeniable. It was rather like a warbler in shape, yet not an exact match, like no bird from his home.

This, unfortunately, only gave further credence to Yøren’s worries.

He could almost picture a scroll being unfurled proudly before him, covered in inscrutable runes. It was probably better not to let Rosebury know just yet. It could come in its own time, whatever mockery or disappointment his ignorance would bring. He had felt that lambent warmth run under his skin.

The deal would not rescinded.

“I can make ready for travel in the morning, if there’s not anything specific I should be bringing?” He had a few completed nets he could trade along the way for rations, as it was too late for such things in town. He could get some basic provisions from their fellow travelers at once. Yøren had some small pieces of leather jewelry he’d finished that would change hands easily in barter. He would get a spare water skin, foods well-disposed to travel, and some decent thonging for his shoes and bag, as they were getting close to needing some repairs.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury sat up again with a grin. “Ah! Yes! A solid pair of boots is your first worry. We are going to be walking a long way, through deserts, swamps and jungle. No sense suffering in a poor pair of shoes, even if we’re too far from anywhere with a decent tailor. I should’ve had the foresight to bring you a pair.” he smirked. “Can’t be helped. Food, extra water skins, and I’d really think of picking up a game we can play on the road. I love a good dice game.”

The fae looked at his companion. Really looked at him. This adorable country bumpkin was about to get the education of his life. He felt as though he were looking at the egg of one of his gryphons; something with untold potential. Something fragile, and ignorant, that he would transform. It was exciting. He was standing in the precipice of something new. Rosebury curled up on his side with a fond smile. “Meet me back here in the morning, dear. I can get whatever I need, but chasing the Abbey has never been a fun pastime of mine.” he mentioned.

Rosebury fluffed a portion of the fur for a pillow, and closed his eyes. “Trust me dear, this will be more than a good stretch of the legs.”

 

[Yøren]

​

Yøren raised a wry brow at his seemingly sleeping companion. He could feel when he was being condescended to, but was well used to it as this point. It wasn’t worth bickering over to protect his ego. He dusted off and went to speak with the remaining few awake around the fire. It was disproportionately the elves still up at this hour, as usual, but there were a few orcs as well. He eyed the kantele of one of the older elves longingly. If he worked for another few weeks, tightened his belt on the matter of food, and traded away all he had, he could just about barter for an old one. He had thought often of it in the months since he had begun his wandering. It wasn’t worth worrying himself over now. There would surely be instruments of all varieties in their travels, and, maybe, further into this adventure he would be able to afford one. He had seen a dulcimer once, in a larger town they passed through, of a smooth dark wood with opal and abalone set into it. He had seen it in his dreams for weeks after that day.

Three of the travelers gladly traded away their food for some jewelry, considering he was trading at a loss and they could get food to replace it in the morning. Unfortunately, none seemed initially willing to part with a water skin.

“I could give you two skins of good make for one of them nets,” one of the elves offered, as Yøren was showing a beaded bracelet to an uninterested orc.

“My nets are worth twice that easily, and you know it,” he retorted quickly to the slight. The elf gave an easy smirk, glancing Yøren up and down, unimpressed.

“And you know you have nothing else to offer. Leaving in a hurry, you are, and not bothering to do it subtle. You and that odd fae-folk were talking none too quiet. If you’re leaving in the morning, this is the best you’ll be able to get.” Yøren curled his lip slightly at the rude man.

“Throw in what spare lacing you have, and I’ll call it a deal.” The man refused. They haggled back and forth a while as the others lost interest. He ended up parting with a simple endless-knot pendent and one of the two smaller nets in exchange for the water skins and the, admittedly quite nice, eel-leather thonging the elf had. Yøren had come out losing far more than he gained, but it was enough. A two weeks food for him alone, less if Rosebury expected to be fed, and hopefully enough water capacity to hold them for the days long trips between water sources on the scarcely inhabited inland of the Steppe.

He laid out his bedroll and slipped inside, soft leather shoes held in one hand and his pack under the other arm. It never hurt to keep one’s belongings close. The cover was thick and pliant. Though he would tell none, the inside was lined, with seal skin. It kept water out and heat in. The roll was probably his one item of value, and it gave him in comfort as he shut his eyes against the last embers of the fire, warm under brightness of the moon and stars.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury laid awake a little while and listened to the man batter. From what he could gather, Yøren was a fairly decent trader. Of course he lost quite a bit and the others held his dealings with Rosebury over his head, but that was the way of things. Humans, orcs, elves, all in the penultimate struggle for survival. They stabbed each other in the back figuratively and literally almost as much as the fae did. He snuggled down and gave himself over to sleep as Yøren settled in his bedroll.

Rosebury woke, as promised, quite early. He sat up on the furs and stretched, yawning and pulling his coat around him. He reached out, not physically, but into the quiet stillness of the self. Two chords were there; one strong and white, the other a deep gray. He touched the white one. Oscar darling? He ventured, and felt the warm curl of a reply against his touch. His warlock rose to his touch like a cat butting it’s owner.

Rosebury smile and withdrew. He pulled a handkerchief free from his pocket, and whirled it about his head three times. A golden tear opened in front of him, a portal shivering with the mere effort of holding it open. Rosebury smiled at the smells coming from it. Oh, lovely gold china and steaming kettles of coffee.

Rosebury reached in and set down a spread for the two of them. He set down a copper kettle and two copper cups with porcelain handles, and a small pitcher of sweet cream. A small plate of butter, hand rolled and pressed into neat little coins, was next. Oscar had garnished each pat of butter with a little thyme and sea salt. Steaming buttery rolls soft enough to sleep on were piled high in a basket lined with linen cloth. Then came two basins, one full of spiced sausage links sizzling with fat, and another of fresh cut fruit. The Summer Court was a wealth of oranges, mangoes, pineapples, star fruit and kiwi. Two plates and napkins folded into little birds completed their breakfast spread.

Rosebury cleared his throat, and peered into the portal. He smiled and withdrew a sheaf paper, expertly hand written. There appeared to be several ribbons sticking out of some of them, and a few envelopes. “Good heavens I’ve only been away a week!” Rosebury tutted, and flicked a wrist at the portal. It snapped shut sharply. “Yøren dear wake up and come eat.”

Rosebury took and buttered a roll, poured himself some coffee, and raided the fruit. He only took a few sausages, leaving the rest of the generous basin to Yøren.

 

[Yøren]

Yøren was still deep within a dream when the morning came.

He was at sea, farther out than he had been in the waking world, without a shore in sight. The sky was orange and the cold of winter sea spray carved stinging tracks right through his skin. He was in a small clinker boat, its shellac still shining and smooth. Someone had been swept over-board. He couldn’t recall who. He shouted their name, but the wind carried his voice away before it could reach his own ears. He was reaching, reaching for something above him, but no matter how far his fingers extended he-

“-wake up and come eat.”

While his mind jolted quickly into waking, his body was more reluctant. With a slight shiver and an uneven couple of breaths, he crawled out from beneath his covers. Blearily rubbing the haze of rest from his eyes, he took in what appeared to him as much a dream as the storm had been. Balanced lightly on the log was a feast of some variety, splayed across dishes of shining metal and that precious fired material of fine white clay and alabaster. He eyed the array of foods with some suspicion, but the steaming kettle enticed him. He had missed tea in his travels, only having it rarely when some hospitable family invited him into their house. At home, he had drank tea four times a day, the powdered kind in the morning with a pinch of salt and cream off that day’s fresh goat milk. Later in the day, they had whole leaf teas as they worked, and another round of powdered tea before bed, with the thinner milk from the goats. Giving the kettle a tentative sniff, he almost recoiled. It was an odd smell, rich and earthy, bitter yet enticing. He knew in the south, where they drank mare’s milk instead of goat’s, they had different varieties of tea. Some were made with chicory and some left to darken before powdering or brewing instead of heating them while green for preservation.

He poured some of the thick black liquid into one of the cups. As it cooled, he began to gather one of each item from the selection.

“Thank you,” Yøren began, with a bit of wonder in his voice, “If I had known we would be so richly provisioned, I might not have gathered so much salted meat and flat bread. It’s more practical, of course, but not nearly as impressive.” The fruits were delicious, and the oranges, at least, were familiar. The sausages were warm and as odd in seasoning as the rest.

He took a sip of the drink and paused. Texturally, it was like a proper morning tea, he thought, as he swished it around in his mouth. It was… good. Strange, but good. That sentiment was beginning to be a theme with Rosebury. He helped himself to seconds of the bread and the oranges as he pondered the drink.

“Is this tea?” It almost felt silly to ask, but Yøren had no idea where Rosebury was from. (He saved wondering directly where the man had procured the food for another time. Thinking of the little lively gold bird in his pack and magic that brought something for nothing unsettled his stomach in a way unsuited for the morning.) Perhaps they gathered their leaves from a different plant entirely, or it could be from a root like a medicinal drink.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury chuckled. “Those rations are for when I can’t be so easy and carefree with magic. I won’t be able to do this all the time, but a journey like ours deserves a decent breakfast. I can open a link between ourselves and my kitchen in the House of Coins. It works well when I can’t get my favorite oat straw tea in the places I travel.” he smiled into his cup. “This is coffee. Where I live is desert and scrubland, where a little plant grows dark red berries. Inside those berries is a bean, that when roasted, ground and steeped like tea gives the dark rich gold you drink now.”

Rosebury watched the young man, and let him eat. He read through his papers, shuffling the sheaves and scanning over them with a contented smile on his face. He looked over at Yøren, and helped clean up the dishes when breakfast was over. By clean up, it was more piling them in one area then whisking them back through the hastily-opened portal. Rosebury stood, and looked expectantly at his companion.

Yøren looked like a resilient sort. He clearly hadn’t grown up in the lap of luxury, and those nets spoke of a competent fisherman. Perhaps he would do better in Volta, far to the northeast. They would have to make it across the Steppes first.

“Shall we? The Abbey waits for no man. If she makes it too far south we’ll lose her.”

 

[Yøren]

‘Coffee.’ It suited Rosebury, he thought, in the same way the robes he’d worn the night before had. Familiar enough to be disarming, but off just enough to keep one guessing.

When it became clear that they were to be off, Yøren swung his pack onto his over his shoulders. He had already sorted it neatly the night before. Strewn about the camp-site were his former companions, under coverings but for those who had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour last night. He was struck with the realization that he would be leaving them now. It was melancholy in its own way. He had not known them well, knew the names of only half of them, but there had been a camaraderie in their shared trudging along the coast, day after day. The dwarf woman was one of the few awake, and she gave him a concerningly solemn nod of parting as she nursed her babe.

As he stretched, Rosebury spoke of the Abbey and her travel travel. Yøren did not openly question, but mused on the words, Was it, or she, a sky-city? An island in flight traveling on the winds? Or was Abbey the title of the Abbess? As perhaps an especially aged and learned librarian could, themself, be referred to as ‘the Library’, over years suppliant becoming one with temple. It was sensational enough to fit with the stories he imagined he would soon me in.

“Well, if we are aiming for a moving target, its better to set out at once,” he offered, conscious of their time constraints, though unaware of the specifics. He took a few confident steps to the south and turned to face Rosebury. He was glad to, for the moment, have a vague notion of where they were headed. It allowed him to gesture to the beginning of their route. He knew they were heading inland and the only way inland was south. Yøren had traveled back and forth along the coast from which they were departing and knew it well. In only a few days travel, they would be away from it, walking through regions Yøren had yet to explore.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury thought of their route. Inward to find the Abbey, then west and north along the peninsula to Volta. Southwest to Amol Khalit and a visit to his own home, southeast to the Cortosi swamps. Even further south to the jungles, then a sharp swing northeast to Floiland. Rosebury waited patiently for his companion. He didn’t appear to have anything to pack, not even a bag. He just walked, like a lord on a Sunday stroll.

They walked at an easy pace. They were headed inland to scrubland and grass. The Steppes were beautiful, if unforgiving. There were rolling hills of shale, long yellow grasses, and pronghorn antelope. Rosebury pointed out a herd from afar; they were far too swift to catch without a mount. Yet, they were one of Rosebury’s favorite sights. Beautiful red and white fur with those dark flank stripes, disappearing over the hills with fleet feet.

His insistence on good boots became clearer the further they went. The steppes were not kind to the feet of men or animal alike, and though the fae seemed as skilled at traversing rough terrain, any other man would find his feet shredded. Rosebury proved to be anything but a quiet companion; he sang lightly as they walked. He gleefully chattered on about gryphon racing; how he loved to tell about the men and women who risked life and limb. Racing through the skies as fast as falling falcons; rolling, tumbling through the air, all for the sake of speed and agility. Glory in the skies above the sands! Rosebury adored it.

“I sponsor the best man in the races, you know. Asen Illfort. What a specimen of a human! No fear that one; I’ve seen him leap from the back of that hawk of his just to have her catch him above the sands at the last second.” he laughed.

 

[Yøren]

Yøren listened to Rosebury’s tales enthralled. When the man sung, he longed to add his own voice in harmony. On occasion, when Rosebury seemed too focused on the journey to mind, sight seeing or picking his way over the loose stones, he would quietly hum a lower voice, following and embellishing the melodies.

With each rolling hill they crested, Yøren’s chest swelled with adoration for his home. And with each wind pushing at their backs, he grew certain that no matter how far from this coast they traveled, he would love no other land as he loved the northern steppe. Each morning, as the land warmed, the sea air blew across the plains, bracing and rich with brine. Come night and the cooling of the land, it would rush back, pulling on the grass as it again crossed the open steppe, swifter than any antelope or the best of horses. Tonight, for the first time, when he felt the wind bidding him home, he would not heed the call.

Yøren busied his mind with mentally repeating those parts he found most striking of Rosebury’s account of gryphon racing. He would want to remember them tonight when they made camp. Then, his mind would be free to drift. For now, he listened. The stories of mere human men leaping about high in the air were beyond belief. Yøren thought Rosebury’s kind would likely be better at such things. There was a look about him like if he were to fall from a great height, he would drift down like a feather while the humans plummeted like stones.

“What is it like where you are from? The landscape, I mean, and the animals. And have you ever seen a jungle?” There were far too many questions pressing up behind his lips for him to ask them all at once. Instead he issued them in ones and twos sparsely, though regularly, as they went along their way.

 

[Aluicious Rosebury]

Rosebury brightened. He did best with an audience, and Yøren was captivated by his tales. The Summer Courtiers were difficult to impress. They’d seen it all and more over long lifespans, but this was why Rosebury liked humans. Every day was a new experience, every evening precious. They found ways to make every year count, and had never ending founts of curiosity. They aged like fine wine with experiences, adapting swiftly to circumstances in a way most fae would find dizzying.

“Ah! I was raised in the Summer Court of the Fae, in Vhora. A strange city upon the sands, full of mystery and intrigue. Truly a jewel of the desert. The desert itself is fascinating; hot and unforgiving, full of creatures so big you can see them shuddering the dunes from a half mile away as they surge underneath them. You see, above ground Amol-Khalit seems dead, a wasteland, a few dots of oasis. So does an ocean, until you dip beneath the surface. Amol-Khalit’s wealth lies in its underground. Forgotten cities, gigantic creatures. Burrowing animals, and mysterious elves who survive by grit and wisdom.” Rosebury’s face looked wistful as they walked. He missed the desert, with its scorching winds. “Oh but at night…at night all of its treasures are in the sky. A million stars, spread out over the cold sand.”

The faerie grinned. “You’ll see it soon. But where have you grown up? For a man wandering the Steppes I saw you with fisherman’s nets. You’ll be popular in Vhora… we ought to see if we can get you aboard a vessel.”

Rosebury was as good a listener as he was a talker. He enjoyed listening to Yøren, as he wanted to learn more about his travelling companion. What were his desires? His dreams? What did he want to get out of this strange trip across Arethil? Did he just want the payout of a grateful Summer Lord, or did he want to truly sink his teeth into Arethil itself?

Ahead of them was a cloud. Dirt was billowing up into the air, with the sound of wheels turning and the hoofbeats of animals. Birds were strangely absent, and rabbits raced past the pair so swiftly one of them nearly ran into Yøren‘s leg. If Yøren looked closely, he could see a gabled roof wobbling precariously as it…headed southwest.

“Ah good! We’ve caught her. Outriders should be coming to kidnap you any moment.” Rosebury clapped Yøren on the back. “Deep breaths, and try not to get yourself killed.”