Fable - Ask Dust on the Wind

[Aeyliea]

The thunder of hooves.

It was a thing she was quite familiar, this denizen of the Sea of Grass - known to the people who did not dwell in it these past thousands of years simply as the Aberessai Savannah. The wild herds of grazing ruminates moved such that their numbers might darken the entire horizon between the slow, low hills to the far western reach of the plains. Here, on the eastern edge, the valleys were deeper and the hills taller, but not appreciably. And the animals still moved across the land in herds of thousands, or tens of thousands.

"Pull the wagons into a circle," someone shouted at the top of their voice over the growing thunder. A pointless gesture, and they all knew it. The stampede was comprised of animals easily a thousand pounds on the hoof, their great heads adorned with thick, curving horns that were more like battering rams than anything else. The carts and covered wagons would not slow these animals down; they would batter through and trample all in their path, man or beast. They would shatter wood and bone, tear cloth and flesh - all with equal ease and indifference. Such was the way of the open wastes, the dust of their passage whipped into a choking pall that would drift for miles across the sere land.

The No'rei outcast was no less frantic than these men and women she traveled with were, but she at least knew how to avoid the problem. Mostly because she recognized the tactic here, having used it herself many times: stir up a herd of wild beasts to go and do your fighting for you, and then sweep in behind when everything was smashed and half of the people you intended to rob and kill were already down or so badly wounded they could put up no resistance. The fact that the people here were not of the People was reason enough to slaughter them all. They were Sundered, after all - traitors one and all through the crime of ancestry. They had killed Lorien, brood-mate to Tiam, had their ancestors. That had set in motion a war with the outside world that had lasted thousands of years and left the land soaked in blood.

She looked afield for the men and women that would be pushing these brute beasts to stampede, but did not see them. Had not expected to, either. The first splintering crash echoed through the air, the scream of pain and terror - one of the women with the carts by the sound - splitting the air. She did not wait for anything further; this was a lost cause. Instead, she melted back away from the unfolding catastrophe, as more and more of the large beasts thundered by. Another splintering crash, a cry and rage, and then another. Aeyliea, feeling distinctly unhappy about turning from an enemy she knew to be there, turned and fled into the tall grass. She did not make it very far herself before, amid the clatter of shattering wood, one of the very beasts she was seeking to escape slammed into her, great horns tearing through the leather shirt she wore and sending her flying through the air to land in a heap.

She tried to rise once...and then collapsed.

***

She opened her eyes, and wished she hadn't.

The sun's rays were long now, as were the shadows, and the brisk wind out of the south stirred skirls of dirt and dust from the rutted track they had been following. The outcast stirred slowly, every inch of her body aching as though she'd been beaten with switched particularly thoroughly. When she managed to sit up, slowly and wincing at the pull of leather and cloth on scabs, it was to find herself alone with the soughing wind her only company. Head filled with cobwebs and fog, she sat for a minute, and then another...and then finally got to her unsteady feet.

She had not made it very far. She remembered the stampede, the chaos of 'van guards and carters and merchants running round with their heads cut off - and then the searing pain. Nothing after. Was easy enough to see what had happened after she went down, though.

A dozen wagons and carts in varying states of ruin lie all around her. Broken wheels, their iron strapping twisted; torn canvas flapping in the lazy wind; crates smashed open, splintered wood everywhere. Barrels staved in, their dyes and liquors soaking the parched ground. And worse, of course; the torn flesh of people she had worked with but a few hours gone, bits of broken bone jutting from torn flesh. And worse still.

Aeyliea found a barrel intact enough to sit on, and did just that. She could feel the dried blood in her long, white hair; feel it caked on her back where the bull's horn had torn through leather and undershirt, and then into the muscle of her back as well. No way of telling how bad, and nothing to do for it right then, anyway.She sat, and looked at her hands, head hung down - beads and worked stone clicking in her hair, feathers fluttering. All totems and fetishs adorned her braided hair - things that housed the spirits of the land, used in supplications to the Seven. She only though of them for the healing she could have bestowed with them, if there had been any survivors.

There was only silence, though.

The first 'job' she had ever held, out in the world of the Sundered. She didn't like any of these traitors and liars, but...there had been comraderie of a sort among them.

Even if they didn't trust her. Even if she didn't trust them.

She looked up. The chest-high grass swayed with the wind, mimicking the thing that her people had never seen and yet given name to: the Sea of Grass, washing along the endless miles. There could very well still be raiders in those grasses, though judging the turning of the sun, it had been hours since she had been knocked down. They would likely have collected what spoils they could, slain any survivors, and slipped back into the Sea like ghosts.

She looked out at the wreckage, and wondered what to do. Find her weapons, probably. What of these others?

And what of that? She sat straighter, and looked out into the wilderness. The sound of movement, away from the road. Not far off of it, but she could tell the difference between an animal and a human out here, and that was no wildlife that.

Probably. And here she was, disarmed and wounded. She got to her feet unsteadily, and watched where the sound had come from warily, stormy blue-grey eyes unblinking.

 

[Charlemagne]

The Orcs had not been lying when they'd told him he'd grow old before he saw the end of these fields. The old warrior's warning had gone unheeded by the mercenary. He was caught on the western side of Alliria at the end of their follied invasion. There was talk a of a reconsolidation and a second attempt, and while some part of his heart still held interest, his body withered in protest.

The wounds inflicted on him by the valiant defenders of Alliria were numerous and tiresome. He'd been lucky enough not to suffer a collapsed lung from the bolts that had found their way into his chest, and that was the least of his worries when compared to the blood he'd lost fighting the paladins. Perhaps he would find his way back to that horde should they make another attempt, but for now the only company he craved was his own.

He peered out over the grasslands from his perch atop one of the shorter hills. Beads of sweat dotted at his hairless scalp, and it seemed the sun was all too keen to wear him down as he wandered deeper into the ocean of grass. Of course, he could not rest. The bits of food he'd absconded from the Orcish camp made for little more than a week's supply, and the great beasts he'd happened upon were far too quick for his greatsword.

Perhaps he should have waited for Singar. The Orc's bow certainly would have thrived here, far more than it had back on the Spine, but this journey was Charlemagne's own. No doubt he would cross paths with his erstwhile companion again soon enough, though truthfully, he was glad for the current solitude. The madness that had overtaken him in the bloodied fields outside Alliria's walls still gnawed at him; it was a dark wolf prowling at the edges of his mind, keen to remain upon the fringe but there, nonetheless.

How many men had he killed on that field? How many had the Allirian merchant lords slain in their quest for greed? He still recalled the glittering heights of their grand towers, the monuments to their hubris. When their defeat became certain and retreat proved to be the only option left, he'd vowed to see those towers burn one day: vowed to carry that hate with him like a stone.

It weighed nearly as much. His solitude brought little peace. In his mind bubbled forth questions - questions he would have rather left unanswered. Life back upon the Spine had been a simple thing. Kill or be killed. Survive or perish. He'd not ever stopped to wonder just what he was fighting for, or if what he was doing was right. Not until he'd found himself fighting along a legion of undead monstrosities, a horde of murderous Orcs, and a cadre of hellbound wizards seeking to plunge the crown jewel of the continent back into the seas it had sprouted from.

Again and again, the questions bubbled forth, and again and again he crushed them back into the depths of his mind.

The familiar scent of a raid filled his nostrils and drew him from his private torment. There was smoke in the air, the salt of sweat, the sweetness of blood and the silence of a slaughter. He followed it instinctively if only to find some form of stimulation beyond his ruminations.

His boots sunk deep into the bloodied earth as he came upon the massacre. It was not unlike the raids he'd beheld back home, though the dead seemed to have been slain with brute force rather than any form of finesse. He saw few cuts made by weapons of man, no spear-points, no deep lacerations of halberds or broadswords. What little remained in the shattered wagons and carts was waste - clearly this had been some kind of raid, and unfortunately he doubted there'd be any food worth eating left behind.

The warrior halted near the center of the carnage. Eyes green as the grasses narrowed as they beheld a single living individual. A girl, he supposed, with long white hair and an uncertainty about her. Most certainly a victim of whatever had occurred here; his imagination turned toward darker things as he recalled the fates often suffered by women back in the Spine.

Something briefly moved in his chest. A kernel of empathy perhaps, or maybe simply an understanding of opportunity. Charlemagne did not know nor care which.

He approached her carelessly, deep purple cape flapping behind him in the wind as he came to a halt a few meters away. His folded about his chest as he regarded her, stony visage utterly unreadable. "They spared you?" He asked after a few uncomfortable seconds of silenced stretched between them. His voice was like that of a waterfall crashing over rocks, deep and utterly immoveable.


Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

She was up as soon as she saw his head, nearly falling on legs still too uncertain for such quick movements. Her hands went for weapons that were not there: left for the buckler she wore on the twisted, scarred limb - a present from a fight in the past - and right for the short stabbing spear she preferred. Both had been lost in the madness of the raid. Not a little ashamed at such a slip, she fell into a fighting stance, watching as the stranger approached and knowing that she didn't have much of a chance to stand against anyone just right then.

Her eyes narrowed as the fellow stopped a dozen paces away, arms folded and regarding her as coldly as she was wont to do of others. By his stature and coloration, this man was not of the People. Sundered, then, a member of the hateful ancestors that had betrayed Her in the time before.

He spoke, and she cocked a head to one side, processing the common words. After a moment, she made a gesture with her right hand - a warding gesture, meant to dispel the evil spirits that dwelt here - and scowled. "Not...not spared. Great rush of kaizua. Many many," she said slowly. If there was a slight slur to her heavily accented and broken common, there was good reason for it; she'd had the wind driven from her lungs and the sense knocked from her skull by beasts that weighed at least eight times what she did. The Seven had been with her that she had even survived at all.

She made a gesture round her, as if to say 'and so it is' without speaking the words. "Common...is common...," she began, and then said something coarse in her own flowing native tongue before trying again. "Way of the People to attack. Shatter wagon, spread....scatter spears. Sweep in, kill all, steal."

And they would not have wasted any time on her. Lying face down in the dirt, she would have looked the part of the corpse, or at least mortally wounded. The throbbing in her back had managed to extend itself to her head now, and she pressed a hand to her temple. "Spirits...very angry," she added. "Not place for Sundered. Sea no like betrayers," she said and then looked up at him with hard eyes. Not clear eyes, but very hard. As Charlemagne was fond of his solitude, so was she not fond of those not No'rei. The glittering slate blue-grey scales on her outer arms and sides of her neck served as a physical manifestation of their difference. And did not hint at the spiritual and idealogical divide that lay beneath the surface.

"No...no survive that way?" She asked thickly.

 

[Charlemagne]

He'd not had the joy, or rather the relative confusion of speaking with many of the folk out here. People back in the Spine often spoke in a rather...uneducated manner, but it was common all the same. This was the farthest west he'd ever been from the mountains: the farthest he'd ever been from period really. His brow furrowed as the white-haired woman spoke, lips parting for a moment as he parsed out what she was saying.

It mostly made sense, or at least he thought it did. He had no idea what a Kaizua was, perhaps a term for a warrior or magic or something like that. Either way, it seemed as if it was dangerous, given the mounds of corpses that dotted the landscape. As she spoke further, he began to better understand the context. These Kaizua had raided this caravan or assisted in it. He still wasn't entirely sure if they were people or not.

"It seems folk are much the same here as they are in the mountains," he mused, his gaze darting out toward the destruction. He'd grown a hard stomach some time ago, but there was a difference between a battlefield and a massacre. The little broken hands of children poking out through the remains of one carriage were testament enough to that.

What he did not understand was this talk of spirits. The Orcs often spoke of such things as well along with their converts. So often were disasters blamed on spirits and superstition in the Spine, so often did people grasp for meaning in an unscrupulous and uncaring world. Charlemagne no such care for matters of the empyrean. There were no spirits, and certainly not any gods aside from mortal beings that styled themselves as such.

Even still, that tightness in his chest stayed unpleasant words. Well, most of them anyway. "Don't really see any water here, so I'm not too perturbed about pissing off the ocean." He replied plainly. "But...eh," he paused, eyeing the blueish scales along her neck. Not something he'd seen before of normal folk, though it certainly resembled the witchery he'd been unfortunate to happen upon in his work time and again.

His gaze lingered on the scales for a moment before he continued. "Survive in what?" He asked, not wholly understanding her question. "Where I came from or...or if I pissed off the ocean spirits?" Stoicism gave way to abject confusion.

Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

She shook her head at his words. They were archaic to her ears, too quick and complex for her to pick out more than one in three or four. She did not have any inkling of what an ocean was, or how pissing off it would make any difference to the question at hand. Water? Of course there wasn't any water. Water was scarce out here on the Sea, and quite often sources were days apart.

Shaking her head was a mistake, though. Her head swam after, and she staggered a moment from the sudden motion before clapping a hand to her skull against the stab of pain. "People. People with carts, alive?" She took a moment to still her aching head and once she was sure the worst of the pain was over she looked up. Pointed round her. "None here. From way you come?"

She moved slowly and carefully toward the nearest of the wrecked wagons, never letting the stranger leave her sight. A body lie beneath the shattered ruin, face a map of pain. Not an easy death, then. As if such a thing existed. The stench of death did not affect her, anymore than the sight of the dead lying around her did. She had been involved in enough raids to know the faces of death, and to have delivered more than her fair share of them to the unbeliever.

And of these people? She owed them nothing. Some coins for carrying spear and buckler and for defending this 'van from raiders - as if that had worked. As if a lone woman or even several dozen could stand against this. "No understand mount ands," she said as she stepped away from the dead. "Words fast. Hard to follow," she added.

 

[Charlemagne]

This wasn't working.

Never one for patience, Charlemagne turned to take his leave. Whatever had occurred here was none of his concern; he was far from the business of sticking his neck out for strangers. The bloodletting at Alliria had been the last nail in that coffin.

Then again, the men and women he'd killed there were soldiers at arms. They had chosen their profession and taken their coin from the merchant lords like the whores they were, but even such dismal things were matters of choice. No one chose or desired to be murdered in a raid. Didn't change the fact that they were all dead though. Nothing to really be done about that save for burying corpses, and Charlemagne wasn't about to spend valuable energy on stuffing the dead down into the earth for the sake of his feelings. They'd feed the lands all the same, either food for worms or for carrion no matter what he did.

The mercenary chewed on his lower lip as he beheld the destruction one final time. Whatever frustrations that had bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, he turned back around to the white-haired woman anyway. This one was still alive, though from the look of her she might well not be if left to her own devices out here in the grasses. To leave now would likely be too damn her to death, and in turn that death would be his responsibility. Another one on the conscience.

"Some," he replied as he once again looked to the blue-scaled woman. "I-" he paused, scratching at the back of his ruddy scalp before continuing in a much slower cadence. "-villages. Far away. No people in between. Alliria to the east, shithole city." Despite himself, he found speaking in such a way a bit amusing.

"Mountains. Mo-unt-ains." He gestured toward one of the larger hills dotting the horizon. "That, but bigger. Much bigger."

A pause.

"These your people?" He raised a brow and gestured toward the many corpses.

 

[Aeyliea]

She tried to imagine the hill he had pointed at as something much larger than it was, but could not grasp the scale that this man meant. Out here, a large hill might be four hundred feet higher than the surrounding land. Just as she had no notion of the ocean he had spoken of for a lack of framework, so too did she not understand the idea mountains.

"All city not good," she said. Looking round at the bodies again, she shook her head so that the beads and bones clicked in her hair. "No. All here betrayers, only...only...," -another pause- "only ....work with...for? Coin for spear, protect." The throbbing in her back only exemplified the failure on that part.

"Is not betrayer. But outcast, not of the People. Only the Blood." She looked to the man, up at him, and felt the opposite at her speech: annoyance. Speaking the traitor's tongue was difficult, and despite weeks of being in their presence, she had not grown any better at it nor any more fond of it.

She carefully started looking for her belongings, scant though they were, among the ruins. She spotted the cart that had been carrying her things - and those of others in her company - and picked her way towards it while keeping an eye on the stranger. "Much danger. Hyena, scavengers come. Maybe other No'rei. Maybe fight," she said carefully. Without a weapon, she obviously was incapable of defending herself. But even armed, it would be best to get away from a source of easy carrion than hang round.

She had to wonder at this strange man. Who traveled out on the Sea by themselves? Certainly her people did, but among the Sundered it was only those of great strength who dared. That, or fools. And while she knew next to nothing of this man, he did not seem a fool. The fact that he disliked the cities was a point in his favor.

"Why alone? Sea is dangerous. Many danger, animal, man."

 

[Charlemagne]

Context clues were fun little things, and Charlemagne was beginning to better understand the woman's. He wasn't entirely sure what she meant by 'betrayers' but it seemed the title referred to her former company. Didn't make much sense to travel with those that had betrayed you in the past, though it was possible she was struggling for the right word given her lacking grasp of common-speak. The negative connotation was enough.

He simply listened as she rattled on about being an outcast and having or not having the blood of a people that she was evidently not of. Charlemagne mentally coined it as valleyspeak, and squinted at the girl as he tried to keep up. "You're an outcast of 'the people' and these folk betrayed you." He mused, nudging one of the corpses with the steel-toe of his boot.

Rather certain he wasn't going to be finding anything of value amidst the wreckage, Charlemagne just stood in the center of the devastation. He stowed away his questions as he sought to answer her own, though the answer was not a simple one.

"The world is dangerous," he corrected, "There is a city to the east called Alliria. There was a battle there, much death. My side lost and they lost badly. They retreated, and I left them. Couldn't go west, couldn't go home, Allirian army was watching the passage." The mercenary shrugged. "I wander. It is my nature, and I could not go east, so I went west. This land is foreign to me."

It occurred to him that this woman might have some value to his cause: that cause being his own survival. If she knew the land, she knew where to find water, and how best to trap the local game, or at better than he did.

Now it was his turn for questions. "Why did you travel with traitors?" He lofted a brow, "Who are the people? What are No'rei? Kaizua?"

He'd heard stories of Hyenas though he'd never seen one and had often attributed them to tall tales. Spotted laughing cat-hounds were just too nonsensical to have any basis in reality.

 

[Aeyliea]

She shook her head, and then picked her words very carefully. In as much as she could, anyway. "These people not betray. All people not of the Sea, traitors. Long, long ago. Is why No'rei fight outsider. Outsider no have honor. Only want all: all land, all people as...as..," she faltered for a moment, muttering words in her native tongue under her breath before selecting the appropriate one in common. "...slaves." She looked at the man sideways, and then added: "Most outsiders."

The truth was that the things she had been taught were turning out to not be true. Those outside the Sea were definitely honorless more often than not, but most seemed interested only in avoiding her people. Certainly there were those that would love nothing more than to sweep the plains of all the No'rei, either killing or enslaving them all. But...

Traitorous thoughts. They had betrayed the Seven millennia ago, and no amount of atonement could clean that slate.

She patted her chest with her good hand. "Am No'rei. No'reiare the people of the Sea of Grass. Kaizua large animal, four legs. Very tall, very big. When move, move with many many. When...when afraid, run. Very dangerous." She did not know how to answer the question of traveling with betrayers, because she did not know the answer. "Travel with Sundered for coin. No can go home, but need things." She bent over, and picked up a spear. It was maybe two third the length of her body with a foot of steel for a tip. A moment later, she found her buckler, and slung both over her back. She then picked up the rucksack buried under the boards of the smashed wagon.

Winced at the pull on the gash in her back, aware of the fresh blood that trickled down her skin below the torn leather. She just had to hope that it didn't fester - unlikely, but a distant hope.

She paused, and looked back to the man. "Name Aeyliea," she said, not expecting any recognition. Of the People, that name held significance, but outside the Sea it was just a name. "Must go. Danger here. Need water? Follow." She walked off of the road and into the chest-high grass, heading north. Her posture spoke of pain, but she ignored it. Time enough to deal with that later.

 

[Charlemagne]

He gathered that there was a blood feud between the No'rei and those not of their kin. Some grand conspiracy in ages past the source of their ire with the commonfolk of the west. The mercenary had little mind for history beyond the narrow tales of the mountains: those were often attributed to legend and allegory than anything that might have actually happened.

He listened in silence as she answered his questions. Her grasp on common was weak, but there enough to ascertain what she meant. The girl's name was Aeyliea, she was of the No'rei people, and for one reason or another she could not returned to them. Thus, she walked with those she considered 'traitors'. Why she might not be with her people was a point of curiosity for the mercenary, but he wasn't going to press it. She offered water, and he had no intention of upsetting her before they found it.

"Seems there's danger everywhere on these plains," Charlemagne mused quietly as he reached for his waterskin. He drank deeply of it, exhausting what little remained within the skin. It was likely these raiders were still about and it if they were to find water soon, better his body be prepared for a fight than otherwise. He would follow her for now.

"You move like your body is broken." He muttered as he took up step beside her. Far be it from Charlemagne to claim to be any kind of doctor, but even a man such as he could make out the damage wracked across Aeyliea's body. She would have fared better with a horse: then so would have he. Unfortunately, the creatures had a way of getting away from him.

"Did these Kaizua run you over in their stampede?" A brow was lofted.

 

[Aeyliea]

She said nothing at first. Pride was ever a failing of hers, and she was wont to ignore her failings in order to not seem weak - especially in the eyes of people she did not like. Which, as it turned out, included everyone outside the greater Sea.

After a long minute, she finally acknowledged the question. "Yes," she said. She could not remember when she had been struck, but the rip in the leather of her leather shirt went through the undershirt and into the flesh of her back. The sight of muscle rippling beneath torn, thick skin and scattered scales was nauseating to watch. Every now and again, fresh blood wept from the wound. "Kaizua bull, horns into back." A wince as she stumbled over some unseen obstacle in the grass. "Much hurt."

An understatement, but then she wouldn't have admitted to him how much it hurt. The savage people of the plains were an incredibly sturdy lot - part of the reason they had persisted after thousands of years of incessant war with any and all who dared try to trespass on their ancestral home. The scales and thicker skin gave them a natural armor of sorts; their skeletal frames were stouter, their ability to go without water for days and food for weeks made them superbly suited to the sometimes arid and inhospitable reaches of the Aberessai and the desert wastes to the west of that. Stoic and difficult to take down did not mean that any of it was pleasant. Being run over by a thousand pound bull put a definitive kink in just about anyone's day.

Hers included.

"Will survive. Not worst hurt," she said, and brandished her left arm as if to exemplify how much worse it could get. The limb was mildly atrophied, a section of the meat in her forearm missing and twisted by a great scar. That wound had nearly killed her; had corrupted and nearly burned the light from her eyes with fever. A testament to the hardiness of her people that she had not only survived, but retained her senses.

"You fight in city," she said suddenly, changing the subject away from her and her hurts. Away from touchy subjects that might upset her delicate pride.

 

[Charlemagne]

The heat of the savannah beat down on him now. Beads of sweat dripped down his pale scalp and exertion marred his limbs. It was so hot as to be tiring simply to exist beneath the sun's gaze. Charlemagne drew his cowl up over his face to better shield himself from its rays, though doing so only helped to trap the hot air and dust about his visage. Still, it was better than melting.

"Very," he grunted, nose crunching up in disgust as he caught a decent view of her wound. It looked terribly deep - a crippling blow to most, likely himself included. How the girl was still walking was beyond him, though she seemed keen on not exploring the subject any further. Wouldn't have done any good anyway. Charlemagne possessed a rudimentary understanding of biology and the mending of wounds, but there wasn't much he could do for that other than wrapping it and hoping for the best.

His brow raised as she offered her wounded arm, a far more grievous scar to greet him. He too bore many scars, but not anything so severe or crippling. It seemed the folk of the grasses were a sturdy sort, or at the very least this one, Aeyliea she had called herself, was. She might well be good company as he found his way across the grasses.

Why was he partaking in this journey anyway? Escaping Alliria was the most obvious of answers, but there was nothing for him in the west. Yet he continued to trudge forward. Why?

These questions halted as the white-haired girl mentioned something about fighting in a city. A means to change the subject, gather some information. Were they back east, he would not indulge her for fear of her intentions, but there was no one west of Alliria to know him. No one to seek revenge.

"I fought at Alliria yes," he mumbled, fingers habitually twisting one of the ornaments that hung from the blade of his sword. "I am from the mountains. The big hills, far to the east, farther east than the city for many leagues. Mercenary."

He paused, hesitating to explain further, though he supposed there wasn't much else to do than talk as they wandered the grasses. "I fought for money at first. Joined with a dragon and his legion of Orcs. Then I saw the city, saw the towers lording over it all, the wretched men that looked down on the folk. The dregs of humanity and its kin races."

His expression was pinched with disdain. "They style themselves as gods but they are wholly mortal. I'll return to that city one day, see those towers brought low, their lords lower still. Show them their own mortality." A vile hatred laced his words. It was a deep, personal thing that stole the stoicism from his voice in favor of revulsion. "All the good they could do with all that gold and they choose to build golden towers and feed the masses their scraps in exchange for protection. I have no place to judge, but if evil exists, it resides in those towers."

Nevermind the dragon he'd chosen to serve and the cruel undead hordes he'd raised to slaughter the city. His time would come too, soon enough.

 

[Aeyliea]

Despite her hurts, she moved with a sureness that did not hint at the fact that in this place, at least, she was a stranger. The land was unfamiliar to her...but the lessons of the Grass held true anywhere along the length and breadth of the Sea. Only far west, where the grass grew more sparse and sand and dust prevailed, did the litany of the land change.

She led the way as carelessly as someone well accustomed to this part of the world. And, in her own manner, she was.

"No good in cities." She spat the words with a venom so strong it seemed to have physical force. The grass parted before her, and a dry wadi displayed itself, sand and gravel bottom devoid of anything growing. She dropped the three foot to the bottom, and paused, waiting for the ache in her back to diminish from the jarring landing. "Not 'gods'," she said through gritted teeth. "The Seven rejected their...divinity?" She tasted the word uncertainly. It was at the very edge of her vocabulary, trying to convey such ideas. "Traitor not-gods betrayed Moon," she said.

The story was simple enough. In the morning of the world, the Seven rose from the Grass - great Wyrms of eld. Among the other peoples of the world, arose powerful figures born of the world that the No'rei would never see. Then, as now, they offered alliance and fellowship. Then, as now, they betrayed the People, and in so doing crippled one of the Great Ones - she of the Moon. That, in its basest form, was the story of the Sundering - the separation of the No'rei from all the rest of the world. The source of the bitter feud that spanned so many centuries that the outside world had forgotten that there was even a war being fought.

But the scale-clad people of the desert and grass still remembered. Kept their spears sharp and their bows ready to hand to continue letting the blood of the descendants of traitors.

She straightened, sniff at the air. Seeming to like something she scented, she turned and headed north by northwest in the direction of the dry wash. "Fight men of Alliria. Of Elbion. Of Vel Anir. Fight the elfs. Fight the little people. Fight all the world outside." She paused, turned and looked back at him with one cold, hard eye. "Maybe, one day, no fight. World dead? No'rei dead? Do not know. Only that fight for many many season. Many many many season." She spit, turned and continued to make her way down the sandy wash. "We hard. Not go into Sea of Stars easily. Traitors kill us, but come again do we." You and your kindred kill us, that statement seemed to say. But death is impermanent. She was Aeyliea, not the first of that name - of that soul - and not the last, either.

"Big cities die, eventually. No good in cities. Forgotten the song of land in pursuit of coins with faces. Cities come...burn...and come again. But the People eternal. One day..."

 

[Charlemagne]

The grasses gave way to dirt and its kind. Charlemagne, unfamiliar with the land or its tendencies, wondered if the lack of vegetation meant they were wandering away from a source of water, but he kept his reservations to himself. This one, Aeyliea she called herself, was of this land and to counter her wisdom seemed...well, unwise.

He listened with tight lips as she spoke of divinity and the betrayal of the moon. Never one for symbolism, he could only assume the moon served as some form of god for the No'rei people. He wasn't going to ask just yet: seemed something that required a bit more of a rapport.

"The city folk betrayed the moon," he muttered, following along as best he could. if what she said was true, then the grievances the No'rei bore with the civilized folk were likely of ancient origin. They would fight until one side exterminated the other. A conflict of genocide on a tiny scale it seemed, and one which it seemed only the No'rei might have been aware they were fighting given that Charlemagne had only heard of them just now. Surely if there was some grand conflict he would have come across tales of it in his travels to the west.

"We have similar principles in the eastern mountains. The conflict between the coin-lords and the smallfolk is eternal," and the coin-lords nearly always won. "I've no room to say much though. All I've ever done is fight for the coins-with-faces," a hint of amusement laced his words.

He paused then, standing inert in the gravel and dead earth as he scrutinized the girl. If her folk were so violent, and so detested the city-folk, would she too seek to kill him when the moment suited her? Surely working with him now was advantageous given her injuries. What if she was truly part of the raid? What if this was a trap?

The bald man's nose scrunched up with displeasure. "You claim you no longer walk with your people," he mused, fingers tapping the buckle of his belt as he eyed her. "What would you do to return to them?"

Deliver a sacrifice?

 

[Aeyliea]

She could not claim to understand every word he spoke, but it was not as if she was unconscious of the way of his words, and the way he spoke them. Every glance, every blink of the eye - all these things were carefully noted when she could see them. She knew that this man did not trust her, and likely trust her less than she did him.

Even knowing it, though, did not make her stiffen less at the words. For a moment, the throbbing in her back could not hold her attention. "Never stop walk with them," she said. "They...no longer walk with me." And there was no easy way to get back into the good graces of her kindred souls. It was not possible to buy one's way with the No'rei. There was no honor in something paid for in coin, and there was no honor to be earned by deliberately trying to ingratiate oneself with the tribe. "No thing can do to make them...accept? Is only at will of the Seven."

She certainly had no way to understand the thread of his deeper thoughts, though. Still, it would have pleased him - perhaps - to know that if she were going to spill his blood, it would have already happened.

"Coin not good for soul," she said. She did not know, in truth, what the concept of 'lord' and 'smallfolk' were. The concept, not the words themselves. "Why do people of stone-and-wood fight self?" She sounded confused at the idea. To her, even with her broader experience of the world beyond, all the world beyond the Sea of Grass was one people, united in their purpose - whatever that might be. There was no analog in the Savannah; what other tribes had dwelt there were long gone, and aside from the kind of familial squabbles between the various clans of the No'rei - bloody as they might be - there were no wars among their kith and kin. The same could be said of class - strictly speaking, economic class. While there were, effectively, castes within her larger family, material wealth was not only unimportant, but pointless beside.

She followed the dry wash as it wended its way down a shallow draw. She could smell water - the good-fresh kind, not the brackish, alkaline swill common further west. That would serve as a good place to tend to her hurt, and to take stock and figure out the next step.

 

[Charlemagne]

Seemed a rather raw deal.

From what he gathered; she'd been cast out against her will. What had occurred to bring about such a happenstance could be anything really. All he understood of these No'rei was what he could derive from her words. Privately, he hoped that he wouldn't need to understand much more. Didn't sound like they would take too kindly to his presence.

"Stone-and-wood," he mused, his private suspicions assuaged somewhat by his amusement. "If you mean the city-folk, there is no self. The city-states keep to themselves, the villages report to their individual lords, and the lords to their kings. The rest of us fend for ourselves. You can only count on your family out there," he gestured back toward the east with a thumb. "Most everyone else will put a knife in your back if it'll get them a meal." Not a total truth, but it was so in Charlemagne's experience. The Spine was a brutal and wild place. There, you were either predator or prey, and he much preferred to be the hammer rather than the anvil.

"Not sure if I believe in souls." He added absentmindedly as he followed her through the dry wash. The private excitement he'd felt upon first entering the grasslands had lost its luster at this point. Its newness faded quickly as the landscape had carried on and on until he'd grown well used to its harshness. "Folk always seem keen to follow the will of so-called gods. They give their lives for them, sometimes even the lives of their children. If there are so many different gods, one has to wonder why the world seems so fucked everywhere you go. Shouldn't everything be blessed?" The nihilistic opinion of a misanthropic man.

A question swiftly followed. "What could you have done to make your people leave you out here anyway?" She didn't seem harmless, nor did she seem the malignant type.

Aeyliea

 

[Aeyliea]

She didn't even look back at his comment. "Believe, not believe, no difference. Soul have, if name have." She did not know, of course, that the people outside did not put such import on names, and did not believe in the eternal nature of the soul either.

She went round a bend of the dry wash, and laughed harshly at the words of this man. "Is problem of city. The...divine?...not for paradise, or bless. Only testing. The Seven, they are to...to..." She shook her head violently enough that she stumbled, grumbled something unclean in her native tongue under her breath. "Keep tribe, clan strong. Only in strength, survive. All other way, false."

The gods of her people existed for the sole purpose of ensuring the strength and resilience of the People, and for no other reason. There was no promise of paradise...only the promise of continuation. After all, the souls of the dead returned to the Sea of Stars, and later - sometimes much later - returned to the Sea of Grass, back to the people. She herself could remember fragments of another life - one that came before - in pieces that made no sense, but were proof nonetheless of the continuity of her soul. It was what she had been trained to look for in children coming of age, and how she herself granted the names to those from before.

They rounded another bend in the wash, and the slow and incremental increase in humidity that she herself could very nearly taste finally bore its fruit. The sandy floor of the wash gave over to stone, a rib of it that had been eroded through over centuries. At the base, beneath an overhang, water leaked from the rock in a natural spring, forming a pool of surprisingly clear and clean water. It was what she had been looking for.

"Not know," she replied to his question. "Captured, failed in raid. Maybe...maybe Seven punish me. Gentle are they not, the Seven," she said in a grim tone. Taking a deep breath, careless of the man in her presence, she tugged at the leather shirt she wore, making a pained noise in the back of her throat as it slipped, dried blood pulling on the ugly gash in her back. She grit her teeth, and ripped the offending garment free. The shirt beneath it, made of some fabric the city-folk favored, came off next. Bare from the waist up and with fresh blood running down her back, she sat back hard and stared at the ground in front of her until the pain ebbed. Coppery skin had become visibly more pale - impossibly so - with her not-so-tender ministrations.

"The Great Ones not let me home," she said at last, the rise and fall of her chest finally returning to a normal rate. She paused, and seemed to struggle with herself internally for a long minute. When she finally spoke again, it was with an odd inflection in her already tortured speech pattern. "Need...help," she said slowly - an admission that was tinged by shame. "Clean hurt. Drink fill of water, first; will taint water for day, this," she added.

She felt a fool to have been run over in the first place, and even more of a fool for turning her back on someone who might well be an enemy. Without clan or tribe to return to, though, she still needed help from someone. There were things she could not do herself - such as tending the gash across her back - and if they were not handled, they could well kill her.

Of course...this man might decide to plant a knife in her back, too. Those of the Sundered were not trustworthy. She had been raised her entire life to believe them all thieves and betrayers, murderers and worse. Every fiber of her being had cried out against being forced to work with any of them, however temporarily, all those weeks ago. Even now, weeks later and without anything more untoward than a few fools trying to rough her up, she had a difficult time trusting outsiders.

"Please," she said. If the word sounded as if it had been dragged out of her by main force rather than freely given, well, so be it.

 

[Charlemagne]

The insistence upon the existence of the soul was a subject Charlemagne might have battled in times past. It was not so much that he disbelieved in the concept as much as his lack of desire to know the truth. If they were truly soulless thing, automata of flesh and bone and the concept the 'self' was simply a matter of chemicals in the brain operating in a particular pattern, then there wasn't much point to living. In that sense, part of him agreed with her assessment. In truth, that part of him hoped she was correct.

The matter of the No'rei and their beliefs too was something he sympathized with. Life thus far had been a constant struggle. There was little by way of comfort in Charlemagne's childhood and his adult life had thus been marked by contention. Part of that was his own fault; the mercenary's nature bid him to abhor the soft things offered in life. One would never find him plying away at his worries with drink, nor see him carousing with the women of the night in his free time. Private meditation and practice were all that dominated him outside the battlefield. In those meditations, often did he find the concept that God might simply swoop down and save the masses to be ridiculous. This world, as he saw it, was a test. Mortals had not been forged to live in luxury but to continue struggling through the test. The only question that truly lingered within him about the nature of the divine was the point of the test in its entirety; what was the goal? The reward?

"The Orcs of the Spine have similar gods. I often found I had more in common with their kind than my own kin." An unfortunate truth. He was a man that strode across two worlds, finding solace in neither of them. His lot was simply to contend and struggle for the sake of it. "My mother was religious, but she lived as a drunkard and a prostitute. She'd pray for salvation then move on to whoring. Her faith always felt fleeting. My father never spoke of such things. He didn't really talk about anything other than coin and women." Didn't know why he opted to share the nature of his parents. It just flowed out of him.

The flowing spring was a welcome sight. He did not possess Aeyliea's sense for it, but the sound of it was well enough. He lingered near its edge, dropping to his knees as he began to fill his two waterskins to the brim. His gaze remained on the water, any notice of the woman's actions unseen as he drank deeply of the waterskins.

"If you were captured then it's no fault of your own. Perhaps your gods aren't as angry with you as you may think? Did they tell you that you were cast out?" He asked, green eyes darting upward to meet her gaze. He was instead greeted first by the deep reds of the gash carved through her back. The wound looked particularly nasty in the white light of the sun. Tending to something so serious was well beyond her abilities. It was only after examining the wound that he realized she'd absconded with her upper clothing. He looked away on instinct, not keen on invading her privacy. He was a murderer by trade, but his scruples were strong and held close to the heart. There were certain things you just didn't do.

At the very least, if she was willing to put herself in such a vulnerable position, she wasn't likely to try and betray him. Not for the moment anyway.

His brow furrowed as she continued. Her request for assistance sounded a painful one indeed, a wound to her pride that might prove to be far more grievous than the physical one along her back. Its pitifulness urged Charlemagne to comply if only to save her from further humiliation.

He quickly worked off his boots and rolled his pants up to his knees. The mercenary approached her wordlessly, his gaze locked upon the gash so that he might not look upon her sinfully. A bolt of cloth he'd normally used for a bandage was quietly drenched in the spring waters, though he was frozen for a moment as he lingered over her. Now that they were close, he could not help but notice that she seemed far smaller and perhaps even a bit delicate compared to the way she'd moved in her clothing. A strong yet fragile thing.

"I'll be as quick as I can," he muttered apologetically as he began to dab at the wound with the cloth, cleansing the congealed and dried flakes of blood as best he could. "I'll need to disinfect it. It's going to burn a good deal." He reached for his wineskin. He'd been hoping to drink himself to sleep once the sun dipped below the horizon, but he owed her well enough for leading him to water, and this was far more important than his own pleasure.

The wine would pour over the gash slowly, likely causing her a great deal of discomfort. Charlemagne reflexively grit his teeth in sympathy.

 

[Aeyliea]

"Pain not bad," she lied, propping her pride up as she was wont to do. "No strength without," she added. That, at least, was truthful.

And also truthful was how badly it hurt. The beasts' horn had scraped along her ribs and spine, gouging through flesh but - thankfully - not leaving a mark on the bones themselves. Still, it was a terrible risk of going septic, being delivered as it had. The needful nature of the tending was all the more reason she needed to sit quietly and endure. And she did, with little more than flared nostrils and gusting breath, gritting of teeth and small sounds at the back of her throat when it was particularly uncomfortable. She never moved or jerked, not even when the sharp sting of the alcohol commenced.

"Way west...blocked," she said in a breathy voice, accent twice as thick. His reticence to look upon her body was amusing, and in another circumstance it might have warranted teasing. Not now, though; she was not mastered by pain and discomfort, but she was also not enjoying the experience. "Great storms first. Herds of kaizua, then storms again. Then hunters of cities, look for-" she cut off mid-sentence with a grunt as he did something behind her that sent a spike of pain. She could feel cold wetness mixing with the hot seep of fresh, thick blood. Her flesh paled further. "-for People to kill. More storms. Way east, no trouble. Way west, more trouble. Seven not wish...wish for travel west. Not home."

One storm might have been coincidence, or even two or three. However, the storms always fizzled out and vanished if she turned east long enough, and always flared up when she turned back towards home. That, or other obstacles. Things that might, on their own, have occasioned no comment. In aggregate, though, they spelled intelligent design. Not wild nature or chance.

"Phaw, <<dig it in there a little deeper why don't you just?>>" she hissed as he hit a particularly tender spot, a ripple running through the muscle of her back. She didn't pull away, though. If only she could heal herself with her own talents. It was not the way, though; a Seer could not heal themselves, only others. There were other things she could do, though. "When...done, look for plant. Flower, white and yellow. Small leaf, in four," she said, and then drew on the sandy floor of the wash. A cluster of leaves in groups of four, small and oval in shape. "Not at water. Six step from water, back. Need hand full." Something to further prevent problems. Calling upon the power of the Seven was not the only skill she had learned during her training as a Seer. Some things did not call for the power of their gods. Some things could be handled in mundane manner.

The Sea provided all manner of botanical salves and unguents, potions and poultices. One need but know where to look and how to handle them.

 

[Charlemagne]

The mercenary breathed a quiet laugh. Pain not bad. She was right of course: strength was often the child of pain and challenge. Still, he couldn't imagine the experience was an all-too pleasant one. He winced with her as he did his work, dotting away at heavier clumps and the dirt that had caked onto them. To her credit, she took the procedure like a champion. The last time Charlemagne had suffered a wound such as this he'd been howling like a beast in heat.

"Not a fan of the alcohol burn?" He asked with good-natured sarcasm. The thickening of the accent made it a bit more difficult to understand her, but he parsed her words out well enough with a bit of forethought. "You figure they're causing those things to happen? I suppose you might be right. Then again, circumstance might only be in your way." She understood her gods far better than Charlemagne did, but he wasn't above making reasonable guesses. "If it is the case your gods want you gone, maybe you're supposed to head west. Something out there they want you to do, maybe." He mused.

The blood began to flow a bit more freely. The rag quickly reddened in its entirety and the waters darkened to a lighter shade of crimson. He exchanged the ruined rag for another, eyes narrowing as her skin seemed to pale further. She'd lost a great deal of blood it seemed and losing more certainly wouldn't do. They'd need to get this bound up quickly.

His lips parted into a tiny half-smirk as she spat something in her native tongue. It sounded strange to his ears, an object of private interest. Certainly sounded far more natural on her lips than commonspeak. He worked until it seemed all the grime had been removed from the wound, and cast a look over her shoulder as she drew in the dirt. Seemed easy enough.

He drew away from her then, setting the dirtied rags aside as he stepped up from the wash. He moved as quickly as he could manage without looking too perturbed, scouring the surrounding are for the flowers in question. He came upon a mass of them a few paces away, just as she'd indicated. He unceremoniously plucked up a handful, and returned to offer them to Aeyliea, his gaze willfully cast to the sky to avoid any indecency.

His knowledge of herbology was woefully little and his words reflected such. "Strange place to gather a bouquet. Got a wedding to attend after this?" He asked, still staring toward the sky.

 

[Aeyliea]

She thought of the unwelcome visitor coiled in her mind, and wondered. That beast certainly wanted something, although what it was remained beyond her ken. And, thinking of it, most of her woes had come after communing with the demon in her head. Perhaps it wasn't that the Seven wanted something of her, but that she had become tainted by the demonic. Djinn and fae were known among her kin, and were known to be devious and to delight in mischief.

And, alas, to enslave and ensnare the mortals of the world.

"Perhaps," she said enigmatically.

It was a shame that she did not have time to find a hive. Honey would have been a delightful addition to the poultice of agerai flowers. It definitely would have helped to bind the thing together and hold it to the wound. Unfortunate. While the man was going, she set about other work, moving with the pained slowness borne of favoring her back. The floor of the wadi was, blessedly, sand, and she wet it with the now impure water and worked with her hands to form a bowl. The clattering of the charms in her hair was a subtle reminder that she was capable of more than simply wielding a spear.

He returned as she had set about to fire the sands, to create a bowl in truth. She looked up at him from where she sat. The pain was less now, and she could not help a sardonic grin spreading across her smooth, coppery face. Such modesty was not common among her kinfolk. But, of course, none would have leered, either. Most would have recognized when she was advertising herself for such base purposes, and the difference between that and mundane moments such as this. Still, she took the flowers and made no comment, turning her head and eyes to the bowl of damp sand.

"Quiet. Much tired, must concentrate," she said briskly. As she had been taught years ago, she cleared her thoughts of all but the most immediate and pressing of concerns. She sought to power of Lochin, the fire-hearted warrior of the Seven. But...in the void she had created in her head, the Great One did not answer. For long minutes she sat and stared at the sand, frustration rising slowly but surely. She absently reached up to her hair, and pulled a lovely hawks' pinion feather. Held between thumb and forefinger, she offered it to the Great One.

There was no response.

"Why..," she whispered, trailing off. "<<Why does the Great One not answer me? Why does Lochin furl His wing and ignore my pleas? Why do they all...>>" The cadence of her words carried a forlorn sadness that would have ended in tear. Of frustration or abandonment, it was difficult to say. She released the feather, and it floated listlessly in the humid air until it settled on the sand.

Her magic was denied her. The Seven would not answer her call this day, it would seem. Unaware, she was crushing the flowers that Charlemagne had brought her in a clenched fist. Ennui washed over her, a powerful despair that promised she would never see her family again, never walk the lands of her birth again. And, for a moment, she was swallowed by it.

And then it passed, and she shook her head and dispelled it. Unseen by her, the feather she had let fall turned to ashes, the offering accepted...but not by Lochin. Unseen by her, the bowl of sand suddenly glowed with its own heat, and it was only that heat pressing upon her thighs that made her look at it. She blinked, surprised that anything at all had happened...and then snatched handfuls of water and dumped them into the glass bowl. It should have shattered, but it did not. The flow of aether, or of mana, or of magic, was palpable.

She dropped the flowers into the water that had begun to steam, even as the glass stopped glowing. "Agerai dull pain, speed heal. With honey, better...but no honey." She spoke as though everything that was happening was exactly how she expected it to play out. As though there had been no question at all of the Seven heeding her entreaties.

In the back of her head, the ghostly shape of a dragon stirred.

 

[Charlemagne]

That sardonic grin cut through the heat like a cool breeze. Charlemagne's brow furrowed with an intermingling of confusion and private rumination. The oppressive warmth of the sun was momentarily forgotten, the beads of sweat dotting his visage withering from the annoyance they'd been to an afterthought. The moment passed as quickly as it had made itself evident and his expression hardened with neutrality as it had before. Rather, he made a point not to meet the woman's gaze.

It seemed they were safe enough for the moment. If anything problematic came on the approach, he was certain he would hear it coming. The plains weren't exactly an easy place to hide in, though the dip into the earth that was the dry wash might make it possible for someone to sneak up on their bellies. That still didn't seem particularly likely however. His decision rationalized, Charlemagne settled down on a flat rock a pace or so away, laying his greatsword bare across his knees as Aeyliea did her work.

The whetstone was pleasantly cool as he retrieved it from his pack. There nicks and cuts in the blade that could not simply be buffed out with a stone, but he could certainly make sure the edge was honed for whatever was to come. The sleek sound of stone grinding against metal hissed over the bubbling of the spring, but not over the sound of Aeyliea's mutterings in her native tongue.

There was a heaviness to her speech though he did not understand any of the words. They flowed almost songlike to his ears, so novel was it to hear speech other than common, and yet misery dripped off of them like a foul poison. She'd asked for quiet and he wasn't about to interrupt, but his lips parted with unspoken questions anyway. Her tone was a stark contrast to her previous behavior and his natural response was to ask what was wrong. Against his better judgement, he held his tongue.

His eyes narrowed as he peered up from his work. Seemed she'd gathered the sand into a bowl, though for what purpose he had no idea. he only took proper notice when that sand slowly heated into what looked to be glass - some sort of strange magic no doubt. He continue to watch in silence as she filled it with handfuls of water, his mind still struggling to comprehend what had just happened. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He'd seen far more terrible magic at work.

Seemed Aeyliea was capable of more than he'd thought. "Speed heal." He blew a bit of air out of his nose. "You've a way with words lady," a pause and a moment of hesitation across his features. Half a minute or so of silence followed, the heat of the grasses crashing down upon him now. If only they'd not bloodied the water. "Was .everything alright there? You sounded a little upset, to say the least."

 

[Aeyliea]

"Everything fine," she snapped. He shouldn;t have brought attention to her moment of weakness, brought a kind of dishonor upon her. The way of the Grass and the way of the world beyond it was different in so many ways, and virtually none of them that she knew.

The acrid scent of the flower-tea wafted in the air. Without much thought, she snatched up one of the ruined rags and dropped it unceremoniously in the 'tea', stuck a finger in the fluid and jerked back. Still too hot; she rocked back on her haunches, and stared at the water as if it had offended her in some way.

"Need to cool. As hot as can take, cloth on wound. Not...fun," she said. Not fun. Well, it wouldn't be; the astringent liquid would sting worse than pouring salt in her gash, and the heat would only serve to intensify it. It would further clean it out, and then numb it. In a few days, the patch of flesh would be mended enough to take abuse again.

Waiting, she could simply focus on the sounds of their surrounds. This was likely the only source of water for miles, and would be known by any that made their home here, beast or otherwise. Her spear and buckler lie on the sandy bottom of the wash, but not forgotten.

"If only another Seer near." She stared intently at the bowl of water, flowers, and blood-stained cloth. "Then simple. Great One heals, no more problem."

 

[Charlemagne]

Everything was most certainly not fine. Charlemagne had grown up around his mother, and while she'd never been one to dote on him, she'd certainly taught him well enough about the mannerisms of women. Wasn't wise to press an obvious issue unless it was offered first. He raised his hands in mock surrender, "Of course."

The flower-tea's scent was exotic though not all together welcome. His nose scrunched up reflexively when he noticed it. Fortunately, the gale winds of the flatlands quickly wafted it away from him, casting away the humidity that had been threatening to drown him simply from breathing. With each passing day spent here he found himself yearning for the calm cold of the eastern mountains. They were far harsher and less consistent than the grasslands, or rather the 'Sea of Grass' as Aeyliea was keen to call, but the heat didn't follow you when you found your way under the shade.

"I don't think any of this has been particularly fun Aeyliea," her name was strange on the tongue, and he realized it was the first he'd spoken of it. He generally stayed away from proper names; they forged bonds, however temporary, and then folk tended to get the idea that they were welcome to join him on his travels. It was more in his nature to forge monitors for those that crossed his path.

Emerald eyes found themselves glued to the back of the white-haired woman's skull as she checked her tea. He'd not had a moment to sit and think since coming across her, and this was beginning to feel like less and less of a good idea. A conflict was inevitable. Not between the two of them, but rather with the forces that chased at his heels. He'd not come across any of them since crossing into the grasslands; that didn't mean they weren't watching.

How many times had they waited for him to let down his guard? They seemed to mostly leave him alone so long as he wandered by his lonesome. It was always times like these when he dared to join the company of another that they came for him with murder in their eyes. It was as if they were punishing those that traveled with him for their choice to share the road, or perhaps there was a more sinister intent behind their actions.

The possibility that his pursuers might seize upon them now was a very real threat. His jaw clenched as his gaze darted from the far-off` hills to the flat plains. There wasn't a soul in sight, nowhere they could properly hide as far as he could tell. A quiet relief fell over him, though his worries remained unassuaged. Wounded as she was, Aeyliea would likely prove to be a liability. She'd get in the way, and then they'd both be dead.

She muttered something about a seer and dragged him from his ruminations. "What do you mean by seer?" He asked reflexively in hopes of quieting his thoughts. The attempts to suppress them only made them louder unfortunately.

His gaze fell to the bloodied waters. "I saw the glass. You some kind of witch?"

 

[Aeyliea]

She pointed at herself in a deliberate and intentionally crude manner, turning so that he could see (had he been looking, which was obviously not the case. "Seer," she said. She thought on the word and something that would be similar in common, but found it difficult to come up with something suitable. "...shaman," she said, distastefully. The word was crude and base, and only described the barest fingernail sketch of what it was that she herself was, and the others of the People who carried the name.

"Magick," she said, the world sounding unfamiliar in her mouth. "Blessing of the Seven. Take power of the Wyrms, use for self. But Seer also more. Lot more." And he had no need to know of the rest of it. He was an outsider, and even if he understood what it was she spoke of, there was no useful thing an outsider could do with the information. And not fewer than a dozen things that could be done with ill intentions. Still...

She raised a hand to her white hair. The bits of hollowed bone, stone, feathers and teeth clicked in the intricate braid down her back. "Offerings. The Great One take, and lend power. No offering, maybe spirits anger. Maybe on you, evil eye. Much danger." She shrugged as if that should explain everything and not just have succeeded in making the water that much muddier.

She pried the hot bowl from the bed of the wadi. Not hot enough to burn, but uncomfortable. Turning again, she handed him the bowl, a crooked and impish smile on her face. Might as well take some entertainment out of this man's discomfiture seeing as what she was about to ask him to do would hurt a lot more than she wanted to admit.

"Pour on wound," she said, making the motion with her free hand. "Cloth, lay over top. Pour on. Not stop, even if scream," she said. Very clearly not looking forward to a remedy that she herself had administered to many a wounded warrior in her time as Seer. She made a 'tsking' sound with her tongue. "No bandage, but maybe not need. Only need time," she said, and with her free hand again gestured, this time indicating the arc the sun would make in a couple of hours. "You do?"