[P] bone to rune; skull to dust

[Turhan]

“ bone to rune ”

Turhan is neither afraid nor certain of the footsteps which come closer and closer yet.  The sounds of the hooves - when it comes near enough - measure the weight of the beast approaching him. Blindness is his only skill set in matters such as this, which aid to blade-sharp hearing and a keen sense of smell.  Silas is big but not big enough, and his approach - although careful and quiet - not quiet enough.  The mystic freezes like a statue, the stillness allowing him a better ear as he tunes all of his attention to his hearing as well as his olfactory senses.  Together, they deliver an image to the Elder that his eyes cannot.


However which way it goes, Nature is fair.  The wind changes directions and blows back at Silas and with it the distinctive scent of wild roses, wood smoke, and most of all, horse blood.  Feathers rise up like a coxcomb between Turhan's ears, the ribbons and bells flutter and flap along his blood soaked cheeks.  The old horse raises his head when Silas speaks through his approach - perhaps a wise thing to do - but it doesn't stop Turhan from raising his lip to show off the dangerous bite he is still equipped with.  A silent warning to stop and not get so close -- at least until he can fathom what it is that Silas is saying to him.


The shared language isn't something that Turhan has learned out of friendship and so he has trouble configuring the tone Silas wants to set.  Neither hostile nor openly friendly about being encountered, Turhan maintains a neutral posture (as neutral as a highly decorated native can look, of course).  The language of the 'Mlendo'  is something he has taught himself enough of to use it against those who threatened his people first -- to speak to the outsiders in a way that they would better understand his deadly promises.


To warn them of the spears and arrows that his people would rain down upon them as a fair warning.


However ..


Silas speaks in gentle enough tones that Turhan realizes he is speaking his own name - to make sure the painted stranger knows he isn't there to cause trouble.  Or so it seems, something trills in the Elder's blood, a dull warning echoing in the back of his thoughts not to trust the unexpected so soon.  Even though he wards off his own hostility towards Silas, he still keeps a finger on the trigger .. just in case.


"Your kind, no good at promises."  He finds his words and uses them. Naturally, Turhan does not trust him and gages his distance between here and Silas - and wonders how hard he'll have to concentrate to stick the man in the throat with a poison tipped quill.  Being a man of peace, however, helps.


"I am Turhan, what is it you wish to know?"  Vespera hums in his blood - she sings of strange - yet - stranger things and reminds him that not all is as it seems.  She tugs at the braids in his hair, twirls the trinkets woven into them, and reminds him of all the prayers he and his people made towards peace and understanding between the Ilati and the Mlendo.


Perhaps, he wonders then, we are to finally understand what we do not understand.


Have patience, it is as if Vespera is listening to his overprotective heart and laying a hand over it to soothe old wounds.  Although he does not reveal all his cards, he will always have a soft spot for answering questions - for that has been his whole life.


"Speak, I am listening." 

T U R H A N
skull to dust