What Florentine found there in the dirt chilled him more deeply than the enormity of what befell this lost kingdom.
At first his eyes did not want to see, and he looked past the tarnished and dirt-caked mass she lifted before her eyes to the ruin beyond, but the near-silent insistence of her whisper and the need with which she offered him the item made him risk a second look.
The trinket was badly tarnished and caked with a thousand years of weather and grime, but in a flash of existential horror he recognized it as clearly as if it were still lying atop a treasure hoard in the bowels of a ghost ship sailing a sea of sand and dead whalesong. He recognized its simple elegance, the delicate loop of each link in the chain. He recognized the cracked sapphires that glinted dully like glassy, dead eyes, the enchantment within them long broken. The red stallion hesitantly extended his head to nose the dusty artifact.
It was Ruth's collar.
But it was a thousand years old.
Raymond recoiled. His knees felt oddly watery and disobedient beneath him. The tumult in his chest warred between anger and fresh grief, that he should be given this physical reminder that once the kitten had been a palpable thing with a neck and heart and mind of her own, that no cat could ever hope to live a thousand years even if whatever had the power to exhaust the collar's protective enchantment hadn't simply killed her outright. They may as well begin hunting for her bones, assuming the behemoth's impossible footfall had not rendered them down to dust.
Perhaps she was still clinging to the collar now, then.
Raymond took a step back, batting the trinket away with the flat of his tail blade. It bounced once in the brittle grass and lay still. His ears had flattened to his skull as though it were a threat, a viper poised to strike - and, in a way, it was.
Florentine had already abandoned the collar in search of something else, some other echo to renew her childish hopes. He lunged forward, blocking her with his body and stamping his hoof hard enough to make his bones ring from the impact.
"That's enough."
The swordsman's voice did not shake. It was low and hard, turned to steel with unhappy resolve. The voice of a horse who had sold the secrets of his people for vengeance and cut down crooked soldiers like dogs. It was not Raymond as Florentine had ever known him, or likely ever would, but it brooked no argument and rang with the sort of feral savagery that might have enchanted even the wild Calliope.
"Whatever you're hoping to find decayed centuries ago. There is nothing here now but the restless dead." A fell breeze blew and the grass rattled like shaken spears. By some miracle of willpower, he bit back the accusation of the pain that her misplaced optimism had caused. "You must attend the summit meeting," he finished instead. His eyes were grey awls boring into her skin.
At first his eyes did not want to see, and he looked past the tarnished and dirt-caked mass she lifted before her eyes to the ruin beyond, but the near-silent insistence of her whisper and the need with which she offered him the item made him risk a second look.
The trinket was badly tarnished and caked with a thousand years of weather and grime, but in a flash of existential horror he recognized it as clearly as if it were still lying atop a treasure hoard in the bowels of a ghost ship sailing a sea of sand and dead whalesong. He recognized its simple elegance, the delicate loop of each link in the chain. He recognized the cracked sapphires that glinted dully like glassy, dead eyes, the enchantment within them long broken. The red stallion hesitantly extended his head to nose the dusty artifact.
It was Ruth's collar.
But it was a thousand years old.
Raymond recoiled. His knees felt oddly watery and disobedient beneath him. The tumult in his chest warred between anger and fresh grief, that he should be given this physical reminder that once the kitten had been a palpable thing with a neck and heart and mind of her own, that no cat could ever hope to live a thousand years even if whatever had the power to exhaust the collar's protective enchantment hadn't simply killed her outright. They may as well begin hunting for her bones, assuming the behemoth's impossible footfall had not rendered them down to dust.
Perhaps she was still clinging to the collar now, then.
Raymond took a step back, batting the trinket away with the flat of his tail blade. It bounced once in the brittle grass and lay still. His ears had flattened to his skull as though it were a threat, a viper poised to strike - and, in a way, it was.
Florentine had already abandoned the collar in search of something else, some other echo to renew her childish hopes. He lunged forward, blocking her with his body and stamping his hoof hard enough to make his bones ring from the impact.
"That's enough."
The swordsman's voice did not shake. It was low and hard, turned to steel with unhappy resolve. The voice of a horse who had sold the secrets of his people for vengeance and cut down crooked soldiers like dogs. It was not Raymond as Florentine had ever known him, or likely ever would, but it brooked no argument and rang with the sort of feral savagery that might have enchanted even the wild Calliope.
"Whatever you're hoping to find decayed centuries ago. There is nothing here now but the restless dead." A fell breeze blew and the grass rattled like shaken spears. By some miracle of willpower, he bit back the accusation of the pain that her misplaced optimism had caused. "You must attend the summit meeting," he finished instead. His eyes were grey awls boring into her skin.
Raymond.
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
"he's an outlaw loose and runnin'," came the whisper from each lip
"and he's here to do some business with the big iron on his hip."
@
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
