...
Abigo Caves homes many
things,
Thieves,
Liars,
Lost Souls,
Traitors,
Terrorists,
Monsters,
and Secrets.
In the dark, whatever you are, you can be anything here.
In the deep.
In the quiet.
In the black.
--you can
do just about anything.
Here in the core of the earth, where the heartbeat of the sun pulses through the caves in ultrasonic vibrations and the wind pulls air in and sighs it out in rhythmic
living pulses, he sleeps. He sleeps all day and all night - or - he never sleeps at all. Sometimes he paces and paces and paces, and thinks and thinks and thinks, then runs and runs and runs and -- well -- to no place in particular. The night is vast and endless and it colors him the same as everything else, it is his cloak and dagger.
Dark.
It will never matter how rosen-orange his skin is or how viridian-green his eyes are - Night is Night and Night is the color of his skin this way. Night leaves the monsters alone, for this is their time. During the daylight, he will be no where but here, in his cave-dwelling. Though sorted and placed in Dawn - this particular caretaker of Delumine is better off alone, helping no one but himself. If they saw what he was before what he is now, they would agree. Vhetiveer should not meddle with the commoners. Should not speak to them. Should do no such thing as to communicate or participate or even rejuvenate his social career.
It is just better this way.
And,
As day surrenders to night,
And the sun to the rains,
It transitions, as Time will do.
Lightning interrupts the never-ending darkness,
And finally, the silence submits to thunder,
Outside, all Hell breaks loose in the form of a tempestuous storm.
If Vhetiveer feels anything anymore, he would know it means that something is coming.
Abigo Caves, home to none, is a brilliant place to take shelter from the elements, in no time other travelers are piling in to avoid getting washed down stream by the hard, persistent rains. To Vhetiveer, he wants to call it home despite being a member of Delumine's court.
Why? He does not care for the walls, halls, or rooftops. He does not care for their tomes of knowledge in the libraries, their pageants, parties, or their parades. There is no desire to incorporate himself into their society or to Know of Oriens and his people of Dawn. He feels no compulsion to go forward into such a tame country to find the same thing all over again; a kingdom and its obedient people. The very idea of being enlisted is an exhausting, time consuming thought that he quickly pushes past when he decides that - this time - he'll sleep beneath the bats instead of stars. He is not worthy of their shine - not anymore.
Thunder rumbles in his bones, damp and deep, sending vibrations through the sandstone and grit until things shift overhead to acknowledge a Greater power than any God could ever imagine. To become a storm and nothing but must be a beautiful thing and he is reminded of the Rift before it sank its teeth into him. He is reminded of that savage, meaningless magic that is wild and untameable --
Something is coming
Someone?
Vhetiveer only stops once to peer forward with his one good eye - the left one - to see stalagmites chaffing salt and water off their long-fanged points. For now it is the only movement he can see. Standing still against a backdrop of browns, greys, and shining minerals, he looks like he belongs to these very depths. As coppery and green as the precious metal in the rawest form can be, so is he. The copper of his coat seems tarnished in tones of patina in the dim glow of the cavelight moss. Here, it is almost impossible to see the horrid, alien stain of black that moves through him like a spell.
Someone is coming
Something?
Even though the thunder has long since grumbled and the lightning has yet to strike again, he can still feel its growling power lingering like an afterthought. Or is it the heartbeat of another that brings such life to these otherwise quiet, still caves? Is it the scrape of their hoof against stone that echoes like great thunder?
Vhetiveer, still unsure of his life and where it is headed at this moment, has time to move away from the main thoroughfare he wandered into and back into his niche in the wall. Very easily he disappears, ghostly like a bad memory one wishes to forget (and does). He blends in easily behind veils of grandfathered moss and lichen, behind the glow of the cave fungus where he goes to lay down, doe-still and unexpectant. He assumes no responsibility of whoever (
whatever) comes this way, not realizing that the smell (
his smell) of wild roses and piñon smoke is distinct enough - and recognizable - to seek him out.
V H E T
- alles nahe werde fern -
