someone says: i have forgotten how to pray; this is not to say that there is no divinity between us, in this; merely that i do not know what to do with it.
He unrolls the map.
To the East, and behind him, the river carves through the woods. It's high this time of year, fed by the upland cold, and its sound echoes his raging heart, for better or for worse. In a better time it might sound triumphant, the roar of a lion, or the snarl of a wolf. These days it sounds more like words spoken in a crowded chapel - all panic, an overlapping murmur with no words, just sound. Urgent sound. A sound like faraway sirens.
Ahead, over a deer track that loops through the trees, behind a wall of ivy, there is nothing but death. Andras stares at the map, but it tells him nothing new. There is death in Viride. Death and unrest and a punctuated fear that he sees in every face, hears on the drawling end of every word.
Andras sets his jaw, clenches his teeth tight. A thin blue branch of electricity somersaults down his spine, dying with a loud crack. Andras stares at the map again and it continues to leer back at him soundlessly, except for the quiet crumpling sound as he tightens his grip. He turns to Kindred.
(The letter had said:
I forgot to get your name.
Either way, we're going tomorrow. Midday, when the light is best.
I expect it won't be fun.
Signed,
Andras Demyan, Warden of Delumine
He had rolled it carefully, and sent a bird with little more than a phrase: find the medic. It had brought her to him, either by divine intervention or genuine skill. He does not know or particularly care which. He had met her with little more than a curt nod as he rubbed his glasses with the feathers of one wing, wiping away the condensation that the winter cold had brought with it.)
"What do you think," he says through a sigh, "ready for the horror-show? Emersyn's map says it's through here." He starts walking before he finishes his thought, eyes still trained on the map.
all you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift the spear and say yes as it flashes.
They were becoming increasingly common, these dawntide excursions into the Viride.
Llewelyn resisted the urge to huff her displeasure, opting instead for a delicate pursing of her lips — a much more lady like way to express one’s distaste — and a slight crinkle to her brow. Of course the scribe had overheard plans for the continued inquiry into the mysterious Poacher, one would had to have been practically deaf not to. Of course the prim and proper mare had a strong curiosity toward both the creature and the measures being taken to apprehend it; she and little Regis had almost had an encounter with the thuggish thing last winter, after all.
And so of course the busybodied lass had found herself none too gracefully clipping her carefully polished hooves on rocks and roots as she made her way toward the supposed meeting place of Dawn’s Warden and Healer. Unfortunately, Llewelyn had not yet made the time to meet with either of the appointed authorities of the Court, not by social call nor in any practical manner concerning the current arrangement. Thus, her arrival, while not by any means quiet or subtle, wouldn’t have been accounted for in the glowering Warden’s plan.
Less unfortunately, however, was that Llewelyn knew no shame when it came to such things and had a charming smile already spread over her lips when she stepped into the minor clearing where Andras’ ever-frowning self was stationed. Despite not knowing the stallion personally, the maiden knew of him in as accurate a scope as any who knew of a well-appointed stranger. It didn’t hurt that the Warden practically screamed his every word, whether opinion or polite conversation.** And so, due to his... (She paused here, internal monologue hiccuping as the mare searched for the word that would describe the male without painting a ghastly picture) enthusiastic nature, Llewelyn felt already an acquaintance in the monochrome stallion’s company.
A small, courtly bob of her head served as an initial greeting to the bespectacled male, and Llewelyn gave the same courtesy to the Healer as she slowed to a stop near the pair. The granite colored doctor was of a more or less diminutive stature, though her muscled bulk and spiraled horns made up for whatever lacking there may have been in height. The scholar knew little of the other mare, having only returned to the Court proper a half season ago and having refused to be tended in the medical wing — Llewelyn was entirely given over to anxiety when the sight of blood or the scent of antiseptic used to mask the aforementioned blood was present.
Which begged the question; why in any number of hells or heavens was the scholar accompanying the Healer and Warden on a quest to track and study the habits of a literal blood-mongering monster?
She told herself it was a noble pursuit for the sake of accurate historical documentation.
Yet, the courtier that knew what she saw would slip through her lips in a whisper before her observations found their way to a scholarly recounting of events.
So it went, she supposed.
"Bracing morning for some investigative work, is it not?” Quipped the maiden, her tone appropriately light in the face of such dirty work, “I am Llewelyn, charmed to meet the two of you in the flesh. I shan’t be in the way, I’ll only be documenting your findings — though, if each of you wouldn’t mind expressing those findings aloud, I may also be able to compile a case file for further investigation purposes.” Another small grin toyed with the edges of the lass’ mouth, her rigid adherence to proper composure hopefully masking the nerves needling across her skin.
**The use of the word “polite” in the phrase “polite conversation” when concerning Andras is, well, rather loose.
@Andras @Kindred woo! She is NOT prepared for such things in the least!
It had been a bird which had brought her the call from the Warden. The meeting had been so tense (emotions running wild as panic took over the populace of Delumine due to the poacher) that she had not been able to give him her name, let alone figure out where they were meeting for this patrol. So, upon receiving the note about midday she had made her preparations, emptying her pouches of needless herbs and ensuring that instead they had helpful, premade tinctures. Her hair braided up and out of her way in case they needed to run, or fight (though she would strongly prefer it to not be necessary).
She had stepped up to him and received a nod, which she returned in kind with a “Warden Andras,” before adding, “I’m Kindred, by the way.” Her eyes peered over the map and then out to the land before them, steeling what little was left of her nerve – muscles taut, but certainly capable. “As ready as I ever will be...” she confirmed, stepping off not but two strides behind him.
The sound of hooves clipping the roots and rocks behind them was what had caused Kindred to turn her head back, catching sight of another equine with gold adorned on her limbs – a striking contrast to the dark hues of her appaloosa coat. She blinks, taking in everything that was said, brain mulling over the idea of having all the actions ‘documenting’ but deciding it might be for the best, especially if she and the Warden managed to happen upon something useful. “Kindred,” she offers, “Pleasure to meet you, Llewelyn. I suppose that could be useful.” Then, she turns back to the Warden. “I suppose the last sighting location might be the best to start, though I am open to whatever you think best...” After all, she was just here to try and see if her knowledge of concoctions and potions from animal and plant parts could play any part in why they were poaching.
