Sittin' On the Dock of the Tornmawr

A fair autumn day, with puffy clouds and brilliant sunshine. The breeze off the water is chilly, but the sun helps, and it isn't that chilly in its light. The usual hustle and bustle of a busy port is very much everywhere in evidence, and the shouts, whistles, conversations, the skrees of the gulls, the flapping of a hundred flags in the salty breeze, all mingle together in a harmonious blend of sound typical of any fair-day waterfront.

Near the dock, the shutters are open on a large building clearly marked _Harbormaster_, and a salt-roughened voice is deep in conversation with a familiar voice bearing a fairly thick Myrrish accent. "Dylan Hunt? Friend of yours? A common enough name, at a guess, though I can't say I'd heard just that name. Not that I'd remember if I did. Doubt I'd ever find it amid all these manifests anyway. If you want to search, come back a bit later and I'll let you have a look. Can't do it right now, I'm busy. No, Jost, not there! Far end of the dock, the clipper. Her captain wants clearance, go on with you."

Sleep. Rest. One stares at the birds and possibly thinks of them as larger sky raisins. Svarshan leans on the bank, a fishing pole drifting into the water in front of him. Not advised all of the time, certaintly--not with all of the traffic along this river. And yet...

It's one of those days. Or perhaps, by force of will, he might make it that way.

He goes so far as to mutter, "Sky raissin," with narrow-eyes at one of the gulls. And then, lazily, looks towards the source of voices, of sudden conversation. And smiles. "Ssa. Peasse to you, warrior," he says to Seldan.

"I will do that, and my thanks for your help. It is important." Seldan's voice floats out in response, and the ginger-blonde warrior is visible in the window. "I will leave you to your business, then. The Dreamer's blessings on you." When Svarshan speaks, he looks out the window, and smiles at the familiar sith-makar. He disappears from the window, and a second later emerges from the door. "Peace be upon your nest, Darshan. What -" It's then that he spies the fishing rod, and the smile widens. "A peaceful day indeed."

The weather hass. Not been thiss kind ssince the. Sspring. Thiss one has caught a fissh, two rubber boots. And the leftoverss of a gnomissh. Ssandwich," the sith-makar says equitably. The voice is warm and slow. He wears a set of relaxed clothes--clothes that suggests he'd put them on this morning. Had someone or something spit upon them, and then swapped them for another set.

That mostly matched.

At the riverside, the rod moves a bit, but seems otherwise still, outside of the swish and tug occasioned by passing traffic.

"One hopess your day has been as. Quiet. ...one iss concerned it hass not been."

Seldan wrinkles his nose at the mention of the gnomish sandwich, moving to seat himself on the dock next to the sith-makar. "The past few days have been quiet indeed, though perhaps less quiet than my healers would wish." That remark is accompanied by a quiet, almost tentative laugh. "But - I have learned much about what it is that we face - and discovered that there is far more still. Come to that - how does one tell the difference between a demon and a devil?" The question seems to come out of nowhere, and yet, the way in which he asks suggests a purpose behind the query.

"...a demon iss wilder game. It iss besst sseasoned with sstronger sspices. A devil makess an easier. Brew," the sith-makar says. He puts his hands under him, and moves to sit. The movement is lazy, but the eyes are...alert. "Ksst." A slow, almost-smile. "They both sserve the Hells. They are beneath the Tyrant'ss boot. The demonss perhapss, honor Taara and Caracoroth more."

"...weaknesses? Sstrengths? What would you know of. Them?" he asks.

"Kol's mistress showed herself yestereven, at the memorial service." Seldan's expression is set, focused, determined. "I took a guard post for another who had lost a brother to Kol's evil, and so did not go, but I have the tale from those who did. Erendriel thinks her either a demon or a devil, but was unable to say which. I was hoping you might know how to tell based on their actions."

"...if it sserves, it perhaps has made a bargain. One would ssuppose a devil." The sith-makar rubs at his jaw. "A demon is harder to bind into sservitude, but at leasst they do not form. Legions. Their armiess are formed from ssummoned minions or those who they might browbeat at the. Time," he says, voice rough, and wry.

And then, "The plague," he sighs. "One begins to wonder, warrior. The minions of thiss creature are immune to. Mosst things ssave the exchange of. Ssuffering. And ssorrow. One would tell you of their sstrengths and. Weaknesses but...thesse creatures sseem sso far blessed by a. God. One beginss to ssuspect."

The plague. "Would you hear what we know? There are those who have learned much of it, and of its creator." Seldan allows his booted feet to dangle over the edge of the dock, above the water. "It is not they who created it, we think. They merely - exploit it to their own ends." He seems a bit tentative.

The warrior tilts his head to the side. "One is curious. It iss not thiss one'ss hunt, warrior, but if one may help, now and then..." Svarshan's voice is low, almost wistful. "The young oness keep thiss one busy, mosst days. With Asumit, with others--one daress not leave for many dayss."

Iuitl approaches the pair as they speak about the plague and the devil. She comes near them, adjusting her robes. Her bird sticks his head out from her clothing, peering at the pair as they speak. "Pfah. If there is a day this plague leaves this place, it won't be soon enough," she complains aloud, having lost her tired attitude for just pure venom, befitting her appearance that echoes a sickly black dragon. "That fiend froze my familiar into an icicle. The economy of this city could collapse with these constant attacks."

"No, Darshan. This hunt is mine," Seldan says firmly, and determinedly. "It is a thing created by evil magic, meant to avert a tragedy and only causing a worse one. Many worse ones. It is mine to pursue its cure and its destruction, and the defeat of those who would exploit it to spread suffering and sorrow. The wizard who created it sought to save his wife from plague, and turned to undeath and evil to do so. I would have you shield your children."

When a new voice speaks, though, he turns to look up. "Peace upon your nest, my friend," he greets levelly. "So, you were there when Kol's mistress showed herself as well? Please, join us, I would hear your tale."

"...ssoftskin words," Svarshan says after a while. He looks to Iuitil with an expression of... regret? Sorrow? "One hears them now, among ssome of the sscaled. 'Economy.'"

He takes in a slow breath, smoke curling along the muzzle. Drawing in.

Lets it go.

"Peasse to you, sshaman. Forgive thiss one. He ssimply remembers a younger. Time." Svarshan looks to Seldan then, and stills. He looks to the other's eyes, and nods. "It iss your territory," he says, solemnly. Then, "A tale of curssed. Love. ...ssa," he says, and half-laughs, though it's sorrowful. "It remindss this one of the. Old Myrrish sstories."

Something just draws a great big sigh of her own out of Iuitl. She looks up at Svarshan for a while with... agitation? She looks to Seldan, and steps over to stand nearby. Her bird makes a soft complaint at her getting closer to the water, and hides inside her robes.

"I was there trying to provide comfort when that asinine creature showed up and froze us to our bones, and mocked the mortal people for daring to honor their dead. If I had the power, I would have flayed the woman where she stood for such an offense. But I lack that strength," she says, thrumming with a violent distaste at having to continue speaking about this.

A finger goes out to prod Svarshan mildly. "Your younger time is my youth full of anguish, confusion and uncertainty. If I had known how to kill the aggressors, known more than them, more words and magic, my father would still be alive. Smarter creatures struck my tribe and I could do nothing to stop it. Every time I hear 'softskin this' and 'softskin that' it reminds us of how empty our heads are and how weak our people stay because of fear of what they don't know."

She spits on the dock. "It's a poison to our blood."

The mention of the old Myrrish stories draw a chuckle from Seldan and, after some consideration, a nod of agreement. "Even so," he says. "And yet, truly do those tales hold grains of truth within them, amid the embellishment." He lowers his eyes, then, and is about to say something else when Iuitl speaks again. Instead, he shuts his mouth and looks between the two of them, his entire bearing assuming a sudden impassive reserve.

"One admiress your fire," Svarshan says warmly, to the shaman. "One possessed it onsse, mysself. Perhapss this one grows. Too complacent."

To Seldan, "It iss why the People and yourss may exisst alongsside one another, but not. Together. ...as youth, we possess closser traits to dragons. Drive. Territory."

He looks to Iuitil, warmly. "Thiss old sscarleg knows you will learn great thingss. He only hopes you do not make the misstakes he did. That you are more ssucessful. And if, when you are ready. One will be here, sshould your wings draw you back."

"Kthur viskozath n'bzzurr oruthiaah." The words are Kulthian. They sound mechnical. Forbidden.

As he shows her mirth and warmth, Iuitl's wrath starts to deflate. The respect she receives gets a satisfied nod out of her. She knows she's right about her feelings, but clearly enjoys the confirmation. She steps over to sit near them and grows silent for the moment. "The bird will tell me, or you, if I fall from my path," she tells Svarshan, and the Raven pokes his head out and squawks, "Damn right I will! Take 'er eyes, I will!" She reaches up and pushes him back into her robes with one finger. He complains but doesn't resist.

"He's crass but he has taught me much." She pats her robe and causes more squawking to muffle out from the cloth. Sniff.

"My apologies. Have we met? I am the Shamaness Iuitl, of the Tlanextic." She leans to give Seldan a warm look. "Myrrish stories? I'm interested." She looks between the two with bright eyes like a hatchling. It's like mood whiplash.

"Not all of your people are so unwelcoming, or so fearful." Seldan finally finds words, although the reserve does not fade immediately. "And not all of ours are so open. The fault does not lie with one side alone, nor with the other. I am Seldan Padaryn, of Eluna's Silver Guard. Some of your people term me a - brightscale?" He glances at Svarshan as he says the word. "Peace upon you, shaman."

He nods slowly at Svarshan's words, clearly thinking of things to which he does not give voice at once. "I have spent some time studying the tales and legends of my own ancestry, and have come across other such that are not mine, but he speaks of the plague's origins being as a tale."

Bors is just walking along when the jarring Kulthian words, heard in passing, jangle his brain. He pauses abruptly, looking around for the source of the disruption. Spotting the source after a moment, he frowns, but says nothing. He says nothing -very hard-. He peers curiously at Iuitl and her raven. That's shamans for you. Always going around with ravens. Seldan's mention of the plague draws him up short also. He'll pause to listen in case there's any news.

"A sshaman-caste of the. Tlanextic. You are as kin to my kin, and third-breath from the Atoyaatl, one'ss own tribe. One wisshes you a great hunt, and sswifter claws that find the heart of which you. Sseek," Svarshan says warmly. Then, looks to Seldan. Listens, and falls quiet.

"One would lend you a great claw--but one hass doubts. As to if it may aid againsst this enemy. ...one doess not know. Please sshare you wordss, warrior. One has disstracted thingss long. Enough."

He sits on the bank, near the other two. There is a fishing rod in the water, that bobs now and then. He looks up as Bors heads that way.

That startles Iuitl. She might be a distant cousin to Svarshan, the thought had never occured to her. But she laughs aloud when she realizes that obvious fact and how little it actually matters. "Swift death to those that deserve your teeth, Svarshan," she says, a well-wishes that sounds warmer than the words used to form it.

She quietly looks between the two, interested in stories and plans, if they'll tolerate her presence. Bors gets a distracted glance, since attention draws that way briefly. "Hello," she greets... which is a 'softskin' greeting, accented with her tail thumping once.

The distracted glances get Seldan's attention, and he finally turns entirely, to face all instead of the water over which his feet had been dangling. He seems reserved, but polite, nodding to Bors, not seeming to mind if others listen to what he has to say. "The tales of my own ancestry are perhaps interesting to none save me," he begins with a chuckle, his own words tinted with the accent of the High Kingdom, "But ... the white towers that so many have encountered were created by a wizard by the name of Zeheir some thousand years past. The man wielded great power, for these towers cross time and space, and there are many copies of them. But ... all that power could not stop his wife falling ill, with a plague. We do not know her fate, but he turned to undeath, and to evil, in his search for a cure. He was found as a lich, and destroyed. For that much, we know for certain, the Warden Hun'rar found the records. We believe him to have created the ooze that spreads this plague, for an ooze it is, a parasite that feeds on magic, and not an illness alone."

He stands, and leans against a nearby pole holding the dock off of the water, expression somber. "The creature that attacked the memorial service, this Yukia, the mistress of Kol Demontry ... occupies that tower now. It is she, or Kol, who his gifted certain people with those snowflake scars, and she seems to know how to banish the ooze. We know yet little of her, but I would know what - or who - it is that they want with the Grey Lady's Temple. Too, Zeheir left behind a son, by the name of Dylan Hunt. We know not if he be living, here, or have many descendants by now, but if any would have access to Zeheir's notes and research, that might hold answers, it is he."

Bors almost meets Svarshan's glance as he looks over. Almost. He's just minding his own business, he is, and not eavesdropping at all, no siree. He's just chosen this place right here to pause and ... examine the sea wall. From over here. He misses the glance from Iuitl, in his attempt to look like he's not eavesdropping. He seems a bit startled by Seldan's nod, and the implied inclusion in the conversation. Well, the bit about the plague -is- interesting. It's a bit of insight, not that he can help much with it. Now if you needed fish gutted, he's your man. Plagues cured, not so much.

"Peasse to your nesst," Svarshan says to Bors, when the other doesn't say anything. He looks back to Seldan. To Iuitl. "That iss a. Tale. ...and your own ancesstry..." He falls silent after that, and looks out to the river. He's quiet a time longer, and stands.

"This one has ssmall oness, to tend to within the. Half hour. They are closse to choosing caste--" around five, six years of age, usually, "--but one would sshare words. Yet for ssuch a gravity of disscussion. One would not give them the grasse one needs to. At thiss time. ...Sseldan ...one wonders at thesse creatures' ties to Illotha," he says, too.

The look that crosses Bors's face when Svar wishes peace to his nest is ... disappointment, or maybe regret. "Too late," he mumbles. "Too late." He seems suddenly on the verge of despair.