Caelin Skyholme
One of the virtues of being raised in a monastery was that you were taught patience. Oftentimes, the senior monks were the sort of people who would hear a question and spend days in contemplation over the answer. Nothing was spoken without due consideration, and everything given a weighty gravity because of it. Caelin himself had never been like this- his words were still pretty things, given and exchanged with the sort of charitable easiness that characterized the true idealist.
He had, though, learned the lesson well: waiting was no great difficulty, and waiting for someone to speak was an even smaller one. He had to admire people who thought over their statements just as much as those with quick tongues and razor wits. He was neither, particularly, but rather a conversationalist who was just as good at using his ears as his vocal cords.
Apparently, though, the wait was not to be an overlong one. The brilliant, guileless smile of the eternal optimist spread across his countenance, and he nodded as if to himself. âOf course. I knew I was forgetting something. Caelin Skyholme, itinerant monk and occasionally-lost traveler, at your service.â
There was a it more silence, during which he ran a hand absently through his hair and stifled a yawn, looking about at the scenery with renewed interest. He couldnât remember the last time heâd properly slept; in the right state of mind he could go days without it and remain unaffected, but sometimes he just forgot. That and eating, really.
Apparently, they were headed for Delta. Not a bad place, overall, though there were a couple odd types around from what he remembered of the place. Then again, it was entirely possible that he was the odd one, and upon a few secondsâ more reflection, he decided this was likely the case.
They made a short stop at an old tree, and Caelin privately wondered how Kevril could possibly keep track of where that bow was. Even if all the trees were a little different, trying to find the one you were looking for had to be like⊠finding a tree in a forest. The thought almost drew a small chuckle from him, but he decided that might be rude and refrained.
âItâs hard to be otherwise when you have nothing to your name but what you carry on your back,â he pointed out sagely. He had a feeling Kevril would understand. âDelta, huh? You can just follow the storm, but the most direct route actually angles a bit that way,â he pointed to indicate the direction, then shrugged. It didnât really matter to him and a couple extra hours was probably worth it if they found the forest-manâs friend along the way.
Luna Nightswift
âWell, Yasryne Everhund,â Kuna said, trying out the name. The old syllables of a language she knew in her bones came easily to the tongue, but still rang as somehow foreign to her. Everything that was genuinely drow tended to do that, perhaps because she had not been raised to the culture. âWe have arrived in Delta. Stay close, and if you lose grip, donât hesitate to shout.â
So saying, Luna wound them carefully about the streets, selecting more shadowed alleys and less-travelled roads whenever possible. The archblade held her head high and sent a narrowed gaze at anyone whose eyes lingered too long where they shouldnât. This way, they would reap the benefits of shade whenever possible, and expose the strange sight of one ash-toned woman leading another to fewer people.
Which wasnât to say they werenât being gawked at, because they most certainly were. Lunaâs challenging stare and the blades at her hips were enough to turn most eyes away before too long, but the scene was simply too conspicuous not to gain notice. Of course, something told her that this sort of thing happened to Yasryne anyway. Who wouldnât look twice at someone dressed like that? Whether from confusion, disbelief, or allure was all relative.
She was fairly used to it, herself, though obviously for different reasons. When you made money based on who hired you, you had to cultivate a certain kind of reputation, which oftentimes involved associated images. Good thing she wasnât really in business at the moment; playing shepherd to a lost groundling was probably not up there on the list of tasks serious mercs undertook. Luna found that she didnât much mind, though- Yasryneâs grumpiness was actually amusing to her.
âWell, here we are,â she said at last, navigating her charge beneath the shadow of the tower. âIâve been told you shouldnât knock, though I suppose that means theyâll know weâre here anyway.â
Claenereth Dwinâanea
Claenereth swallowed as the necromancer began to speak. Tere was something in his voice, like⊠old parchment and death rattles and the wind through empty corridors. It was disquieting, but nevertheless she clung onto his words with the utmost attention. Was it possible that Helkara, too, knew that the consequences of a war between the gods would be far too devastating to risk?
Before she could find out, Kitherine interrupted himself, apparently scolding Narisaa, who just looked defiant about the whole thing. Clae couldnât say she blamed him for eavesdropping; she had been known to do so herself, on occasion, and, well, it probably wasnât every day that someone from so far away as she showed up to talk to a necromancer.
She shivered at the laugh issuing from Kitherine, rubbing at her arms to try and do away with the gooseflesh that had appeared. She felt much like a rabbit, knowing that the hunterâs arrow was trained upon her, but unsure if he would decide to shoot. She was no pushover, but this was not her territory, and this fell magic not within the realm of her previous experience. Knowledge was always half the battle, and it was half that they had unconditionally, should it come to that.
She dearly hoped it wouldnât, not only for her own sake, but also because there was something about these two that made her genuinely⊠curious.
Narisaaâs abrupt shift in topic startled her, and she fumbled over her own tongue for a second. âNo, thank you. Itâs really quite all right.â