in the shadows

Tali had come to tell her that Brocade had asked after her – curious in only the way that an Uncle can be. She did her best to avoid the Barracks for fear of being forced to explain herself to him. The Solstice ritual had ended in terror, for little Eden had burned his hands while Coax had sacrificed a living animal to the flames for reasons that Symre still struggled to understand. The dark girl had been prepared to welcome summer whole heartedly, to pull the remaining cold from the world and to propel it back out toward the sea.

Instead her ritual had been forever changed by burnt skin and blood, and she wasn’t sure if this was what the coven of Salsola was.

After discovering the clan of Coyotes to the west she had spent time wondering what it was about them that intrigued her so – they all had accents that bounced off one another like a cacophony of stones, their flashing eyes in gold and cerulean so different from the sharp glances that Salsola held so dear. The Rask travelled more now, borrowing horses from Margerrd that were easy enough to ride as she was no expert at it. She looked for the ones with soft expressions and greying muzzles, gentle beasts who would eagerly follow regardless of how she sat upon them.

The afternoon had brought her to the Miramichi Valley, and it sprawled all about her in flashes of wild flowers and clutches of thickets. Birds chattered to one another from the trees and Symre felt herself warming beneath the sunlight that trickled out from beneath a smudge of pristinely white clouds. With a grunt she dropped from her horses back and began to inspect the bushes that lay nestled together, her expression focused as she searched for nests to pilfer from.

”You’re too slow.” Tali was curled upon the horses haunch, her expression lazy beneath the sun, ”You’ll never catch anything like that.”

()

In the shadow of the mountain the Miramachi valley spread in a low-land forest, split by a river teeming with life. The hazy summer sun seeded warmth into the soil and from it an abundance of blooms, thickets, and ferns exploded from their earthen cradle. The half-shadow’s fingers brushed these aside gingerly like a lord greeting his subjects. It prevented them from snagging his dark robe-- the only one he had now. Oh, how many fine things he had possessed in Caledonia! Robes for every season, every color and pattern reflecting the vibrant wood around them. How he missed that forest full of secrets, living, growing, decaying ever hungry. He supposed now was the time to make his own, and he was well on his way.

A hide sack hung from one shoulder, weighed down by the detritus of fallen plant-life, withered stalks and moist wood: bones bleached by sunlight and the soft petals of summer wildflowers. He hunted the thickets, stalking between the trees for other such natural treasures, things to be added to the shrine of his god-- the only true one in his opinion. Save perhaps, Nin but she’d never done anything for him personally.

He kept to the shadows wherever he could, his steps silent from habitual study and training. It wasn’t a question how he’d managed to escape a war unscathed. Athras Eryn was not a man of considerable bulk what muscle he had was lean and taut, tight to his long svelte frame which made him appear taller than he was. Either that or the way he held his head so high, shoulders back in a posture often assumed by nobility. He was well-bred, his features narrow with a feral slant that leant itself well to his luminous cyan eyes. His hair was long and partially bound, it fell down his back like a silk curtain gleaming and free of snags and tangles.

He bent to inspect a pale shape sticking up from the soil and paused, ears twitching towards the sound of a lazy mewling voice. It was clear enough he could understand it, but made no mistake that this was the voice of a cat, not a canine though he had to wonder...He abandoned his prize in the pursuit of another peering out warily from behind a thick linden tree. It wasn’t difficult to spot the horse and the pale-furred feline that rested on her rump, but his eyes were swiftly drawn to the feminine form that plundered the brush.

He stalked towards them, but thought better of spooking the horse- that was no way to endear himself to these strangers so close to camp. “Have you found anything?” He called genially, allowing himself to be seen.

Symre carefully picked through the thicket as Tali watched her with an amused expression, <”Try more to the left!”>T he cat mewled, gesturing with her short face towards a thicker cross hatching of branches. Symre squinted at the cluster of twigs and branches that whorled together and found herself grinning as she reached as high as she could, pulling the nest gently down towards herself so that she could peer inside.

<”Someone’s coming.”>

Tali’s voice was barely a whisper and Symre twitched her ears toward the horse as she blew air lowly through her nose in warning. The Salsolan was an expert in nothing – a woman who pursued no true path save for the one blazed by her own quiddity. She refused to become a soldier and did not care for the wordsmithing that came with merchantry. Symre did not believe in the notion of their coven – where real life sacrifice and blood ritual seemed to run rampant.

She tugged the leather satchel slung over her shoulder and turned slowly – allowing a twitch of surprise to ripple over her shoulders as the man picked his way toward her. She was no actress and so did not attempt to hide the widening of her eyes as he smiled – the bright aquamarine of his eyes glittering brightly against the forest din. She clicked her teeth and straightened, releasing the bough gently so that the brush swayed to and fro behind her.

His cheeks were stained auburn, the dark cloak wrapped about his shoulder almost hiding the satchel which lay slung over one of his shoulders.

Her tongue flicked against her teeth, ”Nothing yet.”

Symre narrowed her eyes slightly and she found herself crossing her arms, ”Looks like you found your own spoils.”

()

At once her earthen hues and deep crimson gaze called forth the countenance of the queen of thistles. His eyes zeroed on her features, brows furrowing and lids narrowing just slightly as they roved over her form. In contemplation his head tilted ever-so-slightly, centering once he’d reached a conclusion. This woman’s features were broader, her breeding and stature too dissimilar to claim a close relation. Hmm. He was none-the-less struck by her wild beauty, the dark hair that tumbled down her shoulders, her feminine form unclad save for the satchel that hung from a shoulder. But was less impressed when she spoke, her words direct and without inflection, her arms folded immediately to her chest as if to shield herself from his company.

“Nothing at all?” Athras teased, his cyan gaze passing from the swaying branch to her stoic visage. His smirk was not unkind and his eyes were twinkling with a knowing mirth. “You must think me a thief.” He purred, allaying her suspicions with a gesture. “Never fear. I’ve better things to do than steal from strangers who wander so close to camp.”

The lord shifted his own satchel, “and yes, I’ve a few trifles of my own.” Offerings to Nanin were not hard to come by, and while many might overlook them as filth or detritus with little use save for compost Athras found a hidden beauty in their decay: the life that sprang from death, bolstering the bounty of future seasons of growth before breaking down into their simplest parts. The rot of death fed the grass from which their great stag fed. How could one not be in awe?

“I am Lord Athras Eryn of Caledonia. Perhaps we could hunt together?”