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Apollosarcher~~~ Vildrel Könire ~~~
The Pale - a colloquial impression of the gulf - swallowed the sunlight as the morn braced for itself. A fluorescent nimbus hung itself out to dry, casting a great tone of grey across the path they'd been taking. It was a fantastically numb expression that the gulf had made mere mention of. Elsewhere in the mist, there were mechanisms of sail-ships and the beating drums of fishermen oars wading towards their delightful existence; a flotilla of colourless drabs, departed from time to remain in their endless repetitions. Thus, it'd been titled The Pale - and nothing else, disregarding the aeons of geographical nomenclature given to the great northern gulf - by many a weary Trespasser. Where said faux-tradition had stemmed from was quite incomplete. There weren't any records of who'd first titled the watery expanse, and so it was often declared that it had always been The Pale: that hollow body of water, where Trespassers had let their memories be swallowed whole on far too many occasions.
Vildrel Könire laid eyes on the mist from atop of a coastline hill. Faintly did her eyes glint in the misty morn, and as such, she was easy to find by those in her walking pack. Adorning a brown cloak, she sat with her hands folded between her crossed legs. The softness of the grass cushioned her as the grey sky was willowed by the peaks of valleys and hilltops. The great trees promised her shelter should the day turn to rain, but she was confident otherwise. A grey sky is but itself. It was in the winds where she could feel the skyward sea come close.
Of course, she was no natural druid. Such guessing games were simply fun to speak of.
"Könire!" Came the tendrils of the wind, a chastising voice that disturbed the morning prayer. "Könire - bloody hell...Könire!"
"Here!" After a ghastly sigh, she'd given the familiar voice the beckoning retort. Further downhill, awaiting for her arrival, the hobgoblin Harao Iskra maintained his juvenile sense of authority, placating their endless time for company. "What's the fuss, Iskra?"
"What isn't - we've a delivery in thirty. Get your arse down here and we'll just make it on foot." She didn't protest afterwards. There was little point in it. The specific pluck of her wayfaring sortie waited for her at the foot of the hill. She took great, dainty care as she descended the way down, wrapping around the knolls and pitfalls of the steep, winding path as she did so. Four of them had elected themselves for the minor tradesman's journey. Short-lived, often the way she enjoyed such menial tasks, the two day journey had seen them haul a pack of cattle each cradling a rope-hooked knapsack. Inside, a series of trinket goods had found their way inside, flanking the odd gem, high quality tool or depowered tome rooted out by past Trespassing. None of them were of any use to the Crisa Sect, for any real legitimate form of economy was quite beyond them, until of course they'd visit any form of a city. Each Trespasser carried with them a handful of coins at most. Their true goal, however, was to secure another batch of food, staying ahead of the curb of a later-year's climate.
"Think we'll make it?" A short dwarf humbled his anxieties with such doubts. She disapproved of such, and had been vocal about it, but she wasn't one to press the matter so deeply.
"If there's a way, we'll be on it."
"Pragmatically speaking - not spiritually." Iskra sneered in jest. A curl enveloped her lips, but she barely made a titter out of the occasion.
"We'll be there."