The sun approached its zenith with the same languid pace as the ox-drawn stagecoach made its way across the dirt road, with a lack of clouds that seemed to make the brightness of the day feel more crisp and vivid than normal. From atop a little perch in the front of the stagecoach the true deigan Deo’Irah sat, dressed in Reina’s white as usual, looking ahead towards their destination. At this distance away she could see only the endless expanse of farmland and the tiny outlines of structures around them, but already her mind wandered towards what precisely they were growing. The usual staple crops for the area, of course, but she could spot a glint of colour towards the horizon that suggested a fruit of some sort–and the neat lines of the crops suggested to her perhaps something trellised. Grapes for a winery were not uncommon in these parts of Rodoria, and the unseasonable warmth of the day filled her mind with images of peasants carrying baskets brimming with fruits. A small smile crept across her face at the thought, but a sudden jolt from the stagecoach snapped her from her brief reverie and she turned back towards a door that had just opened itself from the sudden jolt.
“Lhirin, look up.” she said, quite certain he’d be too absorbed in a text to even notice that it’d happened, and unwilling to stop moving to do it herself. She waited for the telltale rustling but didn’t hear anything, and so she tried again in a different language–Fermian, this time–and waited for him to verbalise his recognition of what she’d said.
Ruffled feathers shifted faintly in the wind as the other deigan raised his head, blinking briefly and raising an eyebrow as he glanced Irah’s way. Lhirin, her companion–travelling and otherwise–gave her a questioning look, tilting his head faintly before he sifted through his memories. “Mmn,” he said in a sound of acknowledgement, before whispering a brief phrase under his breath, his fingers deftly weaving through the air.
Wind picked up, answering his Arcane call and pushing the door closed
just hard enough to force the latch back into place properly.
“Sufficient?” He asked, dismissing the cantrip without much thought as his hand went back to the page of his book, though his eyes remained on her. For once his eyes were not in that strange too-wide gaze that he so often displayed. Instead, Lhirinthyl was entirely relaxed, enjoying the unseasonable warmth and the faint breeze as they made their way to….mmm some hamlet or another. Bor? Borstown, he recalled almost immediately as he tried.
Lifting his other hand he smoothed some of his black rimmed feathers down, their orange-gold hue shimmering faintly in the light. Finally–after staring at Irah perhaps a few moments too long–the Ascended Deigan turned his gaze out before them, noting the fields and the buildings in the near-distance.
“Ah, nearly there,” he commented. With a slight nod, he briefly marked his place in the book with a downwards blink, and then closed it and stowed it on the bench beside him. In a ritual of sorts, Lhirin patted himself down, checking his forest green cloak for spots and wrinkles as he smoothed things down.
Irah preferred he be at least
somewhat presentable whenever they rode into some new little facet of civilization. It was no trouble at the end of things, though he sometimes had to remind himself
why she cared about such things as appearances. Hygiene made some sense to him at least, even if he frequently had that slip his ever-busy mind.
Once satisfied that his feathers and clothes were in working order, not terribly stained or marred by the road, Lhirin surveyed their surroundings once more. The mage’s hand came to rest on the sheathed blade at his side, fiddling with the crystal formations of the hilt.
“A good day,” he said idly,
“Yes?” He said it in the same way someone else might ask ‘do you agree?’
Irah’s ears picked up on the faint mumbling of something arcane, and at that moment she knew that finally he’d heard her and the task was in hand. By the time she’d finished the thought to herself the wind had picked up and returned the door to its rightful position, and she turned around to give Lhirin a brief smile. The words
“Thank you” had scarcely left her lips before she caught that his focus was rapt upon her, though his focus lacked some of the wildness she’d grown accustomed to.
She was just about to ask him if there were something in particular when he spoke about their nearness to the little town, and Irah’s head swivelled just a tic before returning to Lhirin and meeting his gaze with her own. Silver irises met the rich ruby of Irah’s own, and though both of them were fairly at ease there was still an intensity to each of their gazes that many would read as tense or even worse–but Irah broke out into a wide smile and nodded, suddenly making the decision to hop down from the driver’s seat and walk alongside the ox.
“Armos…” she muttered to herself, placing a hand gently upon the wiry fur of his head, and he turned towards her briefly in recognition. He let out a soft sound–soft for an ox, at least–and continued to trudge forwards diligently. She reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a slightly worse-for-wear apple that they’d picked further down the road, and withdrew a knife from a pouch strung at her side. She quickly segmented the apple, certain to discard the seeds, and fed the slices one-by-one to the ox, who seemed to react very positively to the little treat that she’d offered it. She left two slices behind, though, and ate one herself before passing another through the open windows to Lhirin.
“Yes, I think so. Not long now until we meet the baroness–though the fellow we ran into did intimate that we’d have just as little luck as everyone else who’s passed by.” she began, a note of something close to prickliness in her voice,
“... but then again, how many deigan will have come this way? It’s little wonder she’s yet to judge any of the short-lived ones worthy–they have to spend so much of their limited time simply staying alive… Though what was it he said they were famous for? Having killed a… what was it, Lhirin? A… prooga, I think?” she continued, the prickliness evaporating as her thoughts moved towards more pressing issues–like their imminent arrival.
Watching Irah as she hopped down and fed Armos, Lhirin smiled to himself slightly, before his gaze wandered back to the approaching village. A funny expression that, after all, it was them who had approached and were approaching the village, rather than the alternative. Nonetheless, they grew nearer by the minute and eventually, Lhirin decided to extricate himself from the ‘coach as well. Landing aground, Lhirin checked the sheath at his side once more, securing it with a hand, even as he noted the comfortable weight of Sulooth in their quiver-like case on his back. While this village would ostensibly be entirely safe, Lhirin always preferred to be amply prepared and while he didn’t explicitly need either his runeblade, its sheath, or Sulooth to effectively protect himself, having them was a comfort. Besides, they had incredible utility when utilised properly.
“Yes, a Prooga. Massive things, covered in hair. Claws like daggers, strength like a boulder bearing down on you.” Lhirin nodded to himself, satisfied with his explanation.
“Mm. Impressive,” he pondered aloud, coming to walk on the ox’s other side.
“…for a shortlife, very impressive.” He left it at that, fidgeting with the hilt of his runeblade as he surveyed their surroundings again.
When Lhirin didn’t take the slice of apple offered to him, Irah did not bother pointing it out to him: he knew the apples were in the saddlebags, if he wanted one he could get one himself. With an easy smile she popped the piece into her mouth without another thought and stared straight ahead as she listened to her companion speak. He had little to say in this instance, but Irah thought to herself how his idle musings were often quite a strangely comforting thing–much better than the meaningless drivel she endured among the peasants whose lives she laboured to help make worthwhile. Intelligent conversation was not often found outside of metropolitan areas, after all–and though she did find great value in her work improving the lives of others, she did not see for one second why she had to go without to provide for them when she could simply bring the conversation along with her.
“Killing one is no mean feat–especially if one believes the embellishments that so often get added to stories. I think the Baroness’ well-lived life will prove a fortuitous omen for us both, should we earn her esteem–perhaps we can get her to regale us with the truth of the tale, hmm?” Irah began, talking less out of having anything to say and more to fill the space before they arrived at their destination. The rest of the walk was over fairly quickly, and the ox-drawn cart with two deigan (one who, at first glance, looked Ascended and another obviously True, no less) drew stares from the assorted townsfolk going about their business. Irah’s smile widened automatically, a reflex at this point, and she made certain to wave to the children raucously playing in the street as she passed by. Though the townsfolk seemed to be going about their tasks with some sort of regularity, Irah could sense something not
quite right about the situation–there was something of a charge to the air, the dedication with which the townsfolk went about their tasks was a little too intense.
As they continued to travel down the long road Irah’s eyes continued to scan the little houses and the people milling about them, occasionally meeting their gaze for a moment before pulling away. She did not have to turn back to know their gazes would linger over long, though as she heard someone begin to say
“Reina’s…” her head automatically swivelled towards them, and her gaze met theirs just as they continued with
“... floppy tits!” Irah’s face suddenly dropped from mirthful to intense, her eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. It was evident at that point that the white of her robes and the disapproval of her expression were admonishment enough, however, and it was to a background of mumbled and sheepish apologies that the duo would find themselves approaching their destination of the Healer’s House.
Lhirin, for his part, only peripherally heard the crude verbiage as he was spending far more of his attention not-so covertly observing the peasantry—mmmn, townspeople, he corrected. Irah had been trying to teach him etiquette, and while much of it had not sunk in—or wasn’t actionable due to his…particular sensibilities—some of it was useful enough.
For example, he knew not to call members of the other races ‘shortlives’ to their faces.
“Mm, poor taste,” he half-muttered as his attention briefly darted to the villager who had uttered the phrase. He noted Irah’s response and filed it—and the phrase—in the list of things he would never say in her presence. Not that he had much desire to do so to begin with.
After a few minutes, Lhirin hopped onto the stagecoach and went inside, retrieving one of his books—a large tome with a name on it that implied it was filled with stories—before deftly finding his way back aground. This time he’d landed on the same side of the ox as Irah.
Approaching her casually, he lightly patted her back—the act gentle and reassuring. It was as if he were belatedly apologising on behalf of the humans. Coming to walk alongside her, Lhirin opened his book—despite its weight—and began to read.
Though Lhirin was secretive about its true contents, Irah would know by now that the entire tome was written in code. The fact that it read as a series of folk tales and other such things was just a cover. How Lhirin was able to divest any meaning from the thing was a marvel on its own, but then most would suppose that a great deal of the things Lhirin did casually were somewhat miraculous in their way.
As she felt the warmth of Lhirin’s hand upon her, Irah reached out her own and gently rested it against his hip for a moment before continuing onward. The first thing she noticed as they travelled the street was the door, half-torn from its hinges. At that moment she walked forward much more briskly, not quite breaking into a jog, and then noticed the other bits of evidence: the wooden haft, broken and splintered… and the blood. Splotches of it everywhere, strewn across the gravel and clinging from the blades of grass like some macabre dew–her eyes widened at the scene, the implication immediately obvious: combat of some variety had happened. Her mind drifted immediately toward those that must be injured, and her gaze scanned around to work out where on earth they might be. The townspeople were now back to their usual routines, so whatever had happened was not quite
recent--but recent enough the blood hadn’t dried. Irah called out to Lhirin and beckoned him closer with her hand, not turning to even look at him, as she approached the house gingerly. She first examined the door, trying to divine some sort of pattern to the splintering that could give her an idea of what precisely might have torn it off its hinges–and then her mind wandered to the weapon, cast aside along the path. As she moved to enter the building she turned around to Lhirin, briefly stopping in her tracks.
She made a couple of quick hand gestures, pointing towards the various pieces of evidence she could see, before speaking:
“What do you think happened here..? Combat, naturally, but… how many? Who were the aggressors?”With that done, and Lhirin’s attention directed to the appropriate place, Irah began to step forward into the house, trying to avoid touching anything as best as possible and taking a look around her for any more evidence to add to Lhirin’s calculations.
Catching his name, the silver-eyed deigan glanced up from his book, his eyes narrowing to a sharp focus for a moment before they widened. Not in shock. Not in surprise. They widened as the relaxed air about him dissipated entirely, replaced by a rapt attention that would cause discomfort in almost anyone it was turned upon. It was not intimidating, but uncomfortable instead.
Fortunately, he was not looking to settle the nerves of a stranger, but rather to take in as much information as he could. Gently he laid a hand on the ox’s side and made a small sound. The ox planted its feet and began to graze on whatever grass it could reach. By that point Lhirinthyl had already walked past it—having cast his research tome back into the stage with a casual muttered use of
‘Bound Blade’. The animal was already a distant memory as his eyes swept and darted between the details of the scene laid out before them.
Blood spatter, splintered handle, a door hanging on one hinge, knocked askew? Battered down? The blood was yet to dry. The violence had been recent. Lhirin’s hand slipped to the hilt of his runeblade and found purchase.
What was that in the grass? A gardener’s tool? A weapon?
“Be careful,” Lhirin said in Ghazerashei, but he did not follow her immediately. Instead he began a whispered chant, weaving his free hand in small, tight glowing runes in the air. Focusing, he cast a spell.
Elucidate
Lhirin wanted to know if magic had been involved and if traces of it remained as that would tell him how much danger might yet be present. Beyond that, Lhirin scanned the area, looking for any additional details that the average person might miss or consider incidental. Were plants damaged by a struggle, gras pushed down in irregular areas by footfalls. Further blood? What was the directionality of the blood spatter? Foot or boot prints? Dirt in strange places? Any materials or substances that might have been out of place. Strange smells or tastes in the air?
Anything.
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