The spirit stands for a long moment simply staring at the boy, observing some lost part of the world that only he can see. Setting aside all before him, he looks past it all, watching the weaves of power in the universe pulse and quiver as it comes I contact with the still figure of the kirin. 'We have tried many times over the years, each one falling, each one failing. I have never tried myself, but perhaps it is my turn to test the bonds that have us tethered' he muses, letting out a soft sigh. He watches the boy stiffen slightly as he begins stalking around him. His shimmering figure catches the sunlight every so often, causing him to almost vanish from view as if the sun itself could erase his presence. Chall remains as still as he can, exercising the age old wisdom of 'when one does not know the right path, it is best to do nothing until you know which one is right rather than risking walking down the wrong one'. He does not know what the spirit wants, if indeed that is what this thing is, and until it tells him, he has no intention of risking angering or offending it. Luckily for Chall, the spirit harbors no ill will towards him and once he comes back around he pauses, looking deep into the kirin's eyes. Chall stares back, resisting the urge to start when at last it speaks again. “I have put something inside you to help you on your journey.” It's voice is low and sounds like the low rumble of waves crashing into shore at a distance. Tilting his head the youth's brow furrows in confusion. “To help me. . . On my journey? You mean, tapping the lay lines?” His ears flick slightly. 'Why would any spirit be interested in making my man given job any easier? All the lore is the same; the spirits have long stopped caring for the ways and minds of man, turning instead to the purity of nature and those who are bound and connected to it' He blinks as the beast shaped spirit shakes his head, the thick fur around it's neck shimmering lightly. “This journey you are on, was not set by your own hands, nor by another's. No, this path is hidden from you, and when you do find it, this task placed upon you by the will of man will look a mere stroll in the fields compared to the honor I have given you.” Chall looks on in confusion as the spirit looks around, a low note whispering out from it's lips that seems to dance on through the trees and towards the town in the distance. 'What does he mean? Does he mean he's given me a job to do, but he is not going to tell me what it is. . .And I will have to abandon my duty to my lord to complete it?!' “But, sir, if I abandon what has been asked of me, my brother, he can't be-” he tires to explain but the spirit cuts him off with a sharp look. Taking a step closer to Chall it raises it's head, looking quite intimidating despite appearing as nothing more than a large deer with many antlers and a human like face. Chall does his best not to cower, his self determination more than enough to keep him from bolting, but as it takes another step he drops his gaze respectfully. “Some things are more important than the things living creatures cling to so desperately. If this brother of yours is a good soul, he will live on, and be safe. We do not ask such things without considering your heart. I saw his place in there, it is a gentle place, but you must put him out of your mind for now. We will keep an eye on him.” His voice is harsh at first, but calms as he goes on, his heart slowly remembering how mortals feel about their families. The boy feels a little calmer about his brother now, but as he stops and thinks further on the issue he can feel the truth of it crashinging over him like and overwhelming wave of responsibility. “We? As in, more than one spirit is asking this of me? What, what am I to do? Forgive me, I am just a youth, not someone great enough to take up the work of the spirits. Your kind, I did not even know you all still lived, I. . . .” Glancing over at the nymphs he lets out a sigh, realizing his panic is not helping anything. Much to his surprise however a sound he was not expecting suddenly comes from the spirit. Looking up slowly he watches as the being shakes, it's laughter echoing through the trees and making the water ripple gently. The new magic passing through his system seems to shiver as well, making Chall sway on the spot, but when at last the laughter falls silent, leaving the spirit smiling wide, he manages to keep his feet and meet the taller one's merry eyes with his own confused stare. However instead of explaining it simply says softly, “You mortals. . . .” A moment later the spirit turns to leave and Chall's hand flies out, wanting to stop it. However his voice freezes in this throat, his hand falling back to his side. The nymphs laugh lightly as they move back into the depths of the pond to play, leaving Chall alone, and very confused. After standing for a long moment, watching the spirit vanish into the foliage, the youth moves slowly over to where he left his robes and begins getting dressed. So many things run through his head, and despite the herbs his wound still throbs lightly as he pulls on the slightly worn fabric. 'The spirits. . .They want something from me. . . .They put something inside me, poured it through my magic and filled me to my eyeballs with this power that makes me dizzy if I move to fast or think too hard. . .They want something from me, and are protecting my brother. . . .' His hand comes up to rub at his temples as the thought once more pounds through him that he's been handed something so much bigger than he is. “They want something from me, but it is hidden. I must discover it. . . .But they did not say I need to stop what I am doing right this second.” he whispers to the air. Looking towards town he wonders for a moment about the call the spirit had sent out. One of the lay lines is not too far out of town, he knows this, so maybe. . . He lets out another sigh. 'I will have to go back towards town any way. The spirits never do something for no reason, so if he directed his attention there, then I at least have to find out why. I can. . .I can keep on the task the king gave me until I find this thing the spirits want me to do, that way my brother will be safer longer. . . .I have no idea how spirits would keep him safe. . . .Even without all of this he has always been in danger. My kind are tolerated, not welcome. . .' Chall's mind goes dark once more and as he gathers up his supplies he glares at the ground. His memories of how he and his family have been viewed and treated over the years leave him in a foul mood and as he walks away from the now revitalized pond he seems to be traveling in his own little cloud of angst. Keeping his eyes on the well beaten path beneath his feet it isn't until he hears the sound of laughter that he's drawn out of his self induced bad mood. Looking up he spots a group of young people, likely villagers, heading towards him from the direction of town. They are laughing and joking around with one another and haven't noticed Chall yet. 'Oh goodie, just what I need right now' He contemplates ducking out of sight before they spot him, thus avoiding any potential conflicts, but just as this thought crosses his mind one of the males in the group spots him and points him out to his fellows. At first none of them seem to think much of it, just another person walking along, minding their own business. In order to prolong this illusion Chall ducks his head, hoping that his ears will be mistaken for unruly hair or something for as long as possible. It's easy however to recognizes when at last they realize that what's approaching is not human. That oh so familiar hush, that slightly slowed walk, all those little signs that those approaching have spotted something they're unsure of. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm kirin. Now are you gonna walk by, or am I gonna hafta run?' He keeps his growl in check, despite his dour mood, but by the time they pass he's so keyed up that his tail is standing out stiff and his ears almost touching his jaw. Fortunatly, other than a bit of staring and whispering, nothing happens and Chall is able to relax. The happening actually allows the youth to relax and with a sigh he decides to go straight to the lay line instead of stopping by town. 'Not just yet. I want to get this out of the way, then maybe. . . .Maybe I will be relaxed enough to go into town and buy some supplies. . .' Turning slightly to the left he moves towards where he feels the pull, not noticing how the kids have stopped to watch. Pausing he checks how far away his destination is and frowns when he notes how close to town it is. 'Oh great, they get to watch me work my unwelcome magic in my unwelcome body. Fun' Chall knows that his bad mood is in part due to the stress of what the spirits have laid upon him, and that he's overreacting a bit, and knows he should not always assume the worst. Unfortunately, on top of the stress and his own dark outlook on the human – kirin history of intolerance, he's beginning to feel something beneath the magic left inside of him. Something akin to a longing, but for what he can not say. Not knowing what's going on with his own body is irritating to the point of being so distracted that he doesn't even notice the youth now following him at a distance. They don't mean any harm, however the rumors about Wren's guest, and about him passing through town earlier with the kirin, have them curious as to what the mage is up to. Most have only ever experienced hedge magic, nothing like the flashy stuff a court mage is bound to have, and as they spot the small threads of magic jumping from him to the ground when he checks for the lay line's location, they feel that the chance of seeing more magic is well worth forgoing a trip to the pond. It doesn't take long for Chall to reach his destination, and after a few children playing in the open field he winds up in just out of town go racing off to tell their parents of the funny guy they saw pawing at the ground he decides to do this as quickly as possible. However tapping a lay line is not a fast process, and as his magic trickles off of his body, amusing the youth to no end, a young one races through town on his way to a certain hedge witch's house where a weaver lay incapacitated by some unknown force on her kitchen table. When at last Chall his set, his weave in place, the elements giving way to his needs, he finally spots the congregation of onlookers, and notes that not all of them are as tolerant as the youth he passed earlier. In fact, he is quite sure the only reason some of them are not on him already is because of the white trails of magic wrapped around his body and dancing through the soft earth beneath his feet. 'They are too afraid to attack me with this obvious show of power. . . .Fools, this stuff couldn't even swat a fly. . .' He holds his feelings in check, not wanting to taint his tap, and not wanting to set off the new magic pressing into his personal magic making him feel a bit like he's not got quite enough air to breath properly. The last thing he sees before closing his eyes to focus on what he's doing is a slightly hefty looking old woman puffing into sight. 'She run here as to not miss the show?' he wonders idly before relaxing into the magic, all other thought but his task falling to the wayside. After a moment he feels it once again. That little tug, that longing, but he ignores it. Another heart beat passes and the one good part of the task he was given rises to the surface and an honest smile crosses his lips. Being so close to something so powerful and letting it race through you, it's quite a feeling. To those watching it is quite an impressive display. The faint white threads of magic thicken into dark and light blue ropes that instead of flexing gently begins whipping wildly around him, making his clothes flap, his hair toss, and even lifts him off the ground a few inches. His hands are held low, fingers spread, palms level with the ground, the ropes of magic coming off the tips and lancing into the ground. The magic is very natural magic, a magic that would be much harder for any human and near impossible for most. Taking in everything he can, every bit of information that he can, he slowly begins breaking the connection. Then something goes wrong. Instead of the normal slow easing out of the connection, it seems to just stop, a loud crack sounding through the area. Chall screams, the suddenness of it sending showers of pain through him, not to mention the shock of falling hard to the ground and being so far into the magic that he can't even catch himself when he falls all the way down into a crumpled heap. His eyes are still closed as he tries to cope with the pain wracking his system so he doesn't notice a bolt of magic shooting off, the blue green shimmer effectively parting the crowd and racing through town until it reaches it's target. Wren.

Marge is left. In her leaving, she lingers in the residual warmth remaining in the poultice worked into the skin of his temple, his belly, his feet. Those spaces, throbbing in life, stars of being in a eternity of dark which has grown to fill the bones, the skin, the hair which were his but a short time ago. All around, the winds howl soundlessly and deep underneath the cold ground a small spark hides, trembling.

Wren makes no sound. The roots of the great cedar above shake and tremble, a chill seeping into them even as the great tree stretches for those stars overhead. The tree groans whether from effort or from the strain, and each groan thrums through the slender spine of the hiding soul. It shakes, this mouse like light, curled in on itself with a slender tail tucked over it's trembling nose. If it remains still, quiet, then what roams through its body will not find it. The hunger leaching warmth from Wren, will not finish off its meal.

Oh but it must remain so very still. Barely breathing, its eyes keep watch in the absolute darkness, tiny ears twitching at each silent cry of the great tree under which it is hid.

Marge is gone and her work, slight as it had been, begins to dim. Light and warmth recede as the cedar soaks in every living spark of it in an effort to warm its roots.

The air feels heavy as Marge comes upon the field. She catches at her breast and pants, her eyes wide as she takes in the boy kneeling in the cemter. The magic of the land rises, touches him, swells, and then flares to such brightness that even the untrained eye can see it. Around her, the gathered villagers murmur in confusion, milling about like uncertain sheep. The healer stifles the empathic response of fear and focuses on the boy in the middle of the light.

What had the mason's son wanted? Perry had come to her side, his small hand on her hip a summons. He'd looked up at her as she worked over Wren's quickly cooling body and there was something other about his voice, a second tone under the soft whisper he'd given as she'd been compelled to lean so that he could demand, “Come.”

As she'd straightened once more and looked down at him, the boy had shook and all but burst into tears. He was a young thing, only six summers, and willing herself to leave her friend's side, she'd nodded sharply to him before following him out of town.

The magic is not anything she is accustomed to. Marge holds her breath and watches as the boy manipulates the river of power which underlies their town. Any other time, Marge would have tried to stop such a thing, unwilling to allow a simple court mage to play with the very life's blood of their land. At her side, Perry's small hand holds tightly to her skirts now that the pair of them are there. It is too late, is it not? He's already drawn it out, already begun to shift the power around himself, test it. Strangely enough, there is no taste of wrong in the air, no scent of burning organic matter as often she's come to expect from magic gone wrong. No – the magic twists like a bird in the snare, a fish on a line, but there is nothing cruel in the wind and the hedge-witch breathes in easier.

Wren. She watches as the boy in the field plies the magic about him like a skillful artist and she knows. Here is a powerful touch which can work even with one on the edge of lost. Here is her tonic. She steps forward and the light flares into a brilliant sun – bursts, then closes and the boy screams.

The villagers rear back as a flare, like a fox in a thicket, skates off from the boy and through their legs. Behind it, grass bends under the resultant wind and Marge takes note of the fact that it heads for the village. There is no doubt where it goes to, she knows it. There is something here, more than a tonic in a powerful mage's hand. No – here is far more. Here is magic of a kind her great grand mam would have told tale of as a child.

As the boy has collapsed on the ground, Marge directs Oreth one of Farmer Dogget's older sons. “You, take him to my hut. Quickly, now.” She pauses only long enough to bark, “gently” at the boy before rushing back toward town, toward where the light's passing has burned an afterimage into the air.

Within the healer's hut, the large weaver's body has begun to wither, paled to bone, it lies as quiet as death. From the door, a light flares momentarily, color finds and wreathes about the body, then as if it were a snake, coils around Wren's neck and begins to seek out a crack in the stone of flesh to creep inside. It goes dim, the draw from within the skin of the man wolf-like and hungry.

Were it not for the sudden writhing of green and blue on the man's face, the desperation of the magic calling for its kind, the small figure in the corner by the coal shuttle may not have ever moved. He was accustomed to the healer managing quite well on her own. Besides, it wasn't as if healing were his specialty. Instead, he tended toward cleaning the bins, sweeping the hearth, drinking a bit of ale now and again. Never enough to be a disturbance but enough to be recognized.

But then, the healer thought him a brownie and he is not that. No brownie would be able to thrive with the spare magic fallen in curls on the wooden floors. Brownies do well enough with dust but left over power tends to trip them up and make their skin itch.

No brownie this. Hibble snorts at the idea. If a brownie were here, as they are in the nearby mason's home, it would be squeaking in fear and trying to climb the flue.

Hibble shakes himself and stands. In the corner, he could have been an extension of shadow but standing, he is slender and no larger than a very small child. His knobby knees and pale, round face with too large eyes complete the sense of child likeness. There the similarities end, however.

Hibble is old. His pale skin is parchment thin. Folds of thin flesh hang upon his tender bones and he moves stiffly. Most of his kind do not live so long, dead within the first two centuries. Hibble has lived past the times of many of his own get. Scars mar his neck and one his ears is half gone, but such are the ways of goblins. They are the guards, the guides, and the revenge-beset.

Despite his age, however, he uses no supports to move and his teeth, when he alights upon the table, grimacing at the light, are shiny black and sharp as flint. His luminous eyes watch while the magic both attempts to reach within the dying man and simultaneously free itself from what is inside of the body.

There is nothing the healer can do to save such a one. She had muttered to herself that it did not strike right such a man as the weaver was to be attacked so. But under this one's skin, the goblin has seen the years of travel making pocks and fissures in his spirit, ways in which living away from the land have left him at a disadvantage. It is in one of these cracks that the mage's tender magic settled and pried open.

Or so Hibble had assumed. Now, however, as he leans in closer, careful not to touch, he can see the crack has the signs of medicine. Like a scalpel might remove deadened skin, so is the break. His hedge-witch hasn't such skill, nor do the tainters of magic, so the kirin mage would not have managed such a cut. No, if Hibble can recall such cuts so many ages ago, this was done by something else.

Someone else.

Hibble hisses in frustration. The old ones get blind to how biddable humans are the more ancient they get. They forget the tendency toward self agency which humanity has clung to over the ages. No doubt, the weaver hadn't even noticed the wound and if he had, he'd ignored the directive. Now, instead of filled with the bond, it has become an entrance for a parasite, a spirit long denied.

“Cannae rid ye o'it,” Hibble licks his gums as he roots in a pack at his waist. “Cannae do wot ye'll 'after do ye'self, wot wi't in yer an all.” His eyes glint and the small, blood red beetle from his packet squirms between his forefinger and thumb.

The goblin shows no signs of hurry, even as the magic's struggles begin to weaken. It is a slender thread of ribbon, not a scarf of power as it had been meant to be. Within, the hunger has not been appeased and deeper within, Hibble can sense the tiniest glint of life. Best that the weaver had been born to the land or he may not have known how to hide. Things like this voracious one prefer stone streets and gas lights. Any born in town would have been swallowed at once, leaving nothing behind but a husk.

Squeezing lightly, the goblin reaches to the weaver's eye and draws back a lid. The man's gaze is rolled back into his head and he does not respond. At the soft pressure, the beetle begins to make a high pitched metallic sound of discomfort. To prompt its pain to end, it ejects a drop of foul smelling, clear liquid. The goblin lowers the bug's abdomen until it almost touches the human's eye and there, deposits the drop with a gentle shake.

The liquid spreads and the goblin quickly replaces the beetle into his pack before he slaps a wizened hand upon the man's face. Fingertips as broad as spoons press on the man's cheeks and mouth and one pushes down on that eye. When the body under his touch jerks, a physical response to anything when given a poison such as the beetle is wont to create, the goblin grins and in a gutteral voice, deep as mountain chasms, speaks.

In that cold dark, what remains of Wren, shivers and feels death. The cedar groans, the taproot at its spine shudders and gives. In response, the tiny, furry soul, cries out only once in fear.

Then all is silent. Overhead, the stars are out, yet a ribbon of light runs across the sky like the lights of the north. It is faint and weak as it seeks the tree and twines itself down the blackened trunk. Once there, the magic shoots more quickly now that it has something to grasp, and like a lightening strike, makes its way toward the roots where it spreads so thin as to be almost invisible.

As the earth where the roots are set warm slightly and the small spirit raises its head. It blinks, surprised to find the hollow in which it hides beginning to glow.

Hibble sneers down at where the hunger squirms just behind the right side of the man's face. It is pinned, held captive in the man's cheekbone. The beetle's poison, let in through the soul's windows rather than the door or that foolish crack, has done its work. It is not perfect, no, for even as the hunger begins to settle and still, it remains alive. But it is bound now. Weakened.

The goblin twists at the sound of pounding feet outside the hut and slips into the rafter shadows just as the door opens and three young men enter bearing a kirin in arm. The captive is not senseless, but looks to be terrified, surrounded by three large men who all glower down at him even as they set him upon the floor gently enough.

Soon behind, the goblin's healer charge enters, her face poppy red from exertion. She rushes to where the weaver lies upon the table and grasps his wrist, seeking a heartbeat.

The boys rumble in uncertainty and one of them keeps small eyes fixed on the kirin, his fists clenching and unclenching.

Marge takes in a shuddering breath, then looks to the boy. She is not certain what she ought to have expected, but some response to the flare of light beyond a thready rhythm below his skin. She glances between the weaver on the table and the boy huddled on the floor and with a sound of frustration, reaches out to him, to pull him to his feet and draw him to the table.

“Here now,” she bats at Orten's younger brother who glares at the boy as if he had done something wrong, being born with an affinity to magic. “None of that. G'on all yer.” She jerks her head at them even as she comes to the kirin's side. “And you, you'll fix this.” She gestures to where the weaver lays still and barely breathing upon her kitchen table. “It was you who started it, any how.”

There are hands on him. The blinding pain wracking his frame seems to flare at every contact point drawing long whimpering wails from him. He wants to fight beck, to push them away, to be freed from the pain they are causing him, but it's too much to ask of his body right now. His voice grows harsh as it tightens and his breath begins coming out in gasps. He'd been so close, so far in, and to tear him from it like that, even the magic of the land feels the wound. Somewhere in the back of his pain filled mind he knows he has to go back, he has to heal the wound before some foolish farmer tears into it with a hoe or some foolish couple redirects it with their passions. No knowledge lasts long however, nothing coherent passing his scrambled mind into conscious thought.

Even with the instruction of “gently” the young men who lift the kirin off the ground are a little less than delicate with the creature. If there's anything folks in a small town don't like it's something they can't understand, especially if it seems to have spooked the local oddity herself. Confusion and fear reins even as they follow the woman's instruction and every time he jerks like he's trying to escape the hold on all the tighter. The whimpers and cries go unheeded as they make their way back towards town, a good number of the townsfolk following behind, their curiosity overriding their fear.

At the edge of town something new enters the mage's mind and refuses to leave. This new thing, this light thing, wraps around him and slowly begins easing his pain. He seeks it out, tries to look at it , to draw it in, but as his mind begins to clear he slowly realizes that he recognizes the thing and leaves it alone to do it's work. 'It is the thing. That thing the spirit put inside me. It is working its way through me and. . .' he can't quite see it clearly just yet but as he flexes his arms he realizes consciously for the first time that he's being carried. His first instinct is to fight, to pull away. He doesn't like the feeling of someone's hands on him, it brings back bad memories. The only hands he does not push away are not here, can not be here, so these should not be tolerated.

However, even as he begins to twist, to try and remove himself, the hands tighten and he lets out a small yelp, his eyes flying open. The thing inside has done it's work for the kirin and decides to settle for now, leaving Chall wide awake and alert. Glancing up to the left and the right he feels his panic only growing. Large men have him, and his magic is still far to wounded to aid his escape without seriously injuring not only his captors, but the gathering of people at their backs. So many eyes, all watching him. The fear, the unease, and in some cases, the anger and despise. He begins to shakes slightly. This is not a good situation to be in. This. . .This is not safe.

Suddenly they are inside a house. His focus on those around him kept him from even noticing anything about their goal and with a light shock he realizes that they are inside a dark, warm room. His eyes dart about, spotting the creature in the rafters first before noticing the man laid out on the table. His eyes go impossibly wide at the sight of the strong, kind man who had cared for him through his suffering and provided him with much needed shelter and aid, laid out like a man on his deathbed. He can feel his anger flare, but then out of the corner of his eye he spots the meant who's deposited him on the ground looking ready to pound him into a pulp and fear overrides his anger.

His tail, which had been lashing back and forth, wraps around his waist in fear, completely stilling as he tries to become as small and unnoticeable as possible. Then, at last, another familiar “face” appears and the tip twitches a little, his ears quivering. The smells of the house begin making sense to the frightened young man as he recalls the scent left behind of the person Wren said treated his wound and after a few deep breaths he's sure this is the hedge witch he'd spoken of. 'She is the local magic user. Simple stuff, not the stuff like I was doing, and, she live here, in this town. Magic is not unheard of, right?' His mind begins grasping at these facts, trying to use them to calm himself even as one of the men looms intimidatingly.

He watches as she looks back and forth between himself and Wren, and it becomes clear she wants him to do something. Unfortunately, he's still too frightened and confused to comprehend just what she expects of him. 'He is ill, sickly, but what am I? I am not a healer, I do not know how to treat human sickness. I can bind wounds, I can. . .' Much to his relief she shoos the others out of the building, the lack of critical eyes doing wonders from his concentration. A hand slips under his arm and he finds himself automatically climbing to his feet as the elderly woman tries to draw him to his feet. He finds his feet moving forward and for the first time he recognizes that it's not an illness plaguing the human, it's something else entirely.

“How did this?” Like before he completely locks out anything not related to the task before him and with gentle motions he reaches out and begins examining the man's cold, frail looking body. He doesn't sense Marge moving around behind him, trying to see what he's doing, doesn't see the goblin overhead watching him intently. All that matters is this man, this kind, good man, who now lay ravaged by. . . .Something. He feels a faint tug, not on his flesh, but on his magic, and without hesitation he lets it race forward. He trust his magic sense almost more then he trusts his physical senses, and when it lances out into a unseen wound in the man's chest, making his body shudder, he realizes quickly that he is indeed the right person for the job.

'This feels like what the spirit put inside me, but, it almost feels like it entered through a hollow that was already there, tearing it further. . .The spirit had no malice, it would not have caused this on purpose. It likes the humans of this town, I can not. . .He is so cold' A trickle of his own life enters his magic, his will to see the man get better guiding his actions and movements. Behind him the hedge witch watches his magic flow freely into her friend and wonders how he can so easily slip inside another's body and manipulate it. She knows there are greater magics out there, but with what was happening to her friend the idea that it would accept such an invasion in such a weakened state is nearly unthinkable.

His eyes slide close, he can feel his magic draining even though it is slowly being bolstered by the gift the spirit gave him. He can feel Wren's heartbeat, growing steadily stronger beneath his care, he can spell the fresh scents of the man replacing the almost decayed scent that had been hanging about his skin. His magic binds and twists it's way around the man's own, something so soft and subtle that Chall hadn't even noticed it before. It's quiet, soft, gentle, and unassuming. With each pass more and more life returns to Wren until at last Chall lets out a shuddering gasp and his eyes snap open. He's never done anything like it before and the new feeling is almost frightening. It would have terrified him if. . .If it hadn't felt so oddly familiar.

He feels a hand on his back which almost makes him jump until he realizes he's been swaying on his feet. Looking around his ears droop and his tail falls limp, the impact of what he'd done hitting him like a rampaging beast and forcing him to his knees. The woman carefully helps him to a chair where she sets him up with some invigorating tea before moving to her friend's side to check on him. He's still unconscious, but he looks more like he's sleeping now than anything else. However once more Chall's eyes dart to the ceiling and he watches those glittering eyes in the darkness staring back at his. 'That. . . .Is a rare sight. . .' His mind slowly begins tumbling over and over, his magic weak and trembling after it's endeavor.

He tries to imagine what the spirit is planning, recalling how he'd sent something off towards the town with a simple breath, and wonders wildly what this human could have to do with anything. He'd been inside the man, seen a bit of him it seems he's been trying to conceal for a very long time, but still, none of it makes sense to the kirin. He can't quite grasp the meanings, he can't quite understand what all is needed of him. He knows he must return to the lay lines, he must repair them, but he also knows trying to do so in such a state will only cause either further damage, or his own death. 'But, something must be done, soon. . . .' His looks slowly over at the woman's back, her head still bent to the task of dealing with Wren, and in a soft voice murmurs, “The land is wounded.”

Marge turns to look at the young kirin, raising an eyebrow at him. Swallowing he looks back at her, his weakened state causing his words to come more slowly than usual. “The lines, they were. . .They were torn. Someone's will other than my own entered into them and tore them. It is. . . Not safe to disturb them now. They need to be protected until I can fix them. No one. . .No one should be around them now. . .” Understanding flashes in her eyes and she turns, heading for the door. There are still a few people gathered outside and Chall can hear her talking to one. He hopes she's instructing whoever it is to alert everyone to the fact that they need to stay away from the spot. He goes over his own words, wondering who's will it was that tore the lines.

'I suppose it could have been the spirit. He told me that the task given to me was not the one given by man, so, he could have been trying to redirect me. Or, if Wren was already sick, it could have been the woman's. He will for me to help him, or to use the magic itself to aid him. . .' He doesn't know, and at the moment can't think of any reason that he needs to know right away. His ears perk up as he hears movement overhead and he looks up to see the goblin getting more comfortable. Without preamble he says softly, “It is rare to see your kind about in places such as this. I suppose you are supplied good meals here with this woman?” He speaks softly, Marge still far enough away as to not overhear him.

Hibble simply stares back at the kirin, having no obligation to converse with the man. He is curious, and a little impressed with what the mage had managed to accomplish, he thinking Wren lost, but he is not the goblin's charge, and he'd rather not be caught talking to him when his charge does return. She thinks of him in a certain way, and he's perfectly content with her to continue thinking that.

Chall is a little disappointed that the creature refuses to speak with him but is soon distracted by the woman returning to the room. He looks to her expectantly, his tail swishing curiously back and forth with renewed vigor from her tea. She give him a nod and he is able to relax slightly, sipping more of the drink. 'Good. . . .Good. . . .' Letting out a soft sigh he looks to Wren, watching as the color finally returns completely to his cheek, his heartbeat picking up as she signal that he's about to wake. Unsure of what to say to the man Chall tucks his feet up under his robe and tries to shrink a bit into the chair he'd been lead to. He unsure if the man will be upset, will demand an explanation, and Chall also fears the implications of it all. It was clear before that while he did not hate magic, he had no great love for it either, and to find out that not only had magic almost killed him, but that Chall now knows that he has it too, seems like the kind of thing that may upset even this kind, quiet man.

The small furred soul blinks black eyes, reflecting pale of the last of that ribbon as the wind shifts. Light limns the cedar tree's highest boughs, then with a sigh, pours down the tree's stolid surface, turning it crystal. Beneath it, the furry creature slips out of its hole, unable to remain in the half dark when life is pouring into the darkness of the hollowed out life left behind.

For a moment, the world within remains quiet, simply accepting the magics and the other soul, even the small ribbon of Other which had created the way seems to hold its breath.

As Chall's eyes close, his intentions purifying, the furred creature's black eyes fly upwards and light from within. In a mixture of the land, the man, the kirin, and the magic deep within the mage, the recesses of the dying man flare into brilliance. What was a small bit of life, unfurls from itself, eyes first, growing into silver marbles, then the entirety of the soul blossoms into a creature which is a mixture of myth and life. Arms as strong as a gladiator with great bands of marble around the upper muscles, meet with a reptilian torso and head, a golden leonine hips and legs, and a great tail as silver as the horn piercing its brow. It lifts its head, staring upwards at where the fissure of injury was being filled, it's gaze luminescent as an early morning mountain sky, and opens its great mouth to suck in the mixture of magics.

With a sigh, all goes quiet, the beast gone, the tree waving in a soft wind, and Chall broken apart. Yet upon a small twig in the upper reaches of the great tree, where the scent of jasmine and amber remain strongest, a small bird with a flat topped tail, waits, alert, and watches.

Marge has gone, Hibble notes. She had not even asked the kirin what his purpose was. Good woman, following her heart as she was wont to do. The goblin's black teeth gleam in the shadows as he grins down at the scene below him. The mage, the weaver, and the magic intertwining them, drawing them together. To think he has lived long enough to see such a sight. The beginning. He would not survive to the end, few would, but he had been witness to its start.

As heart regains foothold, blood pours once more, life begins anew, Wren's body shakes, his throat convulsing, forgetting, until it recalls and with a great bellow, breath pours into the man and he sits up, grasping for the table's edge, the air, his eyes wide and staring into the darkened room. Wren's mind spurs him to action and he turns, orients himself slowly. The scent, the scene before him, it is not unknown to him. But for the fact that Marge is nowhere to be found.

Only a terrified looking kirin. Wren frowns down at the slender young man in confusion. "What?" he murmurs more to himself than to Chall. Had he not given the mage his still pool?

But no, that was not it. Memory returns, what little there is. He brushes his hand against his forehead and then blinks at the boy once more. "What happened?" he slowly moves one leg off of the table, the other following. His body, his mind, around him there is a clarity which will take some time to get accustomed to. It is as if a second sight were looking at the room around him, at the kirin, at it all. His eyes hurt, seeing too much.

"What - " he begins again, then takes a slow breath inwards. "What is wrong?" His deep voice gentle, bemused, he takes hold of the table and stands, then makes his way to the boy, going to his knee with very little grace and grasping the boy's arm.

It is not brown eyes which look at the kirin, but a light blue, as if the color has been drained from them completely. All is the same, though not so much within the weaver, for Wren only knows the boy is afraid and such a thing is almost unbearable for him. He runs his palm down the boy's arm and grasps his hand. "Has someone harmed you?" he demands, surprised at the sudden, fierce rush of protective nature which floods him. Everything is so new, so real, yet so raw, as if there is little to buffer between he and the rest of the world.

With sudden, rasping breaths, Wren seems to come to life. While not dead before the quietness surrounding him had been far more peaceful and relaxed than these deep drafts of air he’s pulling in sharply. Chall, still not recovered, cowers a little further into the chair, praying his magic comes back to working order quickly just in case this man is upset with him. His feline eyes watch the man closely, his ears quivering in his direction. Despite his instinct for fear, a part inside him whispers softly that there’s no need for it. That there is something, some. . . .Reason, that all of this is happening, and that he needs to open his heart to it.

However, the voice is small, too small. His fear takes precedent and stays put on his face as the large man sits up, making his insides quiver unpleasantly. His ears fall back, his tail coming up to curl around him. Wren finally spots him after a long moment of looking about and Chall finds new definitions of how small he can curl up. He doesn’t understand the question and the man’s confusion is not something he knows how to ease. ’Being around people is so hard. . . .At least with my brother, I know what to say, what to do. . .Home. I want home. . . .The servants have learned their place. My brother is there to hear me rant. . .’ He lets out a little whine, regretting it moments later when the big man turns to get up, still looking at him.

He opens his mouth to at least try to begin explaining what he thinks may have happened but his mouth snaps shut with a click as Wren gains his feet unsteadily and lurches towards him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” he whispers, the angry face of the townspeople flashing behind his eyes as the man practically falls to one knee in front of him. The hand on his arm makes him flinch, his finger tips twitching as he feels the urge to scratch to make him let go.

The urge is countered however. The little voice from before grows a little louder and he realizes the conflict within. It is a silent battle of his lifelong fear and mistrust of humans battling against this new feeling coming from somewhere around the new threads of magic telling him that this, this right here in front of him, is the right thing. His eyes narrow as he looks at the man, the feeling throbbing almost painfully as he sees those bright, blue eyes looking up at him. The color, while a shocking change, isn’t nearly as stunning as the level of worry radiating out of the pale orbs. He’s never seen that much worry for him since his mother, and even then it never seemed so powerful as the concern clear and sharp in Wren’s eyes.

It almost takes his breath away. Unfortunately, as the man’s hand slides down to take his own, he knows the weaver deserves an explanation, any explanation, to begin unraveling all that’s happened in the past hour or more.

A shaky hand comes up to settle over the one atop his own and he swallows, trying to keep everything straight even as it endeavors to fly to the four winds. He shakes his head, his ears trembling slightly. “I. . . .I am not hurt, not really.” His voice is weaker than he’d like, but he deals with it. “I was brought here because you were struck ill and the old one, Marge? She believed I could help you.” He swallows again, his ears flipping with irritation at himself. “I was. . . .Doing something delicate at the time however, and it left me a bit weak. I. . .I’ve fixed what was causing you harm, or at least done what I can.” He looks towards the door, making sure the old woman is not about before going on.

“My magic. . .It has mingled with your own. I’m not sure what the full effect will be, but for now it seems to have cured whatever took you down to begin with.” He looks down at their hands, worried, frightened. He doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t want to just inform the man that he himself may have been involved with laying him out. ’He was cold, and dying, and I am sure the spirit played a part in that, but. . .I don’t know what they means. I don’t want him blaming me, I don’t want that worry to turn to anger. . . .’

Beyond his fear of being hurt, beyond his fear of attack from Wren and the other villagers, beyond it all. . .He can feel something completely out of place. A fear he’s never really felt before. A fear that, indeed, in and of itself, frightens him.

He’s afraid of being rejected. Of this kind, peaceful man pushing him away and being alone once more. For some reason, this human has gained something of him and he doesn’t want to have to let it go. The hand atop Wren’s tightens even as he shakes slightly, this new feeling causing his tail to poof out fearfully. “I have not told anyone of the magic. I am sorry, so sorry. . .” His eyes fall to his knees, his ear falling down as his magic flickers, trying to rekindle itself.