Fell is going to Fukeru Ukuure.
Feres is going to Darkling Dawn
Vaesai is standing at Lantessama.
Outside it was raining, not hard, but a steady, soft rain. The skies were gray with clouds heavy in rain, and no hint of sunlight had shown since dawn, over three hours ago. And it did not look like it was about to clear up any time soon.
Personally, he considered it fitting, as it was the Day of Passing in his true country, a time of sadness and remembrance of all those that had given their lives in sacrifice for some goal.
I wonder if you can die from a longing to see home. These lands are so… dead… it’s as if everything in it is just… walking in a haze or something. Pettiness and cruelty run rampant, even among the upper class… especially among the upper class I should say. None of the gods that they worship give proof that they exist, and all of their so-called proof is so ancient that it was probably made up.
I miss my home. I miss my son. I miss… my wife. Silver eyes slid closed, and he bowed his head in sorrow, one hand reaching up to grip at a pendant hidden under his dark shirt, Rest in peace, beloved. You would laugh at me, I know, and tease me for being stupid, yet… I cannot seem to –live- anymore. I cannot face my son, for he looks too much like you… I cannot live in Lyreleent, for your voice no longer touches the air of my dear country… but I cannot seem to live without the kinship of my people, and I miss the comforting feel of the protection of our gods.
I need to return there, for at least one day. Before the longing devours me.
“Sels! Are you listening to me, boy?”
Selesst winced sharply, not at the man’s tones, but at the crude pronunciation of his name, “My name is Selesst, not Sels, and honestly, no, I haven’t. My Lord Rowlden is the only one that may give me orders. Now go, shoo, back to your duties, and don’t bother me again, youngling.”
The man gaped at Selesst’s back, stunned that this man that had been introduced to him as ‘Lord Rowlden’s errand boy’ had the nerve to speak back to him, and call him a youngling to boot!
“I’ll… I’ll report you to Lord Rowlden, you uncultured barbarian! We’ll see how well that mouth of yours can keep you fed out on the streets!”
Selesst sighed heavily, shaking his head as he did so, “Go then, report to him all you want… you have ten minutes before I speak with my Lord on personal matters.”
Still gaping, the newly hired underling turned and bolted off to find the Lord of the manner, leaving Selesst alone with his thoughts at last.
My Mother! I burn within to walk the fertile soil of my land once more! When I have been freed for a day or so, I will call upon you, my Mother… please answer my call, and bring me back to my country.
With another sigh, he turned from the window and allowed silver eyes to open once more, looking over the mostly empty room that Rowlden let him use whenever he needed it. The only things that marked it as his were the simple figurines that rested atop the desk, the dark gray stone carved into images of the gods by the skilled hands of some priest. Not that anyone but a Lyrelian would believe that those creatures were actual gods.
The Mother, goddess of wind, stood in a prominent position, her wings folded loosely against her back and arms outstretched in welcome. To one side stood the Father, god of earth, his arms crossed over his chest, and a faint smile on his muzzle. The other four were arranged to either side of the Prime Pair, Ivisia and Fadornen, goddess of ice and god of fire respectively, on one side, while the Twins Elarania and Zethalia, goddess of water and goddess of lightning respectively, were arranged on the other side.
Elsewhere in the mostly bare room, a corner was curtained off, and a bed rested in the curtained off area, piled high with blankets and pillows of intricate geometric designs.
With a shake of his head, Selesst turned and strode out of the room, booted feet cat-quiet against the hard stone floor, tribute to the training he had received as a youngster in two of the Triad Professions, the grouping of three time-honored and revered professions that his country excelled in.
Unhesitant, he raised a hand and rapped his knuckles sharply against a wooden door that stood closed before him.
“Yes?” the voice was pleasing to the ear, even muffled by the thick door as it was, “Who is it?”
“It is Selesst, m’lord.”
“Come in, then, Selesst! No need to rest on formality every time!”
Selesst smiled faintly as he pulled the door open and slipped in, closing it softly behind him as he bowed low, “Forgive me, then, m’lord, but I merely do as I have been trained to. To give honor and proper respect to those that deserve it.”
Lord Rowlden shook his head in amusement, as he eyed the man that stood before him. Selesst was a mystery to everyone, with his silver tipped jet black hair, and his quicksilver metallic eyes, contrasting sharply with his rich chocolate skin. His chosen clothes, of a deep blue so dark as to be called black by many, merely added to the mystery that hung upon his shoulders like a shroud. They had the stark lines of mourning cloths, and the high collared shirt hid much of his neck from view while the rest of his outfit managing to hide much of the rest of his body. Of his skin, only his hands and his face, along with some of his neck, could be seen, as everything else was covered with the almost black clothing. Ash black boots came up to his knees, the pant legs tucked firmly into them, and had soft enough soles that, even when he ran, Selesst made little noise.
And on top of that, his name was practically unpronounceable to all, and when angered, he rattled off fluid, hate filled words in a language that none could understand, or even hope to pronounce. The hard won skill to pronounce the man’s name correctly had come with time and practice, yet Rowlden felt satisfied every time he saw the faint, pleased smile on Selesst’s face when he spoke it properly.
Yet Selesst was no true mystery to him. The man was a mercenary, with some other, rather interesting, skills in addition to the typical mercenary knowledge. He came from Lyreleent, which answered for most of his oddities, such as name, coloration, and the language.
Even beyond that, though, was a core of knowledge that not even all his questions could unveil. And was never likely to, ever.
Rowlden smiled faintly, “If you must… but why have you come to speak with me, Selesst?”
“I ask leave to have a few days off, my lord.”
A nod, he had anticipated something like this for a while, and was only surprised that Selesst hadn’t asked earlier, “You have only to say when, and the days are yours.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Selesst bowed deeply, “If it will not trouble you, may I take leave today and return in three days?”
“That will not trouble me, Selesst, you may.”
“My thanks once more, my lord Rowlden,” Selesst smiled faintly, as he opened the door and slipped out once more, giving the cowering underling that stood on the other side of the door a cold look, before striding off down the corridor.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
“What sort of name is Fell for a healer?” the man spat in annoyance, glaring at the frail looking woman that stood before him, unafraid and uncaring for his temper.
She snorted softly, “Healer’s name or not, Velst, I am here, and I am the only healer you’re likely to find this side of the Teeth.”
Velst growled darkly, “I don’t trust you, Fell of Dark Waters… even your town’s name stinks of the assassin’s craft.”
Fell merely shrugged, one ash colored hand reaching up to tuck several strands of her strange, black diamond colored hair out of her eyes. Rich, red-brown eyes that glinted with a cool, controlled look, were fixed unerringly on the taller man’s hazel eyes.
“Trust, or trust not. It matters not to me whether you do or do not, Velst. Do you want my services, or no?”
“No, assassin, I do not! Now leave this place!” Velst snarled, taking a step backwards and slamming the door in Fell’s face.
She sighed, before turning on her heel and walking swiftly away from the house. All knew that Velst’s wife was ailing, was on death’s door, in fact, yet still the man refused all advances and advice, refused to allow any to even visit his wife in fact.
It was almost as if…
::Well, why shouldn’t it be the truth? It takes one to know one, after all.::
Fell shivered faintly at the soft, whispering touch of another’s mind on hers… it seemed that no matter how much she practiced, she would never grow accustomed to it in the slightest, ::The only problem is, I’m not an assassin. I’m a healer.::
The presence merely laughed softly, as a tall man materialized out of the shadows and fell into step next to her, “Ah, but child… the only difference between a healer and an assassin is the end result.” His voice was just as soft and light as his mindvoice had been, and had the same eerie sense of barely-heard echoes behind it as well.
“That’s a big difference,” Fell glanced up at him, mentally comparing the two of them, as she almost always did. He stood taller than she by a good two feet or more, while his hair was a glittering, crystalline topaz to her black diamond and his skin was more of a dusk color instead of ashen gray. Even his eyes differed dramatically, being a bottomless black-green instead of her rich red-brown.
None would believe that they were siblings, born of the same parents, though separated by almost six full years. Sometimes, even she didn’t believe it.
He laughed softly, “Not as big a difference as you might think, little sister.” Black-green eyes turned down to meet hers, one of his sweeping eyebrows arching gracefully, “Or did it not occur to you that, by adding just a few grains more of something, or taking out a tiny portion, you could cause death with any of those healing potions of yours? The line any of us walk between life and death is fine indeed, little sister, and can be made finer still by carelessness, of ourselves and others.”
Fell shivered yet again, “Stop talking about those things, Feres.”
Feres’ lips quirked into a small smile, “Forgive me, little sister, I forgot how much you dislike my morbid thoughts.”
“You did not and you know it,” she huffed, glaring up at him, “So stop trying to pretend to be innocent.”
“Only the children are innocent, little sister,” his smile was faintly sad, “But, to return to what I originally spoke of… why couldn’t Velst be poisoning his wife?”
“What could he gain by it though? That’s what I don’t get!”
“What could he gain? No, young one, think of it this way. What could he –not- gain?”
She frowned, forehead wrinkling in thought as she puzzled over her brother’s cryptic words.
He sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, though sadness twisted the expression into an almost mournful guise, “Who is she, Fell?”
“She’s Kirasian, the Lady of… oh…”
Feres nodded at her gasp of understanding, “Yes. Lady of the Stars,” he snorted faintly at the title, “She’s the heiress of the Sentrast family. She has no siblings and her parents are too old to have more. When she dies… he gets everything. Rank, prestige… -money-.”
“Oh…” she sighed dejectedly, “I’ll never understand all of these power wars.”
His warm hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder, “That’s why I’m here for you, little sister, that’s why I’m here for you.”
“I suppose… I should speak with Vaesai. She’ll know how to handle this.”
Feres merely nodded, as he allowed his hand to fall back to his side, satisfied that he had shown her the path to the only way that was a true choice.