Private A Bad Place To Be

It wasn’t often that Loneliness asked for things. The spirit usually took from her. Time and memories. And every so often, the moons would cross a certain way and it would take her body too. But requests were rare. So, when one came, Vyn humored it. She didn’t understand the message. It was gibberish in a language she’d never heard before. And the spirit had asked her to tell it to an old tree of all things. The whole experience felt surreal and useless. She noticed that she had feelings that weren’t her own when acting on behalf of the foreign being. Sadness in coming north. Rage at the tree. Couldn’t explain any of it. She still said the words. Left food in offering. Made her preparations for a return trip. This had taken her days, maybe even weeks off course from the Wagons. She’d need to ride hard to catch up. But it was only a matter of time. Elum were known for many things. Speed wasn’t one of them.

Morning here reminded her of the Pale. Only she wasn’t the caller. She was the one being summoned as the world became milk. Shades of white stacked so closely together, invoking blindness. Didn’t wait for light. Enough to worry about without the dawn making things worse. She knew it would get better further south, but that was ways off. It would be a long trek. Luckily, she had a midway camp down the route. An hour’s ride. Perhaps two. It would allow her to get out of this place before the morning made everything white.

Even as she said it, snow covered everything. It was on the ground, in the air, in her eyes. Everpresent. Night masking its light was the only mercy. She was wrapped as tightly as could afford to be. Even her horns wore scarves. And somehow it wasn’t enough. This was cold of the bones. Of death. As she approached the gates, the guard already seemed distracted by something. He looked like was going to stop her, but took a second look and thought better of it. Horse seemed bothered by the slowing, digging itself out from the slump. Snow wasn’t made with people in mind. Almost like it was made by fiends for fiends. Winter was not for mortals. Her last thought felt almost warm inside. Was that approval?

It covered everything. Every step an extra effort. Every sound muffled. She wasn’t quick when she came upon the stranger. One of her kind. Shaking. Dying really. The horse would step too close for it to be anything else. “You’re dying.” She didn’t dismount. “You may not know it, but your knees do.” She looked at them clinking together. An instrument of death. Her heavily gloved hand reached out slowly. Not a greeting. An offer. “I have a camp a bit further south. We’re a tad big, but the horse can probably carry us most of the way without resting.”

Vyn waited for the woman to choose. But looking at the white death all around… was there really a choice?

Not as fast as you dear. The thought reached as far as her lips and whether it was by wind or restraint, she was successful in suppressing it. World was bleak enough. She had no purpose in crushing the woman’s spirit. She took the heavy hand. Hoisting her up was a considerable effort. The awkward climb and lack of cooperation taught her two things. The woman was stronger than she looked. And she had never ridden a horse before. So she did her best to make it a safer ride for them both. “You should spread your legs around the animal’s flanks.” She’d nudge her own knees at that. As they settled in, Vyn did what she could.

She couldn’t offer her a coat, but she did take off her outer gloves and passed them back quietly. Once those were out of her hands, she’d slowly unwarp her horns. The scarves were slightly soaked from the oncoming snow, but they were still warm in most places. She’d turn around and help wrap the woman somewhat. Finally, she pulled out the spare horse blanket. Skipped smelling it. There was no luxury, only dirt and horse sweat boiled over multiple times. But tonight, it was warm. And that was the only thing she cared to measure. She spread it around the stranger and realized she had never asked for a name. And she wouldn’t. Not until they were properly safe.

Once she was happy with how tucked in her passenger was. She’d try to be soft, as the cold made her words choppy. “Hold the wraps close. And grab me by the waist strong enough to hold, but not so strong I lose my lunch.” She blinked at that, looking at the misfortunate creature. “We’ll eat at camp.”

“Don’t fall down and don’t sleep. Snow is greedy here and likes to keep what it grabs.” With that she nudged the horse forward, hoping the woman was well enough to heed her words.

“This will hurt.” Truth for the new rider.

The horse continued as best it could.

She tried to sigh, but the cold had her misaligned. It sounded more like she was sucking in air instead. The other Deva could protest all she wanted; she’d still leave her one of the scarves. “One each!” wrapping the one she kept awkwardly around her horns. Too little fabric to cover everything, but you did the best you could with what you had. “And have no fear. If one of my horns falls off, people will be even more impressed. Not every day you see a unicorn!” Cheer was a skill, much like everything else in the world. Conspiratorial, she continued. “Imagine the gasps when I tell ‘em how Unicorn Bay was named for my handsome face!” She pondered how the shape of her horns was wrong for the tale. Actually, wrong wasn’t the word. It was just a plot twist. Unicorn’s horn curved backwards due to some curse or another. She would tell that story to the fire when she remembered how to be warm again.

She allowed a couple nods. The passenger wrapped. Her grip solid enough. The horse was yet to kick them off. Things were going as well as the situation allowed. She nodded at the stranger’s hopelessness too and decided against it.

“You know there’s a story from the Road. About two travelers lost in the desert. A great empty place much like this one. Only the snow was yellow and warm.” And she held that last word for a bit. It was nice to have it in your mind even for a moment. “No trees. No water. No life. Nothing but the yellow snow and Sun in your face.” She paused for effect and added “Some say the silence was so strong it could peel the memories from your bones…” Whatever that meant. She hadn’t figured it out yet. But she liked the weight of it. She would never finish that story. For it was one of the best sort. Ones that haven’t happened yet.

She wouldn’t tell her what they were doing out there. Each person could hold their own story abreast. She knew them both to be careless. You could always prescribe meaning to your madness, but never make it any less insane. Such was life. The woman seemed to appreciate the irony of her own question. “Some tales only make sense as you sit in their middle” she wanted to gesture back to the city, but was worried she’d slap the passenger off the animal. “Back there they sound as madness.”

Sound of silence. She liked the way that story was told, so she let her companion appreciate it a while longer. Too long almost. And at the very last moment she’d snatch a word out of the pit of sadness silence often brought. “I have learned to carry it with me” It was true, in a sense. “Spring I mean.” But she knew how to pack silence for a long trip too. Spring of the Empire was not the same as spring of Altalusia. Different again from the springs of the exotic Miraj’Dah, the ones she’d only heard about in stories. When your whole life was the Road, spring stopped being a season. It became a memory. A promise even. New life. And a death defeated.

A hint of color in the distance had her pointing. “We’re about to remember some spring of our own.” Hand down. She only ever kept one on the reins. Alternating. Sheathing the spare one in her armpit. Whoever made winter had little sense of humor. “Fire seems to still be going steady” She wouldn’t offer an explanation as to how the fire remained strong while she was away and the snow kept trying to get it to take a rest. Some stories were best told only to yourself.

Madness. They were all susceptible to it. Xenovia supposed she was too. It was the only explanation she had that made any sense, to the Law at least. Murder is murder, she thought, staring at the stranger's hand as she gestured towards the city. Clean where hers were bloody.

They had been bad men in life, those she had slain. Maybe in death they would get a chance at redemption, though Xen doubted it.

Their souls will be burning in Hel by now, she mused, a thin smile playing across her lips. It was no less than they deserved. 'Oh?' Perking up at the promise of warmth, the big Deva peered over the stranger's shoulder, the glow of firelight like a beacon in the night, guiding them safe into port. 'It still burns,' she agreed, 'but how?' Shroudweavers were welcome in Crown's Hold, but magic was strictly regulated via guilds and other such establishments.

The last thing anyone wanted was a wildfire inside the walls, or a stray lightning bolt knocking an airship from the sky.

'Are there more of... well, you?' Xen asked, recalling the recent gossip surrounding a group of nomadic devahni and their erstwhile adventures.

As they approached the small camp, something moved in the snow. White on white. Shades refusing to match in the faint firelight. She had given clear instruction. It should avoid anyone other than her. That should’ve covered anyone passing close to the camp. It apparently didn’t cover Vyn arriving with company.

Tsk.

Without a word the creature would waddle away awkwardly. She wasn’t sure what the other woman saw. Even if she saw. No matter. “Fire’s been tended to.” She would nod at that. As for the other question… Well, there were many ways to answer that.

“Oh yeah – a whole bunch of us! We travel around Ilica on Wagons.” She would stick with that as they entered the clearing.

The snow was cleaned out in a wide circle. A tent pitched, and fire recently fed. Smaller twigs lay in neat clumps. Beneath, larger sticks that didn’t give up gently – torn at the edges. Footprints scattered in the area. Larger feet, tracks of uneven depth. A pot hung over the flame, steam rising. Brown liquid with hints of onion. She was impressed. It understood cooking. It picked the sack and chose well. It didn’t seem to grasp peeling yet, but a great effort nonetheless.

She dropped off in a short half-motion. Careful not to knock the other off.

“Do you need help?”

Vyn didn’t argue when the other woman slid off the mount like a sack of potatoes. Pride had many forms. She crouched by the fire, coaxing a bit more life with a stick that had lost most of its bark. When the other woman spoke, she didn’t look up right away.

“They’re around.” She gestured to the pot. “The broth’s smart. It’ll hold.” She stirred for a moment as if to prove a point. It did not bubble over. Her eye caught the knife in the pot as she stirred. Food is in the sack. Of course. She would have to be more specific next time. She plucked the knife out with the ladle and spilled it into the snow.

“But you’re right. No one should leave stew unattended. That’s downright criminal!” teeth chattered as a smile was attempted. She wouldn’t ask. Instead, she fished for bowls. She filled them more carefully than she’d normally consider. Eyes scanning for any other irregular ingredients.

“Eat!” She’d offer the bowl just before it became too hot in her grip. “Plenty of time to think about others later.”

Wheels stop for no man. But Vyn always did. Usually to her regret. But one couldn’t cure nature. As long as you didn’t put anyone else at risk, each problem warranted at least a slowing, if not outright stopping. She hoped years would make her harder. They never did.

“Wasn’t going for heroic.” She warmed by the fire as she spoke. “Just didn’t wanna be the one that passes by.”

The name part was easy enough “Vyn. Of the Elum.” The woman was sneezing. So she looked closer. She still had red in her cheeks. Eyes seemed awake. Shivering wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t a fever yet. “Sides, if you stayed in the snow, we’d have to throw away half the broth!” She clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. “Can’t have that! Oh no!” Few people understood that cheer too was a skill.

The woman was dangerously close to the fire, but she understood. It was better to be a smoked ham than a frozen one. If that meant a couple of singed fabrics and a stinging nose – the price was acceptable.

“You alright enough to share yours?”