Seems to me your ma only wished to protect you. “Yeah. I know.” Osytha catches that soft little smile at her side, serving back a rueful flicker of her own. “She always put me first. Hell, she puts everyone before herself, but me especially. Would explain why I was such a spoiled brat.”

Which, in turn, explains why she hadn’t found much in the way of friendship with the other children of Hræfn Leah. Back then, it had felt like the world was out to get her for no reason at all. Now she knows they didn’t really care she was a bastard; that was simply the conveyance of their cruelty. What they really didn’t like was how eager the self-righteous scion of noble ‘Syr Grymmund’ was to look down on them, these ill-bred spawn of her lessers. Osytha has always acted like she’s better than other people. Because to Osytha, that’s always been the truth.

That shit didn’t fly at Astenvale Monastery, though. School of hard knocks, that, with no more hiding behind mummy’s skirts when she didn’t want to face an uncomfortable truth. Merifrith had loved her dearly, loved her more than life itself. It was just the wrong kind of love for someone like Osytha.

Someone like that Osytha. But… maybe things could be different, now. Maybe Osytha could be different.

“Do,” she tells Xen, when the latter mentions her rousing wanderlust. “Very mi casa es tu casa, mum and dad. They’d be fain to have you — especially after what you’ve done for me.”

“Leofric is a strong name, by the by. He a knight, too?​

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I always wondered what it would be like.”​

Osytha’s gaze rests on the woman’s back as she speaks. That fire drapes Xen in a soft, amber corona, of sharp little lines across borrowed threads and the outline of her skin, but diffusing into a blurred halo around her locks. Or, something like that. Osytha suspects she might be starting to push the angel metaphor a bit too hard.

Leofric — a knight? She chuckles gently into her empty cup. “No, not a knight, thank gods. For everyone’s sake.” Her smile softens. “Not that he ain’t strong. He is, just, it’s the same kind of strong that mum is. Neither of them would have a hope in hell of slaying any dragons… but they’d still walk into one’s lair to try and broker some kind of peace, even if they’re just as likely to get eaten.”

The cup clacks down beside the bed. Osytha’s weight rustles over mattress, linen sliding on linens. Then, the coarser rasp of a woollen blanket.

“Having a brother’s like… well, I wish I could really tell you what it’s like.” Osytha’s feet slap gently over hard floor before her toes sink into the sheepskin rug’s plush pelt. “I don’t know I was all that much of a sister. I left before Leofric was old enough to remember me. Still, I saw him every now and then. I’d occasionally get to go with some Knights if they were passing through the Leah. Spend a week or two at home, before the syrs picked me back up on the return journey.”

She stops behind Xen. Takes that extra woollen blanket her protector had cast off on her bed, and drapes it over the woman’s shoulders. Keeps its trailing ends clear of the hearth. Xen’s all but crawling into that fireplace; poor thing must still be thawing out.

“But I think it depends. Having a sibling’s probably a bit different for everyone.” Osytha finds herself staring into the low flames, bewitched. “For me, it was like… having an annoying shadow a lot of the time. And a needy one. A little pest who’d crawl into my bed at night and beg me to read out whatever book I was trying to enjoy.”

Six years between them. She was… eleven, the first time she visited back home after becoming a prospect? Can’t even remember what the book was that she had at the time. But she can recall that downy-soft head of dark hair nestled against her, flickering by cheap candlelight. How his little body had practically clung to hers.

“Leofric would always, always, make me stop in the middle of the good bits to ask what a certain word meant. Not that he ever heard the endings, mind you, because he’d be passed out after two chapters. Lying on one of my arms and hogging the mattress, while I’m twisting myself into knots around him. Can’t read one-handed like that, so I’d just… end up stroking his hair. Listening to his little breaths. Until… until mum or dad would eventually come in, without saying a word, and gently take him back to his room. Even though a part of me, I… didn’t want him to go…”
 
Last edited:
"Neither of them would have a hope in hell of slaying any dragons…"​

'But you would?' Smiling gently, Xen tugged the blanket close, fingers sinking into the soft fabric as she crabbed sideways, freeing up space by the fire. Firebugs flitted to the rocking chair in the corner. Or rather the cushion nestled there. One half bore stars and moons upon a field of midnight; the reverse, suns and sables prancing whimsically across golden canvas. Looks comfy, she mused, admiring the embroidery, even as she purloined it with some sneaky tailwork.

Smoothing out the sheepskin rug, Xen set the cushion down, before taking Osytha by the wrist, beckoning her to sit.

'Ever think to yourself that he probably just wanted t' spend more time with you?' Letting go of Osytha's wrist -her pulse was strong and clear, as it so happened-, Xenovia settled down on her behind, legs folded beneath her, just as the southern Sehuyiids had taught her.

'He felt safe around you, and a part of you took comfort in the fact you made him feel safe.' It was heartwarming, really. And cute. 'He could have gone to your ma or pa, but he chose you!' Perhaps Leofric had simply been hankering for a good story; there was no harm in that. 'Quite the inquisitive mind, for one so young.' Xen's smile wavered, though it remained steadfast in the wake of her spiralling thoughts. 'Back home, curiousity almost always led to trouble. Best to keep your head down... and your questions to yourself.' I speak of the Sink as if it's some faraway land, she realised suddenly, wishing it was true.

'Perhaps I was lucky to never have been given a sibling. If I could spare but a single soul from the kind of shit I went through, well,' she shrugged, feeling a tad self-conscious now that the focus was back on her. 'S'pose we all have our burdens to carry.'
 
No argument from Osytha, when Xen guides her down before the hearth. Wrong way round or no, her simple linen shift doesn’t do much against the cold. Nonetheless, she finds it’s not so uncomfortable sitting here, on big soft tufts of wool and so close to the fire that her whole front snares its raw, radiating heat. That warmth is in Xen’s fingers, too; plucked right out of the glowing coals and now, painted upon Osytha’s wrist. Smudges from soft skin, the dry scrape of callouses, and fine-point lines in the careful press of those black talons.

That touch withdraws. Osytha settles with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped about her legs. She lays her head sideways upon her kneecaps, so she might watch Xen speak. Seems as though talking about Leofric and her family life is amusing the woman. Osytha would normally think she’s being self-indulgent, going on about it as much as she has, but Xenovia appears to be genuinely curious. If she really wants to know all this, telling her is the least that Osytha could do. And it’s… good, to have an excuse to talk through it. To make herself sit down and actually think about it all.

A much healthier approach than drinking herself into oblivion, for sure.

“Perhaps I was lucky to never have been given a sibling. If I could spare but a single soul from the kind of shit I went through, well. S’pose we all have our burdens to carry.”​

Osytha follows that faltering smile, the discomfited shrug. “Mmm.” Brings her eyes up to Xenovia’s face. “Part of me wants to say — if it had to happen, then… having folks like yours, and you as a sister? Maybe that’s about as lucky as it gets down there.” Then she, too, shrugs, which is a bit of an awkward gesture for someone in her current pose. “But I don’t know the Sink, and I don’t really know what you were all like back then.

“That said: I reckon you’d crush it at being a big sis nowadays.” Grins, shit-eatingly. Big, heaping spoonfuls of the stuff. “Feels like you already have.”

Xen doesn’t have to suffer that punchable expression for long, though, because Osytha soon lifts her head and turns it toward the fire. She closes her eyes, letting that warmth suffuse through her skin, down to the muscle, cartilage, and bone. Ponders a touch over Xen’s demeanour toward the end there. Unease, perhaps. A bit of reticence when it comes sharing personal matters? Something else, as well. Thinks she caught a glimpse when they were still talking about Leofric, and upon the general subject of siblings.

Something… wistful?

“I’m here for another week or two,” Osytha says, mind still mulling away. “Collecting reports, intelligence, doing a little research. Though, no more looking into this ‘Artorias’. Then I’ll be heading back to Astenvale.” She rests her chin down on her knees, inching it just smidge closer to the fire. “But I think I’ll make a small detour along the way. So, if you meant it — what you said about going up to Hræfn Leah, then… would you like to go with me? Share the road there?”
 
Last edited:
'You're only saying that 'cause I fished you out of the Wend,' replied Xen, fighting a grin. 'Not really sure why I got involved in the first place,' she confessed, a small sigh escaping her lips, as if she were allowing the thought to leave her crowded mind. 'Guess you reminded me of me. The way Cuttle and his crew were looking at you... Just couldn't sit back and let it happen, y'know?'

Fleeing Crown's Hold was the wisest decision she had ever made. And yet for all the time she spent on the Road, beneath the Sea of Stars, she had still been unable to resist its pull upon her mind.

'I came back to put the past to rest. But now that I'm here,' she fell silent.

Staring into the flames, Xenovia felt something staring back; her palms tingled, her fingers twitched, curling to grasp the hilt of a sword that was in another room entirely. Then, there was a knock at the door. 'Um, Xenovia, dear!' Glancing over the top of Osytha, the devahni's eyes widened in surprise as Enneleyn poked her around the doorframe, her half-moon spectacles abandoned in favour of a sleeping mask. Figure Volmar or some other knight has the watch.

'Yes, Enne?' Xen sat up straighter. 'Has something happened?'

'In a manner of speaking,' the medicant seemed almost shy as she pushed the door inwards, stepping aside as something rattled and jinked across the floorboards towards them. 'Your sword, well, you see, it fell over.' Glancing at Xen, Enneleyn continued, 'I went to pick it up, but the damned thing started moving. I managed to grab it but, well, you see,' she shook her head, amused, and more than a little overwhelmed. 'I couldn't pick it up for the life of me! Volmar made a passing comment upon his and Squire Kemi's return, but I didn't pay it any mind. Until now.'

Oops! Rising to her feet in a swoosh of blankets, Xen went to retrieve the greatsword, before the racket it was making roused the entire billet. 'Sorry, Enne! I should've said something earlier.'

Bending down, the Deva scooped the sword into her arms, bundling it up against her breast, before bowing apologetically to the bemused medicant. 'It was a gift,' she explained, 'from the Forge Masters of Tolemarke. I did not realise how, um, let's say needy a sword could be until after I agreed to bind it to me,' she smiled sheepishly, forked tail trailing low about her shins.

'Okay. Well. Okay!' Enneleyn's expression thawed as she dealt Xen a pat on the arm. 'No harm, no foul. I'll be going now,' she stole a look at Osy, brow furrowing slightly. 'You should be in bed, missy.' Sighing, the medicant turned to leave. 'Keep an eye on her, will you? My wick has all but burnt down.'

'I will!' Xen agreed hastily, though the door had closed by then.

Turning, sword in arms, Xen bore her fangs, halfway embarrassed. 'Did you say two weeks?' She asked, traipsing back to Osytha's side. 'Aye, I'll come with you, if only to make sure you don't land yourself in any more trouble, Miss Badger.'
 
“Just couldn’t sit back and let it happen, y’know?” Osytha sits on that one, and lets the conversation keep rolling by. Do I know? she wonders. Had our roles been reversed, would I have been just as unable to leave you to your fate? It’s easy to say ‘no’. But that’s only because she’s looking back at that scenario from the here and now after Xen’s already stuck her neck out to save Osytha, and she’s become more than just some nameless bar fly to the knight.

Would Osytha have done the same for Xen, without knowing any of these things? The harder she looks at it, the more uneasy she feels. Because she can imagine taking one glance at Xen’s appearance plus the sword at her side, and convincing herself the devah was just another ruffian like the others eyeing her up. Whatever little narrative it took to keep Osytha’s own hands and conscience ‘clean’.

Or maybe she would have stepped in. She simply doesn’t know, and that doesn’t feel like a good enough answer.

“I came back to put the past to rest. But now that I’m here…”​

She watches the way Xen lets that sentence wither off. The way those embers hold her gaze, and her hands twitch against the phantom of something. Another meaningful little silence open up. Rain pellets, wind’s groan, and coal-crackle all guessing at things unspoken. Osytha opens her mouth to speak over it, but then, hears a discordance in the mix; returning footsteps — and an odd metallic rattle…?

So instead, she finds herself watching Xen and Enneleyn’s bemused, sheepish little exchange. Osytha wilts some herself beneath the doctor’s chiding instruction of bedrest, to which she offers meek ascent via bowed head. All in all, however, it’s not long before the door closes and she’s alone with Xen once more. Well… Xen, plus a magic sword possessed of an undetermined degree of sentience.

That’s quite the blade Xen’s got there, even before one considers its magical nature. Over five feet long all in all, putting it in a class above your longswords. Waisted with a ring of metal around its black grip, and sporting crescent-curved quillions. In place of a fuller down its blade, though, run the molten-iron glow of runes. The same kind of shine that Xenovia’s eyes catch from time to time.

There’s some more metaphorical kind of shine returned in Xen’s expression when she turns toward Osytha and plonks herself back down on their hearth-roasted section of rug. The sparkle of some friendly ribbing at ‘Miss Badger’s expense. And well-earned, too. Osytha can’t begrudge her that, so she simply finds that it’s her turn to wear the embarrassed grin.

“Two weeks,” Osytha confirms, saying nothing on her new moniker. She already suspects there’s nothing she can do to stop it spreading through the order — even if she wanted to. As far as nicknames go, she could be saddled with much worse. “I look forward to it. And while we travel, maybe you can tell me the story of how Tolemarke’s stánælfas were grateful enough to bestow one of their runed swords upon you.”

She leans over, enough to bump her shoulder to Xen’s.

“I’ll hold you to it, now. And I can be a lot more tenacious than some sword with a spot of separation anxiety, so…” she fumbles, uncertain how to proceed. Until her badger’s stripe kicks in, and tells her to just plough ahead. “… if you still intend to put these ghosts of yours to rest. If they’re the kind you told me about that haunt the Sink, then — bring me with you. Please? Not just so I can help you like you helped me. I want to be able to do that for you. But I also… I also want to make sure you’re still around when I leave. So that you can come with me.”
 
'You wish to help me?' The devahni studied the knight closely, the sword balanced across her knees still, and silent as the marker of some unknown grave. 'That's... kind of you, yes. Kind... but unnecessary.' Averting her gaze, Xen ran a palm down the flat of her blade, seeking comfort where only there was steel. No doubt her friends among the Elum would be shaking their heads in dismay. On the Road, aid was offered freely and accepted without reservation.

But she wasn't with the Elum anymore, nor had she encountered them since parting ways four years ago.

Four and a half, now, she mused, placing a hand to her temple, eyelids fluttering as she fought to keep them from lowering. 'I call it Yūgen,' she said quietly, wishing to change the subject before her head grew any heavier. 'I know what you're thinking. Only assholes name their swords. And you would be correct,' she smiled self-depricatingly, bumping Osytha's shoulder, because sometimes even the smallest gestures needed reciprocating.

'A freeblade from Aetochi taught me the word, before he died,' she murmurred, rune-warmth bleeding through the gaps in her fingers, like breath exhaled from a dying warrior's ruptured lungs.

'I don't know why it resonated with me the way it did.' Slowly, she lifted the sword from her lap, and, in a cascade of borrowed blankets, placed it in Osytha's. 'It has kept me safe through thick and thin. Warded me from danger and defeat.'

Smiling wanly, she drew her knees up to her chest, hugged them tight in much the same way as the dusker had, before.

'Any good sword has to have a story,' she told the knightess, reciting an age-old wisdom shared with her by one of the Stone Elves. Stánælfas, as Osytha had called them. Xenovia's gaze grew distant as she stared into the fire. She could see something hidden behind the veil of dancing flames - an impression of a place she had never visited, of people she had never met.

'Yūgen's story will continue to be written long after my bones have been reduced to ash and memory.'

Rain poured. The hearth coughed soot and cinder upon its foundations. Patterned steel shimmered and sworled.

'You've ghosts enough of your own,' said Xen, turning to Osytha. 'Without mine to haunt you.'
 
“I used to lose sleep over what I’d call my sword,” Osytha admits with a sheepish grin. “Up until I was, what, twelve? Then when I actually got the damned thing a few years ago, I didn’t want to be one of those people, so I kept it nameless in the end. Joke’s on me, though — I still turned into an arsehole.”

Abashedness turns to surprise when Xenovia lays that swaddled runeblade over lap, though. Osytha flicks her mildly perplexed, still rather groggy gaze up to Xen, then down toward the bundle now suffusing a warm strap across her thighs. Strokes a fan of pale fingers up its black leather grip, tracing the hard metal waist and its tall, flanged, fish-tail pommel. A long hilt overall, providing additional leverage and counterweight to balance out that oversized blade. The curve of those quillions are slightly exaggerated, as well. On a shorter sword, that would make it easier for your opponent to slip underneath them and snipe your hands, but this thing’s reach advantage probably helps negates that risk — plus, that pronounced curl is better for snaring an opponent’s blade into a bind against Yūgen’s ricasso.

Her eyes are invariably, eventually, drawn to the hint of runes searing down the blade’s centre. Their steady glow is just as hypnotic as that of the bed of embers in front of them, and though Osytha tries to recall if she’s come across any characters like them before in her research, her woozy mind fails to dredge up anything relevant.

“Yūgen…”

Osytha wonders what it means, but gets the sense that Xen’s about done talking on that and similarly personal subjects, and she doesn’t want to needle the poor woman. Well, that’s fine. It’s a decent trek to Hræfn Leah. Plenty of time for her to open up a little more if she starts to feel like it.

Instead of pressing that route, Osytha glances behind her to where a few of her effects have been stored near the bed; those things of hers which haven’t the need of being left hung up to dry somewhere. Her eyes alight on that simple, long steel blade, gleaming orange in the dark.

“Draðor¹,” Osytha declares, then shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. That’s probably about as good a name for it as any.”

Any good sword ought to have a story… and she supposes its decent enough as far as swords are concerned; however she might feel about wielding the thing, it’s always done the job she’s asked of it. And like Yūgen, its tale is in the making yet. Perhaps a better name will come to her with time. Perhaps none will stick, in the end.

Yūgen’s luminescent inscriptions drag Osytha’s gaze back down. She blinks, dully, lethargic under the fresh cosy heat of the blankets in her lap. It’s like a warming-pan’s bundled in there, full of toasty rocks and drowsiness. When she blinks again, her eyelids barely manage to crack back open.

“’S pretty…” she mumbles.

Another bump to Xen’s arm. Only this time, there’s no retreat. Osytha’s leaning her weight to the other woman’s side, head lolling against the devah’s shoulder.

At which point, the sound of her soft, steady breathing lends itself to night’s peaceful murmurings.


¹ From strong ō-stem feminine noun ‘dracu’ (meaning ‘trouble’/‘affliction’) + the strong a-stem neuter noun-forming suffix ‘-ðor’ (denoting an agent/means by which an action is performed).
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom