Osytha

Osytha

The Badger Knight
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COUNTRY ROADS, TAKE ME HOME​

Sequel to A Little White Lie

Mi casa es tu casa.​

Winter is slow to release its grip, this year. Hochtar began with sleet and torrential rain, stymying the waxing sun’s efforts to see in warmer days, budding trees, sprouting grass, and colours of swelling life. Even now towards the month’s end, with an almost clear blue sky above, a chill sits heavy in the air, and everything is… more still than it should be, like the world hasn’t yet dared to rouse from its hibernation through the darkest days.

That air moves softly down here in a valley. Up high against the skyline are the dark suggestions of moorland, but lower as the land dips — the two-tone blend of tan and green as heavy turf struggles to awake through last year’s casualties, cut through here and there revealing brown limestone deposits underneath, limestone which has been stacked into drystone walls wending and weaving along and across the slopes. Alders, solitary or in lonely little huddles, their grey boughs still mostly bare, form the odd road or boundary marker along this cultivated valley.

And a river flows through here. Not large, certainly not like the mighty Wesend further east to which this one is a tributary, but still deep and wide enough to be worth a watermill or two. Especially now with the heavy downpours’ influence still in effect upon it, plus the first hints of icemelt off the Mhearas westward of here. Up on the moorland, you can see those majestic white peaks rising to the horizon. But down here on the path which winds along beside the waterway, the steep dale walls hide them from view.

Osytha crouches at the rushing river’s bank, hand dipped in to fill her canteen while beside her, Forbítter guzzles greedily of those frigid waters. Not a good idea to sup here were these the first rains after a parched summer, no, but now the rivers should be well-purged and safe enough to risk. For a while.

“We should reach Corndon mid-afternoon,” she announces to her travelling companion. Her other travelling companion besides the horse, that is: a lilac-hued devahni, standing slightly taller than the other woman and at least as well-muscled. That wind gently lifts strands of her auburn hair and drags them against the ram’s horns which curl beside her head. “It’s a pretty small place, but there’s a coachin’ inn there that’s comfortable enough. They do a fairly decent rye beer, and all.”

Syr Badger straightens up, shaking cold droplets off her hand with a few flicks of the wrist. She looks back over her shoulder at Xenovia as she fixes her canteen back to her belt, and gives her a small grin.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” she asks. “Missin’ Addie’s chowder yet?”
 
'How could I not?' Wrapped in a thick winter cloak -unlined, of course- Xenovia looked every bit the wanderer she had claimed herself to be for the past ten or so years. Back in her own clothes, greatsword cradled in her arms, the devahni had taken to admiring the landscape whilst Osytha refilled their waterskins.

Clumps of skeletal alders waved to them from down the way, beckoning them on. Across the river, higher up, wooly clouds paused their grazing to watch the pair, curious, until they weren't. Xenovia found it impressive, the way they kept themselves from falling. Such simple creatures, prone to random acts of self-destruction, and yet there they were, happy and contented, black faces bleeting, sharing the latest hillside gossip.

'Suppose this is all familiar to you?' Xenovia gestured about herself, at the moss-covered walls and solitary stone huts which may or may not be shelters for the valley's hardiest residents. 'I remember passing through valleys just like this back in my glory days,' she grins back, breath misting in the frigid air.

Winter has yet to relinquish its grip on the land, but Xen can feel it growing looser with every day that passes, see it in the land around them. New life springing from the old. Renewal. Lambs prancing about after their mothers.

'Be nice to sleep in a bed again,' a nod, turn. 'Though, perhaps it's the beer you're most looking forward to, no?'

Ember eyes twinkle mischeviously as she sets heel before toe, closing on the Badger Knight, and the mean-spirited mount looming over her. Forbítter. A good name, strong, and memorable. Like Yūgen. Or Leofric.
 
Gentle as it is, Xen’s little jab elicits a pained groan out of her companion. Osytha feels the all-too-fresh ghost of that truly awful bender — but especially the days-long hangover which had haunted her after. That rye isn’t sounding as appealing as it did a second ago.

“Reckon I’ll keep goin’ easy on the grog,” she assures Xen, tossing the other waterskin her way. “Gills¹ and small beer only for myself, thank’ee kindly.”

Forbs lifts his head up from the stream, his chin and neck dribbling down with water. He lets Osytha know he’s all done by nuzzling into her shoulder and snuffling a little too wetly over her gambeson. To her dismay, its tall collar doesn’t prove quite tall enough.

“Eyah, disgustin’ beggar,” she laughs, only mildly horrified.

The big stallion lumbers around as Osytha leads him from the bank and up toward the road proper. She lifts her head skyward at the valley’s silhouette. Allows the breeze to tickle her face, then draws it in with the bellows of her chest. Suppose this is all familiar to you? The clean mist of flowing water, heather and turf and sheep riding crisp early spring winds; fresh air. Beats a lot of places in Crown’s Hold, that’s for sure.

“More or less,” she answers as to its familiarity. “I never really left the Leah until I joined the order, so I don’t have old memories specifically of Corndon,” Osytha adds, as they begin to trudge their way along once more. “But the shape of the land, whinny and heather, the stones… sheep and grass. Aye, I recognise it well enough—”

Her silver-streaked ponytail whips around at the sound of fast-approaching drumming, and there back the way they came, she sees its source: a galloping chestnut palfrey emerging from behind steep green slopes at a bend in the road about two hundred yards back. Its rider is a shortish blond fellow, whose cloak billows enough to expose a simple tabard split vertically into two colours — dull red on his left, and wheat-field yellow on his right. Rodhan livery.

Osytha guides Forbítter away to the side of the road, where she watches the speeding rider quickly loom upon them. She sees him glance their way, but the way his eyes keep flicking to the path beyond them suggests the two women are not his real focus.

“Another courier,” the badger mutters, loud enough for Xen to hear. “Must be relayin’ — they don’t push their horses that hard unless it’s urgent. Something bad’s brewin’…”


¹ Pronounced ‘jill’ — a variable unit of volume, which here means a half-pint. Unrelated to fish… I think.
 
Xenovia keeps to the grassy verge as they venture onwards. She's never heard of Corndon let alone seen the place. Idle thoughts fill her mind, and she wonders if the sleepy little village is even big enough to be marked on a map. A quill-point of civilisation hidden deep within the sloping dales, exposed limestone protruding like the world's bones from earthen flesh.

Hoofbeats on the road behind them draw Xenovia's attention. The velvet-wrapped greatsword in her arms sings in unison with the blood warming her veins as she turns. Senses deepen. Horse sweat and fear. A heady mix so early in the day.

“Must be relayin’ — they don’t push their horses that hard unless it’s urgent. Something bad’s brewin’…”
​
'Something bad's always brewing, Os. This is Altalusia.' The rider breezed past at a rate of knots, hooves beating furrows into the sucking mud, the ground still soaked from last night's rains and the turning of seasons. 'Give a nobleman the world and they'll still require more from you. Offer a token of peace when it doesn't suit 'em and they'll spit in your face.' The messenger disappeared from sight around the corner. The hoofbeats faded from existence.

Shaking out her mane, Xen placed a hand on Osytha's shoulder as she brushed past.

'We should go,' she said, sticking to the dew-slick grass, so as to keep from muddying her boots further. 'That messenger wasn't just riding someplace, he was running from something.' She had seen fear reflected in a thousand faces and it always looked the same. 'Corndon - How far, roughly?'
 
Osytha bores holes into the messenger’s back with her stare until another wind in the road takes him, and his horse, out of sight behind a turfy howe. She’s not the only one; many a pair of yellow eye follow that urgent movement from their places of rumination across the hills, though their gazes are rather more placid about it.

“Fourteen miles from here? Give or take.” Which at a brisk walk, means… “So we’re about four hours out, barrin’ that we pick up the place.”

Riding double won’t really help, either, not for that extended distance. It isn’t good for a horse, for starters. But Osytha is also still working on Forbs, and the beast remains a tad temperamental. He’s barely been broken in enough to tolerate Syr Badger’s weight; adding a second person will most likely just get them bucked off.

Mean bastard, she thinks, fondly looking into his murderous, horsey eye.

But he’s been well worth the trouble. Swift, strong, sturdy — and spirited. Osytha’s not sure she’s even managed to push him to his limits yet. There’s always some spare burst of speed and power to coax out of him, and surprisingly, he’s willing to give it. Forbítter doesn’t get tired. The more his body tells him to slow down, the more angrily he fights against it.

Osytha finds her attention drifting, away behind to where the breakneck rider had sped from. It’s been a quiet enough journey on their part, despite some tense omens… yet theirs isn’t the only road through these lands. In fact they’d passed another one just a half hour ago, and she’d bet the meagre forward pay granted to fill her empty purse, that things are not quite so peaceful down that other path.

“A decent walk yet,” declares the knight, “but a straightforward one. This road will take us right to Corndon. River flows through the town, and all.”

At which point Osytha brings Forbítter to a stop, and pulls back the cover on her bow holster. She catches Xen’s eye as she threads the weapon’s forward-curled horizontally across her calves.

“You did say he was runnin’ from trouble.” Osytha heaves, hard, and slips the loose end of a bowstring into place. “Just in case, you know?”

Readied now, the bow goes back into its protective holster as they resume their pace. “If said trouble has horses of its own, might be best if you break from the road — they won’t be able to follow up these slopes. Reckon you could still find your way to Corndon if we’re separated, Xen?”
 
'"Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst." Ain't that what they always say?' Whomever or whatever had the messenger in such a hurry wasn't like to go down without a fight, and the devah would just as soon avoid any bloodshed. With any luck, the two of them would be safe and tucked up in Corndon's one and only inn by the time the storm broke, though she had her doubts, Sod's law being what it was.

'I reckon so,' she nodded, lips drawn back in a snarl. ''Course, that'd leave you to face the music alone.'

One knight against many, most like. Men-at-arms or bluebloods on destriers of their own, it wouldn't matter much in the long run. Perhaps Forbítter could outpace his pursuers. Just as likely he threw Osy before they even reached the village. Flighty beasts, were horses. Those bred for war were not so different when push met shove.

Xen felt a pang of concern nestle down in her stomach, the blade in her arms warming at the thought of impending violence.

'I could shift, if'n you think Forbs is up to it?' Innocent as a wolf in sheep's clothing, she looked up at Osytha, fangs bared in a devilish grin. 'If'n you think you're up to it, that is?' She made it sound like a challenge, but the concern was still there, rooted deep, a parasite leeching upon her resolve.

Look to yourself before worrying about others, a voice from her past reminded her. 'Tis survival, and you won't survive by lettin' such weakness as compassion into your life. No, saer!

'I don't normally get me kit off in front of strangers, but since we're properly acquainted now,' she let Osytha fill in the rest, firebug gaze going to the sword cradled in her arms. 'I will need ya to take care of my beloved, though. My pack, I can handle.' The thick leather bore proof of its most recent mawings like scars upon flesh. 'What d'ya reckon?'
 
“I reckon…”

Long, pale lines worn through to the packed gravel beneath, upon a snaking hump which keeps feet and hooves dry above the stream beside it. There’s a story to this road; the bones of ancient, marching ambitions, now barely kept from sinking beneath the green-blanket march of time. Gobinh’s stone crosses loom on the ridges above, marking and reminding shepherds of the way for when its all other signs truly have disappeared.

Osytha stares along the suggestion of a track. This road has seen much history. Most of it forgotten. Makes it feel almost a hungry thing, ready to swallow up the lost just as readily as it might guide them.

“… I reckon I don’t much like the thought of leavin’ you behind,” Osytha concludes. She reaches up, slips her foot snug into a stirrup, and bounces smoothly over into the saddle. “I’ll handle Forbs, don’t you worry. And Yūgen, too — on my oath. Let’s get yon runeblade secured, then, uh… I’ll give you some privacy, aye?”
 
'No need for any oaths where your word will do,' said Xen, shrugging her pack from her shoulders and setting it upon a stretch of ruined wall, stones packed tight together by long-dead hands and worn down by time. Dry stone in mossy cloaks fouled by rain, sleet and snow, bird muck, and bullish skulls making their way to the market.

Never make a promise y'can't keep, girlie, 'cause it'll only bite ye in the arse, come t' end.

Sometimes running was all you could do to survive. Xen liked Osytha's skin well enough, but she liked her own even more. Is that why you stuck your neck out for her that night? A ghost from her past asked her as she unclasped her raincape. That why you keep on risking it? For the Osytha's and the Vyn's? For the loners and outcasts? Buckles popped. Winter sleeves shed like snakeskin from lilac arms. Fashionable in the South. Less so here.

The diamond of fabric protecting her throat and collarbone comes away with a whisper, warm flesh prickling at the touch of cold, natural as swapping one form for another. 'Sweet of you to worry,' says the devahni of a sudden, glancing over her shoulder at the waiting knight, who has distanced herself a touch. Not enough to carry her from sight, mind.

'Is something wrong? You've gone red as a pomegranate.'

Xenovia's tail swished from side to side, mischief writ in the way she continued to take off her personal effects, slow and languid, like a house cat settling into a sunspot. Whatever shame or embarassment she might have felt had diminished with the years spent aside Elum. Devah of many different colours and stripes. Close to the land and its ways. Closer than a city girl like her could ever claim to be.

The clothes come off.
 
Yūgen goes snug and secure in amidst the rest of her bags and holsters lashed onto the riding tack. More securely, even. Which is perhaps completely unnecessary — Xen herself has said that blade is bonded to her so strongly, she wouldn’t be able to lose it if she tried. Still. Better safe than sorry.

“Is something wrong? You've gone red as a pomegranate.”​

Osytha smiles down at the back of Forbs’ head. The beast’s mane holds her undivided attention, which might otherwise be drawn to the curious movements and new shapes her peripheral vision is telling her about not far down the road.

“Careful, Xen,” she calls back, picking a bit of debris out from the flowing black mane. “You keep teasin’ like that, and I’ll begin to think you mean summat by it.”

Which wouldn’t be so bad, in Osytha’s opinion. Xenovia’s got a lot of fine qualities to her; a good heart, the courage to back it up, smarts, plus a dash of wisdom to boot. And that cute button nose of hers doesn’t hurt, either.

Oh, and cheeky sense of humour as well. Assuming it’s as much a joke as all that, anyway.

The reins creak softly in her hand as she leans forward, giving Forbs a good rub along his withers. Things over in Xen’s direction are about to get a whole lot more interesting than they already are, and if Osytha wants to stay in the saddle, she had better help Forbítter keep his excitement in check.
 
The devahni chuckled gleefully. 'And what if I did?' She riposted, practised fingers unbuckling and unbinding, lips parted slightly in what might have been a smile, as the clothes continued to come off. Aye, Osytha was a good sport, and so very easy on the eyes. Gave as good as she got, even with her face aflame and her gaze fixed doggedly on something altogether elsewhere.

The audience across the way bleated in appreciation as she sat to pull off her boots. The cold nipped at her exposed toes and the feet. Goosepimples stood out on her arms, a flesh-and-blood response to outside stimuli. Xen cast a glance towards Osy as she began unwinding her chest wraps.

'May want to take Forbs further down the road,' she warned, recalling their previous experiences together. 'I don't think he's quite used to me yet. Not during the shift.' Or after, really. Wasn't his fault. Most Sentients found her primal form disconcerting, though only at the beginning. Fangs and wings, paws and claws; a beast in form if not nature. Susceptible to the same hungers. But able to differentiate between friend and foe, prey and pack.

Tucking the last of her garb into her bag, Xen secured the straps. Tested them. Once, twice.

The river's rush drowned out her footsteps as she walked down to its banks, bare as her nameday, giving herself space for what was to follow. Living amongst devahni for a handful of years had shown her that no two Deva were the same when it came to The Shifting. For some, it was a physical process, sometimes painful, ofttimes enjoyable. Like slipping into a warm bath. Or donning an outfit made to measure. Something comfortable. Natural.

For those like Xen, one need but close their eyes and stare at the Sun. The light that formed around her when she shifted was no less brilliant. Some might even consider it divine. A part of the mythos surrounding her people. Gods-chosen. Or devils ascended from the Hels. Foul Ashbloods. Filth. Dealer's choice.

Xen was beyond caring.
 
Imagine that — turns out banter only makes Xen more brussen. “And what if I did?” she cackles out, taking her sweet time slipping free of buckle and belt; delighting in the perceived abashedness on Osytha’s part. Badger’s frankly impressed. In this parky weather? Most folks would be rushing to get it over with before their bits freeze off, but not so her ribald companion there.

Well, Xen can’t say she wasn’t warned. If she’s that determined to put on a show for Osy’s benefit, seems more rude not to look.

“Then I suppose,” drawls the knight, relaxing forward in her seat as she turns her face full toward the other woman, “that would make me one lucky lass.”

Unlike the ovine peanut gallery, Osytha doesn’t make her appreciation known by voice. But it’s there, in the pleased expression upon her cocked head, which she rests with one cheek in the palm of her hand. And it’s there in the leisurely way her eyes glide over all the new sides of Xen she’s just now getting to see. Admiring how the cold morning light fades out rounding a shoulder’s smooth contours, compared to the sharp bridge of the clavicle beside it. Following the lazily flicks of her playful tail, and further up, to the sublime, inward tapering of hips and rear to her taut, well-honed waist. Osytha is briefly diverted along the more cerebral puzzle of how those ram’s horns are navigated around, before she’s distracted from that by Xen’s cute little nose again. And below it, those luscious, plum lips. For the first time, she lets herself wonder what it would be like to kiss Xen. Starting with her lips, yes — but hopefully not ending there.

“May want to take Forbs further down the road. I don’t think he’s quite used to me yet. Not during the shift.”​

“Hmm…?”

Osytha watches that mouth move, but the words almost pass her by entirely. In fact that little daydream had her so under its spell, she didn’t even notice what Xen’s hands have just begun unwinding. She’s almost lost all over again, this time in the slow-revealing shapes of Xenovia’s lilac chest…

A sigh rises from the knight. “Now who’s actin’ shy?” Nonetheless, her ankles nudge Forbs to move out a little ways more, though, she calls back over her shoulder as they go. “Then let’s pick this back up in Corndon, if you like. I can return the favour.”

Just as Xen’s performance was really getting somewhere, too. Shame. Osytha just has to hope there is some sincerity to the woman’s banter, because at least that means there’ll be more to look forward to at their next stop than passable rye beer. For now, though: time to focus on actually getting there.

She gives it another thirty yards, give or take. That provides Forbítter with a decent buffer so danger doesn’t seem like it’s already on top of him, and she’ll let him walk some agitation off in little circles, rather than fight him to keep still. Oddly enough — so long as he feels like he has the freedom to bolt if need be, Osytha can manage him. Because it’s when you make them feel trapped that an animal is liable to lose its mind.
 
The world shifts, opening up around her, like stepping through a door leading from one world to another. The new smells and sounds hit her almost immediately, the psychological shunt from beauty to beast both jarring and pleasant, as natural as breathing. That's all you have to do - breathe and ride the wave until you're whole again. A dozen heartbeats 'til the light dims, maybe fewer, and-

Wholeness. A sense of bone-deep calm, there, beside the river.

Xen feels the joy welling up inside her like a fire, roaring, whooshing, escaping her throat in a low rumble. Her blood sings as wings the colour of driven snow unfold, spreading to catch the wind coming up the valley. Four paws kneed the sodden ground beside the river's flow. She no longer feels the chill, or the weight of admiring eyes.

The sheep scatter up the hill towards false safety. Something within the devahni wishes to give chase but she reins it in. Her hunger is a sleeping monster yet to waken. She can almost imagine the taste of blood on her tongue and the feel of a body writhing beneath her claws. The image solicits another low rumble from her. The sheep hasten their retreat. Prey-shaped, yes, but not today-prey.

Turning, the big cat padded backs towards the road, scooping up her pack from where she had left it propped against the crumbling wall. The leather tasted good in her mouth. Loose enough to bite, like the skin of a cub. If she had to fight, she had her claws and tail, enough mass to fell a full-grown grox on the run.

Another memory. Blood on snow. Faces sat around a campfire. Laughing, joking. Feasting on grox flesh. Wanton stares...

Down the road, friend rode other friend in slow circles. The long limbed one wanted to run, wanted to show her how fast he was. Xenovia wanted to cut loose, too. The fire in her heart swelled as she drew level with the pair. A glance, up and to the side, firebug eyes blinking slow.

Run!
 
“There, lad — see? Nowt to fret over.” Osytha delicately guides Forbs’ head-shaking, snorting movements into an agitated walk back and forth across the road, while her soothing voice threads its magic through his flattened ears. “’S just a big, friendly cat. Big enough to take on a bear. And who can also fly. But friendly… I’m pretty sure.”

Probably not the most encouraging way she could have put it, but then, Forbs has always paid more attention to tone than actual content.

Thank goodness that Xen doesn’t come charging up; it’s a near thing keeping him under control even so, especially with that exultant, rumbling growl after she turned. But a warhorse that can’t keep it together against one measly monster isn’t much use to a Knight of Anathaeum, and Forbítter’s been trained for this since he was a colt, training which Osytha redoubled ever since she took him on. He takes his cues from what her feet and the balance of her weight are telling him, and although he doesn’t like it, holds position while their chimeric friend pads on over. He does a hell of a lot better than all those sheep, that’s for certain.

As for Xen… the badger feels like something’s different about her.

No, beyond just the giant felid body, and long protruding fangs, and a wingspan as big as a house. She seems to be acting a bit differently, too. Much more interested in those sheep for one thing, but, generally speaking? Osytha would say that her friend seems less… restrained.

Looking into those burnished-brass eyes, she can sense a kind of eagerness coming from the creature at her side. Not that she can tell exactly what it is Xen’s hoping for, but with spending as much time with beasts as she does, Osytha understands the body language well enough.

Seems like Xen wants to play? That would make sense, since the woman might not get much chance to embrace her primal form like this; definitely not in the cities, and even out rural like here, she’d have to be careful with it. Don’t want to be accused of eating anyone’s sheep, after all.

Osytha finds that terribly sad. Presumably, those wings aren’t just for show — imagine having all that but a breath away, even being able to fly… but also having to keep that part of yourself chained up for so much of your waking life.

She raises a brow back at Xen’s slow-blinking gaze. “Are you after summat?” she asks, hoping that Xen can at least still understand the words, even if she doesn’t seem able to speak any. “Reckon you can show me, Xen?”
 
The horned head tilts, understanding writ in the way she stretches, wings pulled tight against her body, as if fighting the wish to unfurl. The laden pack dangling from her jaws swings pendulum-like as she rises, bright-bug gaze drifting to the road, then back to Osytha. A smile, there, in the big cat's eyes.

Paws beat a steady rhythm against the earth as she draws ahead of rider and mount. Shoulders roll. Muscles sing in unison.

Even shifted, Xenovia can feel the power in her blood, the same power passed down through the generations, from one devahni to the next. Loping along, tail swishing, she gives in to the profound sense of longing that has plagued her these past months. In Crown's Hold, Akkelon, and Karzanth. Places designed to hold kith in rather than keep others out. Walls protected, but they also confined.

In the valley, there was nothing holding her back. No laws she need heed, lest the hand of justice fall upon her. The alders parted before them, the ash trees leaned aside. Wind gusted and calmed. Up on the slopes, the lone shepherd chased after his sheep, seeking the cause of their disquiet.

Xen could still smell the other rider's scent. More, something rotting down by the river.

Crossing the road, she leapt the moss-covered wall, momentum carrying her down to the waterline. Mud sluiced and sloshed. Tufts of wool snagged against roots protruding from the river bank. A carcass, long-dead. Not for eating.

Back to the road and Osytha. Knight. Friend. Not prey. Never that.

Woodsmoke, and the slap of sodden linens being hung out to dry. The Deva watched the hamlet from afar, having scaled the valley to get a better view of their surroundings. Noise reached her in drips and drabs. Up high, nature's breath was heavier, its scents less defined. On the opposite hill, a ring of limestone monoliths marked a site of worship, weathered, but not wholly forgotten.
 
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