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Pava

Roc of Rangan
Weaver
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Winter stormed in grays and white far above the Mheara. In drifts of snow turned rain and sleet, in gales of wind that thundered across the open vales and valleys below, the month called Miersoldat made itself manifest.

The one called Pava held himself above the clouds, languid as he traversed this open expanse of sky. The snow emboldened his flight when he saw fit to dive low enough for it to touch him. Frost misted his eyes, crooked his talons shut to brace against it, and yet it served to excite him. This pain, this sensation was altogether new. When he closed his eyes, he could feel his hearts thrumming in agony, trebling at the cages of his rib.

Exhilarating.

This, he assumed, was a newfound fear. A craven avoidance of what those lowlanders called death. It coursed through him, demanded he falter in his flight, and so he acquiesced, allowed himself be governed by fear. Minutes dragged as he circled lower into the clouds, pelted by sleet, moisture suffusing every inch of his being. The sun vanished from view in his descent, eclipsed by the shadow of the Mheara.

He pressed on, diving full tilt into the treeline, shaking ice from his wings. His talons gripped hard the branch of an ambling pine, jolted him to sudden still, and a noise belted deep from his throat. Laughter? It bore some resemblance to that, yes.

The one called Pava let himself slip from the tree, a final approach to the ground below. He landed in a bank of snow that reached all the way to his chest. There he shifted.

Feather sunk into hide, morphed around crest to a veneer of hair that glistened wet even in the unlight. His chest regressed into a cylindrical shape, a passing resemblance to some human design. His talons became boots, leather things that padded hard at touch of the ground. He wobbled there, took several foundling breaths. He tied a cloth around his eyes. Humans, he found, were often scared of those. He had yet to factor that into his shifting. The skin was still new to him, loose.

Reverberations told him of nearby people. A camp, noted by the smell of wet burning wood and the aroma of food and garlic and nettle tea that warded off the lesser of nightly predators; the waft of conversation served to keep the larger ones at bay.

The one called Pava crooked something akin to a smile.

"Hello," he said, the croon of his voice cast loud and unassuming, "fellow travelers, are you? I am lost."

Slowly, allowing himself to make noise as he cracked branches underfoot, he separated the snow-covered foliage and approached the camp.

He adjusted his monotone: "It is cold. Might I join you by your fire?"
 
Snow carried mixed blessings. Where it helped stay leeward, it made sure to charge in wet fur and trembling claws. Well, the claws weren't a new thing. Shiver had long since crept into the paw – so, in a way, Ashe was blessed with some level of cold resistance. They couldn't make you shiver with cold when that was already what parts of you did. But he did like it more than he'd admit. Because it made others shiver too. In the end, weakness was weakness, regardless of the packaging. Some of it was advisable, else the prey would always run – too much, and the band would start getting ideas. He didn't like people with ideas.

Bunched up by the fire, with herb and garlic in the air and all their weapons put away, one could easily mistake the eight of them for caravan guards. And people often had. Because good predators knew not to fight every fight – only the ones worth bleeding for. Every flavor of rough took work with guarding the wagons from their equally nasty cousins. Honestly, they were caravan guards. If you paid enough, you passed through unscathed...long as you didn't get too mouthy. People liked to pretend it was an arrangement open to interpretation. That would be a mistake.

„And then I held it real tight and all went smush...“ Gal explained in great detail his view of the latest encounter. Sounded almost like he manhandled a boiled egg as his giant orkfingers slowly closed around nothing between them. He still enjoyed what they did too much. But age would cure that. Hopefully. The alternative wasn't as pleasant.

Further aside, Mirth cooed a single time. No one shifted quickly, but they all looked at each other. Once was for someone approaching. Coos growing in number with the threat. Everyone waited a tense moment for the sound to repeat, but it never came.

That's when the traveler announced himself. A blind man? Only fools assumed weakness before knowing better. Little snakes could bite just as bad as the big ones.

„It is cold.“ Ashe slowly gestured with his trembling right. Weapons and bad intentions being put away in equal measure.

„Sit down, stranger. Tell us of your travels.“

His small eyes made themselves even smaller. There were animals who could find you by scent or sound...and he'd personally witnessed shroudfiends who could see without eyes. A man could never be too ready.

„Gal, make room.“ The lounging orkin moved to sitting without protest, opening a space that could easily house two more sitting spots.

„Are you hungry?“
 
It occurred that these creatures often carried belongings with them. Packs and pans, food, weapons, blankets, furs, an endless array of pocket-sized goods. Coins, perhaps, or some manner of toys that demanded space in pockets and purse. He made note of each, head craned in curiosity as he followed the voices.

"You are very kind to offer your food," the one called Pava said, voice slow in mirrored caution. When he moved, he did so with a measured hesitancy, sidling up by the fire in an ambling fashion. He fell into a crouch there, perched altogether too birdlike on ankles as he peered sightlessly into the cackling embers; he followed the sounds intuitively, loosing breath after misty breath into hands pale from the chill. In this he required no help, construing a show of seeking warmth.

He even shivered. A fresh experience for the one called Pava. Few were the memories permitted to him in that great sleep he remembered from the Rangan Peaks. The very shape of him felt strange, driven by directive rather than any resonant purpose. It felt worthy of reflection, if not something to dwell on in immediacy.

"I am called Pava. I have traveled far, if not long," he said, "and lost what food I brought with me in the coming. It embarrasses me to admit, but in my inadequacy I did not properly plan for the weather. I am hungry."

His tongue worked around the words, stretching uncomfortably at first but gathering confidence in tone as he continued. He managed to add inflection by the end.

"There is a town called Mhearshawl. It should be in the eastern valley, yet no matter how I searched I could not find tell of it. Do you know it?"
 
So it was true. The stranger could see – it certainly would explain not getting killed, lost or falling to an actual accident. Proof came in how easily the creature made its way to the emptied spot. That wasn't how the blind moved. And people...didn't sit like that. Did this mean the creature was a fiend? Knowledge kept made you a predator, but morsels freely given – that was prey behavior. So he didn't make a thing of it, but he could see the wrongness and the confusion on the faces of his band. Perhaps they'd know enough not to talk first. If they didn't, he was something of an educator. But that was for later, when the guests left.

Blindness surely made you a onestake. But seeing without eyes? Approaching strangers casually? That upped your count. Or made you insane...which, funnily enough, often also upped your count. Mad ones were usually more trouble to deal with than they were worth. Even the creature's, Pava's, shiver felt out of place. Ashe was something of an expert on the subject. It spoke like a learned thing. There were creatures like that – bookminded, bookworded. Some were soft like the pages, others tough as the binding. He wondered which way this one would sway.

The question about the town had caught Ashe offguard. Because they'd passed close not long ago. In their own fashion, they'd made sure a caravan reached said place safely. It was a job well done – no blood shed or weapons drawn – just a couple polite words exchanged with those in charge. And they both left without getting poorer in blood or coin. Those deals were his favorites, especially as he got older and his band got smaller. Because blood upon the snow was bad for business. Everyone forgot the price paid when the snows melted, and then you had to prove a point again come next winter. Violence was much like a map – markers were only valuable when they knew how to stick around.

„Sure, we have an idea where Shawl is.“ So many Mhearsomethings in these mountains that they usually simply dropped that part of the name. He heard people in the Empire did the same with Vapnas, and it made sense. If you had a company with many Bobs, you definitely weren't calling them all Bob. Confusion got people killed. „Might need to wait out the snow a bit so we don't all get turned around.“

„Eat, eat.“ He encouraged as Arev got the nod to pass a bowl. They probably didn't need to stew their food here, as the cold let it keep longer – but some habits were hard to break.

„So...what's your business there?“

„I'm Arev“ the youth's offer made Ashe bare a bit of fang, but he didn't dwell on it. Some pups were just eager.
 
"Thank you, Arev," the one called Pava said, a hollow warmth in tone. He cupped his hands around the bottom of the bowl and peered into its contents behind the cloth, smelling it more than soaking in any visual stimuli. Chunks of meat and vegetable and starch cut through a veil of fat and froth, formless at first but for the colors differentiating them.

He drank from the bowl, catching bits of meat in his teeth and chewing between swallows of broth. The heat of it invigorated him. Suffused a throat unused to the turbulence of speech. His breath misted out of his nose in the following moments, satisfaction having slaked his hunger.

The demeanors surrounding him piqued caution, curiosity in equal measure, but they had allowed his approach; offered him food and warmth and answers to his questions. He wondered at repaying that courtesy. He could answer them in kind, freely without guile nor guise.

"I am tasked with delivering a message to the mayor, one I fear they will not enjoy hearing. A delay might prove... fortuitous."

He paused, voiced hitching on hesitancy. The idiosyncrasies of speech differed from his assumptions. He adjusted to what he heard;

"The folk of, Shawl, are they docile? My master told me only to go, not what to expect."
 
Arev's mouth was half open to more pleasantries, but in truth, he was afraid of Ashe. And the badger looked none too happy he'd gotten so chatty. So he nodded enthusiastically, but spoke no more of it.

Ashe looked at the stranger, amused, before pulling out two pickleberries – a ripe red one, and a green one. „Should try this too... red ones give it a nice buzz.“ And kept his paw outstretched between them, just shy of the flame.

Messengers were numerous in these mountains, as were people like them who made sure information flowed to more proper channels. So much could be gained by knowing where the nobility buried their secrets or which cunt meant to stab which weasel.

„Docile?“ That wasn't a normal way to speak. Ashe couldn't figure it out.

„Real calmlike.“ Gal offered.

„Like...cows?“

„Sure – cowlike.“

That made sense to the badger. He wished Mirth wasn't on guard duty, she was better at the talky bits. But it was important everyone stuck to their schedule – that way even when things went wrong, everyone would know what to do.

„And...why does your master care if Shawlings are cowlike?“

Wasn't sure how to evaluate the foreigner – other than foreign. There was something obviously strange in the way it talked. Perhaps this just wasn't its native tongue, but the hairs on the back of Ashe's neck suggested otherwise.
 
The one called Pava frowned. He aroused their suspicions, a flaw within his mimicry. Perhaps more than his eyes were ill-affected by the shifting. A deeper scrutiny of the badger made him wonder if his true visage would better disarm them, but he dismissed the notion. Revealing himself now in the absence of preamble served only to frighten, to alight the already smoldering embers of hesitation.

Instead, he gingerly plucked the pickleberries from the badger's hand and popped them into his mouth. They prickled against his tongue, shivering down his throat after a single, meaty bite. The juices ruptured, dribbling over lips and chin, and he started back in a fright of his own. With a measure of haste, he brushed the back of a hand over his face, smearing the juices but managing to clean some of them off.

His eyebrows arched above the cloth binding his eyes before he murmured a thanks and settled again into his crouch. Another misstep, he was sure. One he sought to obfuscate behind a veneer of conversation.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he drawled out the words; "My master does not care what the, Shawlings, are like. That is a concern of mine, the Pava who will be at the mercy of their temperament."

An ear twitched. He corrected himself.

"Only I have to meet with the Shawlings's mayor. I asked after my own curiosity, not daring to presume my master's disposition. It is not Pava's place."
 
Every pack had a top dog, but Ashe was yet to nail down the head of this particular snake. Whoever it was, Pava was submissive enough to correct himself where no one else of note could hear him. Must be some name to command such respect. Ashe had made his bread by knowing which names should be avoided. Over twenty years of trial and error perfected the approach.

And yet...

„Shawlings, you see...“ Or at least some of them. „Pay us for protection.“ Which is why the town had not had a bad harvest, accidental fire, or a random stabbing happen for well over two years now.

„So...it is my thought, that we should discuss this business of your master's.“ Whoever employed blind men that could see surely was a colorful character. „As well as his name.“

Clapped twice to signal peace to his troops, whistled so Mirth would know things were going well without abandoning her post.

„Might be we become friends.“ A smile did feel right on his face, but he teeth were teeth – how wrong could you get it? „Could even offer you an escort down to Shawl once the snow lets up...“
 
That edge of panic slipped from Pava's features. Each hard plane of his topography softened, brows unfurling in a placid veil to mask surprise. That phrase, pay for protection, it rung close to the tribute his master sought. Perhaps he had no need to visit these Shawlings directly. A liaison, a go-between...

His shoulder blades retracted in a long, relaxed shrug as he shifted in his crouch to face the voice of as of yet unidentified speaker. Contemplation brokered on hesitation between them as the one called Pava considered carefully his words. It stretched, dragged along the pursing of a lip until finally he spoke, tone carrying a touch of resonance previously absent;

"Rangan," he said, "the King of Beasts." Confidence sung within him.

"By treaty ancient and binding to the very souls of Kurun, He has sent this Pava to remind the folk in the shadows of His pass of the promised tribute. Long has He slumbered, merciful is His favor."

He cracked a toothy smile.

"Would you pay in place of the Shawlings, or perhaps is it from my master that they seek protecting?"
 
Rangan? Sounded familiar...in and old sort of way. There was the pass. And there was that lullaby that made little badgers mind their steps and guard their burrows with care. That if you fought too much, or stole, or misbehaved – a great shadow would descend upon you and all your worries would end. Quite badly, if he remembered. He wished Mirth was around, the rest were too young to remember such nonsense. But every story started with a truth, twisted enough times. Ashe wondered how much had been twisted here.

It was a childish notion that you got to be the biggest fish in your pond. Always another shadow, always another jaw. He evaluated the blind Pavathing carefully, trying to count the stakes it would take. Hard to tell with unnatural things. It saw when it shouldn't. Didn't freeze as those lost should. Didn't fear roadside brigands as was reasonable. Was that power....or stupidity?

„I don't think you'll find many kings here, Pava.“ Ashe flicked some of his own stew towards the stranger, wondering if it could sense the thing coming.

„Just beasts...“ Gal chuckled. The others looked to Ashe, checking if it was funny.

The old badger laughed without rhythm.

„Perhaps your master would pay us more to gather said tribute?“ He offered.

But there was no world where he and his would bend to a fable of the mountains. All badgers had to grow up. Whatever it was Pava feared, people had room for more than a single fear in their minds.
 
"Just beasts," came the echoing trill of chirping laughter. It crackled from the one called Pava's throat.

"A joke, yes?" he said. Laughter, he surmised, followed jokes after all. Perhaps he was beginning to understand mortal speech.

Abrupt, his demeanor shifted. Mirth was stifled, silenced crooned in the hollows of his throat. He considered the offer. Nodded. Rose from his peculiar crouch.

"Yes. My master has no use for coin. This Pava, as emissary, can promise: bring such tribute as livestock, no more than one tenth of the Shawling's possession, to where the shadow of the Rangan Peaks rests in the evening sun over the village. There you will be met with coin and gem and may fill your coffers free."

Resonance filled his tone, a voice beneath his voice chanting rhythmic incantation. He lifted careful hands to the strip of cloth binding his eyes.

"These are the terms that bind us, beast to man. Do you accept?"
 
The creature's strange manners reminded Ashe of the mountain clans. Where everyone was at least partially related. Shut off from the world, like adult babies relearning behaviors on exposure. Perhaps that's what this was. Another cult of something or other – a bunch of rock humpers and thumpers too bored to have a more interesting leader.

„An agreement is still...“ He looked to the yet unwrapped eyes. Doubted whatever he'd see there would change his mind. Might make for a good story, though. „...Pending.“

And yet.

„But what would....this Pava do if the Shawlings offered us even more.“ Ashe wondered if his stakes could be sharper or more numerous. A man never could have enough. „They are simple people and fear Pavas and Rangans. Fear shadows and rumors...“

„And accidents...“ Gal offered with a grin that shrunk under scrutiny. Was getting bolder, that one. Wouldn't be long now.

„Shawlings have been our...clients awhile now. Why abandon a sure thing for a mountaintop fable?“

He could almost recall a tune you'd hum to yourself, avoiding the words on purpose. Because if you used its name, it'd know and it'd find you.
 
The one called Pava paused in the act of removing his eye covering. The corners of his mouth twitched in resemblance of a frown, and he stewed on those words. Waited. Considered.

His knowledge of these kin’s sensibilities was lacking still. Perhaps he gauged their reaction too favorable, too friendly. Perhaps he spoke too freely, or perhaps not freely enough. That uncertainty rattled him.

He rapped a nail against his temple.

“Then,” he said with a slow drawl, feeling out the words, “you choose to aid the Shawlings? I admit, your words confuse Pava.

“You spurn my master’s favor for want of what? Fear? Fear is good,” he said, nodding along. “Expected. All should fear the king of beasts. But, do my ears deceive me, you would make enemy of Pava, of my master, out of this fear?”
 
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