Nighttime, Zoltan smells the soil and feels it under his hands. He hunts, not for food, not for sport… but just to feel life slowly ebbing away between his fingers, to taste the blood from a still warm body. He scuttles across the dirt, mindless of how it stains his feathers.
He'd gone a bit too far with that Jupani kid. Nobody would miss a Kavi, but the Jupani tended to be better connected. He might have even been the son of a guard. Best to just lay low for now. Hunting the creatures of the forest was almost as much fun as hunting new playmates in Darkside.
Still… why hadn't the stupid wolf just done as he was told? He'd figured that wolves were hardier than that… but maybe he just got a lucky shot in. It HAD been exhilarating though… more exhilarating than if the wolf had jumped down the sewer grate like the Vartan had told him to instead of trying to fight back.
Zoltan smirked to himself. Even after all that fighting, the Jupani had ended up in the sewer anyway… The cleaning crew would probably find his corpse after the rains. And he had nothing to worry about from witnesses. Everybody in Darkside feared the black terror; they knew what he'd do to them…
Soon his hunting bears fruit. A nest of Creens sleeping against each other for warmth can be heard in one of the treetops. Quietly, the Vartan sneaks under the tree… and then his hoof lands on a twig and snaps it. The Creens screech and leap to the skies!
Zoltan leaps after them, swiping at the birds with his talons. Several of them shriek as the sharp claws go slicking across their flesh, and two fall to the ground. Cackling, the hippogryph leaps at their still moving bodies and carries them off to his campsite. Tonight is going to be a very fun night. Zoltan idly wonders what a Creen would look like with no feathers, and how long would one live if he plucked them all out…
"I'm no good at this!" Zoltan grumbles, throwing the rag and gritty chitin beads to the floor.
Nicodemus sighs and remains in his chair. "That's because you don't understand patience. A shiny doesn't get shiny after two strokes of the cloth.You have to work at it."
The Vartan grumbles, kicking the rag away from him. "I've been trying to do that all morning!"
"If you count time off for your temper tantrums, your distractions, and your three trips to the sandbox, you have been working for exactly fifteen minutes. You have spent more time trying to Gooshurm our way out of work than actually working," the Cervani/Vartan answers in his soft gentle way.
Mollified, Zoltan takes up his cloth and his basket of beads. "It takes too long! This whole thing is stupid anyhow."
"Well if you like, you can stop… but then you'd better find someone else's back room to sleep in. I don't cater to dead-beats who won't work." Nicodemus keeps his tone level, merely stating a fact and not threatening in any way.
Sighing, the Vartan goes back to polishing. "This is boring."
"Work usually is. But when you're done, you have something to be proud of. Every time I see someone wearing one of my shinies I feel proud, and you should as well."
"Again!"
Zoltan sighs, feeling his throat grow hoarse. "This is the last time… "
"Yay!" The little jaguar cub squeals and buries herself in the cushions.
Zoltan clears his throat and begins to sing…
"Mother baked a pie and stuffed it full of bugs,"
"Full of beetles, grubs and hummer worms,"
"And even bright green slugs."
"Yet she had no one to eat her pie,"
"For the family thought it strange,"
"That it buzzed chattered and hissed so high,"
"And skittered 'cross mother's cooking range!"
"But then my daughter tried a bite,"
"And the relatives were aghast."
"But the little girl found much delight,"
"Upon this great repast."
"The bugs were nice and crunchy,"
"The grubs added just enough taste."
"Soon the whole family found it munchy,"
"And none of it went to waste."
"Again!" the cub squeals.
Zoltan groans. "Let me get a drink of water first… "
The Vartan reclines on his bed, staring up at an amber sky. It is a deep, dark amber, punctuated by points of brighter gold. One of the points seems more bright than any of the stars, though, and it is rimmed by a faintly luminescent ring.
Zoltan looks at the ringed spark of light and sighs. He thinks about his children back home and wonders how they're doing. He thinks about Third-Vision and wonders if she has gone ahead and made the arrangements he had asked of her in case he had died, and he thinks about his father outside in the pit. He wonders if there is a way home at all, and wonders if he'll ever see it as anything more than a speck of light in the sky. His room feels very very small all of the sudden as he thinks about how long it would probably take to fly the distance on his own wings.
The Vartan's point of view seems to alter slightly, as he gazes up at the amber dome. It seems as if he's lifting upward, closer to the golden stars … or, more particularly, toward the golden sphere and its glittering ring. Another sphere flies past first … one which orbits the place where the Vartan was laying just a moment ago. He is flying through a reality fashioned of gold and darkness, and as he comes closer to the ringed sphere, he can see a dark spot on its surface that floats into view every once in a while, as the orb rotates.
( Well, maybe not as long a trip as I'd thought… ) he thinks to himself. He narrows his eyes at the orb and studies it. The dark spot must be the Abaddon Cliffs… "But is there a way BACK?" he scrawks at the planet, glancing over his shoulder at where he came from.
Abaddon seems so far away now. Just another one of the stars. But as the Vartan glances back, there is a flash of gold that fills his vision for an instant, then fades away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a thread of light reaching up from the surface of Sinai, stretching out to a point that orbits the globe.
After some attempt at placing its origin – assuming that the dark spot is indeed the Red Cliffs, and perhaps if some of those other varied spots might be Forbidden Zones – it would appear that this thread of light is stretching upward from the City of Hands. But to what? Whatever it reaches for, it is something far smaller than Sinai, and from Zoltan's perspective, it's something too small to see.
Feathers bristling a bit, Zoltan reaches out and tries to touch the thread of light with his hands and follow it, the same way one would follow a thread of string through a maze.
There's a fleeting sensation of almost touching the thread … and then it vanishes … but another one comes into view. This one stretches up from almost the same place … but reaches right for Zoltan. Golden hands form before the Vartan's eyes, as the stars and spheres fade away … but no signs can be discerned, and this image fades as well. Instead, it all resolves itself into the interior of a chamber, as viewed through an amber lens, from the perspective of a reclining Vartan on a bed.
Zoltan blinks and sits upwards. He reaches for the amber mask on his head and then seems to reconsider. He reaches out and pinches the skin on his arm to see if he's awake or not.
It feels like a talon pinching very real hippogryph flesh. Ouch.
Wincing, Zoltan pulls the mask from his head and rolls over to the side of his bed to pack it away. He looks at the window to try and determine what time of day it is. Hopefully he's not late for breakfast.
It's dawn. The Knights here are early risers, so chances are he may get there in the nick of time for something to stuff his face with.
The Vartan stretches a bit. His healing muscles have protested less and less over the past few days, making the mornings less of an agony. He washes up a bit, changes into some clean clothes and heads out into the larger portion of the Citadel. ( Two threads I saw… Could it have been Third-Vision's scryers watching me? Perhaps the other was looking for Herbir… )
Monks and warriors eat nearly tasteless mush, and more palatable berry juice – a precious commodity only recently made available thanks to the proximity of the Citadel to the Pit of Himar. A masked Savanite seeks out the Vartan, the sigils on his armor identifying him as "Born-in-Shame". He gives a solemn head-bow, but makes no other signs of greeting or well-wishes or other morning banter. He only deliberately glances in the direction of a second black Vartan seated at one of the tables, looking very bristly and hunched-down over his bowl of breakfast.
Zoltan feels the lump in his stomach form that seems to show up every time he hears or sees his father. He returns the bow and nods his head ever so slightly, and then quietly takes a seat at the table near the elder Vartan. He says nothing for the moment, just mechanically going through the morning routine and waiting for his father to speak.
Herbir reluctantly swallows the last of his meal, and then picks up his cup of juice – which looks like it has been untouched up to this point, saved for the purpose of washing the nearly tasteless paste down his gullet. Herbir wipes his beak several more times than really necessary, then turns his eyes to regard Zoltan before he turns his head. "Morning." He leaves out any word to describe just what sort of morning it might be.
"Morning," Zoltan responds, swirling his spoon around in his bowl. He doesn't feel particularly hungry anymore, but mechanically eats his breakfast just to keep his hands occupied. "I'm beginning to see why Enos seems to prefer smearing his breakfast on the furniture and his fur instead of eating it now. It seems to have more personality that way." He chuckles softly, more from remembering how his son looked splattered in mush and wearing a big happy grin than the mirth of his comment.
Herbir looks at the empty bowl, but glances sideways to Zoltan. "Enos. Ironic choice of name. After all, he can't fly, can he?"
"I never really thought much about it… but no, he can't." Zoltan takes a sip from his glass. "At least, not with wings. He's still learning to talk, but he's the top of his class with art. Maybe someday he'll design great airships and fly that way, or he'll sculpt shinies for the shoppe and they'll fly on the tails of all the customers."
Herbir nods in such a way as to make it questionable whether he's really listening. After a pause, he says, "So, who raises the … cubs?"
"I try as much as I can… but I travel a great deal, probably more than I should." Zoltan makes a face at a brownish lump in his mush and pushes it away from the larger mass with his spoon. "They go to Temple Scout School during the day, and Nicodemus and Red help as well. Red was a refugee from Himar who came to Rephidim. He was poisoned by the Plaguebringers and can't fly anymore. The cubs adore him… " A grin crosses the Vartan's beak. "He's finally stopped jumping everytime Pouncer brings in a new bug for her collection."
"Glad to hear you've got help. It's hard to fly that far solo," Herbir scrawks quietly.
Zoltan doesn't respond, adding yet another long uncomfortable moment to the morning. Finally he says softly, almost in the tone of a child asking for a new toy or for a favor they don't deserve, "May I… ask you something?"
"Sure," scrawks Herbir. "It doesn't mean I'll answer the way you like, though."
The younger Vartan nods his head. "When you left Rephidim, after what happened with the Inquisitor … Do you know who the people you killed were in the service of? You… mentioned a 'friend' in your journal, and there's only one person I know of who goes by that name."
Herbir takes a sip from his empty cup, then furrows his brow in annoyance at the realization of the futility of his reflexive gesture. He sets the cup back down, then says, "At first I was naive. Then I thought I was wise to the world. I 'cleverly' veiled my words in my journal, thinking I could say what was on my mind without the danger of someone reading it and knowing what I really meant. These criminals were there to do business with Heringis. I only assumed they worked for a … FRIEND. Might not have. Doesn't really matter now."
Zoltan pours sone of the contents of his own cup into his father's. "This is the hardest question for me to ask… and you can tell me to shut up and I'll never ask you again if it's what you want… but… " he swallows. "What was mother like?"
Herbir turns away from Zoltan, and bites the rim of the cup he picks up. After a pause, he says, unevenly, "She was good and kind. There was nothing terribly special about her. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't fast. She wasn't strong. In fact, she was fairly weak and frail. She got sick easily. I should have known … " He shakes his head, then says, "But she loved me. And she's the only one I ever really, truly cared for." He dares a glance sideways at Zoltan. "I tried to raise you, but any love I showed you was for her sake. I never really loved you." He doesn't say this matter-of-factly, but in a quiet tone that makes it almost impossible to hear, in a voice that threatens to die with each syllable, his beak heavy with each sound.
"It… " The younger Vartan closes his eyes tightly and squeezes his cup in his hands. The lump in his stomach has grown considerably. "It was still love. I'm not bitter about it anymore… I wasn't exactly a model son to you." He reaches out and strokes the metal bands on his wrists. "These saved my life once. I was attacked by a Kavi with a poison knife about a year ago, and by some miracle it struck the metal bands you gave me instead of my wrist. They'd have killed me, the children, Nicodemus… everyone." His last few words sound a bit half-hearted, someone bringing up talk about the weather during a funeral.
"Glad you like them," says the elder Vartan. "They look better on you than me."
A smile starts to form across Zoltan's face again. "There's one other question… This is the one that puzzles me the most."
"Go ahead," says Herbir, though not with the least bit of enthusiasm. No surprise.
"You HAVE to tell me what posessed you to work for a noisy, yappy, pompus, and spoiled little poodle like Kazhir!" Zoltan shakes his head, grinning. "Three days with him, and I Dagh near strangled him!"
Herbir smirks. "He had lots of shinies."
Zoltan chuckles. "I fell for that too. In a way it's what started me on all this trouble. I took some guard work for an expedition to the Savan from a poodle named Titus haut Mikide. I think the mind mage fried his brain… but after that the past years have been very interesting." He pauses to fish a crystal out of his tail, the one he picked up outside the strange crystal tower in the Himaat. Carefully he holds it up. "Does this look familiar to you?"
"Ha!" says Herbir, looking quite interested. "I used to have several of those!" He furrows his brow, simmering suddenly. "As many as there are rock needles in the Pit of Himar."
"I think these might be some key as to how we can get back, or maybe why the boomer decided to transport you all here instead of just destroy everything." Zoltan places the crystal on the table and finishes off the porridge in his bowl. "I found this crystal in the structure I used to travel to here, but when it sent me here I found I couldn't push my way back through the door. I'm hoping that the rock needles might be a hint as to what can be done to get back home… Dagh if I know what it is though beyond the insanity of dropping a boomer on our heads."
"You got here through a crystal structure?" scrawks Herbir. "You mean that TOWER brought you here? Dagh. I could have come here, loaded up on all the metal I could carry … " He shakes his head. "… and then gotten stuck here, I guess. You don't know how to use that thing to get back, eh?"
Zoltan shrugs a little. "I was sort of hoping it just needed time to recharge before sending someone through… but considering how many people that are here that want to go home, that might take quite a while. I've been trying to get answers other ways… but there's not much to work with." He wipes a bit of smeared food from his beak. "I'm stubborn. I'll find a way. The Champion that guided me to here warned me of a journey I wanted to take that I wouldn't have ever come back from. If this trip was one-way as well I would think he would have dissuaded me from it as well."
"Let's hope," says Herbir. "Sorry, but I don't trust any champions as much as you do."
"I don't begrudge you your trusts and distrusts. If I were as wary as you, I probably wouldn't have gotten into half the fights I have." Zoltan taps the tabletop with a finger. "Speaking of which… have you considered my offer for Paradys anymore?"
Herbir shrugs. "If you can find a way back to Sinai, I wouldn't mind coming along. As for just where I'll stay … I reserve the right to make my mind when I feel like it, and change my mind when I please."
"I'm not your father," Zoltan says, smirking dryly. "I just think that the Paradysians would trust you, not because you're my father, but because you look like Shokar." He drains the remnants of his juice. "Of course, having someone there who'll be suspiscious of every airship that comes near would come in handy. Hrr… there're secrets there that I don't even want the Temple to know about if I can help it."
Herbir scrawks, "I'll think about it. I wouldn't mind seeing it, in any case. Frankly, I won't really believe it until I see it."
"Of course," the younger Vartan scrawks. "Would you be willing to come to Rephidim as well? Pouncer… um… wants to show you her bug collection."
Herbir makes a weak smirk. "Yes. I could do that." He frowns. "Just as long as you don't expect me to stay. Rephidim isn't my favorite place to be."
"There are reasons why I'd want you to stay… but no, I know why you wouldn't want to be in Rephidim for very long." Zoltan scratches at a spot on the tabletop. "You… you've traveled a great deal. Have you ever heard anything about Aeztepa in your travels?"
"Yes," says Herbir. "Biggest Forbidden Zone on Sinai. Biggest 'Don't Go Here Or Else' you'll find. And biggest source of hokum and ghost stories you'll ever find, either." Herbir smirks.
"Have you ever met anyone who ever claimed to have gone there?" Zoltan scrawks. "Or does the name 'Necropolis' ring a bell? I… um… it's a long story why I'm asking, you've just traveled quite a bit and might know something I don't."
Herbir shakes his head. "Matter of fact, I've never met anyone who claimed to come from there. Wouldn't be surprised if anyone might claim that sometime. Hard to go there and disprove him, after all. And … Necropolis? Maybe something like that, but I'm not up on that sort of thing. I'm not much into legends … unless they involve shinies."
Zoltan nods his head. "Just wondering. I've had dealings with a spirit from there back home. I even studied up on fighting ghosts just in case she decided to come after my family. I've… um… made my share of enemies as well." He shakes his head. "I've been asking you so many questions. Is there anything you want to ask me?"
Herbir pauses, staring into space, then shakes his head. "Honestly? No. I'll think of some good ones, eventually. As soon as I'm certain that I'm back in the real world again."
The younger Vartan pushes his dishes away. "Well then, I have one more question: Are you any good with a sword? I've been stuck in bed for too Dagh long and I think I'd like someone to do some sparring practice with… if you're interested."
"I'm only mediocre with a sword. I'm a dead shot with a crossbow, though," says Herbir.
Zoltan whistles appreciatively. "Perhaps some target practice then? I'd like to see this… "
Herbir smirks. "All right." He gets up. "Might as well show you the cabin. What's left of it… "
The younger Vartan puts his dishes away and brushes himself off. "Sure. I can finally see the rest of that rug you had… "
