DAWN WAKES – pg. 30

She wakes at first light. The prior day’s pleasantries warm her before cluttering worry of potential portents clouds her sunny mood. She pushes these aside with practiced grace, choosing instead to focus on wondrous possibility.

Dawn rises as Twilight rests. She peers over her shoulder, smiling proudly at her love. He had an exceptionally busy day she thinks, it’s best to let him rest. She draws gossamer curtains to a close, kisses his forehead and prepares for her morning.

Sorting through myriad silks, fine fluffy weaves of brightly colored birch, and softened velum fabrics that still hold scents of deep cherry – Caeli is left with a very important decision.

Yesterday she chose to wear the brilliant red dress, embroidered with sevechant charms and pale pink threading, draped in a translucent shawl of radiant scarlet. She adores that dress, Val had gifted it to her many years ago now. Eight years, she thinks, maybe nine. She reserves it for special occasions and is grateful that on such an auspicious day as her chosen family had, she was dressed her best.

Today, Caeli is deciding she wants to set expectations with her selected drapery once again. Touching her Lantheriel pendant lightly, she focuses on the section of her collection dedicated to attempts toward anonymity. Being at the side of her moon is a joy she wouldn’t trade for anything, but she admittedly does not thrive in collective admiration as well as her partner. Today, she would like to blend in, as much as a beam of sunlight can amongst the Isles.

Wrapping herself deftly in a pale yellow gown, dappled with hand-sewn silvery filigree of her own creation, she quietly admires the progressing length of her hair. She most often wears it in a loose bun, frolicsome strands still always escaping; today she decides to let it down.

The sunkissed, luminous and luxuriant cascade of lantern-pale strands fall gracefully from crown to knee. Caelianne sets down her prized set of sap-sung pins and dedicates the day wholly to restfulness.

She washes her pale complexion with saponin infused ash-lather, inspecting for blemishes – she finds none. Gently navigating the florid tracery of her countenance’s Chromaire – many planar gems of translucent blues, and burnished golds – artfully curving as if naturally painted, she is momentarily lost in thought, missing her now long-gone mother and father. Her noble mother ending, no not ending she reconsiders, creating a new house with a humble but deeply talented Fleurvicienne. Caelianne is a portrait of her mother, but a soul continuation of her father’s exemplary compassion. She does also have his eyes she reminds herself….

Learn what Caeli discovers on this day

RISE, KVEIDON – pg. 208

Winter’s chill bites into young Rtkos, its embittered embrace emphasized by whipping blizzard-winds. Posted affront the Wrought-Gate, he is gladdened his watch will soon cycle to another. As his hour’s vigil is ending, he turns toward the great slab to return inside for warmth, and to drag the next ordered warrior outside. Their Kveidon deems it necessary to post Vardyn outside, even in the most furious frost, to ensure rapid response times. Rtkos thinks there must be better ways. He idly considers it a practice of hardening warriors. A show of awareness, in truth a test of will.

Moving to knock on the giant gate, he hears desperate panting and tiny footsteps coming up the slope. His hand holds before knocking. He peers into the storm-darkened night to find the source. Emerging from shadow is a boyish frame, seemingly fleeing.

Rtkos senses fire heat through his cold frame. Something is wrong.

“Vardyn! Vardyn!” The little Eldvyn shouts through rasping breaths. Shivering as he pleads, he clings onto Rtkos’ waist for both fear and cold. “Dr—Drav—Dravnarkh!”

‘Thud…. Thud-Thud…. Thud’

Rtkos wastes no time, picking the little one up, he pounds on gate again.

‘THUD…. THUD-THUD…. THUD’

Wrought-Gate peels open slowly through ice-laden mechanisms. Rtkos hurries the boy inside, hands him to nearest elder, and seeks his leader.

“Kveidon! Kveidon!” He grabs the nearest Vardyn he could find. “Where is the Kveidon?”

“I don’t know Rtkos. What’s the matter?”

Rtkos’ piercing, murderous gaze answers for him. Dravnarkh.

“Get the Kveidon. NOW!” He shouts to all that will listen.

In short moments Kveidon Berundaar arrives with five of his most-trusted Vardyn flanking him.

“What is it?”

Rtkos shouts with urgency. “Dravnarkh. Easterly!”

With a nod, gate is lifted again. Berundaar and his warriors sally out.

Rtkos makes to follow, deeming their number too few, but is pushed back. “Stay, Rtkos, we will handle this.” Kveidon turns to the eldest Vardyn near. “Vorhund, prepare another party! Mine will secure entry immediately. Await my order here.”

The gate is shut, and long moments pass as both Rtkos and Vorhund pace nervously. Their Kveidon is strong, and his honored guard also – none would question their ability – but six? This borders on foolish.

‘Thud…. Thud-Thud…. Thud’

The pounding brings relief to warriors left waiting. Perhaps the beast is already slain.

As Wrought-Gate rises again, straining against frost continuously forming, a sorrowful but ordered train of Easterlings is revealed. They solemnly make way inside as Kveidon and his closest warriors guide them.

The villagers’ faces tell the tale. A beast ate well.

Rtkos attempts to shout outward against the winds. “Is it slain? Did you find the monster?”

A lack of answer proves his voice carried away. He decides to ask the leading villagers.

“You!” A young woman turns toward him. “Where is the beast? Has it been slain?”

“No, Vardyn. They could not find it.” Her tearful eyes reveal the loss she just moments ago experienced. Rtkos thanks her and offers his condolences.

Luckily for the heart-broken villagers, Rtkos’ hearth-bond, Baira, has woken from first-rest early to attend to whatever the fuss is. Moving into compassion as she instinctively does, she leads an ancestral prayer for those with grief-stricken eyes.

As merely a quarter of the evacuees are safely inside, Vorhund nudges Rtkos.

“Why—Why are they forming a line?” The old Vardyn’s worried face speaks with volumes of battle-knowledge. This is not right. Rtkos makes to charge out and join them, but looks to the gathering young and old, unable to defend themselves newly behind the walls. Each Vardyn present has been ordered to wait here with them.

Barely making out his Kveidon’s party at distance, through sheeting snow, he squints trying to make out what is happening.

He leans forward, face passing threshold of gate, as geysers of gore shoot into the gloom. The line is shattered nigh-immediately. A terror-beast of immense weight careens through Kveidon’s men. One already fallen, his body arcing toward the earth in a crunching plummet, the Easterlings scatter, screaming. Many sprint inside, but there is not enough time.

Two. Three of the Vardyn protecting them are torn apart in rapid succession. Kveidon Berundaar, his form hardly discernible in the mess of snow and blood whirling viciously in the air, is pierced by talon and thrown into cliff-face with a last defiant shout – cut short by bone-snapping finality.

The last guardian standing turns to run, straight back to the Wrought-Gate where so many innocents tremble. ‘Fuggin coward’ Rtkos thinks. The beast runs the last down, knocks him off his feet, and pounds his skull into far-spread fragments with two trouncing motions.

Easterlings still desperately running for the gate, Vorhund shares panicked gazes with the Vardyn at lever.

The old Vardyn looks to the many depending on him behind him, and the fewer running for their lives to join them. Performing brutal, but necessary, calculation he assumes command. His heart breaks. “Close it! Close the gate!”

Vardyn at lever hesitates, tears forming already.

Vorhund rushes over to him. “I said CLOSE the FUGGIN GATE!”….

Find out how Rtkos responds

LEGACY of LOVE – pg. 95

A by chance encounter with a simple apiarist’s hive-paneling awakened a desire to create lasting meaning within Lanvesse many years ago. The honey-cultivator who treasures it claims the immaculate piece of restorative craftsmanship has been passed down from father to son, father to daughter, mother to daughter, mother to son. The honored hive has served his family as far back as anyone can remember – its origin a legacy shrouded in time-wrought uncertainty. Young Lanvesse was, and remains to be, astounded by its refinement. The hive stands alone, sung-into-being in style not seen for centuries, holding a harmony so true as to calm its tiny inhabitants. An agricultural tool, elevated to status of a relic by longevity and casual excellence.

Lanvesse grew intensely committed to learning more of which Sevevoix had sung this timeless work. For weeks he charted down the melodies emitted from it, and traveled all the Isle’s to seek out its siblings. He located beautiful homes, flawless weaponry, archways of precise design, and ancient time-keepers that have yet to slip out of rhythm. Each owner gushed gleefully of their love for the items they felt blessed to obtain. None could answer for the identity of their creator. The young Sevevoix decided to seek out Exardesch wisdom on this topic, he performed weeks of work with more acclaimed masters to earn himself an audience with the most-learned of them all – Ailendre.

Finally crossing toward Sevechantielle, he paused at midway and his mind unraveled at the revelation. No, it couldn’t be he thought. Yet, it was. The familiar melody of Xantedeschia held within it on Song of Sorrow a song of another, the same song Lanvesse had grown to obsess over. All these masterful creations belonged to a man who yet still lived! He ran to Boughaiven, gasping for air on entering and asked the wisest man in Deschia, “was it you, did you sing that hive-panel’s repairs?”

The old man stared deeply into his void-blue eyes, framed by Chromaire of delicate scarlet, gleaming bronze and sage green. “Perhaps. I have repaired many things.”

“Paicouvrielle then. Did you sing that blade?”

“Yes, my son.” Dark clouds overtook the Exardesch’s starlight eyes. “That is one I could never forget.”

The young Sevevoix dropped to one knee. “Ailendre, please. I beg you to teach me!”

Wryly stirred by the young man’s reverence, “of course, child. What would you like to know?”

“Everything!”….

Get to know Ailendre

MOMENT at BOUGHAIVEN – pg. 25

Valessoire and Caelianne sit contentedly observing their friends’ pursuit of beneficial insights. Wrapping his sunlight cozily in his arms, a new but intense fear grips him.

“Love, I cannot fathom any joyful day without you beside me. In time we may part and….”

“I’m going with you, my moon! Did you honestly assume for a second I wouldn’t?”

He grips her more tightly. “It may be dangerous….”

“So! You’re the most dangerous man in Deschia, should I avoid you then?”

“….Your current chain of logic is rather unfair, love.”

“I am aware, and I do not care. I’m coming with you, so plan accordingly!”

He smiles in a defeated repose only she can bring out of him. Valessoire is keenly aware he cannot contain her fiery spirit, nor would he wish to.

“Wonderful, it’s settled then. You’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said!” she beams at him, nuzzling his chest.

Scribbling sounds divert the pair’s attention back outward.

“Proclamation of love, followed by adamant admonishment paired with choice phrased as fact, endearment term softening use of interruption, interesting….” Mireval continues muttering as he writes, unaware of the shocked awe of Val, and giggling of Caeli. “Pressure applied to emphasize emphatic need to protect, immediate response – interrupting again, interesting – inverting logic flow to elicit consideration, masterful….”

“Mireval?” Valessoire, recovering from his stupor to question as politely as he can manage “what…. what are you doing right now?”

“Taking notes!”

“….Why?”

“I am studying your and Caeli’s affectionate dynamic. I wish to learn, this is how I learn.” He shows a complex web of interlinking lines and text to Val, entirely unashamed.

“….ok” pausing and closing his eyes for a moment to ensure he carries this interaction cautiously “that may not be the most dependable methodology friend, love is…. rather…. random.”

“Random!” Caeli chirps in. “Don’t listen to him. Love is not random, it is beautiful and feels fated once you find it.”

“Have you been aware of these…. dictations he is keeping, love?”

“Of course! He’s been doing it for a year!”

Mireval, helpfully offering clarification “a year, and 23 days. I believe I am close to creating a comprehensive chart of amenable responses. Based on this framework, I should have wooed my chosen mate within…. four years time.”

Val, dumbstruck but laughing now “so, you’ve known about all this? And didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to assist in keeping his results organic. I’d assumed at some point you would notice. I suppose your revered martial prowess” feigning an exaggerated swoon “doesn’t translate to general situational awareness. You and Mireval have that in common!”

Scrawling noises returning, “Utilizes sensible comparison of traits to insult in specific manner….”

“Mireval.”

“Yes, Val?”

“You can keep doing your…. note taking, just maybe don’t say them aloud, for me?”

“Ok, Val. I can do that.” Nose still down in his book, Mireval turns away to compile his findings.

“So, who’s the lucky girl?”

“He wouldn’t say, but I am fairly certain it is Seriane!” Caeli squeaks with glee.

“Hmm. That…. that might actually work!” Cheerfully, Val accepts his role as unknowing love instructor, with a surprising measure of pride….