Part 1 - Cyrael.

Barely eighteen, Cyrael gazed out at the sunset, lost deep in a world of thought. The last warming rays of sunlight shimmered over her soft features, lending her blue eyes a rich green hue. Her golden hair rippled lightly in a faint breeze.

The evening air, still warm from the days heat, wrapped her in its warm embrace, as the sky slowly darkened, giving way to night. In silence she stood on, unfaltering and calm as she had been taught was her people's custom.

She gazed out contentedly towards the horizon, as the first rays of soft blue moonlight caressed the shimmering desert dunes. Rivulets of sand danced across the undulating dunes as short gasps of air sent tiny spirals of translucent dust into the sky. Like phantom spirits, they flitted across the distant scene.

Monoliths formed in the strange twilight, as rocks and cacti jutted out in stark contrast to the silver sea swirling around. Deep rifts of shadow formed behind them.

"Soon" She thought, a brief flicker of excitement unsettling her thoughts. It was said that on Luna's first light, on the eighteenth year, destiny would show the faithful a glimmer of the path ahead.

A soft whisper of disturbed sand and a brief flurry of movement near a cactus base caught her attention, as a lizard paused briefly in the open space. It's primal, alien features for a moment stared at her, its eye widening as it cocked its head to the side curiously and looked her up and down. Soon satisfied, it scurried off once more.

On the night passed, as if an infinite, unending moment. Cyrael glanced behind her, briefly uncertain. In the distance, behind a rocky outcrop, she could just make out the dark shapes of settler’s buildings and trees near the small oasis they called home. She sighed, turning her attention back to the desert.

Cyrael narrowed her eyes, squinting at the distant dunes. Perhaps a trick of the light, something seemed to shift.

She gazed and smiled in wonder. She had heard stories from the other settlers of Luna's visions, yet even in the distance the shape looked so real. A flickering sheet, like a robed stranger appeared to wade through the distant sand, fluttering gently in the soft bursts of dust filled air. At their coming of age, it was her people’s custom to await the guidance of the gods in this manner.

Silent and still, she watched on, her heart hammering in her chest in anticipation.

"What does it mean?" she murmured quietly, as her impatience briefly got the better of her. She scolded herself for speaking. It had long been considered a taboo during the ritual. In the silent air, her voice sounded unnaturally loud, a distant whisper seeming to echo across the empty landscape.

Almost in response, the figure began to bear towards her. Cyrael shifted uneasily.

Onward, the figure walked, leaving faint furrows in the sand, as it became clearer and more real. As it shambled ever closer, fear began to replace anticipation and excitement both. Wide eyed, she watched as the ghoulish figure lurched toward her as if crippled.   An arm outstretched as a dry, cracked hand reached out towards her through tattered rags.

Cyrael thought she would scream. Shudders of fear raced down her body. “The gods are punishing me for speaking. They are testing my resolve.” She thought, forcing herself to remain still.

No one had spoken of a visage like this. A rasping noise sounded then from the figure, a gasp and a groan. The hairs on the back of Cyrael’s neck stood on end. This was supposed to be light, just light. There wasn’t meant to be sound... or that smell.

With a final lurch, it reached her, its footfalls spraying sand as it dropped to its knees before her and grasped at her leg for support. Fear finally overcome her as she leapt back, her heart racing as she flew from that place. In panic, she glanced over her shoulder, almost tripping, and catching a brief sight of the ragged figure laid on the floor, motionless where she once stood.

Cyrael glanced back at the small settlement, reassuring herself, and slowed to a stop.

The elder had long cautioned wariness of outsiders. Though there were talks of the larger chiefs organising militia to help keep the people safe, they were not yet to be seen in this region. The only foreigners seen for some time tended to be hungry and desperate, and more often than not, dangerous.

She looked back as a breeze stirred dark clouds above, briefly masking the landscape in dark shade, yet a small spectral column of moonlight lit the still figure, as if ensnared by Luna's rays. As she stared, an unsettling feeling took hold of her, as she noticed a faint spectral line, a ghostly shade of blue, drifting around in the air joining her with the strange tattered heap. She jumped back and swatted at it, but her hand passed through without effect.

She crouched down and looked closer. Like weightless fine hairs of moonlight woven together, it drifted back and forth. She gasped a sharp intake of breath as strange sensations flooded into her. Even crouched on the ground, she could feel hot sand against her face, a deep thirst, and an exhaustion that threatened death. A force she could not comprehend pulled at her very soul, drawing her towards the figure.

She shivered, goose bumps running up her arms and neck. This was not something the settlers had prepared her for, of that she was certain. She edged slowly forward, staring hard at the motionless rags. The strange force joining them gradually brightened as she edged forward, almost hypnotic. Like a ghostly rope, it hung in the air, yet her every attempt to grasp at it failed.

Enraptured by the rope she failed to notice her progress and found herself once more frozen, gazing down at the sprawled motionless figure. Stains and rips adorned the simple robes. An arm hung out from a tattered sleeve, adorned with dry cracked skin and small burns. Cautiously, she crept around the figure, careful to remain out of reach. When at last she reached a spot she might be able to see under the hood, she crouched down silently, holding her breath and ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

Dark stubble, dry cracked lips, golden tanned skin. She edged closer, her heart hammering in her chest. He wasn't moving, and she couldn't be sure he was alive, but he was at least no strange creature.   The soft smell of rain drifted on the light breeze. A large bush caught her attention, nestled against the back of a rock. She edged towards it, nervously glancing back and forth, before selecting a branch from the ground. Her mouth, dry from both the desert air and her fear, was parched, so she paused to take a sip from her water skin, hanging it loosely from her hip when she was done. Once more by the stranger, she reached out and gently prodded him with the branch. Nothing moved.

Cyrael leant down once more to look at his face, as a trickle of water escaped her water skin and pattered into the sand, darkening the small patch. She frowned at the waste and looked back at the stranger as his bright blue eyes flickered open towards the sand.

With a start, she leapt backwards, tripping over her own legs and landing on her backside, still starting at the motionless figure. With a horrified fascination she watched as he groaned and reached his arm reached towards her.

She knew what he was looking at in an instant as his eyes suddenly widened in surprise. Moments later, he reached towards the spectral rope drifting near his hand, and somehow grasped it. She screamed and ran as an unfamiliar mind reached out to her own.

Uncertainty hit her hard, bringing her to a stop. There was a familiar warmth to that contact. She slowed and gazed back. A deep thirst overcome her, but a thirst she instinctively understood was not hers.

She walked slowly back and gingerly reached out, offering water to the prone man. A moment later he gratefully grasped the skin. She frowned as rivulets of water cascaded down his cheeks and into the sand. Gasping, he quaffed the water, frequently spluttering and gasping between mouthfuls. Cyrael waited patiently, watching. He soon slowed and calmed himself, taking slow sips. As his erratic breathing gradually steadied, exhausted, he flopped back down on the sand.

Cyrael had no idea how long she waited there. She couldn’t leave the man in the sand to die, but she knew the settlers would not take kindly to her bringing a stranger among them. As she thought on it, he looked at her, bringing his hand to his lips in a gesture of thanks.

A little reassured by the apparent civility and weakened state of the stranger, her mind was made. She offered her hand, nervously watching him for any sudden movements.

He accepted her offer, attempting to steady himself with his other arm and stand. As finally the effort seemed to succeed, the two found themselves standing, arms around each other for support. His tattered hood, caught by a sudden breeze flipped back as he finally raised his head to look at her, his dark unruly hair shimmering in the pale light. He couldn’t be far from her own age.

There in the rays of moonlight the two embracing strangers gazed at each other, trapped in a moment that lasted an aeon, as a spectral blue coil, now unnoticed wound about them, forever binding their fates.

The Settlement - WIP

Eventually, the moment seemed to pass and Cyrael found herself looking uncertainly towards the tiny settlement, sweating and gasping heavily as she supported the weakened man. The once short journey felt a lengthy struggle with his weight on her.

A tiny campfire burned in the centre of the small settlement, warm lights flickering and dancing over the simple wooden buildings around it. It served little benefit but to provide a dim light for the volunteer on watch and deter some of the less aggressive creatures in the region.

Cyrael glanced at the huts as she approached, in her mind weighing up the responses she would get from each.

Jorith was the local herder and farmer. The four skinny donkeys grazing on a sparse patch of scrubland was a new interest for him. Lean and grizzled with white hair, intense brown eyes and a bushy beard, he was nearing fifty years of age now, and would no doubt be training his teenage daughters once more in the morning to continue the family trade. As a farmer, he was without rival. His crops, a small area of grain growing around the small oasis near his house, grew well in the bright sunlight even in the poor arid soil under his expert supervision.

He was friendly and optimistic, and would perhaps back her decision. His wife, Minath, was the local cook. White haired and stern however, her thoughts would no doubt focus on the safety of her daughters. Cyrael cringed. Jorith would no doubt have to side with his wife.

Bailor and his three sons were a more sturdy stock. In his last forties, Bailor was a lean muscular figure with jet black hair, blue eyes and a short beard. His three sons were stocky and well built. Woodcutters and carpenters by trade, they had often walked the distance to the sparse trees on the distant steppe, carrying the wood back to the village. Jorith’s work with breeding donkeys had lessened that burden somewhat. The sons had lately began experimenting with trying to build a cart. Their mother, a kind natured woman around Bailor’s age with blonde hair and blue eyes was warm and welcoming of everyone. They had recently proposed engaging in trade with a distant settlement up near the Nargath Mountains, in the hopes of acquiring better tools. Cyrael nodded to herself. They would likely back her cause.

Garret was the local stonemason and elder. In his early thirties, he was haggard and unshaven with scruffy brown hair and blue eyes that often seemed to be darting about, assessing everything. A recent addition to the village, despite his odd mannerisms, he had a calm demeanour and a reassuring tone, and had somehow quickly managed to bring a sense of order and coordination to the small group. Little was known of his background, but he had proven his worth enough to gain the villagers trust. His home, the first built of stone, was well made and held promise of stronger, more permanent homes for the growing settlement. His wife, Cyrael’s older sister Elana, had her same golden hair and blue eyes. Since marrying, she had taken an interest in art, and it seemed had a natural knack for it.

She couldn’t be sure of Garret’s thoughts, but he had a talent for judging people’s intents, so should be taken seriously. Her sister would be forgiving, so perhaps this would go well enough. Though if Garret took a dislike to the stranger, he wouldn’t be around for long.   The rest of her family were a strange mix. Her pale father Selwyn was nearing fifty. His white hair, trimmed with an undercut was tied back with a pony tail. Ever curious, he was an explorer by nature and drew astoundingly good maps which would no doubt find an easy market should they be offered for trade. Her mother Amber was darker skinned, almost red, with long light brown hair and oddly pale green eyes. Her family had travelled across the desert. On one such travel, she had met Selwyn and later settled down with him. She had a knack for papermaking, and was constantly occupied doing so, to satiate the demands of the village.

Few of the locals had good writing skills, but most were keen to try. Selwyn often needed paper to make his maps, and Elana used as much for her arts.

Doubtless, her family would stand by her, but her father would no doubt be having words with her about taking unnecessary risks. She sighed.

Rounding a hut, Bailor came into view. He stood to attention at once.

“Cyrael” He raised his palm in greeting, stepping around the flickering fire. “Gods!” he exclaimed loudly, hastily picking up a sharpened spear and rushing in front of her, pointing the spear at the stranger. Murmurs sounded from the surrounding huts almost immediately as the families awoke.

“No! Wait! He’s ok” said Cyrael, stepping out in front of him, arms raised.

Cyrael had little choice but to wait as people assembled, and the two of them were herded into Garret’s stone hut. Seeing her difficulty keeping her companion upright, they were promptly given chairs and seated. Within a short time Garret was stood before them inquisitively.

“Who is this, Cyrael, and why is he here?” he said, glancing at the two of them calmly.

The young man opened his mouth to answer but was met with Garret’s open palm for silence.

“You understand me?” Garret addressed the man directly. He nodded in response.

“Fissil” Garret called softly. His pet, an odd blue cross between a lizard and a weasel scurried out from a side room, rapidly climbing his proffered arm and settling across his shoulders. It’s vaguely reptilian face in many ways reminiscent of a wizened old man, complete with bushy eyebrows. It certainly wasn’t a native to the area, but had arrived with Garret and the two were inseparable.

The locals were used to the sight, but the stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Is that… is that a Leffit?” he asked, gesturing at the odd creature.

Garret at once turned to him, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. “You’re familiar with them? Amazing creatures aren’t they”

“I… no, I’ve not seen one, but have heard of them.” The stranger paused briefly in thought.

“I’m Erwin.” He said, watching the leffit shift about and settle down. The odd creature subtly changed shade, a faint pink hue covering its body and Garret’s eyes narrowed.

The stranger laughed “I’m sorry. I had to know if the stories were true. My names Tarren.” He smiled warmly.

Fissil returned to its normal green tint. Garret nodded and scratched it gently under its chin and looked fondly at his pet. “We’ll have to do something about that. We can’t have you tipping everyone off, can we?”

Bits to do now - will resume next time

res

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May put it on hold for now. Not much demand for it ;)