Keyboard salad

I make no claims to be much of a writer at all, and the following is just a very rough first draft bunch of noise about a story fragment that happened.  

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The sun was already setting, casting its sapphire tone towards oranges and pinks nearer the horizon.  And despite clearer skies than previous nights, there was still a chill hanging in the spring air.

A welcome sight came into view as Brynjar crested the last hill’s gentle slope.   Below the road writhed its way towards Kembledoun’s North River borough.  And as much as the Lorrnath didn’t like the thought of another small town filled with twitchy farmers and suspicious glances, it was worth risking for a hearth-side seat and the chance of a bed to rest on for the first time in weeks.

The township below was split by a the winding Stowercross river, it’s surface dappled with pink reflections of the sunset above.  North River was it’s own small borough made up of outlying farms that soon turned to a denser cluster of market stalls, small stone and thatch buildings, and an outpost manned by a handful of bored looking individuals armed with boar-spears Eorlish pot-helmets.

Brynjar continued his pace towards the stone bridge spanning the river that lead to the Kembledoun proper.  The road was quiet, as markets had shut for the night, and people had retreated to their hearths and homes.  Even in towns of this size it wasn’t a desirable prospect being out after dark, and recent weeks have felt as if something was stirring in the tenebrous heath at the edge of lantern and torchlight alike.

A momentary spark caught the Lorrath’s eye, and he cast his gaze towards a clearing in the trees and shrubs at the river’s edge.  For a moment there was something akin to chanting song, and then quiet, before another set of sparks drew his focus to a figure draped in pitch clothing, a hood covering it’s features save but a pair of antlers that curled upwards from it’s head.

A gentle humming followed, as dulcet as a mother coaxing their children to sleep rose from the figure, still silhouetted against the rippling orange and black of the moving river, before their arms raised, palms upward towards the waters and held there for a brief few moments.

Brynjar stood silently for a moment before quietly edging closer.  The figure’s hands disappearing into a pouch at it’s side before pulling free what looked like tiny chips of wood cradled in it’s palms.  The voice rose again, clearly that of a woman’s in a chanting song.

“Grau, Tria ves a kaoeveth afath fathaum.

Tiu, ves a deosan tennom fathaum.

Ves a kier a afath

Ves fathaum.”

Her head bowed towards her hands, and with an audible breath the wood-chips smoldered and sparked to life before she tossed them outward to the waters, tiny orange sparks trailing in the air before the flakes splashed gently into the Stowercross.

Brynjar was close enough to hear the musical clatter of seashells tied into the antlers poking through her hood, the woman’s arms once more outstretched for brief moments towards the river and sky, before falling back to her sides.

“You don’t often see someone openly invoking sorceries in towns like this” the Lorrnath’s head tilted, but his gaze never left her.

The woman’s hand slid back, fingers tracing against the haft of an axe hidden at their side beneath a heavy cloak.  Her head turned slightly, revealing an animalistic muzzle under the depths of her hood.

“That you aren’t screaming and running away tells me you are no villager.  Will you be reporting me to the sheriff then?”  Her voice tinted by a slight Aegencaldi accent.

“I don’t think the watch would be interested in a woman throwing wood-chips into the river” he crossed his arms, before continuing “Unless she was trying to poison the supply.”

The woman turned, the sound of scraping earth and stone under hooves, to face the Lorrnath, peering up at him through locks of white hair, a pair of sea-green eyes so striking they seemed to glow in the gloom of her hood stared at him.  “Prayers.” she mused “Prayers to the moving waters.  Names of those who are lost, so they may find their way back to the sea.”

“Using sorceries.” the Lorrnath added, bluntly.

The Tuktu woman straightened a little, her hand still resting on the haft of her axe “Yes.  Using sorcery.” she glanced up at him with a piercing stare “Though I would call them miracles.  I am a priestess of the Shorebreaker.  I ebb and flow with the waters and sing with the storms above them.  I would never bring afoul that which I serve.  No poison shall touch the waters I praise.” she glanced back at the river a mere moment before continuing “It was a simple manipulation.  Allowing me to burn the names of any lost souls into the bone chips, before casting them to the wills of the water here.  The Shorebreaker shall guide them home to his depths, and the comforts of the dark and quiet.”

Brynjar considered a few moments.  He knew enough of sorceries to know this was no dark ritual.  He possessed a few of his own magics after all.  He finally spoke “I might know that.  But the people here certainly wouldn’t.  You might want to be careful invoking even positive magics here.”

Her stance relaxed slightly, and she regarded Brynjar in kind, glancing to the pair of hilts poking up from over each shoulder, and trailing down the leathers and chain jack that protected him before sheepishly replying “I am.. new to this place.  It seems every town we cross through, the superstitions are all the same.”

“We?” he queried

She nodded “My companion and I.  We’ve been travelling for months now.  We are.. Searching.”

“Speaking of, we might want to seek out a place with a lit fire.  Nature, with its many hidden hands has a way of making people disappear at night.” The lorrnath glanced at the bridge, and knew enough not to pry into the woman’s business.  Searching always brings about trouble, and this night he wanted nothing more than a meal and a place to rest.

The Tuktu woman strode past him up the bank with a clatter of seashells and bone “My partner is at the public house here.” she glanced once more at the weaponry strapped to him “You may join us if you wish.  Though the meals in this township oft come with fish included in them.  I suspect even the drinks do.”

“I’m okay with seafood”

A brief sigh escaped her lips and she matched pace with his longer strides “May the shoals forgive you.”