The fresh snow was easily parted with the Xaela’s long strides, and the chocobos warbled their appreciation. Kasrjin walked in an odd zig-zag pattern, each lengthy step reaching a different side of the trail. At times, he would withdraw the sword from the harness on his back and slap a particularly intrusive snowdrift with the flat of the blade, scattering flakes of white dust off to the side.
It was a simple task, and did little to draw Kasrjin’s mind away from things. His motions became somewhat stiff and robotic as they did whenever his thoughts drifted to a subject other than the task at hand. His eyes were only barely focused on clearing the trail, but there were noticeable moments where the swing of the blade wobbled in its direction or only managed to dig a hole in the snowdrifts rather than clear the powder away.
He could hear the wheels creak and groan along frozen dirt and soil, the wagon bumping and jostling it and its occupants--cargo and all--whenever a rough patch of the road rudely presented itself in their path. At times the chocobo could be heard furiously beating its wings--both to clear the snow that had gathered on it and to maintain some warmth in the placid chill--in short, staccato-like bursts. The gray skies above flickered with light, an idle ray occasionally piercing through before being stifled by the stormy veil.
Ahead of him, the trail sloped down as it retreated from the plateau. His shimmering emerald eyes flashed between the ground and the sky, examining the former for objects as small as pebbles and above for the wings of dragons. It was a simple exercise, one meant to calm the mind by distracting it, ironically enough. Focus on one’s surroundings utterly.
Perception was the greatest trick of the mind, though this time around it did little to calm his disquiet. His face was as placid as an untouched pool, holding firm in its stern countenance.
If only the demeanour of his mind could be so steadfast.
There had been an odd discomfort surrounding him since he had arrived to this land of snow and mountains. It came with every sunrise and every sunset. The world’s acknowledgement that he had spent another day where he did not belong. The mere cycle of the sun across the sky was alien to him, he who was used to not seeing the sun for half a moon at a time, before seeing only the sun and nothing else for the next half. There was a peculiarly consistent irregularity, one that had strangely seemed to assure him that he was where he was supposed to be.
But here, it was not so kind.
Though the exact occasions were different, every cycle was predictable. The sun rose, and the sun fell. At times it was obscured by cloud cover or storms, but the rays that managed to filter themselves through the sky always made it obvious. The regularity of it was unnerving to him. Amidst the tundra and glacial mountains, the sun seemed to have a life and whimsy of its own, coming and going as it pleased. An entity beyond control that seemed to encourage all who were warmed by it that they, too, possessed life and whimsy they could use as they see fit.
But on the Western continent, it was not so. The sun rose out of obligation, and set because it was bidden to. The cycle cast its stifling judgment on Kasrjin, too, or so he felt. He rose when the sun rose, for it was expected. And so too did he rest when the sun fell, for he felt that that was expected as well. In this land, it was hard for him to tell if the sun was the tyrant or merely victim to another’s system.
With every dawn did his arms feel pulled by obligation, and with every dusk were his legs collapsed at the knees by the same. The land that insisted that he submit or be banished.
A hand slipped inside the tabard. A brief moment of panic came with his failure to initially find the runestone, followed by an uncharacteristically powerful sense of relief that washed over him as his gloved hands clasped the trinket.
Isolation held a dark grasp, but there were few things crueler than being made painfully aware of its empty talons in his heart.
The Xaela paused in his tracks. His eyes flickered in the light.
He saw the wings, first, before his eyes rested on the jaws full of serrated teeth that hung slack. The plate-like obsidian scales, dull in hue like tarnished metal. The club-like tail. An aevis had been impaled on a large wooden stake, speared right through its chest. Text was crudely engraved on the surface of the stake, though he could not decipher them. Names? A declaration of victory? Or defeat? He did not know.
A hatchet lay crudely buried in the aevis’ skull, and the eyes of the beast had been pulled, leaving hollow and empty sockets to regard all those unfortunate enough to pass by. A crude picture of a dragon’s skull being impaled with a lance had been cut into the aevis’ flank with a knife, the scales having been methodically peeled off like one had been skinning livestock.
At the top of the stake was a polished humanoid skull. The horns had been hacked off, but the remnants remained.
A hand instinctively reached for the sword.
His hand stopped with a shiver. So did he.
He did not belong here.
Inhale. Exhale.
Kasrjin continued walking. Their destination was not far.
It was a simple task, and did little to draw Kasrjin’s mind away from things. His motions became somewhat stiff and robotic as they did whenever his thoughts drifted to a subject other than the task at hand. His eyes were only barely focused on clearing the trail, but there were noticeable moments where the swing of the blade wobbled in its direction or only managed to dig a hole in the snowdrifts rather than clear the powder away.
He could hear the wheels creak and groan along frozen dirt and soil, the wagon bumping and jostling it and its occupants--cargo and all--whenever a rough patch of the road rudely presented itself in their path. At times the chocobo could be heard furiously beating its wings--both to clear the snow that had gathered on it and to maintain some warmth in the placid chill--in short, staccato-like bursts. The gray skies above flickered with light, an idle ray occasionally piercing through before being stifled by the stormy veil.
Ahead of him, the trail sloped down as it retreated from the plateau. His shimmering emerald eyes flashed between the ground and the sky, examining the former for objects as small as pebbles and above for the wings of dragons. It was a simple exercise, one meant to calm the mind by distracting it, ironically enough. Focus on one’s surroundings utterly.
Perception was the greatest trick of the mind, though this time around it did little to calm his disquiet. His face was as placid as an untouched pool, holding firm in its stern countenance.
If only the demeanour of his mind could be so steadfast.
There had been an odd discomfort surrounding him since he had arrived to this land of snow and mountains. It came with every sunrise and every sunset. The world’s acknowledgement that he had spent another day where he did not belong. The mere cycle of the sun across the sky was alien to him, he who was used to not seeing the sun for half a moon at a time, before seeing only the sun and nothing else for the next half. There was a peculiarly consistent irregularity, one that had strangely seemed to assure him that he was where he was supposed to be.
But here, it was not so kind.
Though the exact occasions were different, every cycle was predictable. The sun rose, and the sun fell. At times it was obscured by cloud cover or storms, but the rays that managed to filter themselves through the sky always made it obvious. The regularity of it was unnerving to him. Amidst the tundra and glacial mountains, the sun seemed to have a life and whimsy of its own, coming and going as it pleased. An entity beyond control that seemed to encourage all who were warmed by it that they, too, possessed life and whimsy they could use as they see fit.
But on the Western continent, it was not so. The sun rose out of obligation, and set because it was bidden to. The cycle cast its stifling judgment on Kasrjin, too, or so he felt. He rose when the sun rose, for it was expected. And so too did he rest when the sun fell, for he felt that that was expected as well. In this land, it was hard for him to tell if the sun was the tyrant or merely victim to another’s system.
With every dawn did his arms feel pulled by obligation, and with every dusk were his legs collapsed at the knees by the same. The land that insisted that he submit or be banished.
A hand slipped inside the tabard. A brief moment of panic came with his failure to initially find the runestone, followed by an uncharacteristically powerful sense of relief that washed over him as his gloved hands clasped the trinket.
Isolation held a dark grasp, but there were few things crueler than being made painfully aware of its empty talons in his heart.
The Xaela paused in his tracks. His eyes flickered in the light.
He saw the wings, first, before his eyes rested on the jaws full of serrated teeth that hung slack. The plate-like obsidian scales, dull in hue like tarnished metal. The club-like tail. An aevis had been impaled on a large wooden stake, speared right through its chest. Text was crudely engraved on the surface of the stake, though he could not decipher them. Names? A declaration of victory? Or defeat? He did not know.
A hatchet lay crudely buried in the aevis’ skull, and the eyes of the beast had been pulled, leaving hollow and empty sockets to regard all those unfortunate enough to pass by. A crude picture of a dragon’s skull being impaled with a lance had been cut into the aevis’ flank with a knife, the scales having been methodically peeled off like one had been skinning livestock.
At the top of the stake was a polished humanoid skull. The horns had been hacked off, but the remnants remained.
A hand instinctively reached for the sword.
His hand stopped with a shiver. So did he.
He did not belong here.
Inhale. Exhale.
Kasrjin continued walking. Their destination was not far.
