Cinnamon Raymaker and Lihan Taifun
Aztryd warily examines the wreckage of the gate frame. The ground where the two of them had landed was covered in snow, but here the ground is nearly clear of it, as if a great fire had melted all away. Cold, clean winds have swept away any smells of battle. For all Aztryd can tell, in the dark, this gate could have been broken and deserted years ago. But that cannot be true! She turns hollow eyes to Elwing, and whispers, "You were here a few weeks ago. All was well, was it not?"
The exhaustion of the day sweeps over Aztryd in a rush. Legs cramped by hours in an unfamiliar saddle begin to wobble. A body chilled by hours of cold wind and sea spray begins to shiver. A stomach waiting for a warm festive meal of welcome now hangs hollowly, draining at her remaining strength. A mother's heart, who for hours has been assuring restless little Nizl that all will soon be well, now sinks desperately. Taking a deep breath, she leans a hand against the wall to steady herself, not with hope but with endurance.
Elwing gathers the warm cloak closely around her frozen body as she watches Aztryd making her way towards her home.
The cold has chilled her feet numb, and she stumbles slightly as she feels sharp pebbles underfoot. Stepping gingerly she moves closer to Aztryd to answer her question. "Yes sister, all was indeed well," she assures her. But all is not well here. The signs look very grim for those she had met only recently.
"Wait, one more moment," says Aztryd, eying the deeper darkness that is the entrance. "I want my hands free when we go in." Unslinging the pack from her back, she makes the necessary rearrangements, returning the squalling, damp, and smelly Nizl to her nest inside the pack. "Sorry, magpie, we need better shelter before I unwrap you. And Mama might yet need this." She pats the axe hanging at her side. It is only a wood-chopping axe, a housewife's tool, not a warrior's battle axe, but it is a comfort in this uncertain situation.
Finally, Aztryd extracts a small bundle wrapped in oiled leather, and tucks it into an outer pocket. "Fire-starter," she explains to Elwing, "in case we find any dry torches." She frowns uncertainly, wondering whether any usable supplies are left in this ruin. "Aye, then," says Aztryd resolutely, slinging the pack back onto her back with a practiced shrug. "Let's see what there is to see."
Biting her lip at her friend's words, Elwing shakes herself to ease the feeling of lethargy which has descended upon her. Scrabbling around at her feet, she picks up a decent sized rock, which she holds close to hand. It is a meager weapon but at least the solid feel of it gives her comfort. Looking to Aztryd, she proclaims, "I'm ready, Aztryd."
Resolutely, Aztryd walks through the gateway. Stealth is of no use now, and she could not move quietly even if she wished, not with Nizl squalling. The high, wide entrance hall, usually lit with bright lanterns, is dark and cold. The only light comes from moonlight peeking between clouds and filtering through the air shafts and the gaping gate hole. But this is Aztryd's childhood home, forever etched in her memory. She moves confidently across the floor, tracing a route she knows by heart. Her feet catch on strange bits of rubble that litter the floor. Here, farther from the open entrance, the air is less fresh, and the stench of smoke lingers -- burnt wood but also burnt meat, burnt leather, burnt hair.
Elwing watches Aztryd easily picking her way through the darkened tunnels and gingerly follows her, every so often stubbing her chilled toes on unidentified bits of rubble and letting out a gasp of pain. The stench reminds her of something she has recently experienced and she recoils in horror.
"The kitchens are this way," Aztryd says, pointing in the dark. "People will need to eat, no matter what else has happened." She tries to hold her voice steady, not speaking the fear in her heart: only the living need to eat.
Aztryd's pain is clear, even through bravado in her strained voice, and Elwing's heart goes out to her. "Indeed, little sister, that would be the surest place to find your gammy and the others," she answers, hoping to make Aztryd feel a little better in the process. As it stands, they need to find warmth, water and food very soon, or they may perish along with the dear precious child in Aztryd's bundle.
Moving to a side tunnel off the entrance hall, all is now dark, and Aztryd is travelling blind. Yet dwarven sense of direction is sure, even underground. She runs her left hand lightly along the wall for guidance, keeping her right hand free, and near her axe. Nizl's wails echo off the corridor walls. Aztryd's heart is hammering nearly as loudly.
Elwing continues to follow Aztryd along the corridors of the clan home, wishing she could see as well in the dark as she could from the sky above. Her senses straining, her whole being is alert to the atmosphere surrounding them. She can only hear Aztryd and Nizl thus far, and her heart sinks at the thought of what that could mean.
Coming around the last curve of the tunnel, Aztryd sees a pale glow of light, no brighter than a single flickering oil lamp. She hears -- she thinks she can hear, when Nizl stops squalling to catch a breath -- muffled voices and shuffling feet. Whoever or whatever it is must surely have heard Nizl. Aztryd turns and whispers to Elwing, "It seems we are not alone here after all."
The exhaustion of the day sweeps over Aztryd in a rush. Legs cramped by hours in an unfamiliar saddle begin to wobble. A body chilled by hours of cold wind and sea spray begins to shiver. A stomach waiting for a warm festive meal of welcome now hangs hollowly, draining at her remaining strength. A mother's heart, who for hours has been assuring restless little Nizl that all will soon be well, now sinks desperately. Taking a deep breath, she leans a hand against the wall to steady herself, not with hope but with endurance.
Elwing gathers the warm cloak closely around her frozen body as she watches Aztryd making her way towards her home.
The cold has chilled her feet numb, and she stumbles slightly as she feels sharp pebbles underfoot. Stepping gingerly she moves closer to Aztryd to answer her question. "Yes sister, all was indeed well," she assures her. But all is not well here. The signs look very grim for those she had met only recently.
"Wait, one more moment," says Aztryd, eying the deeper darkness that is the entrance. "I want my hands free when we go in." Unslinging the pack from her back, she makes the necessary rearrangements, returning the squalling, damp, and smelly Nizl to her nest inside the pack. "Sorry, magpie, we need better shelter before I unwrap you. And Mama might yet need this." She pats the axe hanging at her side. It is only a wood-chopping axe, a housewife's tool, not a warrior's battle axe, but it is a comfort in this uncertain situation. Finally, Aztryd extracts a small bundle wrapped in oiled leather, and tucks it into an outer pocket. "Fire-starter," she explains to Elwing, "in case we find any dry torches." She frowns uncertainly, wondering whether any usable supplies are left in this ruin. "Aye, then," says Aztryd resolutely, slinging the pack back onto her back with a practiced shrug. "Let's see what there is to see."
Biting her lip at her friend's words, Elwing shakes herself to ease the feeling of lethargy which has descended upon her. Scrabbling around at her feet, she picks up a decent sized rock, which she holds close to hand. It is a meager weapon but at least the solid feel of it gives her comfort. Looking to Aztryd, she proclaims, "I'm ready, Aztryd."Resolutely, Aztryd walks through the gateway. Stealth is of no use now, and she could not move quietly even if she wished, not with Nizl squalling. The high, wide entrance hall, usually lit with bright lanterns, is dark and cold. The only light comes from moonlight peeking between clouds and filtering through the air shafts and the gaping gate hole. But this is Aztryd's childhood home, forever etched in her memory. She moves confidently across the floor, tracing a route she knows by heart. Her feet catch on strange bits of rubble that litter the floor. Here, farther from the open entrance, the air is less fresh, and the stench of smoke lingers -- burnt wood but also burnt meat, burnt leather, burnt hair.
Elwing watches Aztryd easily picking her way through the darkened tunnels and gingerly follows her, every so often stubbing her chilled toes on unidentified bits of rubble and letting out a gasp of pain. The stench reminds her of something she has recently experienced and she recoils in horror.
"The kitchens are this way," Aztryd says, pointing in the dark. "People will need to eat, no matter what else has happened." She tries to hold her voice steady, not speaking the fear in her heart: only the living need to eat.
Aztryd's pain is clear, even through bravado in her strained voice, and Elwing's heart goes out to her. "Indeed, little sister, that would be the surest place to find your gammy and the others," she answers, hoping to make Aztryd feel a little better in the process. As it stands, they need to find warmth, water and food very soon, or they may perish along with the dear precious child in Aztryd's bundle.
Moving to a side tunnel off the entrance hall, all is now dark, and Aztryd is travelling blind. Yet dwarven sense of direction is sure, even underground. She runs her left hand lightly along the wall for guidance, keeping her right hand free, and near her axe. Nizl's wails echo off the corridor walls. Aztryd's heart is hammering nearly as loudly.
Elwing continues to follow Aztryd along the corridors of the clan home, wishing she could see as well in the dark as she could from the sky above. Her senses straining, her whole being is alert to the atmosphere surrounding them. She can only hear Aztryd and Nizl thus far, and her heart sinks at the thought of what that could mean.
Coming around the last curve of the tunnel, Aztryd sees a pale glow of light, no brighter than a single flickering oil lamp. She hears -- she thinks she can hear, when Nizl stops squalling to catch a breath -- muffled voices and shuffling feet. Whoever or whatever it is must surely have heard Nizl. Aztryd turns and whispers to Elwing, "It seems we are not alone here after all."
> Next