Face-To-Face

Base of a weathered and ancient oak.
The area is bathed with sterling light as an aura of warmth and wellness emanates from a healing shrine of Lisaera nearby. Rising majestically above the tops of all other trees is the tallest oak in the area, its weathered branches reaching in all directions as if greeting the sky. Thick bark covers the tree's massive trunk, a natural layer of protection against the harshness of nature. Dropped from a trapdoor within the wooden platform high over head, hangs a neatly knotted hemp rope and wood plank ladder fixed securely to the roots of the tree. Patches of moss dapple the tree's exterior, growing thickest on the roots and trunk facing north. An oak sapling clings tenaciously to the ground here. A dauntless elfen warrior stands guard here, surveying the area for threats. Initiate to the Tah'vrai, Rhalkyr is here, shrouded. He wields a macabre silver-clawed nekai in each hand.
You see exits leading north, southeast, and up.

Of a diminutive stature even for a faeling, Elexia nonetheless stands as tall as she is able at her height of one and a half feet. Her violet eyes settle upon Rhalkyr, immediately finding Rhalkyr's own green. "Winter's tidings," she chimes as she dips her head. Behind her, sable butterfly wings fan open and closed with an idle, but persistent rhythm. Rather than hover, the faeling has elected to keep her two bare feet upon the loam of the dell for the moment.

You think to yourself: A human, then, one of those enigmatic folk... And tall, especially for their kind.

You think to yourself: He's as fearsome as his voice would suggest. Curious, that he possesses such a warm written voice.

You think to yourself: I will use this time to assess him. I suspect he is far too entrapped in the Wyrd, already, to be saved... But perhaps I can see just what his intentions are, how much of a threat he represents. I suspect greater than his youthful demeanor would suggest.

You think to yourself: I can't see a shroud upon him... Is he not of the Silent One, as I suspected?

You think to yourself: I feel as though there is such a similarity to their method of speech... Biting questions, short but strong, the tendency to turn the tongue against its speaker and jab at them.

Prowling in on light, feline steps, Rhalkyr slips from shadow to shadow, the stripes painted upon his form blending with the shade that dapples him in rippling bands of black - Yet not seamlessly enough, as he discovers when his eyes meet yours. Slowing, he angles his head first to one side, then the other, drifting off to your left in an unhurried, liquid gait. He rolls his immense shoulders idly as he studies you, the violently intense green of his eyes unwavering from you. "Yes." Gesturing at the sari, and then flicking a finger to the gloves, he rumbles, "Why, those?"

Elexia cants her head, her hand rising beneath her chin as she studies Rhalkyr in kind. "I've oft had a penchant for saris," she replies with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "I had not seen this design before, and found its colours charming. As for the gloves..." She gestures to the air aimlessly. "I tend to go without this sort of apparel, but ah - there's a particular chill in the air this winter's day. Do you disagree?" Her smile does not meet her eyes as she watches Rhalkyr. Her eyes glance about Rhalkyr's shoulders, as if perhaps she might be seeking something. Her brow knits together - but only for a moment.

You think to yourself: No mistaking it, no shroud in sight.

You think to yourself: Although perhaps it is hidden. Or perhaps, he truly hasn't been caught by one of Them yet.

Whether he smiles or not is difficult to discern, given the predatory mask that hides all but his eyes - but even these prove to show no trace of humour, and as little in the way of warmth as the fell wind that seeks to snatch heat from flesh. Cocking his head at the brief frown, Rhalkyr's attention flits down to the sari, and then he lets out a soft, faintly amused grunt. "Did not, forget." Reaching beneath the violet blanket that is wrapped about his waist, he withdraws a neatly folded, familiar garment. Deftly undoing the ties that fasten it closed, the cloak unfurls in a tumble of autumnal hues, which he holds up in a demonstrative fashion, before swirling it about his vast shoulders. This done, he holds his hand aloft, and brings its mate up to tap a blunt finger upon the ring he wears.

Rhalkyr slips into a warm cloak of autumn hues.

As Rhalkyr lifts the blanket, Elexia's eyes narrow alertly once more. They roam over the cloak, but quickly move past it as if attempting to seek out a threat. Whatever they might have been looking for, the faeling's eyes meet Rhalkyr's once more. Her not-quite-smile returns as she dips her head in a simple nod. "Ah, you didn't, I had been wondering if you might have," she replies. Again, the hand rises beneath the chin, and she glanes at Rhalkyr critically. In a sudden burst of movement, her sable wings spring to life and carry the faeling skywards. She adjusts her altitude upon the winds until she is able to look levelly at Rhalkyr. "You are curious indeed. You speak aloud different than you write. I wonder, where did you learn to write as you do in your letters?" Her pointed ears twitch, and fragments of her attempt to conceal her expression give way to a natural curiousity.

You think to yourself: Not hidden under the blanket either. But, They might still be about. I should be wary.

In contrast to your wariness, Rhalkyr seems entirely relaxed, motionless save for the drift and flick of the cloak that shrouds his torso - the hues of which prove an able compliment to the bronze of his skin, and the dark gold of his hair. All of this changes, however, the moment you leaps into motion. The sudden flurry of wings causes him to jerk forward a single step, his hands snapping up - only to freeze in place, in the midst of a grasping motion, his eyes wide and alive with hunger, as every visible muscle of his huge frame twitches in a spasming ripple of suppressed violence. With obvious effort, he forces his hands back down beneath the cloak, though the tendons of his neck stand out like taut bowstrings, drawn beneath his flesh. In a strained, cracking voice, he grinds out, "Move, slow. Please."

As soon as Rhalkyr's hands rise up, Elexia's violin leaves its place strapped about her back and is in her hands. Her bow rests lightly along the strings as her violet eyes narrow and a streak of fiery red laces through the sable expanse of her wings like arcing lightning. A frigid glare consumes her mien, but as Rhalkyr explains, her brow furrows once more in puzzlement. Slowly, reluctantly, she lets the hand which wields her bow - her left - fall to her side. The violin remains raised upon her shoulder as she warns, "See that you control yourself." A pause as her violet eyes search Rhalkyr's own green. "I will seek not to startle you, then, that I need not turn my bow against you. Your wood is full of faelings, is it not?"

A deep, rippling noise reverberates from Rhalkyr's cavernous chest - a ragged, shuddering bass that is nearly low enough to set the air to trembling, though whether it signifies a warning, pleasure, or amusement, is unclear. Cocking his head to one side in an animalistic gesture, his voice is mild, if faintly puzzled, "Did. Not, eaten, yes?" With a brief rise and fall of his mountainous shoulders, he shrugs, sinking into a crouch. Visibly relaxing, he drapes his thick forearms across his thighs, allowing his hands to dangle freely between them as he turns his head aside - though the glitter of green eyes remain fixed upon those of violet. "Faeling, of home, know, to move, slow." Tilting his chin towards you, a glimmer of amusement shines in his gaze, as he observes, "Very, wary. Cold. Not, as warm, as letters." A pause, in which his head cants in the opposite direction. "Pity."

Elexia does not appear to share in Rhalkyr's humor as she dips her head in a nod. "It is only natural, aye? For one's disposition towards another to shift as they learn and speak more. For instance..." Her eyes look to Rhalkyr's hands as she returns her violin to its strap. "Every action a consequence, every word, an effect." At last, her wary smile reasserts itself upon her features. Her violet eyes flick up and down Rhalkyr as she muses, "This does not mean that we can speak on civil terms, of course. You remind me of someone. Have you perchance met a shard by the name of Esei in the dark wood?"

The two foremost fingers of Rhalkyr's right hand begin to beat a steady, marching beat upon the curve of his knee as he listens to you, patient as a hunting cat. His eyes never leave your, though he shifts his head languidly this way and that, and the nearly lambent green discs are equally as unfaltering in their intensity as he watches you. "Have met, yes." The sharp one-two rhythm of his blunt fingertips impacting upon hard bone continues unabated as his other hand lowers to draw lazy circles at his feet. "Why?"

Rhalkyr thinks to himself: So wary a thing, without the screen of parchment and the shelter of distance to keep her safe. It is good, in his estimation, to see that her bite does not extend simply to her words. This, though, is the second time she has mentioned that he reminds her of someone. Could it be the beloved Warden? He cannot see the similarities, if so - The Warden is many times his better, in equally as many ways.

There is a raise of Elexia's eyebrows in recognition as she nods once more. "You remind me of them," she responds matter-of-factly, as if this was significant indeed to the faeling. When she next speaks, there is a mix of emotions in her voice - the same vigilant watchfulness, but also something approaching fondness or at least familiarity. "We've spoken for years. Tense and wary, aye, and yet..." The faeling trails off as she shrugs her shoulders once more. "Still we speak," she finishes with a wave of her hand. For a brief moment, a genuine smile appears on the faeling's face, though it passes quickly as if it were but a single beam of sunlight smothered by overcast clouds. In spite of Rhalkyr's warning, the faeling remains not still in the air. The winds which whip through the valley send her bobbing gently as they go by.

A soft, chuffing sound, the muted burst of air bearing mirth upon it, though what warmth his breath expels is soon snatched away by the grasping, avaricious fingers of the chill winds. Jutting his chin towards you, Rhalkyr remarks, "Met, their wife, today. Flitted, about, more, than you." The frigid gale snaps his cloak out like a wavering banner of flame, flicking and curling about in sharp jerks and smooth flows by turns. They have no success, however, in so much as making the hulking figure himself sway from where he crouches, his eyes tracking the path that the winds bat you along. He regards you at length, and then seems to come to a decision. Falling back into a cross-legged position, he places his hands under his knees, so that the fingers grasp firmly about his ankles. Jerking his chin up and back, he says, "Land. Shelter, behind. Will, screen, wind. Bobbing, like, thistledown."

Again, it is curiosity which manages to overcome Elexia's veil. Her eyebrows raise and an inquisitive spark flares in her violet eyes. "My, had they told me they were married?" the faeling muses in an undirected manner as she taps her chin with a slender finger in thought. Her brow furrows once more - but this time, in recollection. "I do recall that they were courting someone..." This she murmurs more quietly to herself. She is wrenched from these thoughts by Rhalkyr's offer, and for the first time a bit of amusement crosses her own mien. "'Tis but another day as any other to be faeling," she replies, a sing-song quality entering her tone. Nevertheless, she appears to be considering accepting as she glances up at the shaking boughs all around. Eventually she relents, her sable wings losing vigour with every subsequent beat as she is lowered to the ground. As soon as her bare feet meet the loam, the wings fold behind her in an effort to further protect them from the winds. She steps in the windbreak Rhalkyr had extended. "My thanks," she says sincerely as she dips her head.

Rhalkyr thinks to himself: Ah. So that was it. Curiosity, it seems, makes for an excellent bait indeed. Perhaps the Silent One would have more than simply the one inquisitive faeling to call His own -Another night blossom, plucked from an unworthy garden.

Again, Rhalkyr offers up silence for you to fill, a quiet, watchful presence that waits patiently for each word to be delivered, collected, stored away. He makes no response to neither question nor absent musing, merely tilting his head slightly to his right as you strives to recollect whatever memories you searches for. A flicker of something sparks to life at the lilting manner with which you speaks the third sentence, with the hulking human leaning forward almost imperceptibly - only to fall back, the spark guttering out. He replies with a soft grunt of acknowledgement, tapping his forefinger rapidly, but lightly, upon his knee. With almost idle curiosity, he ask, "Why, speak, to those, of the Glomdoring?"

Elexia's violet eyes dart to watch the sudden spark of energy that briefly fills Rhalkyr's posture. Once more, her eyebrows rise in quiet surprise, but she makes no remark. At Rhalkyr's question, the corner of her lips twitch upwards. "There are many reasons," she begins, some of the edge of her tone now dulled. "I believe it is important to hear other Perspectives. Perhaps especially those of the ones your people call enemy." Her violet eyes flutter closed, but only for a moment. "Not to agree, of course. Although I imagine there's aught we do agree on - sometimes the arts, or the beauty of the heavens. Regardless, I believe it is good to hear." There is another twitch of her lips upward. "And, sometimes, seeds sown in simple conversation can sprout in remarkable ways."

Rhalkyr thinks to himself: Oh, they most certainly can, little songbird, they most /certainly/ can.

Untroubled by the howling wind that claws at his broad frame, or perhaps simply unwilling to display such, Rhalkyr lifts his hand to rest his chin atop the craggy, brutish jut of his knuckles, eyes lidding slowly closed in an almost benign fashion. Blinking them open after but the merest sliver of a moment, their corners crinkle within the shadowed recesses of his fearsome mask, amusement glittering within the vividly green discs. "Yes. Agree, on, that much." Tilting his head lazily to the opposite side, he asks, conversationally, "Have, mate?"

This question elicits a proper smile from Elexia that she makes no effort to restrain. It is bright, and filled with radiant warmth. "Yes, my Pysynne," she says, the warmth spilling over into her tone. "We are still unwed, but engaged to be so - Soon, I am seeking, once we've passed the Hall of Record's threshold for recognizing such." The faeling nods in a self-satisfied fashion. Then, there is a slight tilt to her head as she ventures, "And yourself? I know the Portal's Trial was still fairly recent for you, but ah, I've seen some youthful shards yet find their partners early now and again." There is a hint of amusement in her own tone, along with a degree of wistfulness.

Rhalkyr thinks to himself: In the warm, bright tones of the faeling before him, "My Pysynne." Over, and over, in a fading echo.

The warmth finds no echo in Rhalkyr's masked countenance, with not so much as a flickering spark coaxed to life within the glinting green of his ceaseless stare. In a voice as soft as ragged, torn velvet, he murmurs, "Love, is, very fine. Hope, they will, not, mistreat. Hearts, can be, inconstant, yes?" A mild lift of a single, titanic shoulder drags the autumnal cloak up and down as surely as the prow of a boat born upon an unhappy sea. His answer, by contrast, is a flat, "No."

You think to yourself: Perhaps a sensitive subject for him...? Did he come to harm, at some point?

Elexia's smile dips into a thoughtful frown as her violet eyes first meet Rhalkyr's ceaseless stare, then are briefly distracted by the movement of the cloak. "If not yet, then perhaps another day. You are young yet," she replies, punctuating the statement with a firm nod. "It is true, that all shards grow and change with time and experience," she admits. "But certain things can remain firm. Long-lasting indeed, as I have seen. I have faith that it will be well." Again, the head bobs in a silent statement of emphasis. Switching topics, she instead inquires, "Have you made much progress with your written works? I've been occupied by similar pursuits, these past few Moons."

Rhalkyr's hand drifts up, then aside, as if brushing the matter aside, to better focus upon that which is of more interest. In an easy, amiable fashion, he replies with a casual, "Certain, things, yes." In contrast to the ready manner in which your head bobs and dips throughout the conversation, his own rests, unmoving, upon the harsh, unforgiving range of his knuckles, the only motion he provides lying in the slow rise and fall of his chest. Even his speech betrays not a flicker of movement, shrouded behind the toothsome mask as his mouth is, so that he seems like nothing so much as a possessed statue, forged from bronze and daubed in black. "Little. Focusing, on other, matters. Welcoming, recent, transplant." This last is spoken as conversationally as all the rest, but there is a certain degree of increased intensity with which he watches you, betrayed by a minute widening of his eyes.

The recognition in Elexia's face is unmistakable, though she quickly moves to control her expression. It does not seem as easy for her as before, and her eyes snap shut for three breaths before she is able reassume her guarded frown. Even then, it is not nearly so convincing as before. There is an increase in her posture's tension, a curling of her hands into fists. Soon, she seems to catch this, too, and forces herself back into a relaxed stance. Even for all her efforts, there is a shift across the ebony expanse of her wings. Like a drop of ink spilled into water, mournful blues erupts and spread. "Is that so," is all she offers as reply.

Rhalkyr thinks to himself: Ah. A connection there, as expected. Let us see how we might tug at the heartstrings, with this little strand of sorrow.

You think to yourself: Yes, just like Esei. Disarming, and then when I think I can find a way to disarm him, the knife.

Finally, motion. He shifts, a gradual, subtle adjustment of his weight, transferring it from his right side, to his center, slow as the turning of the season. His head lowers with an equal lack of hurry, until his eyes are level with your, masked face tilted curiously aside. Rhalkyr's left hand slides to the earth on your right, a brutal finger extending to draw loose, lazy circles in the ground. Idly, he inquires, "Is so. Illyria. Know, her?" Still, the painfully slow increase in the intensity of his regard, as gradual as a steel string being drawn tighter, and tigher, and tighter, until it nearly sings with trembling tension.

Again, Elexia's eyelids sink shut long before she replies. Of its own accord, her hand drifts up to a reflective mark of Serenity which hangs about her neck from a simple chain. She twists it to the right, and then to the left, and then releases it to return her hand slowly, forcefully to her side, as if it cost her concentration to do so. The somber blue hues now dominate her wings, until none of the original colour remains in the filaments. Then, she inhales, a deep steadying breath, and a sable circle forms in the center of each wing. It grows and expands, until eventually it crawls over the edge of her wings, returning them to their original state. "I spoke with her, met her," she replies as her violet eyes open, her voice cooler, calmer. "But I did not really know her, no."

As your eyes lid closed, Rhalkyr's track slowly over to study the manner in which you fret at the mark, his eyes narrowing every so slightly, before they drift over to watch your wings with a nearly palpable hunger. The languid, looping circles that he draws grow marginally wider, their circuit bringing his fingers ever so slightly nearer to you as he watches, unhurried. As ebon once again bleeds forth to dominate the delicate wings, the violent green of his eyes slips back to your face. Quietly, the ragged, splintering quality of his voice rendering the words difficult to pick apart, at first, he murmurs, "You, are sad."

Elexia allows the statement to hang in the air, her violet eyes looking back at Rhalkyr's with a hint of defiance. "Aye," she replies coolly. "I am." For once, she does not elect to elaborate, instead choosing to ask, "Is she settling in well, then?" Beneath the iciness of her tone, there is something more. A sincere curiosity, a quiet care.

The ever-ratcheting, trembling tension of his regard abruptly collapses as he lifts his head back a span, uttering a slow, thoughtful rumble that sets the rippling folds of his cloak to shivering. In a voice that is gentle, genuine in its benevolence, Rhalkyr says, "Yes. Fed her, myself. Is fond, of quiet, places. Has found, her home. Some, flowers, bloom best, at night." The motions of his left hand grow still, so that his splayed fingers rest upon the ground, even as he shifts his right to extend it towards you, fingers curled loosely inwards - upon one of which gleams a ring of bronze, inset with ruby. Pausing, the great paw hovers in the air a respectful distance from your face. "Will not, hurt."

A storm of conflicting emotions crosses Elexia's face, somehow an incongruous mix of relief and disappointment. But, she nods gratefully to Rhalkyr, replying with a simple, "Thank you." Her eyes rise to the heavens, where the dusk has settled upon the world like a blanket woven with warm colours. Her eyes spy the nescient Moon, a last quarter, rising high into the sky. "It is nearing time for my meditations, so I believe I shall wing back to the wood," she chimes as her gaze returns to Rhalkyr's green eyes. "Until we meet again, Rhalkyr. May your Tah'vrai be just."

Rhalkyr watches every minute shift, every tiny ebb and flow of feeling that crosses your face. At the mention of departure, a flicker series of his own emotions dart across his eyes, swift as the fleeting shadows of predators at night - disappointment, hunger, fascination, and the tiniest glimmer of something that may be covetousness. Without a word, he rises, his motions so graceful as to be liquid, uncoiling with a feline elegance. Turning, he says over his shoulder, cloak snapping and flapping in the wind, "Sing, next, we meet. Go well, little, songbird." With this, his attention turns to the boar that has been boldly wandering in and out - and in a motion of such abrupt force that it sends a plume of displaced forest debris up in his wake, he pounches upon it. The beast squeals in commingled rage and fear as it is grasped about the throat, and the cries grow yet more piteous still as it is hauled up into the trees with appalling ease, growing ever more distance as the striped human fades into the forest.