And All the Stars in Heaven...
By Kathryn Dianne Bayne [Author Info]Her first true spring. Synerth Delko'Durn, as a drow of the underworld, would know the surface realm in it newness. All of the world seems alive again, after a slumber that left dormant the vibrant colors of life. Winter has fled the forest, and banished is the chill of the snow. She marvels at this change, sitting upon the main bough of a newly leafed tree. Her senses are keenly aware of the scents that move toward her in the crisp air. Her amber eyes are open, as she observes all about her. Her gloved hands touch the once more growing oak, a grip that helps to balance her on the limb. The wind that plays with the tree's fragile leaves also toys with the white wisps of her thin hair. For once, her features are marked with a calm appearance Gone is the nervous biting of her inner lip, and the coiled energy of a panther is slumbering within this youthful elf. She notes from her perch the changing course of another kindred elf with interest.
His steps are light over the stones and branches that criss-cross the path, and his boots make no sound as he moves over the terrain. Only the rippling of his long cloak announces his presence, not the color, for the deep purple folds blend with the shadows of the forest behind him. Of her kindred, only her half-brother, would seek her out at this hour.
She is not intentionally hiding, indeed her legs hang in view, black boots, black leggings, these are not part of the natural shadow scheme surrounding the perch she has taken as her place of reflection. She does not call out just yet to the meandering figure, unsure if she wishes to broker conversation with her wayward brother. Yet she is compelled by an odd desire to watch him.
His footsteps end at the forest edge. He sits under an ancient oak, the grass around him tall against his short frame. His hood falls forward, covering his face and his heritage. This almost childsized man removes a scabbard from his side and lays it beside him. The dagger, however, he keeps in hand, his small fingers never leaving the dark, red-leather hilt of the deadly blade. She knows -- though only a little -- the secret history of that instrument of death, and yet she knows enough to fear its magic hold upon his psyche will return. She will likely never know the entire past of Kinzik Delko'Durn, but she will always try to understand him. The blood these siblings share may only be through a father, but the bond runs deeper than this. They share that mark of dark skin and white hair, and the dark legacy of the drow belongs to them, but neither is the norm of their race.
She does not move to the ground to approach him, but with a skill that might make a woodland ranger envious, she moves with swift silent footfalls towards the branches above this contemplative person that is Kinzik Delko'Durn. The soft fabric of her precious cloak is as dark as midnight. Its hood is down and it may with its flowing length indicate her presence again, but only to ears that listen. She has no grin upon her lips and no bit of mischief hides in her amber eyes. Beyond her father, only the drow beneath her commands her respect, and she worries about this attachment, daring to feel any emotion at all. He removes his hand from the dagger, clenching and unclenching his fingers in a fist, as if to work the stiffness from them. This series of actions occurs in an unbidden pattern. His left hand pushes back the thin braids of white hair from his face. His high boned features are poised with an edged calm. The drowess reads these actions, keen as any dark elf to subtle movements, and she understands the minute details of body language. Synerth is unnerved by the disturbance she detects in her much admired older kin.
Her own small ebony hands rest upon both hilts of her weapons, though with no meaning beyond a normal resting. She is still oddly content to watch, and be silent as her nature is known to be. She is velvet blackness, enshrouded in the darkness that is her heritage, and only her bright eyes and her pure white hair defy this midnight image. The outstretched limb gives a sigh when she settles her weight upon the branch, an intentional sound to give her half brother the opportunity to break the shadowed silence.
He speaks in words of barely more sound that the fluttering of her own cloak in the cool night breeze. His suspicious senses have grasped her subtle intent. He does not move from his seat at the bottom of the tree, nor does he take hold of any weapon, as one might suspect a person to do when realizing someone stalks them. Instead, he merely speaks, and his words are more tired than grim, and directed towards no one in particular, in keeping with this image of ease.
"I only know two people with enough skill to walk in stealth along the branch of a tree while I sit beneath it, and neither of them would have been heard, had they not wanted to be. Well met, whichever of you it is."
She drops to the ground not far from him, thankful that her desire to speak was communicated. All settles about her, including her dagger and short sword, as she stands to her complete height. She is taller than this strange one that is her kin. Her diminutive form lacks the fragile elf maiden appearance. Synerth's entire height is clouded in black, and her ebony skin still holds an onyx hue and despite the days she has spent above ground the sun has not marred the darkness of her flesh. With her sight no longer aided by the covering of the tree's canopy, her pupils contract and she grins, just slightly so, pleased by the compliment.
"I would ask, dear Brother, if that were the matter that troubles my mind, whom this other is," she shrugs, "but I it is not my concern..." She unhooks the embroidered latch of her cloak and folds the flowing garment over her arm. "Tell me, why are you here? And what shadows plague your mind?"
When she does converse, her words are direct, and her voice crisp and clear. And now her tone betrays a sliver of concern -- an emotion that she would repress -- if she noticed her own inflection.
His countenance remains impassive, even tired seeming, his blue eyes lazily floating to the unseen landscape beyond, "Aumif the Halfling, if you would like to know. Although I dare guess that he would rather be sitting in a comfortable chair than dancing about on tree limbs."
He slides down the tree a bit, causing the thick fur cloak to bunch at the back of his neck, "I am here to rest for a while, and my shadows are simply that, shadows. They will be gone when there has been sufficient light applied to their hiding places."
A curt nod follows those words and the arms crossed over his chest indicate the end of a reply, and then as his deep blue eyes half close, he speaks again, in a timed question, "What is your reason for being here, Sister, and what shadows cause you to think of me?"
As if a coiled energy were released, Synerth takes a few quick steps forward and in fluid movements crouches next to the dark form of her half-brother, leaning in close to his face. The wisps of her white hair fall out from her topknot, and her eyes, lit from within, are a warm amber. Synerth sets her small hand upon the slender shoulder of her kin. She offers these words, spoken with such quietness that they are lower than the rustle of leaves, "Why do you do this?"
Her features bear a look that might seem hard to some, but it is the determination of her nature. She is not clear in her meaning, and thus she must continue her voice still soft, "I am in no mood for word games, Kinzik, my tongue tires of the twists you would have it follow..." Yet she does not answer his question, an omission made for her own troubled reasons.
He plucks up a long blade of grass, and places it in his mouth. The leafy end brushes against her nose, a meaningful annoyance meant to rile her. "Then don't answer me," he quips, yet that fades, and he is serious now, "Just sit and watch the sky. How long has it been since you looked at the stars? Surely longer than since we last spoke. It has been longer for me, and I would like a good seat tonight, so this is where I rest and watch the black sky and the white stars."
His tone is almost lilting in its pattern though it bears a tired cloak over the words and, under that, a sword of grim thoughts. His eyes move slowly toward her own with mischief in them, and the remnants of anger, but his dark blue orbs hold her amber eyes in a reassuring way.
She dares to snatch the blade of grass and rock back and away from her half-brother. Her lips set in a line lacking emotion, and yet she wonders at the visage of the man before her. This complex drow is her kin.
"There is wisdom in your words, a wisdom that I would only argue against if I were vexed," she says, flicking away a few of the thin strands that play about her face. She set aside her worry, not liking the hollow pit in her stomach created by the emotion. She knows that feeling is weakness to expose.
As unskilled as she is in lifting the burdens of others, let alone dealing with her own problems, she consents, "You are correct, it has been many nights since I last watched the glimmering pin-pricks of light." Might I…" she hesitates,"...join you again?" She tugs the fabric of her cloak, pulling it about her again, her arms holding it close. "And shall I take to my usual perch above you, brother?"
"Aye, sit, if you wish, you need not even ask. And sit where you wish, Synerth, above or beside me, either is fine as long as you have a good view of the stars." He shakes his head slightly, his eyes closing then reopening, the inner light having faded a little. "Why do I not have a reason? For being, I mean. I had one before, to find adventure. And then another, to kill at the call of this dagger. But now, free of the dagger and through with adventure, I have no calling."
She never expected such a clear answer to what bothered him, and why he says this now, she does not know, but she only hopes that he somehow trusts her -- and deems her nearer kin by temperament than by her lineage.
Confused by this faith in her, she simply sits and stares at the heavens, seeking answers to unspoken questions.
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