• Solo • The Last Iyo

As Desnind faces the next several trials of chill darkness, the people of Desnind congregate around the Fire Pit to warm themselves.

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Joran
Approved Character
Posts: 46
Joined: Sat Apr 13, 2019 2:23 am
Race: Tunawa
Profession: Forager
Renown: +30
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Wealth Tier: Tier 5

The Last Iyo

Wed May 15, 2019 3:33 pm

2nd Cylus, 719

Joran hated Cylus. Most people of Desnind hated it, to his knowledge. Especially Tunawa, with their reliance upon the warm and the sun. They were a strong people both in body and in spirit, but the cold darkness of Cylus always drove the vigor and life from his kind. Magani was a depressing place during Cylus, and though many Tunawa preferred to group together and spend this time in their own company, Joran was never among them. It felt too much like the collective lethargy fed on itself. And so the small man chose to spend the first truly dark night of Cylus by the Fire Pit with the Sev'ryn and other assorted dwellers of Desnind. They were better able to cope with Cylus than Tunawa; their blood did not flow slow and sluggish like the sap of a Tunawa. They did not lapse into trials-long sleeps, and they did not grow ill from the lack of light. That would be something Joran would face later in the season, but it always loomed large over him during this time of year.

Maybe that was why he'd never feared the fire pit quite so much as a man made of wood ought to. The warmth of it kept his sap flowing and while the light wasn't the natural, refreshing glow of the sun above, it made him feel a little better. So here he sat, on a small rock a few feet from one of the smaller fire pits. He was the only Tunawa present, but the pits were crowded tonight with Sev'ryn, humans, and even a few odd-ball races all looking for light and warmth. Many were visitors from out of Desnind, who were not used to the true darkness that came with relying on the iyo for light. In Desnind, Cylus truly was a dark time. There could be no fire, and thus productivity ground to a halt.

"It's a sign," A Sev'ryn elder said, lightheartedly bickering with an older human woman. The two were talking about the beautiful song a couple nights ago, at the close of the last arc. "That Ymiden and Moseke are looking out for us. That we will survive the cold." The Sev'ryn had a lion familiar, the half-transparency of it less obvious in the firelight. A slightly unnerving sight, though Joran had grown up with unlikely creatures accompanying Sev'ryn.

"A sign?" The human woman asked, idly dismissive. "It could be the Bad Lands, for all we know." She spoke Xanthea practically as well as a native--she'd been here for many arcs, if Joran had to guess.

"Don't talk like that," the Sev'ryn chided her, growing slightly more serious. "Talk of that place brings bad fortune." Again, a huff from the human, though she obliged him.

A silence fell over the small group, and Joran grimaced as the chill air fell over him. The light breeze had changed direction, wafting the heat away from him. The Tunawa glanced around, then cleared his throat and said, "Want some music?"

The group turned their attention to the small Tunawa, who shifted uneasily. He wasn't shy, and enjoyed playing for a group...but a dozen eyes on him made him slightly anxious. "Sure, little man. Sing for us." This time it was a younger Sev'ryn, unaccompanied by a familiar.

Joran scowled at him, but nobody seemed to really recognize what the problem was. They probably didn't even realize he was displeased with the treatment. His kind were so easily dismissed because of their size, and everyone thought their only value was in being entertainment. Just because Joran liked playing his dulcimer didn't mean that it was all he was good for. Still, he hopped off the rock and trotted over to where he'd staked his zipper's reins in the dirt with a small wooden spike. The big dragonfly was practically shivering from the chill--that was why Joran had brought him along, to let him have some warmth from the fire. His dulcimer was on the back of the creature, and soon enough Joran had it unstrapped and was settling down back where he'd been sitting a moment ago, the dulcimer on his knees.

Rather than ask for requests--since he didn't know enough tunes--Joran simply began to play. He knew there was such a thing as written music--he'd seen it in the library...but he had no idea how to read it. Instead, he played based on feel and memory. Joran thought he was passably good, though far from skilled.
word count: 783
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