Mockingbird Festival; B-side (Graded)

10th Vhalar, 718

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Pharan
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Posts: 103
Joined: Sun Jan 20, 2019 11:41 am
Race: Avriel
Profession: Diplomatic Aide
Renown: 15
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Wealth Tier: Tier 5

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Mockingbird Festival; B-side (Graded)

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J
ust south of the shrine of Syroa, people still walked along brazier lit streets. Emerging from the waterfront, Pharan had heard the crowd long before he saw the first figures move among colored tent. He passed a winding row of stalls selling trinkets and baubles of foreign making and a group of Avriel, their faces hidden behind artful, reptilian masks. A woman, taller than most he had ever seen, was engaged in mock battle with two smaller figures, rust-red wings tugged away beneath her costume.

“I could take all three of them.”

It took Pharan a second to realize the boast was directed at him. He looked towards the man who had addressed him—an Avriel, younger than himself if not by much, the hard, haughty look in his eyes betraying the softness of his features. Pharan hesitated, then inclined his head, wondering if it would suffice as an answer. Maybe it did, for the man’s attention returned to the fighters. Suddenly irritated, Pharan pushed on, away from the performance.

The cool night air licked at his fingertips. He thought of his place, holed away at the far end of the forest of stone; his work, some letters, still unfinished. His eyes found a nearby street, a narrow thing climbing the hill to the east. He changed course. Away from the light of the fires, the heat of other bodies, the night felt colder. Pharan stepped into the half-dark of the alley, coat rustling as his wings struggled to expand underneath the fabric of his cloak. He felt the faint updraft racing up the wall of the building to his left before he saw it. Strong enough, he decided as he stretched his wings.

He wasn’t a good flier, but he knew how to use the winds to his advantage. He took a step forward and unexpectedly found himself hesitating. The sensation of being watched returned to him like an unwelcome guest abusing his hospitality. He told himself it was nothing. Nothing at all. It wouldn’t have been the first time he caught a sudden movement in the corner of his eyes, only to find himself alone when he turned around. It was the season, he told himself. The twilight.

It didn’t quite work.

Pharan forced himself to take one step forward and then another. The end of the alleyway came into view just as the first wave of nausea settled into the pit of his stomach. The bird-part of his brain was ready to give into the primordial game of predator and prey; to run, run, run until the bitter end. Instead, he made himself take another step forward. He eased around the corner, just a touch too quickly. The cool solidity of the wall in his back was an unexpected relief. He counted to three. Leaning forward, he searched the street around the corner.

A single, cloaked figure had entered the alley. A pale shape followed in its wake, not giving to the wind the way fabric would have. Wings.

Pharan thought of the man down by the quay, the Avriel looking over him. His heart sank even as the onset of panic stirred in his chest. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. You should have run. He knew it was true. He also knew that he would never stop wondering what had happened if he didn’t look now.

When he leaned forward again, the shadow had almost reached the corner.

It was only then, he noticed. The figure was too short. It moved with a gentle hobble, one foot turned inward, slightly. It was hard to see if you didn’t know what to look for. Pharan abandoned his vantage point.

“Qyran?”
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At the far end of the alley, his nephew pushed back the hood of his cloak. Feathers as pale as Pharan’s own bristled in the cool night air. The boy had the decency to look guilty. For two, three trills, anyway. A sudden grin inevitably marred the solemn expression, completing the transformation of his ominous stalker into a gangly child of twelve Saun with too long arms and a triumphant smile.

“I was pretty good, no?”

“Good?”, Pharan asked, his voice deceptively soft. “Your mother would be furious if she knew you were out here. Alone.”

“Good following you, I meant,” Qyran explained with a lopsided smile; sounding, oddly, proud. “You had no idea. No idea I was behind you.”

“I am sure your mother will be… thrilled learning about your new-found talents,” Pharan said dryly. It might not even be a lie, he thought as he watched his nephew pick his path across the wet cobblestone. The knot in his stomach unwound as the panic subsided. He looked from the young Avriel back to the fires dancing in the distance. “Your mother changed her mind? About the festival?”

“She didn’t say no.”

“Did you ask her?”

Qyran squinted at him. “She would have said no if I had asked her…,” he replied as though it was obvious. “But I wanted to see the costumes. And the people.” He crossed his arms. There was a short, thoughtful pause. “She doesn’t like them, I don’t think. Mother, that is.”

Pharan made no reply. His sister’s relationship with the population of Idalos at large, at least those not of their own winged brood, was well beyond what concepts as simple as like or dislike could convey in a satisfactory manner. “Maybe you should talk to her. Ask her what she thinks. Her travels,” Pharan suggested finally, motioning Qyran to follow him as he led them back down the alley.

“I did ask her. She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Qyran breathed at his hands before slipping them back into the folds of his cloak. It was getting colder, finally. “But I did see the scars.”

Pharan had seen them too. A faint pink on pallid skin they were hard to make out—but he had seen them. He pondered an answer and found he had none.

They reached the mouth of the alley. The crowd once more engulfed them, the bodies welcoming them back into the fold like sheep lost and found again. Something in his chest relaxed. It would be easy to believe it was the last shred of anxiousness falling away. Pharan suspected it was something else—his spark basking in the warm embrace of the crowd, lazing in the glow of the proverbial hearth like a common domestic beast: placid, fat and almost content. He pushed the thought aside. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman sang a song he didn't know, in a language he had never heard to a tune he wasn’t familiar with. Distracted, he lifted his gaze.

More languages he didn't know. More people. Places.

He shouldn't have cared, he knew.

“Did you fight, too?”

Qyran’s voice, quiet but curious, cut through his ruminations. “I did some hunting. Hares and birds, mostly,” Pharan said as he shook himself out of his stupor. They had stopped by a tiny stall selling mackerels roasted on wooden sticks. Pharan pointed at two of the fish, then handed a few copper nel to the woman turning them over the fire. He received two skewers. He handed one of them to Qyran.

“That’s not the same”, the boy said as if he knew. He started to pick at his food with pointed fingers. “Mother says you are only good at talking. And that you always try to weasel your way out of problems. Because you aren’t a fighter.” He sniffed. “When I return I will be a great warrior. Like my parents.”

It should have stung. To his own surprise, Pharan found himself casting his nephew an amused look. “Is that so?”

Qyran nodded, all serious. Whatever wounded pride radiated of Pharan, he ignored it. “She also said you made it back still—and that that would mean something.”

Pharan flicked fishbones of his fingertips. It did sound like Nymae. His sister was the only one who would jump to someone’s defense against a pack of jackals only to turn around and belittle them. He looked at his nephew. Neither tall nor short for his age, he already sported the lanky frame typically associated with adolescence—all knees and elbows and juvenile pride. A year or two, and he would find himself in the wilderness outside Athart’s.

“If you wanted, I could teach you more Common”, Pharan offered as silence threatened to spread between them. He had started to wipe his fingers with a piece of cloth produced from the inside pocket of his cloak. “Might be useful.”

“Useful for what?” His nephew had finished his skewer, trusting the wooden stick forward like an impromptu sword; stabbing air.

“Talking to people.”

“Why?”

Because no one will bother to learn your language, so you might as well learn theirs if you want to be understood. He didn’t say it. He cast his nephew a sidelong glance. “Maybe you want to ask someone for the way. Or need to barter supplies. I--”

“Maybe,” Qyran cut him off. Pharan met his eyes, searching for a sign of anger. The seriousness he found gave him pause. He looked away.

The wind picked up again, culling the weak and wavering from the herd of festival goers around them. Pharan could see the first figures vanish into the dark beyond the fires, homeward, presumably. He was about to suggest they did the same when the crowd parted before them. Half a dozen colorful figures poured into view, blunt weapons brandished. It seemed whatever unnamed battle the small troupe of not-quite-Ithecal were reenacting had not yet found an end. The audience reeled. By his side, Qyran craned his neck, eyes wide.

“Do you think one will duel me? If I asked?”, he blurred, starting forward so quickly, Pharan had trouble to keep up.

“I think you had enough adventures for one night,” Pharan called out after him. He looked up to the still dark sky and back to his nephew. “We can watch. For a while. But then I drop you off at your home.”

Qyran turned. For a trill Pharan thought the boy was about to protest—but then he merely nodded.

As Qyran moved forward, Pharan followed.
word count: 1736
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Korva
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Posts: 435
Joined: Fri Nov 09, 2018 4:47 am
Race: Biqaj
Profession: Fisherman/Woodworker
Renown: 90
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Wealth Tier: Tier 6

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Re: Mockingbird Festival; B-side


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Rewards!


Name: Pharan

Knowledge:

Flying: Keeping an eye out for updrafts
Discipline: Not looking back when being shadowed
Detection: Body-language can give away one’s identity
Meditation: Regaining ones footing after a moment of panic
Socialize: Bowing out of a conversation before it starts
Socialize: Pressing a topic can make it awkward

Loot: NA
Injuries: NA
Renown: NA
Magic XP: NA

Points: 10
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Comments: Aw, I almost wanted Qyran to go have a fight so Pharan. A nice little insight to Pharan and his family dynamic with this one, very enjoyable! Good job :D

If you feel I've missed anything or if you have questions about your review, please don't hesitate to send me a quick PM or ping me in Discord. Thanks!

**Made by the magnificent Kes
word count: 130
ન'ઊળઇ૯ ૧એ૪ઇ૮ ઔનઌઈઇ પઇ, પબ ઇબઇ૮ ૯રશ૧ મકઇ ૧એબ. --Korva
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