A Seedling Search, Ether's Rose

[Nemaisare]

It was raining again. Of course it was raining again. It never did anything but rain in this place. The land was wet enough to sink your boots into and just leave them there without noticing while you kept walking. It was wet enough to make a lake seem dry and still the rain came down. Not that the old man was complaining. Nope, the frown on his face was for entirely different reasons than the wetness threatening to rot the clothes right off his back. And he certainly wasn’t upset that the rain was over watering his precious travel companion or might have been getting into his store of dry food rations and ruining them. Neither was it bothersome that the road, which he knew had been reconstructed not two years ago, had already been washed away and he was walking through miniature canyons and deep ruts that would have made this a nightmare for anyone trying to get a wagon through. In fact, it was bad enough that any wagoner would have been better off heading cross country. Such was simply the way of life in Meigia; there wasn't much to be done about it.

It was only that he'd gone and forgotten just how much it rained here. Visiting Amalterre could have that effect on a man. Even a native Meigian. However, being such, he was well enough prepared to cope with the wet. Which was why he wasn't complaining. Because he was very wet. He made quite the scene as he wandered purposefully along. His broad shoulders seemed almost as wide as he was tall, and the heavy bag weighing his steps seemed of no consequence to him. He carried it easily, though not without effort. Certainly, he walked now slower than he might have in his youth. But that was not the strangest thing about him, which was why he'd managed to catch the attention of so many in his travels. Now, there were few others out on the roads to keep him company. And it was rare if they paid him a second glance. His pack was supported beneath and between his back and the cloth by thin boards of wood, strong enough and stained against the weather. Straps kept the bag in place and the frame on his back, and two pots sat on the jutting edges on either side of the haversack.

The pots were filled with earth and from one sprouted the curled, miniature form of a tree, huge leaves supported by short, thick branches that swayed above him. Dripping even more water onto his unprotected head. In the other pot there was a smaller plant. A sort of fern just unfurling its fronds. The man had covered it to keep the rain off, for it was no marsh fern or wetland tree. So much water as it would collect in its soil would have been detrimental to its health. Needless to say, the whole pack was rather lopsided in weight, the one pot far heavier than the other due to extra water and the larger mass of its tree. But the man seemed not to care. He'd had all day long to get used to it and now that evening was falling, he was coming closer to his goal, which made his steps lighter and lifted his gaze. There was a light in the distance. He knew it well.

---------------------------

The door opened at his light touch, which was a welcome relief, and the warmth that gusted out of the large common room beyond was greeted with a sigh of relief. He'd made it. The old man's features were ruddy and weatherworn in the light shining from the fine candles and the hearth, and he stood for a time after he'd shut the door, dripping a great puddle onto the floor and letting his body relax from the strain of a good day's work. There weren't many gathered beneath the roof, which wasn't so great a surprise, considering what it was like outside. The man's dark eyes, soft from the light's reflection and surrounded by wrinkles, saw only two others. A large, dark-skinned man who was surely a stranger to these parts, and a familiar young friend who was more than half his age. That young man glanced up from leaning on the counter top where he'd been causally cleaning glasses and grinned. "Rafael Endersson! Old Brother!* We'd thought you lost. Get that pack off and warm yourself at the fire, I'll find ye some food other than that hard bread ye've no doubt been eatin'." The man, Rafael, blinked in surprise at the greeting, then frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"That weren't yore task last I was here, Little Son*. Where's yore pa then?" His voice was rough and grated from his throat in a rude sounding question that was more demanding than curious. The younger man seemed used to it, though he shook his head quietly and sent a sidelong glance towards the stranger he'd just begun to question. "Chased him out the door th'last dryspell we had, Rafael.**" He pointed at the very door the old man had just come through, and might have continued if Rafael hadn't interrupted his softer spoken young friend. "Before or after, Shalt?"

The rumble of his voice was directed towards the ground as he finally began the struggle that would divest him of the pack he'd worn all day. And he grunted at the answer he received as though it was of no great importance. "After." But it was hard news to take, after finally turning for home and thinking there'd be a happy meeting once he finally got back. Well, that was one more gone. And his own brother at that. He'd missed him by a whole half year. Gods but he'd been away too long. He managed to shrug out of his bag, after what seemed an eternity, and laid it carefully against the wall, taking his time to make sure it wouldn't tumble over and clearing his throat sharply more than once.

"All right then. I s'pose as there'll be time enough later for tale telling. I'll take what ye can give me, Shalt and many thanks for it." The old man stumped to the fire and pulled off his soaked tunic, revealing a weathered, well-tanned body and the muscles that had been responsible for all the work of carting that giant bag about. It also made visible the thickening waistline and the collective pattern of old scars and whirling tattoos that spread over his skin. They told a story together, they did, but few could read it now. Then, setting the cloth to hang as near the fire as was safe and leaving it to steam, he sank into a nearby chair and leaned on the table in front of it. He eyed the stranger warily while he waited for Shalt to bring him food from the back kitchen. "I s'pose Shalt's already gone an'questioned ye out of all th'news t'be had 'bout wherever ye've come from. But if ye don't mind tellin' t'all again, I'd be mighty glad for some talk."

((Right well, hopefully this is all right with you. I sort of brought Zeek into the inn already, but he doesn't have to be if you don't want. I can always edit that out. If you need any questions answered as to what all is going on, just give me a poke via pm.

*Among the older peoples of Meigia, this is the formal, polite form of address. Shalt is naming rafael his uncle and Rafael is agreeing to it by naming him his nephew. The brother and son parts simply refer to them being kin, while the words old and little refer to the generation between them.
**This is an old tradition in which the children inherit from their parents all that they have by, quite literally, chasing them out the door. It can occur any time after the child reaches majority. Generally, it is only a symbolic chasing, as the child will then allow their parents to return and will look after them in their old age. Usually, this would happen before the parents die, but occasionally, a child might not feel ready, or might wish to try other things before taking over the family traditions. Thus Rafael's question of 'Before or after?' he was asking if his brother was dead, or merely no longer in charge of the inn.))

[Ether's Rose]

((If you want me to go further, I can. I...always question where I stop with posts. >.<))

Ezekiel Aloi sat alone in the warm, dry inn. Those two things were the only real things that it had going for it. It wasn't particularly grandiose, and it wasn't even cozy. It was...just a building. There seemed to be no character. But perhaps that was just a reflection of Zeek's distaste of local flavor. It was cold and wet outside, not like the warm rains that graced his home. With each raindrop that had fallen upon his forehead, Zeek had become more disheartened with this land. But finding the less pleasant parts of the world was as much, if not more, a part of his job as finding the good places was.

His eyes were open, but he wasn't really using them. They were staring at some knothole in the wooden floor, but he didn't know that. He was too absorbed in a combination of thought and a conversation with a man long dead. They spoke of the land in which the dead man had lived all his years in. They spoke of the weather and they spoke of the foliage and fauna. They spoke of all the things that wouldn't have changed in the years since he was dead. And they spoke, of course, how he had died. The dead were very obsessed about that, Zeek had found. This man had died after a horse had broken his neck with a swift kick. It happened. Zeek was pulled from the conversation by a living man.

“News? I s'pose I'm not the best for that. It's all news to me, see. Things that 'appened five or ten or fifty years ago 'ere are still news to me.” Zeek offered a smile of pearly whites. “But I can offer you a story of my homeland, if you're interested. I've got lots of those, and they're surely new to you, I imagine.” He shifted in his seat happily, and his deep red robes rustled loudly. His blue eyes lit up at the thought that he would get to tell someone something of the Isles. He missed them dearly.

[Nemaisare]

It seemed he'd troubled the man from something. Which wasn't such a grand surprise considering the quiet running through the place. Wasn't much else to do but think, and get well caught up in it too. But the man recovered well enough, and though he hadn't any recent news to offer, Rafael couldn't say he was sorry. He wasn't looking for much of anything specific, just talk. Right now, a distraction was what he needed. And anything even remotely interesting about something he didn't already know would be welcome relief from coping with the news Shalt had just given him. So the old man grunted and shrugged his broad shoulders. A clear indication that he wasn't much up to caring about the topic of their conversation.

"Course I'm int'rested. Ain't yet found a story what I didn't want to hear." He leaned back, frowning slightly at that simple lie. It was an easy exaggeration, and the man would undoubtedly accept that it wasn't quite the truth. In a way it was, for the old man listened to every story he was told and never tuned out or interrupted unless he had an important question. It didn't matter to him what the story was about. But it wasn't true that he'd always wanted to hear them. Sometimes he'd had to, and sometimes it was only an accident, a bit of talk overheard that wasn't meant for him. But he still listened. That was what you did with stories. "Ye've caught my fancy, now, ye have. Haven't seen one quite like ye that I ever recall. Where're ye from then? Afore ye get started."

He'd seen the light in the man's foreign coloured eyes, and he'd caught the faint eager anticipation in his words. So there was no hesitancy in his rumbling voice as Rafael encouraged him to continue. Clearly, that man wouldn't mind in the least. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, the rough wood hard against his bare back, but a welcome support nontheless, and gave the fellow his full attention. Or as much as a man could give when he was waiting for food on an empty stomach.

[Ether's Rose]

“I come from a group of islands called the Cratians, to the far south. It's a wonderful place. The sun shines warmly year-round, and the rains are gentle and cool. But my people did not always come from there. I think I'll tell you the story of how my People came to the Cratians.” He cleared his throat and took a long drink of water before beginning to speak.

“Long ago, the Cratians were called the People of the Sands, or Y'girna, in my tongue. We lived in a desolate place. The only vegetation for miles was this thick, tall grass, and water was scarce. But we were happy there, for our gods lived there then. Our gods were called the Pu'tanari, and were massive cats, standing as tall as a man at the shoulder. They were black-furred, with deep purple stripes running down their sides.

“The Pu'tanari had once hunted us, for we were unfaithful then. But Tertia, one of our people's great Chiefs, learned to speak with them, and was told to offer up sacrifices, and the Pu'tanari would watch over the Y'grina. She convinced the Elders of the tribes to begin offering their kills to the Pu'tanari, and they stopped hunting us. For the next century, the lives of the Y'grina remained like that. All were faithful of the Pu'tanari, and they kept us safe from those that wished us harm.

“But things did not remain that way. Missionaries from a land we called Ter'shanka, the Land of Dead-Speakers, came to the Y'grina. They spread their faith amongst my people, and over time, the Pu'tanari became seen as pets more than Gods. At first, the Pu'tanari allowed this, but eventually, they grew tired of being treated as such, and began to hunt my people once more.

“Denala, Tertia's descendant, tried to speak with the Pu'tanari again, to show their forgiveness. But the Pu'tanari were implacable. They told the Y'grina to flee, and flee we did. The Y'grina traveled for the next three summers, until they found their backs against the sea. Here, the Y'grina split. The first group were those that lost their faith in the Pu'tanari. They decided to stay there, on the seashore, and try to fight them off. All were slaughtered.

“The second group, which was made up of those that had merged their faith of the Ter'shanka, and that of the Pu'tanari, traveled south, and found a small forest. From the wood, they made boats and crossed the Sea, where the Pu'tanari could not follow them. This is how they found the Cratian Islands, which they first named the Crayshai, our word for....Penance, I believe is the closest translation. We originally meant return to our homeland, but we found the Cratians more hospitable. Many, many generations later, we sent men back to the Sands to find the Pu'tanari, but they had changed in that time. They had grown much smaller, only about two feet high, and our Elders could no longer speak to them. But still, we brought them back to the Cratians, and we call them the Veyanka, or the Silent Gods.” Zeek nodded solemnly, and awaited a reply from the man he likely just talked to sleep.

[Nemaisare]

Although it may not have seemed that way as his eyelids drifted dazedly lower, the man was listening quite appreciatively to the story of the Y'grina and their gods. It was most assuredly a new one that he'd never heard before. He'd never heard of Cratians either, but that didn't matter. It was not a strange sort of idea, to him at least, that gods might be beasts that spoke to their people, though the asking for sacrifices was a little bit different. But he was not one to judge another's culture. It was fascinating.

And when Shalt returned with a plate of food, Rafael merely nodded his thanks and gestured him to take the other chair so he could listen too. Which the young man did readily enough. There weren't any other guests to be taking care of, and there was nothing like a good story to captivate a native Meigian's attention. Although he'd been hungry, and was quite looking forward to eating some warm food, Rafael didn't interrupt the tale to pick at the food before him, chewing might interfere with him hearing anything. And besides, it was rude to take on other activities while a storyteller was speaking. Or so he'd often supposed.

So when it was finished, he shook himself out of the daze he'd fallen into, reached across the table, over his plate, to poke his nephew out of a similar trance. "Here now little brother, off with ye an' get yore guest some more water t'wet his throat, eh."

Then he pulled his plate closer and sat thinking on what he'd just heard for a time. Not too long a time, but enough for the rain pounding on the roof to fill in the silence that grew between the three of them. Then, picking up the fresh bread Shalt had set to the side of the soup bowl he began to rip it idly apart. "Now that's a mighty diff'rent story. Can't say as I've heard a any of these things, yer talkin' bout. But now ye've got my curiousity roused."

A side bonus he hadn't exactly expected, though he may have been hoping for it. "I'll have questions a'plenty fer ye in a moment. But while I'm epmtyin' this bowl, why not fill us'ns in as to what ye're doing somewhere's so wet, eh?"

[Ether's Rose]

Ezekiel nodded and smiled to the man. He was glad that his story was interesting. He had been worried that, as an outsider, his new friend wouldn't have been able to appreciate it. He took another drink of water to wet his throat before answering the new question.

“Well. I'm a researcher of sorts. The Priests of the Old Way, of which I am a member, wished to learn more of the outside world, and so they sent me out to do so. I'm traveling the world, and learning what I can, where I can. There's also the secondary objective of finding traders to travel to the Cratians. But that's not as important as the first.

“That being said, would you mind sharing something of yourself, and of this land, if it's your home as I assume? It is almost always best to hear about a place from a man born there.” He shifted in his seat and wondered what he would learn from this man. It seemed like there was much he could learn, if he would just listen. And that was one of the things that Zeek had learned to do exceptionally well over his lifetime.

[Nemaisare]

The old man shoved the soup soaked bread into his mouth as the other fellow answered his questions. It was always a good thing to know why another was wandering about on your land. Especially when you didn’t know them. But the answer he received put him at ease. A researcher then… Much like he himself was. Well, maybe not very alike, but close enough. Perhaps they could be of use to one another. Rafael, after all, gatherer of plants and stories, had never been to these Cratians. And this man had never before been here. Well, who better to show him around than an old man well used to the wiles of his own country?

“Well…” He muttered before sticking another bit of bread in his mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing. In Meigia, conversations could take a long time to get anywhere. “I kin certainly help yore learnin’ regardin’ this land. There isn’t a one as knows it better than those livin’ here. As yeh’da found out on yore own after askin’ round about. But I’ll save ye th’trouble now, eh?”

Rafael smiled and took another mouthful of soupy bread, enjoying the warmth and the savoury taste after all the cold meals of travel bread, hard and crunchy and only good because it was filling. “May v’ry well be as I kin help ye out with both a yourn wishes there. Knowledge an’ tradin’. Ain’t that right, Shalt?” He glanced at the thin man with a wide grin as he took the opportunity to scoop yet more food into his mouth. The innkeep grinned back and nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with his uncle’s assessment of the situation.

“I’m Rafael Endersson, lad, as Shalt said. This land’s bin my home fer as long as I’ve lived, though I’ve left it a few times more’n I kin count. The’ sky’s watered me so much I’m liable to take root here soon and never leave agin, Not that I’m complaining. Though I’m sure ye’re wishing’ ye came at a dryer time, eh? So, what are ye wanting to know?”