Wyvern Hugger

Karelin has arrived.

Alteri has arrived.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--<* Temple of Daeus - Courtyard *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
The House of Daeus in Alexandria may lack the scale and scope of The Holy See in the 
nation of Ecclesia, but it is still a befitting monument to the lord of dragons, and god of 
the sun and all creation. The structure itself is a massive domed basilica supported by 
immense piers and enveloped by a multi-storied complex with numerous arcing windows, 
jutting windowed arches and four towers that stand tall at the corners of the large 
complex. The massive dome centers over the sanctuary of the building but the base 
of the structure is actually square and multi-layered and leveled like ornate boxes 
stacked atop one another. 

Artwork and carvings of various celestials and saints adorn the structure while the 
sunburst symbol of Daeus; The Solis, is emblazoned upon the smooth paved ground 
with a large washing fountain located in the very center of the courtyard. Maintained 
gardens and garden paths envelop both sides of the Gourtyard while pathways lead 
to housing centers and places deeper in the temple for purposes of further meditation.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
 Karelin         Tattooed Korite warrior. Tall, dark and scarred.      10s  1h
 Alteri          A tall human fighter with dark hair and pale eyes.    32s  1m
 Svarshan        Be a brightscale! Chomp a demon!                      0s   5
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
Housing <S>               Gardens <N>               Sanctuary <SA>
Temple Plaza <O>          
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Echoes of a majestic, closing hymn resound through the sanctified hallways, fading to a joyous serenity as the sun completes its descent into the distant horizon. A lone figure carefully paces in the tended gardens of the courtyard, soaking in the peace and occasionally lifting a hand to gingerly feel a spot on her shoulder. She freezes, however, as she comes upon a plump little thrush, its beak heavy with twigs for a nest. For reasons unknown, the Eldanar enters into a staring contest with the bird to see who would blink first.

Karelin limps out of the sanctuary, looking somewhat chastened. He's leaning on the scabbard of his sword, using it as a cane, while one thigh is wrapped in a clean and fresh dressing.

"One wondered...what the slippery elm was for," Svarshan's voice is slow as he follows the Korite from the hall. He walks as slowly as the other man, though where Karelin's is caused by injury, Svar's seems more...intent, as though slow were the way of the world, and so long as the Sun came down from above, he may be content to nap within it. He carries a roughly, almost hastily wrapped bundle beneath his arm. Medicinal smells come from it--the scent of herbs, for one familiar, for the relieving of pain, of infection.

Of poison.

"Saa. The Sunguard..." and the sith'makar closes his muzzle over the words as soon as he sees the woman crouching there. And with the words that prove he's the seventh son of the seventh son of a Myrrish diplomat, "You are not supposed to be here."

Karelin grunts irritably. "For idiot warriors who are careless about scratches obtained in training, apparently." He slows down, shifting his grip on his sword. "Is this a problem?" Then, grumpily, he shrugs, lifts his chin to Svarshan. "But you've got temple guards for that," and stumps onwards.

Karelin has disconnected.

Alteri stiffens with a visible flinch. Pale eyes, made colourless in the dimming of day, seek out the one behind her lost battle with the thrush. They blink slowly as she catches sight of the Sith'makar and his companion. Already, the area is filling up once more, with acolytes bustling about their duties, and, eyes affixed on the one branded with the mark of Daeus, she reaches out a long arm to snag the nearest passing acolytes.

Bluntly, she asks, "Can I go?"

Exasperated, the acolyte tugs his robe free of her grip, "You aren't even supposed to be out of bed, Mistress. If you do not return to your room, I may have to request Sunguard Aisha's aid in forcing you back there. Now if you'll excuse me." Hurrying off to complete his errand, he throws a threatening, "Ten minutes!" over his shoulder.

Alteri's callused paw, divest of any acolyte robes to grip, remains lifted in the air a moment more. With a wry grunt, she lets it fall back to her side. Her gaze is still on the Sith'makar, shaded now with a sardonic tint. "I tried."

As the scarred Korite stumbles outward, Svarshan watches almost solemnly. "I believe that is a ritual," he says, and an almost-dryness roughens his tone. A part of his muzzle flexes in what might be a smile. "Saaa. So you are the...she-who-hugs-wyverns," he says. Struggles with the words. Decides on those. And he rubs at his jaw. "One has heard..." a look towards the angry acolyte. "Stories."

A bruise that must have been livid the day prior, paints Alteri's cheek a mottled shade. It gets a rueful rub, "Less dangerous than hugging a townswoman." Wait, did she do that? Maybe yes, maybe no. Stories can be difficult to sift for truth. The Eldanar is never able to fully shrug off her roots, and with a straightbacked, noble's gait, she closes the distance between herself and this servant(?) of Daeus. Slowly, mind. She is not quite up to doing much after all the hugging and consequences thereof.

Chin lifting, not haughtily, but in an acknowledgement of the other, her mouth opens to say something. Just then, a gust of wind whips through the courtyard, rustling bushes and... The Highborn stiffens a second time and her mouth snaps closed, nostrils flaring. Wary now, she studies the Sith'makar, "Seems you have stories of your own, good master." She makes a show of straightening her scruffy, mended shirt, "Been hunting demons?" Her question, so painfully casual, so woefully weighted, sits in the air between them as she inspects her trews for tears as if her life depended upon it.

"...it is a...hobby," he says. Words. So slow and so difficult. The accent comes across as flavored draconic, and at times painfully correct--in the Myrrish sense, a noble's tongue. "The Hearthguards wish I get another one. ..." he stops after that, having said the equivalent of two sentences. And his gaze follows her as she inspects for tears. ...and seeing nothing remarkable, looks at her curiously and silently.

And the silence stretches. And after a while, he feels compelled to add a thing, perhaps.

Save it would require speaking.

So he grunts instead, a slow and grating noise that comes with a brush of ash and smoke. "These packages...must be for you then." The medicinal smells.

Infection.

Painkillers.

Wounds.

A firm nod follows the explanation, as Alteri easily abandons her quest for tears to mend, "A fine hobby. Another? Perhaps I could go with..." her rich voice is laced with approval and perhaps, some regret that she was not along for the hunt, but it dies off at the Sith'makar's last sentence. Her eyes fall to the package in question and her expression becomes a study in embarrassment and mortification. "They shouldn't..." Gaze dropping, she stares unhappily at her empty hands that flex against the scars littering them, old and new. "I cannot pay for them." the proud Eldanar admits bitterly. Head lifting, she flips the overgrown bangs from her eyes in a decidedly stiffnecked gesture, "I fear I must trouble you to return them."

Svarshan stares at her a long time, and then grunts quietly. He shifts the package over to his other side. And when this is not sufficient for what he would do, he bends and puts it on the ground. The scent of slippery elm, of elderflowers...jars clink, and cloth rustles. "They do not expect payment in gold," he says, and for a moment, the words come out Myrrish and correct. And another...

...longer...

...pause. "Saaa. I have...claws, female-wyvern-hugger. Be careful, but place your palmssss...on...mine." He holds his hands out, palms upwards. The gesture is somewhat awkward, and not done often.

Alteri suffers the stare, pride and apology warring her own eyes. They grow a tad confused, however, when he settles the package groundward. His words give her some hope, though, "Then perhaps they could use a stablehand..." Her listing of options to repay the Temple gets neatly derailed by the Sith'makar's warning, and request. Again with the confused, but, he -is- a servant of Daeus. Right? Right. With great care to avoid any claws, she settles her sword-callused palms over his own.

A slow snort. Humor at something, and an almost sly look towards the direction the acolyte had vanished towards. "Labor," wryly. Pause. And then instead of words he looks towards the Sun. And not soon after a warmth builds--the rush of Dragon's wings, the heat of Daeus Above....

...and then the rustle of the wings flying past, the fading of Sunlight. And the fade takes with them bruises and scars. And the moment, whatever it was, ruined by a sour snort from the sith'makar. "They ask for labor. ...if you would help." He drops his hands, as though nothing had occurred. Or happened. "...speak with...The Master of Horses. Yes. Stables. ...but ignore Sunguard Agril if he sends you to Greta. That is cruelty, not..." words. "Work."

Whoa, what? No, she has felt this before, when the Hearthguard had his hand on her forehead. She feels the leaden weight of her limbs lighten, the gnawing hole that was her physical reserves refilling somewhat. And... she shifts her jaw a little, it feels like the whopping her face took is gone, too. Palms still on the Sith'makar's, she studies the enigma standing before her. "Looks like I'll be in the stables for a while." Her usually somber expression relaxes into a rarely seen full smile, lighting up her eyes and causing years to fall from her apparent age. Appearing no more than a handful of summers past two decades, her head tilts, "You have the advantage of me. You know my name," she quirks a droll brow at the name he calls her, "I know not yours."

Whatever she said--his heavy shoulders relax somewhat and after a while, he lifts his muzzle towards a direction of the temple. "It is...saaa. I will lead-the-way. My companion isss stabled...there." And he starts to turn that way, a process which begins the slow movement of his head, the realignment of neck, of shoulders--and pause.

Pause.

"Svarshan Kotharrventin." The latter said with a series of long hisses, growls. And another pause. "Darshan in your tongue."

Agril has arrived.

Renewed by whatever it was the Sith'makar had done, Alteri nods eagerly, looking almost childlike. "Stupid, too. They wouldn't let me check on her." Her expression is schooled into one of utter seriousness though, when the Sith'makar graces her with an introduction. Names, are important things, and the Eldanar affords him the fullest measure of her hawklike attention while he pronounces his. "Sssvarshan Kotharrrrrventin." she repeats slowly, doing a credible enough job of getting the name right. "An honour. You already know mine." Pale eyes twinkle a tiny bit, "Others call me Alteri." A Highborn who appears to be eschewing her family ties.

And so Agril is coming through the courtyard, actually, just now. He has hold of a different young acolyte. This one is being held by the ear.

"Don't you ever, ever, *ever* do that again. Are we clear?"

"owowowoyes!"

That is the acolyte's response.

"...her? A female?" Words. Svarshan nods after a time, a mimic of the human gesture, and begins then to lead the way towards the stables. "One would--" and then the words he'd so successfully put together break off and he slows. Eyes Agril and the acolyte. "...be glad you are not him."

Having angled herself to walk in step with Svarshan, Alteri glances back over her shoulder, and blanches to see her newest bane of existence - Acolytes, that never want her out of bed or sitting up or anything like that. Hunching a little to hopefully escape notice -- not quite something she can pull off being the tall lunk that she is -- she gives Svarshan a pained smile, "Which him? You were mentioning the stables?" She is not hurrying Svarshan along, honestly she is not. It is just better to not be caught by any acolytes so soon after another blessed healing from Daeus.

Svarshan keeps an eye on Agril and the acolyte as they go, almost as though...

"The acolyte...Sunguard Doran takes them to Greta, who one..." pause, pause. And beneath his breath, quietly and tinged with ash and smoke, as one might mention a terrible curse, "That is Sunguard Agril Doran. ...keep walking."

So Agril leads the Acolyte to the kitchens, yes, where he is deposited into the hands of an older looking woman. One with hair the color of steel. She's a big girl, too, and looks like she could give even Svarshan a run for his money with those muscles.

She takes the acolyte and asks, "Potato duty?"

"Worse," is the answer from Agril before the rather steamed priest steps away from the poor, terrorized acoylte, leaving him in Greta's tender mercies.

And walk, Alteri does, giving an internal wince on behalf of the poor acolyte. Yes, no one here but us birds. Curiously tall birds with black hair, but still birds. Chirp chirp, see? Keeping her saunter casual and unassuming, Alteri exudes the air of someone totally meant to be out here and not convalescing from silly wyvern stings or any such nonsense.

Svarshan watches the door close to the kitchen, and then reopen, sans the acolyte. He says nothing for a while, though a half-smile plays along the side of his muzzle. And after a moment, reaches into one of his pouches. ...and produces an old (ancient!) volume. He passes this to Alteri as they walk. "You might find that useful."

Puzzled, Alteri accepts the book, "I like horses, Master Svarshan." In that, she really does not need to be any further in debt to the Temple to perform her obligations to it. Still, she gives the book its due attention, turning over the volume to study its binding, then cracking it open to see... drawings of a child in knightly armour and angry V-brows smiting... she squints, "Trogdors?" She affords Svarshan a wry look, "Is this a subtle jibe, sir? I, being the child, hugging wyverns, being this sad drawing of trogdors? I did not hug one on purpose, I would have you know."

So Agril begins heading that-a-way. Towards Svarshan. Towards Alteri. The two of them are talking, after all, and he sees a book get passed between the two. And he stops. He stops and he gives Svarshan this glare. This very, very big glare.

"...one thinks...it will help you to understand Sunguard Doran better," the sith'makar replies. His voice is slow and solemn, laced with I-have-no-sense-of-humor and forthwith, my god has banished it! And then that does it. The edge of his muzzle twitches once. Twice. And draws slowly up into an actual smile. "It is the story of his...years-of-youngness." And along the back, it even says: AGRIL'S SUPER SECRET DIARY!!! KEEP OUT OR BE SMITEDDDD!!! in a child's handwriting, enough to make a schoolmistress weep. "A lesson for the sunblades. To help us understand what it means to be a...hello, Sunguard Doran."

Alteri's brow scrunches, "It is important that I understand him?" She flips a page, noting double rainbows drawn over what is supposedly pastoral fields, and villagers weeping tears of joy while singing praises to the hero-child in armour. "What does it mean?" The dim light of the Temple corridor has her bringing it up closer to her face to study the perplexing images. Then Svarshan is addressing a Sunguard. Sunguard Doran. Agril Doran. The owner of this, um, manual. Slowly, her eyes peek over the top of the book to find a glaring priest. "Um..."

"Why, hello there. I think you may have something that belongs to me," is what Agril is saying to Alteri, a grin cast in Svarshan's direction.

It isn't a nice grin.

The Highborn blood is evident, in that Alteri does not cave to the not nice grin being sent their way. Straightening, she closes the tome and hands it back over to Scarshan, "Thank you, it was educational." and bravely runs away, away. Not really, but she does give the book back to Svarshan to perhaps avoid anyone's ire. She is +innocent here.

"It is," says Svarshan, solemnly. And then, he looks down at the book in his arm. And looks at Alteri. "My people...do not fit well in the Church hierarchy. This is how Agril and I will settle this." And then he punches Agril in the face.

Svarshan goes OOC.