2019-07-17 - Carry the Sun

There's a rustling, rattling sound from somewhere in the shop. Like someone is working at something. A lock, or a latch. Random noise is common in a town like Gray Harbor; it's nowhere near urban enough to scare off a lot of animals that would avoid a city, but juuuuust enough to attract the ones who do. Like, say, raccoons.

For example, the rather large one, which is even now popping open his violin case. How can a raccoon work those latches? A good question, and this one is doing it.

Velcro the raccoon knows. The zipper takes work, but it's come across those too. This is a storied raccoon; what tales she could tell Itzhak if she could speak. She knows that the second he speaks above a certain level, she needs to grab anything she can and book, without looking back. So she does: she grabs his bow in her mouth and barrels across and off the workbench, knocking things hither and yon. She leaps gracelessly to the shop floor, little claws ticktickticking as she heads for the open garage doors.

August rolls Raccoon Shuffle: Good Success (8 8 7 5 4 4 1)

The raccoon has to work to keep hold of the bow; it's long and unwieldy, and large as she is, she's still just a raccoon. She makes for the heavy undergrowth of fears and smokebush which represents her escape to the open field beyond. The tall grass and rampant wildflowers should give her enough cover to lose Itzhak. Or, so her little raccoon mind says.

Itzhak's anger gives him some accuracy--the broom clips the bow, knocking it out of the raccoon's mouth. She doesn't run off without it, though; she spins around, growls at Itzhak, and grabs up the bow again in her mouth again.

The gecko blinks at him. If a giant gecko can look amused, this one does. It studies him a few more seconds, then looks away, turning it's attention to a patch of moss in the far corner. It begins negotiating the wall's mushroom shelving to head that way, perhaps on the hunt for a huge bug.

Beyond the garage doors (their remains, really, rusted and damaged, dangling like jagged, rotted teeth) the area looks similar to how Itzhak knows it. The right size, too; the strange case of gigantism is limited to the interior of the shop. It's far more overgrown, though, almost wild. There's the sense that people haven't touched this shop for some time. Human influence is missing, and some other influences have taken its place.

In the silence (for that's another thing this version of his garage is, very quiet), he starts to hear sounds. Familiar ones, from his years in prison: a struggle. Someone shouting, something snarling in response.

The sounds of fighting are coming from the direction of the small meadow beyond the trees behind Steelhead, the one the raccoon had been running towards. Itzhak bursts through the brush and is met with a sight no more sensical than the giant gecko in its odd habitat of equally giant plants had been: a young woman with fiery orange, coily hair and pale brown skin dusted with freckles fending off two large, slavering dogs in the tall grass and wildflowers. There's blood all over her forehead from some kind of injury, and she's dressed in a simple outfit of leather breeches, an embroidered, white, linen top, and heavy, leather boots. All finely made, and yet, none of it modern.

The dogs are wolf-sized, and seem to be some kind of shepherd breed. Their for is mangy and matted with dirt, blood, and who knows what else. The young woman is wielding a stout staff, landing numerous hits on their muzzles and heads and dodging their attempts to bite her, but it's only a matter of time before one of them catches that staff in its teeth and wrests it from her. She's cursing at them just the same, and though clearly tired, keeping up her end of the fight.

The dogs don't notice Itzhak, or don't care, and the young woman can't risk taking her eyes off them.

Blood from the injury on the young woman's head runs down her nose, around her eyes. She ignores it, keeps her fierce, gold brown eyes trained on Itzhak. Now that she's not constantly in motion with the swinging staff, he can see that the wound is curiously shaped. It sweeps down to a point between her brows, arcs back under her hair.

A few more seconds of vigilance, then her expression relaxes just the slightest bit. "You don't know where you are?" She frowns, winces as this pulls on her injury. Her attention moves to his bow. "You're a musician?"

"You're uninjured, unharried. Your crossing hasn't attracted Their attention yet." There's no mistaking how she capitalizes 'Their'. She licks her lips, considers him for some time. Finally, she says, "You're new to your power." A more frank assessment, then, "And young." She sighs, tips her head back. "Ah, but maybe you can help me, young and untried as you are."

She looks askance at him, straightens her head. "What was taken from me is sacred to me. If you help me retrieve it, I can show you how to get back across the border."

"Deal," Zayith agrees. She dabs some of the blood on get face, peers at it, sighs. "Let me clean and bandage this, then we will seek the robbers." She pauses to look Itzhak over, scrutinizing him in a way that feels familiar. "Yes," she decides, "together we can do this."

She turns to head towards where the road would be, not bothering to see if he's actually following her. Perhaps she intends to use the gulley stream that runs alongside the road and into a culvert?

Her posture and gait are confidant; now that she has help, she's hit her second wind. "How did you come here, Itzhak?" she asks, assuming he's close enough to hear her.

Zayith's pace slows as Itzhak holds up the bow. Her eyes flit from it to Itzhak's face and back. "May I touch it?" she asks. "It'll help, if I can see what happened." She actually stops walking then, and that sensation steals over him once more, the sense that he's being looked over in some ephemeral, internal way. "That's not something you can do, is it? See the history of a thing, find whom it belongs to?"

Zayith sighs, wipes more blood from her eyes. "It's very useful. Watch." She's careful to wipe off her hand on her breeches, then rests a single finger on the wood of the bow. Her gaze becomes distracted, her eyes moving like she's flipping through a book. She reaches some point where she takes several long pauses, staring hard. Then she blinks, refocuses on Itzhak, and smiles wide enough to show her teeth. "You wanted it back so badly you pulled hard enough to cross the border! Not bad for a colt. Were you one of mine I'd be absurdly proud, and crow about you at every gathering for years. My sisters would tire of my bragging." She blinks as more blood runs down her nose, makes a face. "I can show you a way back, I think. Returning is harder, but you seem strong enough to do it." She jerks her head towards the road, resumes her walking.

"Tell me what you do know," she says. "It's not done among my people, to interfere with another people's teachings, but," she makes a face, "it pains me to see one so confused and this close to the Dreamscape. All manner of things might find you." She glances up at her injury, rolls her eyes. "Even if you are well versed."

"Thank you," Zayith says, accepting the handkerchief. She wipes at her face, carefully dabbing up the blood but careful not to touch the wound itself. "Matter is a way to describe it, yes. The energies of matter and," she makes a broad gesture with her free hand, "expanse. The distance between points means less to you, as does their mass. That's why you crossed the border--you merged where you were with where you could be, and when they separated, had traded one for the other." She looks askance at him. "There are other plenary forces like this, to my people's thinking. Perhaps to yours as well." She hesitates, says, "This is something your people must define for themselves, because the plenary forces aren't the same for us all. I'm sure I can do things you can't, simply because of how I see it. The same will be true for you."

As she talks they've begin to approach the road. It's still here, if odder, somehow, to Itzhak's eyes. Indeed, all of this place is strange to him compared to what he knows of Gray Harbor: unfamiliar colors lurk in his peripheral vision, different sounds (birds, insects, even the wind) tease his ears, different smells distract his nose. He's there, but he's not there, like a veil has been pulled over him, or maybe lifted away.

The stream next to the road's a bit deeper and broader than it is in Itzhak's Gray Harbor, but it still runs under the culvert to cross Spruce Street. The little blue collar houses are there, but many of them seem strange. A few are downright odd. Is that one actually a tent?

Zayith kneels to the water and splashes it vigorously over her face, cleaning the wound. "The ones who robbed me, they're," she nods towards the end of Spruce, "hiding out in a house down there. I suspect they plan to sell my diadem."

Zayith tears several strips off the bottom of her blouse, leaving it ragged. She paws around among the plants along the stream until she finds something in particular, crushes it up, and layers it in the fabric. She ties this around her forehead; it's an odd-looking bandage, yet she sighs with relief. "Much better," she says. She rinses Itzhak's handkerchief in the gulley stream, offers it back to him as she stands.

"A tesseract," she says, trying out the word. "That's good, though. It all begins with theories, ideas. Now," she gestures at him, her finger not quite touching his chest, "you're trying them out. Next you will codify them, and then you will disseminate them. Language is the beginning, always. Expression of thought, in whatever shape it takes."

She turns to squint at the house (a dark, indistinct blot at the end of the road), puts her hands on her hips, bites her lip. "There were four of them. One was as you are. Another was able to control plants, and animals. The dogs were his, though, I think we scared them badly enough they won't return to him. He may have others, though. The other two, they didn't have control of these forces as you and I do. They were hired muscle--if we can deal with the other two, they'll be scared off. If nothing else," she makes for the culvert, where they'll be able to walk across the stream to the street proper, "we can distract one or two, overpower the rest, grab my diadem, and flee. They'll lose interest in following us, where we're going."

"Then your great grandmother was well-versed in how to tend a wound with little to hand, and if you're her get then she was a wise and lovely woman as well," Zayith says, following it with a nod of approval. She doesn't seem to have noticed his reaction, or if she has she's hiding it well. There's a soft slope leading up to the roadway, and in short order they're on good ol' Spruce Street. Or this version of it, at any rate.

The same oddness Itzhak's been sensing redoubles here. In part because there are things he recognizes, except they're wrong in various ways, and in part because there aren't. His eyes weren't deceiving him; where one house should be is instead a great, complex tent pavillion made of lucious white, ivory, and yellow silks and brocades. Music drifts from it, and Itzhak sees a deer-legged shape pass by the half-open main flap. Other houses look about the same, though one has gorgeous stained glass which can't possibly be present on Itzhak's Spruce Street (he'd remember it--a great black owl, its wings forming an up-turned moon shape, dominates the window looking out onto the lane), while another is painted, top to bottom, including the stonework, a deep shade of black cherry, with leaded black glass windows.

They pass a truly enormous snail with a tiny...something, riding it; the being is mushroom pale, with too-large, orange eyes in a scrunched up face. Zayith makes no note of any of this, seems to find none of it out of place. She begins to steer them towards one side of the street, probably intending to duck between the alley separating two houses to approach their destination from the back.

Zayith squints at him. Her eyes travel to the snake, and she brightens. <<Ah! You're unpracticed.>> She considers the snake. <<You may not be strong enough to sense those beyond in the house. I feel five now. The new one is odd...>> She frowns, shakes her head. <<We'll see once we're in. Come--the back gate should be easy to open.>>

She slinks along the old fence, which is interrupted by a plain wooden gate with a latch that's locked via a simple pin on the other side. <<Have you done this before? Used your power to unlock something?>>

Zayith watches him vault the gate with surprise; by the time he's unlatched it she's standing and ready to slip through. <<Show off,>> she says, grins at him as she moves past.

The gate opens onto a small side-yard that wraps around to the front and back of the house. There's a window here, probably to a kitchen, but its shut and the curtains appear drawn. She leads him along the house's length towards the backyard, which is a large mosaic of tiles with a tall, burbling fountain in blue, gray, and white. There's no grass, no plants in the ground; everything is in pots. A large amount of it is towering black bamboo, within which colorful lilies have been place at sporadic intervals. The back of the house is a large, stone porch that steps down to this mosaic yard; two pairs of French doors open onto the porch, one set open and one closed with the curtains drawn. Through the open pair of doors they can hear voices arguing.

"Ridiculous, I won't pay even half that much," a low, smooth voice says, a woman's.

The second voice is higher pitched, though masculine sounding. Whiney. "You'd have paid three times this much just last week--"

"That was before you became so...popular. Even the Ochorim can't afford to be caught doing business with you now."

"They've no idea I had anything to do with that."

"Regardless. My offer is final, Kor. Take it or leave it." The first speaker stands and moves within the back room, letting them see her: she's tall, easily Itzhak's own height, graceful in a way that turns the eye, and her skin is nearly translucsent, the veins showing easily. Her hair reaches to her hips in a long, heavy, herringbone braid of iron gray, and she's dressed in a smart, dark red and white suit. Her form's so indistinct it'd be easy to argue she might not be, in the strictest sense, a woman, though there are hints. It's almost like the body she wears is convincing Itzhak she looks a certain way.

Itzhak can feel the weight of Zayith's displeasure. <<An Ochorim. That little toad, I should've known he was selling to them.>>

<<Changers,>> Zayith explains, peering through the stand of bamboo they've chosen as their cover. <<No one can know for sure what their true shape is. Some say even they no longer know. You can always tell them, though, by that empty skin of theirs.>> A little emotion colors her words; she's kind of creeped out by it. <<They can't be trusted--their loyalty is only ever to themselves.>>

A little more movement inside the house, and something that looks similar to the snail-rider they saw before walks into view, holding a broad, flat jewelry box, the kind meant for tiaras and necklaces. "Fine! You're a ruthless customer, Jaqine." That's the voice of the one the Ochorim called 'Kor'. He's a little bigger than the snail rider, about the size of a toddler, and has that similar mushroom-gray shade of skin, scrunched up face, and too-big orange eyes. He's wearing a black stocking cap, so it's not possible to see if he has any hair, and he's dressed into a simple set of linens.

Jaqine accepts the box, opens it. Itzhak catches a glimpse of a broad-banded piece in fiery copper with a large, golden obsidian cabachon at the center. Jaqine offers over a small velvet bag. Kor grabs it from her, obviously furious, and she smiles, light and teasing. "Now now, An-Kor. You know I'm your favorite."

An-Kor's pinched face becomes even more furrowed. "Hmph."

<<My diadem,>> Zayith's mind-voice growls. <<She'll change into a flying creature the second she's outside. Come.>> She begins to make her way to the door, staying parallel to the entrance to avoid being easily seen. She seems to intend to just go in there and take it back.

Zayith watches Itzhak launch forward in surprise, but is right behind him. Good thing, too, because several things happen in rapid succession:

The diadem box plumets to the floor with a solid THUD.

Jaqine shouts in surprise, spins and pulls out a small metallic baton that rapidly becomes a staff.

Kor shouts, "Pwill! Get down here right now!" at the top of his shrill voice, and in response they hear the thumping of someone upstairs. He dives under a divan, calls out, "Jessan! Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessan!" like he's summoning an animal. And he is: a colorful cockatrice appears flapping at one of the windows, screams, makes to come around the house and enter through the open door.

Itzhak rolls Alertness (7 5 3 2 2 1) vs Pwill's Total Indignation At Having His Nap Interrupted (a NPC)'s 8 (8 7 3 3 3 3 2 2 1 1)
Marginal Victory for Pwill's Total Indignation At Having His Nap Interrupted.

Itzhak rolls Melee (8 8 7 6 4 4 3 2) vs Jaqine's Badassery (a NPC)'s 10 (8 6 5 5 4 4 4 4 3 2 2 1)
Victory for Itzhak.

The pots land on the doors none too soon--the cockatrice flies up just as the first one is blocking its way in, and it cries out in agitation, flapping furoiously. "Find a window or something!" Kor yells from under the divan, and the bird trills in response and flies away from the doors to seek another entrance. For his part, Kor is happy to command others from the safety of the divan. He's a l--a peddler of 'found' items, not a fighter.

Jaqine is nowhere near so helpless. She kicks at the jewelry box to see if she can make it move, snarls when it refuses to comply. Then Itzhak is up in her face. She bears her teeth--they gleam golden and sharp in the house's interior lighting--and brings that staff of hers to bear. She's fast and agile for someone so tall, and makes good use of the staff. Itzhak feels it strike him in the inner thigh hard and sharp, a few inches short of its intended target. Zayith dives for the box, but so does Kor. He doesn't try to pick it up, just open it. Zayith grabs for him, and he bites her arm; she yells and flings him across the room.

'Pwill' isn't in sight yet, but he can be heard coming down the stairs. He can also be 'heard': a sense of indignation and 'oh my god what is going on' teases at Itzhak, seeking inclinations to not embarrass himself as a guest. It doesn't hit him very hard, though, and Jaqine's near miss on the family inheritance is a bit of a wake up call.

Itzhak rolls Physical (8 8 8 7 5 4 3 3 2 1 1) vs Jaqine's Favorite Staff (a NPC)'s 10 (7 7 6 6 5 4 4 3 3 2 1 1)
DRAW!

Itzhak rolls Physical (8 7 7 6 6 4 4 3 2 1 1) vs Jaqine's Favorite Staff (a NPC)'s 10 (7 7 6 6 5 5 5 5 4 4 1 1)
Marginal Victory for Itzhak.

Kor wails as he goes flying through the air, manages to reach out and snag a hanging light fixture as he comes close to it and grab on. "You damned nag!" he shouts at Zayith. "Pwill! Hurry the fuck up!!"

'Pwill' comes thumping into the room--thumping, because he's a satyr. And he has definitely been rudely awakened, because he's naked. His lower half is goat-like; his heavy, curly black fur leaves nothing to the imagination, and his hooves gleam black with pale gray stripes. His horns are narrow and arc back from his head in a pair of broad circles that almost reach his chin. He's got a head of wild, black, curly hair with a big white stripe in it, high cheekbones, olive-toned skin, and green, caprinae eyes.

"I was just getting some fucking sleep," Pwill growls, voice gravely. Electricity flickers along his hooves and horns, and he stamps. The flickering light jumps from his hoof towards Itzhak, only to be intercepted by Zayith, who leaves off trying to get the diadem out of the box to block it. She grunts, soaking up the lightning with an fierce grin. It gathers along her hands.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Pwill grouses.

Jaqine grins at Itzhak's reactions to her near hit. She's aiming to do the same thing a few more times--she's sorted out what's important to him, it would seem--when he grabs for her staff. She clings to it with more than just her hands; Itzhak can feel the Ochorim's own Glimmering grip on the staff. They struggle back and forth, until Pwill's lightning comes right for them, at which point Jaqine give sup and lets go. ...sending Itzhak flying backwards.

Kor makes a frustrated noise, shouts, "Don't let her get the diadem!"

There's a scrabbling noise from the chimney. Jessan has found a way in, and is worming his way there. Of course, the glass and bronze doors covering the fireplace are shut.

Itzhak rolls Physical (8 8 7 7 6 5 5 5 3 2 1) vs Jaqine Wants Her Damned Staff Back (a NPC)'s 8 (8 6 6 5 5 4 4 4 3 2)
Victory for Itzhak.

Pwill grunts at Itzhak, tosses his hair. Oh yeah, that hit home, he's distracted. Hot guy presumptuously hitting on him in the middle of a fight? He can't let that go, he'll never hear the end of it. "You little brat, you couldn't possibly handle--"

"NOT RIGHT NOW!" Kor all but screams at Pwill.

Itzhak feels Jaqine try to reclaim her staff, but it refuses to budge. She makes a sort of high pitched grolwing sound, seems about to charge him, except then Zayith lets loose that eletricity she'd obtained from Pwill. It crackles around Jaqine, who shouts in surprise, stumbling back from Itzhak.

Jessan has wriggled his way to the fireplace, but finds it barred. He pecks at the screen, cracking it. He'll be inside soon.

<<Not without my diadem,>> Zayith says, and yanks open the box. She wastes no time in pulling off her bandage and slapping the diadem into place. Her eyes flare brilliant gold, and then all of her does, like she's been consumed by fire.

Pwill's horns and hooves crackle with energy. "We'll see about that, you l--shit." His curse is for Zayith goes up in flames. "Wonderful," he says, and starts taking steps back towards the front door.

Behind Itzhak, Zayith's fiery shape elongates and grows taller, then settles...into that of a fairly large equine. Her coat's liver red roan, her tail and mane shimmering like live fire. More of that same fiery hair feathers her legs clear to her barrel. Her horn's a jagged sickle of golden obsidian, and her eyes are shining golden brown. She throws her head, muzzle almost reaching the ceiling, and whinnies in defiance.

"This can't be happening to me," Kor moans.

The fireplace screen cracks and shatters, and Jessan bursts out of it, heading right for Itzhak. Jaqine gestures with her hand, and a large, heavy-framed painting comes flying off the wall at Itzhak's head.

Pwill and Jaqine are frankly surpised by Itzhak's impaling of Jessan. Kor is horrified, expressing it with a high pitched shriek that is Jessan's name and second only in volume to the sound the cockatrice itself makes. It's a truly ear-splitting noise that fades into a gurgling howl as it tries to free itself, thrashing.

Kor launches off the light fixture and runs towards the cockatrice. "No! No! Not my baby!" Kor's a fast little guy, and it turns out a lot stronger than he looks. He yanks the staff from the wall, freeing Jessan, who collapses to the floor in a whining heap. "It's okay, sweetie, I've got you," he croons, taking the creature's brilliantly colored head into his lap and petting it.

Pwill flings up his hands at the scene, turns and stomps out the front door. So what if he's naked; the whole damned neighborhood gets a show. Jaqine continues to edge towards the pot, trying to stay unobtrusive.

Zayith lands on her hooves just shy of Itzhak. The sight of him injured infuriates her, but she calms when she sees the injured cockatrice and the sobbing Kor trying to calm it. "Kor," she says. Her voice is much the same in her true shape as it had been when she was human, but it's stronger and broader somehow, more imperious.

He waves a hand at her. "Just get out. You've done enough."

"Swear to me you'll never again lay a hand on another Dreamrunner, nor hire those who do, and I will heal him."

"I saved his egg from those peddlers who were gonna sell him to the likes of her," Kor gestures at Jaqine, who sniffs and looks away, "for fancy fucking omlettes! Stop trying to talk about shit you don't understand!"

Zayith stamps a hoof. Jessan's feathers, shining metallic bronze and blue and green, fluff up, and the cockatrice coils around Kor protectively, but Kor's mouth snaps shut. He sighs, looks at Zayith directly. "You know how it is, they've been pressuring all of us more and more. Gotta be a couple hundred of," he flings a hand at Itzhak, "these yahoos running around across the border. Everyone's stirred up. I needed some insurance."

Zayith snorts. "And you," she says, turning to Jaqine. "Who were you purchasing this for? My horn's less than useless to you."

"To me, yes. To others, it's quite the item." Her pale gray eyes shift to Kor. "Harder to move, when They're watching, of course." Kor grunts, folds his arms. Jaqine shifts in her seat, takes to examining Itzhak. "As they no doubt are right now, thanks to this one."

Zayith's fiery tail lashes. Like Itzhak she's getting restless, staying in this place. Pwill can be relied to go get drunk and not do much, but their actions have already sent ripples in the area that are spreading with each minute. Soon enough Their agents will come.

Jaqine arches an iron gray brow at Itzhak's question. "Oh my, an untried one wandering these Veiled Lands," her eyes shift to Zayith. "How many more are out there even now, I wonder."

Zayith blows out a breath. "I'll tell you once we're away from here," she promises Itzhak. The wind picks up outside, sets the bamboo to sighing in the mosaic courtyard. Zayith and Jaqine both turn to watch. Nothing else happens, yet their shared reaction is meaningful on its own. Jaqine says, without looking at Zayith, "I had no buyer. I was simply told to obtain as many as I could. Yours was the only one on offer." She looks at Itzhak and Zayith. "We should all leave."

Kor has untangled himself from Jessan, who's following him around dutifully. "Yes, you should, because I'm about to go on vacation." Zayith snorts and tosses her head; a second later Itzhak can feel it too: the sensation that somehow, the house is twisting and warping. The walls shiver and shudder, setting the furniture to rattling. "Which means unless you plan on riding inside a suitcase, you should get out."

Zayith's withers shudder at Itzhak's touch, her tail flips up to brush against him. It's not a chastisement, but a reassurance, which bleeds from her to him in a gentle mental nudge.

Jaqine, perhaps still attempting to keep Zayith's good will, gestures Itzhak's pot blockade aside. It makes a most horrendous sound as it moves over the tiles, drawing complaint from a stocky, tawny-skinned, dark-haired individual on a balcony next door. "Really! Some of us are relaxing!" the woman (she has a beard...possibly she's a dwarf?) shouts.

Zayith slips through the opening. The wind gusts again. In the distance a thunderhead is forming. "Hm, they're up to something," Jaqine observes.

"So they are," Zayith murmurs. "Do not attempt to molest one of my kind again, Ochorim."

In response, Jaqine's form shifts and blurs, rendering her into a transluscent crow. She caws, and despite that it's a caw, Itzhak can hear words in the sound. "I'll not--but others of my people may, Dreamrunner. You know our ways." With that, she's gone, taking a few hops to catch a breeze.

Behind them, the house continues to warp and twitst. With a sudden groan and shriek, it collapses...into a large trunk, with Kor sitting on top and Jessan coiled nearby. Kor is speaking to a glowing chunk of unpolished gemstone.

"Come," Zayith says, nudging Itzhak. "Get up. I can show you a safe place to cross."

Zayith snorts, amused, and holds still while Itzhak gets settled. As soon as he's in place, he can feel a sense of being held in a gentle, reassuring grip. <<Fear not, I'll not let you fall.>> For all that her voice as a unicorn is More than her human one was, her mind remains the same.

And it's a good thing she holding him, because when she launches forward, it feels like putting his car's pedal to the floor. The buildings and trees fly past him and ridiculous speeds. Yet he's in no danger of falling, can even sense that, short of dismounting on his own, he'll stay where he is. Her mane rises up around him, shielding him from the worst of the wind whistling past. They're heading roughly in the direction of the Addington Mill.

<<You are quite strong, but it's easier to cross at the thinnest points. Safer, as well.>>

It's possible Zayith can sense some of that pain, has been since they first encountered one another in the meadow. A dull ache deep inside him, like a broken bone that's still healing and may never properly set. She takes a longer route than she might otherwise, threatening thunderstorm or no, to lengthen this small time for him.

<<Language defines how we shape the world. This is why it's risky for me to teach you. I would teach you my people's ways, which not match with the ways needed by your own kind. But just like there's no risk in returning a fledgling to the nest, I can show you how to leave again.>> A note of humor creeps into her mind-voice. <<You may wish to find a less sudden manner of entry. The place we're going to will suffice.>>

They're rapidly passing out of the town proper and into the forest that surrounds it. The further they get from the town's shadow, the wilder things seem. Itzhak can feel it, even though they're moving so fast; in the corner of his eyes he sees strange eyes watching them from the trees and bushes, hears odd animal calls he can't recognize.

Perhaps Zayith senses some of what goes unshared, because her mind brushes against his in a gentle gesture of comfort, like a animal nosing him.

The unicorn's pace slows as they approach their destiation. Itzhak's heard of it, might know what it is even if he's never personally visited: the old, abandonned, Addington Sawmill.

Here, across what Zayith has called the border, in the Veil, it doesn't look old and rundown at all. It looks new, simply closed for the moment. The blades are clean and sharp, the building in decent repair. But the forest surrounding the clearing seems to lean in at the edges of their vision, like the trees are waiting for just the right moment to strike, tear down this place that's been used to cut them.

Itzhak can feel, even see the closeness of his own reality. It dances in and out of his vision, tantalizingly close. Sometimes the saw blades look old and rusted. He sees a chain link fence, meant to keep out tresspassers, and then he doesn't. The sky overhead teases clouds and blue sky, now formless gray expanse.

Zayith stops a distance from the building, a few yards out of the looming foest. <<I will teach you the sensing and finding, and the opening, as much as I may. You'll have to decide some of it for yourself. You're discovering it as much as I'm showing you.>>

Zayith's mind ripples with warm humor at his reaction. <<Ah, colts from most peoples are the same, aren't they,>> she muses. Which probably says a lot of things about unicorns. She flicks her tails, brushing him with it.

<<To my people, this is the world. It's what we know. But to you, it's might-be. The other side of a still pond's perfect reflection. The back of a mirror. An idea, a suggestion made by your world's emotion and will. There are may words for this place--you should find your people's. Some among you are sure to have it already.>>

She begins to approach the sawmill, wary, as it is still a sawmill, and so antithetical to her kind in its way. A force of industry, a symbol of the removal of the natural for the synthesized. <<The events that have come and gone in this place anchor it here against the tides of the Dream's wilder energies. Normally they might wear it down like the sea reclaiming the shore. Not so if your kind hold it in place.>> She pauses, still some yards from the building, snorts. <<It is dangerous here, because the border is so weak and traversal is easier. They are aware of this as well, and will send Their agents here. Be wary.>>

Zayith continues to be a gentle, patient presence. There's no expectation of his behavior from her; he's not a being she knows, and so doesn't apply standards he can't hope to adhere to. Besides, he's aided her when she was in dire need of it. That alone bought him a measure of compassion. The rest, though, is simply her. Perhaps this is just how unicorns are; no matter their age, they're wise beyond their years to the needs of the heart.

Her attention turns to the thunderstorm. It's a ways off, churning in the distance. <<In all likelihood. Or Their agents--but that distinction is often meaningless. They feast on pain and suffering, and what greater suffering is there than the robbing of one's true self?>> She drifts behind him, wary as a deer come out from cover on the sawmill's grounds. <<They also call this world home. We all have our own names for Them. To my people, They're the Unshaped Ones. Your kind may have one already. Because the thinner places on the border are formed by pain as much as triumph, They know They can find sustenance here.>>

Thunder booms in the distance; a lightning bolt touchea down, though the storm's still not approaching. Zayith snorts. <<You can see it, yes? How your world lies close. But can you feel it too? Like the membrane inside an eggshell. The world awaits on the other side. You merely need apply your eggtooth.>>

Itzhak rolls Physical-5 (8 8 5 2 2 1) vs The Veil (a NPC)'s 8 (8 8 7 7 4 4 2 2 1 1)
Victory for The Veil.

Itzhak rolls Physical-3 (6 5 4 3 3 2 2 1) vs The Veil (a NPC)'s 8 (8 8 8 7 4 4 3 2 1 1)
Crushing Victory for The Veil.

Zayith isn't the least bit put out by Itzhak trying to lick at the border, but then, why would she be? Plenty of unicorn foals have done the same. Kicked, chewed, licked, prodded, body-checked. There are no correct ways to wield such power, except that it does as the wielder desires.

There's no taste, as first. Just more of that same undefinable something. It starts to sneak up on him, though, a bitter, metallic sensation. He has the distinct impression the membrane is heavier in the direction (in as much as one may call such an exploration directional) he's chosen. Then suddenly his teeth ache and his ears start to ring, like he's bit into a piece of foil.

Feel free to composure for that if you want, heh.

Itzhak rolls Physical-1 (5 5 4 4 3 3 2 2 1 1) vs The Veil (a NPC)'s 8 (8 8 8 7 7 6 4 4 3 1)
Crushing Victory for The Veil.

The membrane continues to be heavy to Itzhak's senses, sometimes thinning only to thicken, other times remaining the same, steady weight.

Zayith blows out a breath. <<Perhaps we should use something which will help you focus your concentration.>> She moves so she's properly in his view. <<Is there a way you connect to your power now? Words you speak, a dance, something of this manner? Many shape and direct power in this way.>> She thinks back to the struggle in the house. <<Unfortunately, Jaqine and Pwill both use subtle means to guy their powers. Though Pwill less so than Jaqine--he's a faun, nothing they do is subtle.>>

She tilts her head, running her horn along a surface that puckers in its wake. <<For me, it's my horn. Specific gestures and angles of attack.>> She looks him up and down. <<A poem, or a song, might make more sense for you.>>

Itzhak rolls Physical (8 8 7 6 6 5 5 2 2 2 1) vs The Veil (a NPC)'s 6 (7 4 3 3 2 2 1 1)
Crushing Victory for Itzhak.

<<It is,>> Zayith agrees. She whuffles his hair in reassurance. <<And you're among the first of your kind to try this, at least that I've known. Blazing a new trail is always difficult work.>> No judgment for his frustration, no minimizing of the struggle.

As the song rises inside him, Itzhak hears Zayith murmur, <<Ah...see now...>> Maybe it's that the music makes it easier to feel the small ripple in the membrane, this Veil, or maybe it's that the music has called it up. Whichever it is, as Itzhak follows it, he feels the Veil become thinner, and thinner, until it's simply not there.

It's a good thing he's holding onto Zayith, because he just about falls right through it. Like a needle breaking through surface tension, it tries to simply swallow him up, but she pulls back, yanking him clear before it can.

<<Yes!>> Her excitement reverberates between them. She whinnies, swishes her tail. <<There. Just so.>>

<<It did!>> Zayith can't laugh in this shape, but her voice in his mind is full of it. <<Perhaps music is your guide. You should practice with it more.>> She lips at his hair, quite proud. <<Finer control will come with time. Be patient with yourself.>>

She blows out a breath. The wind stirs, sharp with the smell of rain. The thunderstorm is finally beginning to come closer. Zayith grunts, stamps a foot. <<Unfortunately, we must now part.>> She looks him over with a gleaming, golden brown eye. <<You've aided me in regaining myself. Your bow was part of your music, which is also yourself. A way you relate to your power. Let me help you retain that.>> She eyes the saw blade, huffs a breath. <<Come. We will cut some of my tail. Perhaps you can use it for a new bow.>>

<<If music is your guide, then it's no wonder your bow brought you here. You should leave with the makings of a new one.>> Zayith lips at him again. <<That was my horn they stole from me. To them, a thing to trade and sell as a commodity. To me, my nature. As you restored me to my nature, let me restore this to you.>>

She doesn't lead the way to the cutting platform, but she does keep pace with him. <<There is symmetry in these things,>> she agrees. Her steps continue to be careful and wary, her movements that of a creature that suspects a trap. Nothing stirs in this place, though. Either Their attention is elsewhere, or things are too nervous of a unicorn in turn. Perhaps there are aspects of both at place.

Zayith plainly hates being this close to the blade, but doesn't hesitate to move next to it and flip her tail onto the table. <<No need to do anything more them pull them against it, I think.>> The thick, silky hairs separate from the bone a little less than half a foot down, leaving plenty to cut for a bow. Their lustrous, fiery orange and red color reflects against the blade, making it look hot.

Zayith whickers happily at the attention. <<Ah, now I hope there are many more of you who will come through, if you're an example of them. Such affection!>> A teasing lilt winds through the link; it's possible to imagine her in winking at him in her human shape.

She makes a little squealing sound when he says 'done', shies away, getting clear of the mill and its blade as quickly as she can in a handful of high steps. She was possibly much more tense about being this close than she let on. She shakes herself out, tossing her mane. The missing portion of her tail's nearly impossible to see, so good is Itzhak's work. <<I'm honored, to help you find even this small part of your way.>>

The thunderstorms' approach has stalled. Whatever it's up to, its handling in the distance. Zayith blows out a breath. <<Their emmissary is occupied, it seems,>> she muses. <<Come here, laughing one. I want to smell your hair once more, before I see you on your way.>>

Zayith nuzzles Itzhak's face, turns her head so he's wrapped by her neck, smothered in her mane. <<I shall miss you as well, fierce brilliant colt. I wish we had more time to trade our tales. So many you can tell me, and I you.>> She breathes in his hair for several seconds, then, <<Listen now. The most important warning I can give you is this: They feed on suffering, on cruelty, on selfishness, on fear. I don't charge you with perfection, to never do wrong by another, to never misstep. I only warn you of Their influence, Their ways. I feel that in your heart you bear a heavy burden, but you carry it with grace. Surround yourself with those who can help you with it, even as you help them with theirs. That's your true weapon against Them: one another. You'll never win against Their machinations alone, but you shouldn't have to. Guard those you love, and call family and friend, and they'll guard you in turn.>>

She doesn't make to move clear of him, even though she should. <<Time and space warp strangely between the Dreamways and here. I can't be sure when I'll come this way again, or if we'll cross paths should I do so. But I'll keep watch for you, listen for word of your comings and goings, and leave word here as I may.>>

Zayith nudges him. She feels the stir of his emotions, and though she doesn't know the story (ah, so many stories to tell one another--well, they'll have to wait), she senses the overall thrust of his shame.

<<Grace isn't lack of fault or mistake. It's accepting that you've done such. It's atoning for your actions when they've brought harm. It's resolving to improve, and carrying through with it. I think these are things you know, and strive to do. That's all anyone can ask for.>>

She lips his nose. <<Nor can I thank you enough, laughing one. But we may both begin: you, by making new music on a new bow. Me, by returning to my people, and telling them of you and yours.>> One last rub against his shoulder, her horn brushing his head. That rub becomes the gentlest push. <<Again, now, with your song--and this time, let it pull you through. Don't hesitate; embrace it.>>

<<Run well, Itzhak, laughing one.>> Zayith swishes her tail, blows out a breath. She watches him the entire time, listening to his song with a turned ear.

The Veil parts more reluctantly this time; he's not found a spot that's quite so thin. But part is does, and he slides through, slowly at first. As his perception shifts, he hears millworkers calling to one another, the scream of the blade; he smells the heady scent of pine split open. But Zayith is still there, a gleaming point among the chaos of his confused senses.

The slow movement through the Veil yanks him the rest of the way through all at once. The jarring motion deposits him in the same place: the Addington Mill. But this is the old mill, long since shut down, its blades rusted and still, surrounded by a chain link fence with a gaping hole in it. There's no sense that workers might come at any time to fire it up, no evidence of trees newly felled. It's not unlike finding oneself in a graveyard.

Not much time has passed since he first yanked his bow back from that raccoon. It's still broad daylight. Heavy clouds are forming on the horizon. There'll be a thunderstorm later. It'd be easy to think he imagined it, that he got drunk and turned around on his walk home and had one hell of a dream.

It'd be easy to think that, except in his hand is a long strand of braided hair the color of fire, a lustrous burning gold and red, silky soft and thick, perfect for making a bow.