Ruaraad’s fur bristled as he felt a sudden change in the air pressure, instinctively his nictitating membranes closed as he raised his hand to shield his eyes. Within seconds a strong gust ripped through the gorge. The bows in the trees groaned in protest with the sudden gale giving way to loud snapping pops as the weaker limbs were violently ripped and flung through the air. Spray from the waterfalls carried on the wind partially drenching the two men as they were shielding their eyes while bracing themselves against the onslaught. The wild whipping gust of wind quickly diminished leaving the men now slightly battered and not just a little wet. Though as Ruaraad wiped away the water and debris from his face, he could see the sudden fury within Clyde had abated, with the gorge’s baptism. His brother spluttering and blinking, even with a sardonic smile at the ridiculousness of the situation. The two men looked at each other as they composed themselves the best they could after the sudden ordeal. Ruaraad knew that in the short time they had gone from allies to friends, and then family, that the stress of the past months had changed his brother; raw emotions that were always bubbling near the surface, could erupt at any time. Ruaraad, reflexively flexed his claws in frustration, watching Clyde was the best he could do for his brother till their current situation ended. For good. Or for ill.
Ruaraad knew that in order to succeed they needed to be moving forward, not thinking of the threat that they presently could do nothing about from behind. A brilliant tactician, his brother’s honorable nature had gained the trust of Ruaraad and his clan from the beginning. Clyde could be wise, and sometimes affable. However, the enigmatic man was brash when his emotions were not in check. Moving next to Clyde and looking forward into the vale Ruaraad narrowed his eyes; the expanse was great and finding the aperture site would be the first challenge, he spoke out loud more to himself then to Clyde next to him, “Where are the Keketecks, brother, were they not meant to meet us.” Clyde’s initial flare of emotion now diminished; his attention arrested by Ruaraad’s comment. He looked into the distant West as if trying to see through the trees with Ruaraad, every so often having to cover his face with the occasional gusts of wind whipping around them. “They said they would meet us at the site, ahead of time”, Clyde said to himself, though loud enough for Ruaraad’s catlike ears to hear. His brother then turned to him, answering, “They had to be there first to act as a mana beacon. Also, they are so slow.”, “Said?”, Ruaraad replied, his face betraying none of the amusement in his voice. “Grinding noises aren’t speech, brother. You’re one of the only beings who even ‘claim’ to understand them.”, He continued with a straight face, adding an admonishing dig at his brother “Honestly, I think your ‘conversations’ are just guesses. Any positive outcome is pure luck—not tactical brilliance, brother.” Ruaraad knew the conversations were real, though he would not let Clyde know this, as it was one of the few things he could poke fun at his brother; one of his simple pleasures and he had little of those in the past cycles. Clyde knew all of this. Smiling inwardly, he also knew Ruaraad was helping him, though in a dry and irritating way. He could have made a pithy response about studying other races, or fostering relations with allies by learning their mannerism, culture and language. He decided on not telling Ruaraad, his own fun was acting as if he did not hear and changed the subject, “I had Ester send some of her summons ahead to find the mana trail, as the Keketecks look like boulders till they reveal themselves.” As if summoned by name, a soft feminine voice carried on the wind from behind just within the near tree line, “They are there.” A woman stepped from the shadow of the trees as she spoke. Her sunshine-blond hair, parted into two heavy braids cascaded down the back of her brown leather tunic. She was small in stature, yet the cold efficiency of her movements, the sharpness of her gaze gave pause to many men that had ever approached her. All who approached as suitors were attracted to her pale complexion and slightly blushed cheeks, traits of her German heritage. The cold ruthlessness of her personality, like a sharp blade poised and ready to deliver a quick, yet painful death, swiftly shattered any romantic delusions.
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As Ester approached the two men coming into clearer view, Clyde could not help feeling his heartbeat just a little faster. Like many men he had harbored feelings for her. Taciturn and aloof, he shared her aversion to romantic entanglements. Even though his nature kept him from pursuing a romantic connection, he was still a man after all; and while the tunic did not show her athletic, lithe frame, the tailoring of the outfit still hinted at the curves that could not be hidden. These feelings were very short lived when they surfaced. Even from a distance her cold, heterochromatic stare—one eye blue, the other green—was enough to snap him back to reality. He was grateful as he was not ready to be a corpse.
Ester approached Clyde, getting within his personal space, her eyes not leaving his, not blinking. “Schatz”, she said, and her eyes seemed to shine a little brighter in the moonlight. She had started this practice over the last few cycles. Clyde couldn’t place the word; he’d been brought to this world as a boy, and his knowledge of languages beyond English or Burn’s common tongue didn’t include her native speech. The first time Ester had approached him this way it unsettled him, and she seemed to take glee in it. He marshaled his resolve not to let her have her way and stared defiantly back into her eyes. Ruaraad, glanced between Clyde and Ester, puzzlement replacing his usually unreadable expression. Clyde was determined not to blink or look away; his male pride would not allow him to show fear. The corners of her mouth twisted upwards so briefly that Clyde had thought he imagined it. Before he could contemplate what, he had seen, she had already backed away from him and turned her cold eyes towards Ruaraad. “Von Beck”, Ruaraad said, while giving a slight nod—a gesture he had seen human mages make that conveyed respect and camaraderie; yet, his tight fur bristled, betraying his attempt. The distrust and hostility simmering beneath the surface could not be concealed, no matter how hard he tried to camouflage it with copied gestures.
