Difference between revisions of "The Lion Prophecy"

Latest revision as of 07:08, 1 March 2013

Mid-morning in Emberstrand, and the air is cool and crisp, though the sky is clear which makes a welcome change from the rains for most people. Despite the chilliness of the air, people are still about on the deck of the Doodlebug; several crewmembers are about, checking on things or keeping watch. Seated on a barrel amidships is Celeste. Leaned up against the barrel are a steel breast plate, a round shield with a couple of half-circles out of the sides, and a new spear with a long, gleaming blade. The mouse is busy with the navel trenchcoat she took from a pirate captain once, busy adding leather padding to strategic locations along the inside, and humming tunelessly as she works at it.

Daivat's unease with the growing knot of history building over the city has kept him ill at ease, even by his ordinary standards. Frequent scowls as he looks over the city; agitating to be away from it as often as possible, doing his best to keep the itinerary of the ship a busy one. And that, at least, it has been; it's not unusual for twice-daily runs to come about now, the ship clocking a great deal more leagues in the air than normal, and faster demands for greater cargo, more cargo, faster loading and unloading... well, as it turns out, he can do his job and do it well, these days. It might not have been exciting, but it's kept the gil coming in, and that's all anyone really asks.

Up in the crow's nest, Alba's ears turn this way and that on watch, her hands occupied with their own work; what was once a large, mostly-flat knurl of bone, now smooth and concave, with a pair of ground-out holes placed almost perfectly to allow the entire plate to act as a mask. The painstaking shaving done, Alba now works with handfuls of damp, fine sand, polishing the incipient mask to what will eventually be a gleaming sheen.

The mouse warrior eventually finishes what she's up to with the jacket; she jumps off the barrel, and spends a couple of minutes donning hte breastplate, and then the jacket overtop of it. She slings the spear across her back, with the shining metal blade hovering above her right shoulder, though the shield she leaves right where it is. Not immediately seeing Daivat, and not for lack of looking, she jumps up into the rigging and pulls herself towards the crows nest. "Alba!" she calls out. "Yer done wit' yer mask, yet?"

Daivat hasn't been avoiding her, so much as he has been everyone; a great deal of time alone in his cot lately, muttering as he struggles to follow whorls and knots of tails that swiftly braid and twist in complexity he can't always hope to follow. Say what one wills of their mother, evidently he takes his leisure time like she did; lost in a place past the seeing, though where he gazes and she, perhaps, far different. Or perhaps not. It's not as if they ever knew. "Good day for a man to buy a goat." he muses to himself, as he fusses with a trim guage, in the cockpit. "Actuator, fluctuator, integrator, devastator."

"No," comes the call from above, "it was not finished this morn, and it is not finished now. When it is done, Cousin, you will know." THe Viera glances up, casting her eyes over the surface of the river for a moment, then back down, letting her ears handle the bulk of her sweeps. After a moment, she uncoils a leg, stabbing the intercom button with a clawed toe. "Will the ship be ready to leave when the loading is finished, brother? It is nearly time."

Daivat says, "That *would* be the only thing keeping us to the ground right now." he responds in a tone of asperity and amusement. "Perhaps when you two are done admiring shiny things, you could throw your backs in with the porters and shove some crates in? Pre-flight's iffy today. Doodlebug's having one of those cranky days." He has no better explanation for it than engineering does; some days the ship is just inexplicably more prone to cantankerism than others. "If your plans are to just hang around and look pretty, we can lash you both to the prow."

Celeste hangs on to the outside of the crows nest, once she reaches it, and peers over the edge at the viera inside and what she is doing. She waits patiently while Alba asks her question of Daivat, and gazes at her cousin; her usual, gleeful smirk is entirely in absence, and for once she has a more serious look on her face. "Alba," she says at last. "I'mma stayin' in Emberstrand, this time."

Daivat left tail veers so sharply it almost smacks him in the face on it's way by, and he gawks at it for a few seconds, frowning.

"My plan is to keep watch as I have been instructed," Alba says. "Perhaps my brother will enjoy to tell the Captain why it was that raiders fell upon the ship when it was Alba wh--" And Celeste's quiet statement cuts off her ponderous return-snark, just as suddenly as a knife across her throat. The toe holding the intercom button down flexes, for a moment, and she sets her work aside, expression utterly blank as she looks Celeste dead in the eyes. "...You will not be joining us, Cousin?"

Celeste pauses for a moment, and then shakes her head slowly. "No," she replies, quietly. The sorrow in her voice is palpable, but so too is the resolve to stick with her decision, it seems. "There' an army marchin' on Emberstrand... or gonna be, soon 'nuff." She pulls herself up a little higher, until she can rest her midsection agaisnt the top of the crows nest, and relax her arms a little. "Folks is gatherin' under a Lion Banner... an'... I gotta fight."

Daivat has a slow, measured seat in the cockpit. "... Alba." says Daivat slowly. "She... *does* have to fight." There's a combination of wonderment and dread in the statement. He's tried to communicate before how Celeste was different than others. But now, in a way only he can begin to see and understand, prophecy starts to twist, and he begins to subtly shake. "... saints." he whispers, and who knows if it's even loud enough to reach even his sister's ears. "It's all so *big*."

"I was not aware," Alba grates out, "that our ship bends knee to the city. Has the Captain hurled the protection of hi--" As before, what she was about to say, strangled mid-sentence as Daivat's soft voice floats over the intercom. Subsiding, she turns her head to stab the horizon with her glare, as though wishing to set the river alight with the pure force of her sullen, stubborn anger. "...Why can you not stay, Cousin?"

"I'mma child'a Saint Bellatrix," Celeste replies, quietly. "An' I love you both, wit' all me heart, Alba, Daivat. ...But... Me mum didn' fight fer half her life ter protect all'a folks livin' in this part'a world, an' then get hung, drawn, an' quartered 'cause she ain't give in jes... jes so it could all go ter th'Abyss couple hund'r years later." The mouse pauses, her voice adopting a strained quality. "Yer both always tellin' me I'mma brave an' all that... if I ran away now, if I didn' live up ter me Mum's example, if I didn' follow through wit' everythin' I always said... how could yer ever be proud a' me?"

Daivat's silence stretches on. Staring off into space, feeling the same rush and press as a hard take off, bones straining against the weight of firmament. Finally, a fingertip reaches out, as if moving a mountain, and he clicks off the intercom. In four minutes Alba is going to storm in, and demand to know why he won't say anything to her, why for the first time in his life he isn't being the voice of caution, the voice of care, the voice of restraint. And he's already unsure he'll understand his own answers.

"...I would be proud that my Cousin has learned to act with wisdom," Alba says finally, voice strained, hampered by the twin forces of growing dread that nothing she says will change Celeste's course, and rising fury at a brother who has turned his metaphorical back to the conversation entirely. "That she was able to place her life above that of a tale in a drinking-room. That for no desert-dream or Yensa blood would she turn away from the duty she took upon her own hands." She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again, closing eyes, folding ears down, and turning her head away. "...But it matters not, Cousin. If it is what is needed for my Cousin to be happy, then she will do it. That it is foolish in my eyes matters not at all. Once, after all... There was a foolish child, who struck out alone upon the sands to find a mother's love."

Daivat fingers flick the starters on the engines, eyes unseeing, just following the paths ahead. The subtle thrum and whine of the Mist scoops powering up, the slight tremor through the hull as power comes to the ship. The cargo's aboard, or nearly so; and the porters hasten to make finished the job. There won't be time, can't be time, to dwell and argue. Destiny is, for once, not waiting on the three of them. And so he plays his part; fingers moving where expected to, hands and eyes part of the ship now, for the time. "Takeoff in three minutes." he announces across the ship, voice as neutral and measured as he's ever heard from himself.

The words from Alba hit Celeste almost physically, like a slap across the face. She sinks down a little, and her bottom jaw drops, before she shuts it once more. "Ain't 'bout tales, nor dreams," she replies. "Wish t'were, Alba. Time 'way from yer an' Daivat's th'last thing I ever wanted." She pauses, swallowing down a deep breath. "Is 'bout... honor," she whispers. "An' duty. An... an' livin' up ter what I'mma feelin' like th'whole world 'spects a' me." She leans forwards, resting against the crows nest so she can reach up behind her neck, to unclasp the chain for her heart-shaped pendant; she holds it out to Alba. "Here," she murmurs, as the clasp on the locket slips and it falls open. "Hold on ter this 'til I'mma back, yeah? I *am* comin' back, Alba." Inside the locket, as always, the picture of Daivat; but in the opposite side, previously empty, a scrap piece of paper with a crude bit of writing on it; 'ALBA'. At Daivat's announcement, the mouse's ears flatten against her head; she has to go, and has to go soon. But she yet lingers, arm outstretched, as she gazes at her cousin.

One ear turns toward the mouse as she speaks, eyes squeezing more tightly for a moment... But the locket is taken, pressed shut with the barest downward glance. "...I will see that it does not fall open so easily," Alba mutters, with only a hint of the asperity able to be heard around the lump in her throat. "These things you speak of, Cousin... they make little sense to me. The world expects nothing of us but our blood. It is little more than a Fiend upon whose back we wander. If we are fortunate, we survive. If we are foolish, or unfortunate, we die. This is what I know." Swallowing the lump in her throat, she climbs to her feet, barely able to meet Celeste's eyes. "It is time to leave, Cousin," she whispers as the thrum of the engine makes itself truly felt, here at the ship's uttermost peak.

Daivat says, "With your shield or on it, love." he whispers to himself, and he flicks the switch to bring in the cargo doors; time and tide and winds waiting for none. "One minute." he says, as mechanical as the speakers that carry his voice through the ship. "Secure. Moorings off. Harbormaster clears us.""

Celeste lets the chain slip from her fingers as Alba takes the locket, and her hand remains outstretched for a moment more, before dropping back to the railing. Her eyes blink rapidly, fighting back the same tears it seems Alba might be having issues with. Her tail sways in the air behind her while her muscles flex, keeping her balance amidst the vibrations. "Love you," she whispers; perhaps heard above the thrum of the engines, perhaps not. Time is ticking; and at last, Celeste is moving. She picks her way back down the rigging until she's comfortable to jump. She lands with a heavy thump on the deck, and takes just enough time to collect her shield. She spends a moment taking a last look around; the seconds tick away, and then she is off, running straight for the edge of the ship. One foot lifts up, planting on the railing before she launchers herself into the air, catapulting through the open space between ship and dock. She lands on the latter in a crouch, though it is a position she doesn't long linger in, as she turns, straightening and squaring her shoulders, to watch the ship taking off.

"*Live,*" is all Alba can manage in response; whether plea, or order, even she can't say at the moment. Once Celeste is on the dock, the Viera swings onto the mast line, sliding down to hit the deck just as the ship begins to lumber into the skies. Stalking toward the pilot's cabin, she opens the door, slips in, and shuts it behind herself. No words are spoken; none are necessary. Her brother, after all, knows very well why she is there.

The ship takes flight like a frightened deer; Daivat's hand firm on the accelerator, eyes straight ahead into the future. It's the only direction any of them have left. He leaves his beloved behind, leaving for the skies as his youngest sister had once for him. They were four, then three, then two. "You want to know which is going to come back. A legend, or a corpse. What's going to happen to her. War's going to happen to her. And I don't know what's going to come back, Alba." he says, teeth gritted. "But I know she's either carrying the pennant or she'll be buried under one. That's *all*. Maybe both."

"No," Alba says quietly as the airship's ascent levels out, some. "I wish to know why my brother left it to *me* to say the words my Cousin needed to hear. I know this is what will happen to her, and *I care not* if she is covered in glory or blood, so long as she draws breath of her own will."

Daivat says, "Because if she hesitates, she's lost." he says. "Because I can't see anything anymore with her. Nothing more than you can, now." He turns his eyes only from the windshield long enough to stare at hers. His eyes wide, terrified, blinded by the mass of destiny twisting in his wake. "It's like watching a volcano rise to push someone to the heavens, Alba. There is *nothing* she can do now that won't change... everything."

Down on the docks, Celeste watches the ship peel away into the sky. She stands, motionless but for the naval jacket, dark red and triumphant gold thread, flapping in the breeze about her. The weight of the breastplate and shield are easy for her to bear; the twin weights nestled in her heart are not. All too soon, the ship is gone, vanished into the sky. Celeste swallows audibly, and then at last, turns to walk away. She looks forwards; only forwards, to the future that lies ahead. There is so much work to do.

Flat brown eyes stare into fate-blinded ones for a short, silent moment. Alba leans slowly forward, one finger uncurling from a white-knuckled fist, and darts forward, delivering a sharp rap to the bridge of her brother's nose, directly between his eyes. "Blink, Brother," she says quietly. "Place your eyes upon *our* path. Our hearts shall stay with hers, at least."

Daivat eyes drop to the controls in his hands. "T-t-the ll-l-ly-lyunnnn wuhll wu-ckc-ckkhch-wuhll rise a-a-and the dragon wuhll m-mm-meet the add-dd-ad-ada-ad-ad-ad-admuh-man-muh-man-t-tt-t-toise to fires in the sky." he slurs and stutters out, head shaking like a marionette left to bob idly on a string. But his hands stay steady as stone on the yoke of the ship, and he does, in fact, blink a few seconds later. Color draining from his face. "That hasn't happened in a long time." he whispers.

"...Brother?" Alba's back straightens, ears ramrod-straight, eyes glittering as she stares down at the pilot. "...What happened?" After a moment, another thought occurs to her, given voice. "...Also, when did last this happen?"

Daivat smiles weakly. "When the Mists came in the sands, and you ran wild." he murmurs. "Usually... then." He sags back into his chair. "What did I say? I don't... grasp it all. Like counting grains of sand as a mountain falls on your head."

Alba falls silent, eyes flicking back and forth as she pieces together the rather disparate syllables, heard falling from Daivat's lips. "'The lion will rise,'" she murmurs, "'And the dragon will meet the... adamantoise... to fires in the sky.'" A second silence, lips moving as she repeats it to herself to be sure, then nods, nose wrinking. "...It stinks of prophecy, Brother. Like old bowels and dead cities."

Daivat says, "It tastes about the same on my tongue." he mutters. He nudges the ship higher; where the air is thin and cold, and the frost sends hairs across the glass, here and there. Until the stink of the world below falls away, and he can sag back in his chair, tail hitting the autopilot then as if it weighed a mountain, and he half-closes his eyes. "She's going to need us yet, and we her. We don't get free so easily. Don't need to read a thread to tell you that."

"I do not need your sight to know this," Alba replies, eyes falling shut as a heavy sigh is loosed from her chest. "We will wish to make time to free, soon," she says after a brief pause. "My mask is nearly complete, and I will wish to put it to use. My Cousin will need all the tricks I may gather, I think."

Daivat huffs a breath. "I think, with the captain's permission, we're going to find elsewhere for the ship to be instead of the city for a while. Somewhere remote, unlikely for it to be accidentally found. Somewhere we can make the long sand-hike from. We'll have to take the wings off and in, and give the hull a paint of brown and tan, under the hot sun, no less. Grand fun."

"Daivat," Alba murmurs. "This is wise, save one thing... What if the Captain, his mate, and their child shall need to flee the City?"

Daivat says, "Then I'd hope they'd want to be somewhere than some ship left derelict a while to bake in the sun, a hundred miles from the nearest common flight line, and reconaissance path." he points out. "Thirty-four miles from the nearest water, seventeen from the nearest game worth mentioning." He grimaces. "The city's *far* safer than the ship, right now, Alba. Ships get commandeered when war comes.""

"Cities are burned when war comes," Alba points out, but presses the point no further. "Will we make for Kandhala, after? Or the river?"

Daivat says, "I trust your ears and nose, sister. Ours won't be a fast trip back. Let's make the most of it." he murmurs. "There's things that wait for us too, in the sands and mists, that I have no prophecy for." He rubs his chin. "Did you know some say the Judges of legend wore names in their masks? Some said it wasn't the masks they wore, but the masks wore them. Spoke for them. I wonder what name you'll find in that one." he says, pointing to the bone mask hanging at her side. "

"I know only what name I carve into it," Alba says after a moment, unlooping the mask, holding it up to look into the ground-out ovals serving as eyeholes. "Nothing. Nobody. What name it will take, from the mouths of those it is not meant for, who will see it? I know not."

Daivat hehs softly. "Hide your good works from the wicked, so they will not know you." he says. "You should read their tales sometime, Alba. There's much to learn." He cracks open an eye, and looks at her. "We'll get at least a week, maybe two, in the sands. Maybe I'll finally shoot my own supper for once."

"Perhaps you will," Alba murmurs, looking out to the skies. "What of the crew then, Brother? Will we leave them, or will they make the long walk at our side?"

Daivat says, "They go to Kandhala, and ferry back to the city for now. That's safest for them, and the way will be clear. We'll send them with the water and they've all the coin." he says. "Besides. This won't come for a few days yet. Time enough to get them briefed.""

"Hn," Alba grunts. "We will want canvas, and as much glue as paint. Perhaps traders will not see a painted ship far off the trails... but I trust not the Yensa with the Captain's ship, as far as I may throw it. Leave it covered, to be buries in the storms."

Daivat nods his head softly. "We'll pack some extra water and skins for the crew. I'll call the meeting tomorrow. Tonight... there's nothing but the stars out, now." he points out, as they slide steadily towards the north and the next load of hungry pilgrims. "Ginger-root tea for you tonight. You'll have nightmares otherwise." A wistful note to his voice. No such mercies for him.

Alba rests a hand on Daivat's shoulder, leaning down to press her cheek to his. "Take heart, brother," she murmurs into his ear. "Before long, there will only be the clean blade of the Sandsea. Blue skies, killing sand, and what little life may survive there. No tangles to snare the eyes of your mind."

Daivat chest shakes gently with laughter, but he leans fondly into the touch. "The difference between us, sister earest, is I *like* the city and its people."

Alba says, "And that," Alba says, lips twitching upward, "is why *I* am the wisest of us."