The seasons themselves shall herald the Change.
-Genesifin
Arman crept about, moving across the floorboards with a quiet precision, and Brenol—awake—squinted in wonder; Arman walked in pitch black.
As the juile swished out, Brenol turned in his blankets and whispered to the silhouette in the shadowy doorway, “See you in Gare, friend.” He released a breath that had hung suspended throughout his sleepless night; separation held little appeal.
The indistinct head bent in brief acknowledgment, but then the entire figure bowed low. Even the juile’s shadows seemed to glide about in mysterious grace. “It has been bountiful.” His voice was its same staunch bass, yet laced with an unusual edge.
A strange fear flickered over Brenol’s heart in that moment, but he let it slide away as water along an icicle. Arman was the embodiment of competence. It would be utterly useless to wring his hands over a nighttime tremble.
“Bountiful indeed,” Brenol replied, and the juile left with the silence of a snuffed candle.
May the Three protect you… he found himself thinking.
He smiled wryly. Am I suddenly becoming religious?
The smirk disappeared as a new thought answered back: It will take the divine to save us from this mess.
The walls seemed to darken, and he squinted at the closed door, longing to rush out and call Arman back. He swallowed hard, but then shook his head in derision.
“Enough, Bren, enough,” he said to himself firmly. He flicked out his fingers like a juile and abandoned the sentiment. It would lead nowhere useful.
~
Dawn peeked through the cracks that ran along the too-small tapestry shrouding the window. Brenol eyed the slits of light with a somber heart. Reluctance paralyzed his arms and legs. He knew he must rise eventually, but delaying the inevitable carried immense attraction. So instead, he lay and recounted the night in his mind, again and again.
Finally, he stretched, resolved to the fact that sleep would certainly not visit his racing mind, and made ready. He splashed his face in the cold basin by the pallets and dressed in his warmest linens. With a flick of his wrist, he swept the tapestry aside and allowed the light and freeze of the gloomy day to settle into the dusty room. The sun was awake, but the mist of morning clung like pestilence to the earth.
“Bountiful indeed,” he grumbled to himself, and loaded his pack up with a grunt. There could be no more delay this day.
~
Brenol stared up at the forbidding skies to where the sun should have been. Had he been still, he likely would have sighed, but his chest already heaved under the effort of keeping the rough pace. He ached with every step forward, yet it remained the only way to keep warmth flowing in his body. The day had soured into a growling slate that threatened any kind of weather, save favorable. Even if the sky did not catch him, it would certainly find one of his companions.
He glowered, frustrated by the inevitable.
Brenol had paid and left the inn after a rushed—and regrettable—milky porridge. He had slipped a seal for Darse with an additional coin into the soft hands of a sealtor, who issued a brusque nod of acceptance and a promise of discretion. Brenol had bitten back his skepticism—the carrier was no more than thirteen—opting to trust the local chief-of-seal’s choice. Then, he had fled town like a fugitive, with breakfast roiling and lungs stinging against the cold.
Once in the open, he had directed his steps as northeast as the terrain allowed and instinctively knew his tread was no longer upon terrisdan soil within a few hours. His spine relaxed in the ease that one feels only in solitude as he breathed the sharp air of the lugazzi. The land was far more open here, and the bleak colors of earth mingled with snow to dirty the bland hillsides. The world seemed as devoid of life as a tomb, and stillness lingered across the plain.
He halted his northward trek and pushed on due east, following the lugazzi and its natural path. By late afternoon the following day, he had reached the Pleoner. She plunged south in an icy fervor and filled his ears with her unruly roars. The icing had certainly not stalled the watery routes, but it had made the Pleoner entirely perilous to cross. Her temperature alone was enough to turn a body white and lifeless in minutes. Brenol pressed his lips together grimly as he watched the river. The violence of her pounding rapids seemed to still all other thoughts.
A stray bird soared through the cold brume, squawking a song to an unseen companion. The sound startled Brenol to attention, and he set heels moving again. He fought for each chilling breath, slowing his pace as he battled to pass through the bushes, vines, and derant that clung like spider webs and ripped at his coat. After a dozen snags, Brenol ceased his meticulous untangling and just pressed through. When he reached the river mouth, his tattered coat and clawed face looked more like he had sought to bathe a cat than to travel the lugazzi. He sighed and hoped both lodging and new apparel would be available at the crossing.