| abstract
| - Ironically enough, the Tempest Corona is currently experiencing a bit of a tempest, itself. Wind whips through the garden, causing the trees and bushes to thrash about violently, dislodging petals from some of the early flowering plants. Amidst all of this, a steady rain drenches the garden, and those in it. In all, it is not a great night for a stroll around the spire, so the Corona is understandably deserted. Aside from the Blood Guard patrols, the only other occupant is a young, cloaked man, who stands in the partial shelter of one of the larger trees. He watches the Spire quietly and motionlessly, leaning against his quarterstaff as the wind and rain nip at him. Also watching the storm rage its primal fury is another soul devoid of the blood armor. Rather than relying on the steadfastness of a bent and swaying tree, however, she gazes forth from a pinnacle of stone. The Tempest Spire's door is ajar, leaving in its place a shifting shape of white coils and crimson eyes, the latter of which having not blinked for quite some time. Mystified could be an adequate description of her ladyship's expression as she watches nature at work. The cloaked figure beneath the tree sways a bit as he is buffeted by the storm. A flash of lightning reveals a thoughtful expression on the face of the hooded young man, who seems to be watching not the Spire, but the figure in its doorway. After another few moments of hestitation, the cloaked figure leaves the shelter of the tree--such as it is--and crosses the garden path to approach the Syladris. The tapping of his quarterstaff against the wet cobblestones heralds his approach. "Hail," he calls, raising his voice over the gale. He lifts a hand to the Archmage in greeting. The Syladri remains without flinch as the lightning crackles angrily above. As the man makes his approach, the forward coiling of her tail's tip retracts, sliding over its thicker lengths to reposition behind. Her piercing stare remains unhindered, focus less on the skies and more on the cloak, or rather what moved inside it. The rasping of scale over stone progresses and her stance shifts backwards, doubling over and behind the repositioned tail tip so that the resulting stance mirrors perfectly what it was once before. The difference, of course, beind that there is now a meter and a half stretch between the doorway and her shadowed self. The cloaked figure stops several steps back from the door, still very much in the rain, and pulls his hood back. Another flash of lightning illuminates the young man's bright blond hair, blue-gray eyes, and friendly--but tired--features. Holding his staff aside, he bows formally to the Syladris. "Good evening, my Lady," he says, sounding a touch raspy. "I do not mean to bother you, but I wanted to introduce myself. My name is Syton Temple. As you can probably tell, I am an Imperial, from Fastheld." All the while, the rain slowly soaks into his hair and drips down his face. Very much still dry and rather enjoying it, Tshepsi watches the water snake over the man's jaw and brow without envy. "Ssssyton..." hisses an echoed greeting. Very slightly, she tilts her head aside as though to study him further. "Do Templessss ssstand againssst ttthe rain asss tttheir dessstiny, or issss one ssssimply afraid to enter anottther?" In a fluid series of movements, the Syladri reverses her former placement and blocks the doorway once more. "Whatssss it doing in ttthe rain?" "I do not mind the rain, my Lady," Syton says, running a hand through his rainslick hair, "but where I am from, one does not enter another's house without being invited." He looks around the garden briefly, then shakes a thought loose and returns his attention to the lady before him. His quarterstaff begins to idly tap against a paving stone as he begins to speak again. "At first," he says, pausing for a moment to cough, "I came here to meet you because I was prepared to risk my life for you, to storm this town with Soravyn and rescue you from He Who Is Incarnate..." Syton tilts his head from one side to the other and continues, "but now, I come with questions, my Lady, which I hope you will be able to answer." "Sssso many quessstionsss from the Aegisss..." Tshepsi bemoans, gathering the hind length of her tail beneath the rest and rising a few feet in height as a result. The severed nubs of her horns become flush with the top of the arched doorway and she rests one gingerly against it. Despite the rather poutful response, she waits in patience silence now, body swaying oh so slightly to voices hidden within the expanse of her own mind. The diminutive Freelander takes a step backwards, tilting his head back to look up at the Syladris. He seems captivated by Tshepsi, for a moment. Eventually, Syton does actually ask a question. "Ever since I got here," he says, frowning slightly, "my dreams have gotten worse. I have hardly had one night of peace in the past two weeks." Syton glances uncomfortably over each shoulder before looking back to the Archmage. "I am a Mage, as you are," he says. "So I was hoping you could help me find some peace in my dreams." "Peace," Tshepsi can be heard to sigh, her snowy lashes closing to seal closed the scarlet portals. "Comessss from a sssequence of knowing one's ssssafety and harmony with the powerssss that be. The white dragon within one'ssss sssself embodiessss thisssss." Or whatever that was supposed to mean. The reared stance relaxes and Tshepsi wilts gracefully back to the man's height. A final sway brings her to lean with strange affection against the cool stone of the doorway. Nuzzling one temple against it, she flakes a bothersome layer of crust from the right horn fragment. "I hear thissssss sssound 'mage' many dayssss ssssince arrival of your people, Sssyton. A powerful name, but the power behind ssssuch a name I underssstand not. For powersss exissst only where the Light cassstsss itsss ssshade and bessstowsss at itssss will. Sssseek not from me, but ttthe one who hasss sssent usssss here....." Now that the rain has suddenly stopped, the Syladri's attention shifts rapidly past Syton to the misty fog that drapes the landscape. Syton does not look entirely pleased with Tshepsi's answer. He just clears his throat and frowns at her for a moment. Though the rain has stopped, water continues to drip down from his wet hair, trickling over the creases of his frown. "My Lady," he says eventually, slowing himself down, speaking carefully, "I need to understand what is causing these dreams. I need to know how to make them stop. If you cannot help me, then I implore you, my Lady, to tell me who can." "I jusssst did," Tshepsi replies matter-of-factly, blinking at the man with a degree of perplexity. "If you cannot find tttthe one to hassssten my ssssight, ttthen you will wait assss equally asss I. But if you can be comforted by a ssssimple anssswer, ttthen I tell you ttthis." Her eyes shift from left to right, glancing through the fog with mock suspicion. Bowing forward, she cups a clawed hand delicately near his ear and leans in until her lips brush his cheek and forked tongue flickers against skin. "Flee back to Fasssstheld, for fearsssome dreamsss occur when one issss sssso far from home....in a land sssso untamed by hissss lawsss." And there you have it, the advice of a genuine mastermind. The young Imperial catches his breath, standing nearly petrified as the Syladris draws so close. He tilts his head away from her very slightly. As Tshepsi whispers in his ear, the shadows on Syton's face deepen, suggesting that he does enjoy this answer any more than the last. He steps to the side once he works up the nerve, shifting uncomfortably beneath his cloak for a moment. "I have had enough of easy answers, my Lady," he says, "as, I am sure, have you. I did not come to you looking for an easy answer, only one that I can understand." Though his tone is polite on the surface, a current of frustration is beginning to creep in beneath it. "You say I need to find someone, which is indeed part of my answer, but I must know who he is... where he is... how I can find him... anything." He inhales slowly, then adds in a soft tone, "It is not my intention to pester you, my Lady, and I would not, were I not so desperate. My visions are beginning to come to me when I am awake, now. They are quite troubling." "Thhe darknesssss isss not a place for a man who fearsss hisss own ssshadow. Nor isss ttthe light, for even in itssss holy glow, ssshade isss cassst." Arching her back, Tshepsi ripples away from Syton and gazes into the upward depth of the spire. "I ssseek wittthin to find it, your anssswer. Ttthat will take time." "That is an answer I understand... I think," Syton replies, smiling the slightest bit. "Thank you for being patient with me, my Lady. I am in your debt. Light keep you." The young Imperial pulls his hood back up and takes a few backwards steps away from the Spire, his quarterstaff tapping along at his side.
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