A Bitter Soul -- {Lakeside Ponderings}

[Adrastos Morandir]

Such a peaceful place, it appears... Adrastos thought to himself darkly as he sat at the lakeside, legs crossed before him, dark saffron eyes closed. Nothing could be heard but the constant crash of the falls plowing into the lake below some several furlongs down its bank, and the meditating Drow was not sure he liked it that way. The Deeps of his homeland were always filled with a din, despite what one expects of caves; the shrieks and shouts of squabbling Drows, day in and day out; the clatter of hammers and the clink of chisels as the ironworkers created the intricate, enigmatic works for which his race would he famous, had they not guarded their lives jealously.

This loudness, it was nostalgic, easy on the ears, and yet it stirred up bitter, angry, rancid feelings in his chest; feelings he was quite familiar with, though he did not welcome them.

The Drow flicked his chin-length white hair over his shoulder, growling in irritation as the snowy locks fell in front of his dark gold eyes again, though he made no move to correct it, rather moving to adjust his Piwafwi, the grey-green material of the cloak seeming to shift colors in the dim light.

The faintest rays of dusk dusted his ash-black skin, but rather than seem to glow, as Elves did, he appeared all the darker, all the more sinister. Indeed, though his pointed ears might suggest otherwise, he was no Elf, and he'd gladly kill any who implied it. His ears were longer than an Elf's, his skin darker, hair fairer, eyes stranger, and more angry. Though tall for a Drow, or Darkling, as some called them, he was shorter than an elf, at about five and a half feet, and was lean and sinewy, highly durable, yet lithe.

He was garbed in a black leather jerkin, underneath which the sleeves of a shirt of mail could be seen. This was no ordinary mail, however; it was Drow-chain, similar to the Dwarve's work with mithril, though darker, slightly heavier, but far more versatile, a work only seen among the Drows. Normally, this awe-inspiring piece of work would crumble under the sunlight, but Adrastos had had it studded with light pellet powder, preventing the deterioration, making it superior to most Drow-chain.

Dark grey trousers adorned his long, bandy legs, and dark boots clad his feet, scuffed and worn with much travel, in some places even threadbare. The strangest part of his garb, however, was perhaps the Piwafwi, a craft unique to Drowkind; a hooded, long-caped cloak that allowed the wearer to fade nigh completely into darkness, and masked life's heat. In truth, the only skin that was visible was his bitter, angry-looking face, and his long-fingered, clenched hands.

Adrastos Morandir stood, striding down the bank several feet, the underbrush and tall oaks and beeches seeming to shrink back from him. He kneeled at the waterside and stared into its depths, glaring spitefully as the pale reflection of the moon just began to become visible in the darkening sky. Before they were chased below ground, the moon was the Drows' matron, supposedly the personification of Astrala herself, said to be much brighter, more beautiful, and indeed more terrible in those days. Drows sang songs and told stories of the moon in its day, before Astrala was banished with her children, but they did not love it. Indeed, it is said that a Drow can never love, too absorbed are they with themselves. In some ways, Adrastos hated the moon, but in others he craved it. It was the one boon of living aboveground, and though he loathed it, he lusted for its rays as well.

"A strange thing..." he whispered, his voice dark and hateful. "Such a strange thing..."

[Doronlas]

The midnight black mare moved with purpose though she did not know the final destination. Her northern blood and breeding made the mare an impressive force, sixteen hands tall with large hooves and a well muscled body. In some ways, Rywin prided herself in being not a beauty but a powerful force of endurance and strength. Other times though, Rywin found such things a hassle, such as when her master, Gabriel Gamblingson, sought longer journeys than usual. This particular night, Rywin couldn't keep steady. Her ears twitched, dark eyes searching the night while she snorted unhappily at something neither she nor her rider could see.

On the mare's back, Gable pushed back the hood of his cloak, surveying the surroundings. It was no mild thing that made Rywin uneasy, never was. When the mare paused in a patch of moonlight, Gable's handsome features were illuminated. He was quite obviously human but, not completely human if one knew where to look. His eyes were soulful and powerful like those of an elf, his mind ten times stronger than the normal human's and his stride when he walked was too graceful to be totally human. Gable's mother had been one of the half-elven and his father a human, leaving him with mainly very small features of his elven linage. Gable was a tall man with light brown hair and his face was that of a healer, made to smile and laugh but capable of a firm scowl. Gable had steady hands for tending gaping war wounds and soothing the ill and dying. When he spoke, Gable had a soothing voice, obviously human but easily flowing between human and elvish. Indeed, he made a strange human but would never pass as an elf.

"All is well Rywin, peace," Gable murmured to the mare, patting her dark neck.

Rywin snorted as though to disagree and grudgenly went forward as he directed. Sometimes she felt her human was blind and others it was as though he was another horse. At the moment, he was blind.

Ignorant to his horse's criticisms, Gable shifted his grip on the reins to hold his staff better, just in case. He was not a violent person by nature though he had a high tolerance for violence. Still, if someone threatened him, Gable would be sure to put a decent lump on their head before he went down. Being a healer, he knew the weak spots for humans though he seldom used that to his advantage unless he had to.

Rywin came out of the forest on a lakeshore, the waters illuminated by the moon making Gable smile. Ah the moon was a welcome sight! Swinging out of the saddle, Gable probed the soft shore but found no critters to cause any alarm in the night. Going to his mare, Gable removed her bridle, saddlebags and saddle. Rywin would not wander in the night so Gable had no worries about turning her loose. Taking the saddle bags and tack, Gable laid it aside and set about finding fallen limbs for kindling. With a flint, he set the bundle he found alight to chase off the evening breeze. The golden light from the flames danced from human to mare, crackling contently as Gable scanned the other stretches of lakeshore visible in the darkness. Rywin was still fidgetting, not grazing but not resting. Something or someone was still out there.

Deciding it was best to ignore his unseen company for the time being, Gable looked up at the moon and began to sing. The song was in elvish, one his mother had taught him when he'd still been just a boy. It was a praise to the moon for guiding a weary traveler with her brother, the sun. The song was meant to be sung as a duet, a female for the moon and male for the sun but at the moment since it was just Gable and the moon was out, he sang the moon's part with no shame though the words were soft and sung in the deeper voice of a male human rather than the fair tones of an elf.

Keeping within the circle of firelight, Rywin twitched her ears at her human and nickered, stomping a big hoof unhappily. How could he be so relaxed when something unseen was out there? She wanted him to find it and chase it off so it couldn't hurt her but he was doing no such thing! He was singing the strange language again, the one that usually soothed her but now made her all that more irritated.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos flattened his palms to the lakeside earth and leaned forward so that his long ear pressed to the ground, the hood of his cloak falling over his head with the movement, though he didn't seem to mind. He shut his eyes almost drowsily, and their hateful fire was for the moment hidden; not extinguished, but barred from view.

"Speak to me..." He commanded in a stern, yet sleepy tone, splaying his spindly fingers in the dust, feeling the earth thrumming beneath the digits; an eternal heartbeat. He allowed his mind to slide out of focus, the curling fogs of Awareness carressing his mind as he let go of the tangible sphere, grasping gently at unrealities and faraway dimensions, holding them softly,as though he cradled a life in his palms; one he did not wish to extinguish.

Images flooded his mind, coming and going so quickly he could barely register them, and he did not try. Rather than attempt to put words to the objects, to think through the happenings he saw (for that would take too much time), he simply saw. He did not think, no, indeed, it was his goal not to, but let the happenings flow, for they seemed to tell a story.

In the beginning of the beginning, before the times of Elves and Drows, there was aught but a stretching, flat expanse of stone. The water came with time as the rock shifted itself, forming cliffs and gullies, canyons and vales. It carved a rill for itself, and the rill eventually grew into a brook, and then to a stream. The trees came then, and they grew and grew, and soon enough their probing roots opened wider banks, and the stream became a river. The trees grew tall and hale, and creatures came. First the fish of the waters, who bred in the pond that was now a lake, then the roe deer, and the foxes, wolves and bears, badgers and birds and mice and minks. They came and they flourished, and the earth continued to change. The falls were made, and their noise brought Elves.

They settled near here, for a time. They made homes in the trees, and many centuries passed. They lived and help the forest grow, and, with time, the mountains, which had been naught but cliffs and foothills, came to be. Crags and crevices, slopes and sheer faces.

But the humans then came. Humans drove the elves away, and the trees were no longer sentient. They were sluggish, dumb, unfeeling. Travelers came and went, and then there was a Drow. (If Adrastos had been thinking, he would have registered that the Drow was he himself.)

The Drow crouched at the waterside and listened patiently to this tale of creation and woe, hidden from the view of all by his Piwafwi cloak, and then...then there was a man, but not a man.

In Adrastos's mind there swam a lasting image, not transient, like its forebearers. There was a man sitting by a fire with a midnight-black mare, and he appeared to be singing in...

Elvish! Adrastos's eyes snapped open, fire rekindled and raging, and he sat up abruptly, his hood falling back, silver hair standing out against the dim. He looked suddenly to the sky to find the moon glowing brightly; he must have remained in his trance for at least two hours.

And indeed, an Elvish song floated on the breeze. The Drow bristled when he was reminded of how many words his language and this one shared, how similar they were, and he snarled low in his throat when he turned around, only to see the scene he had witnessed not moments before, but several yards away from him. He was not an Elf...no, but he was Elf-like. And he spoke the tongue.

"Utinu en lokirim! Ya naa lle?!" [Filthy snake! Who are you?!] He snarled in Drow-tongue, drawing his lips back from his teeth.

[Doronlas]

Gable sang softly, staring at the moon over the lake without a second thought as to what might be making Rywin so nervous. The mare was known for her impatience and the moonlight made Gable calm, too calm to worry about trivial animal fears though in daylight hours he would be more alert. The moon reminded him of his mother, whom, despite being only one of the half-elven, had still maintained glorious beauty. Her voice had been clear as crystal and features fair and ageless. Many of the women in Gabriel's home town had envied her and many men had envied Gable's father, Gamling. He could remember clearly to this day how men would glare at Gable and his siblings while women turned their scorn upon his half-elf mother.

It had been a shameful display of human jealousy but, Gamling and Olivia had boasted peaceful natures. Being so peaceful, they let the insults and scorn of the villagers roll off them like water on duck feathers. Gable had always wondered how they could tolerate it after they had been so cruelly ripped from him. The villagers had lost their patience with Gamling and his family, trapping all but Gable in their farmhouse and burning it. Gabriel had watched from a distance, cursing humankind and damning his own mortal blood while weeping for his family. That had been years ago and since then, Gable had discovered his father's peace and his mother's serenity as best he could. Sitting under the moonlight with the lake rippling nearby and flames warm not a foot away, Gable couldn't help but call up even a small smile. Of course he wished more than anything his siblings and parents could be with him, perhaps turning gray with age but there nonetheless.

Rywin seemed to have calmed as her master fell into his trip down memory lane but raised her head. The black mare snorted, flaring her nostrils to take in the crisp autumn night air. Whatever had disturbed her earlier had never left but now she sensed movement and it make her again frightful. Tossing her head, the big mare whinnied shrilly, breaking Gable's peaceful trance.

The elfsong cut off as Gable's head snapped away from the lake toward the shadows. Outside of the ring of firelight, the part-elf man caught a glimmer of movement and then something lunged from the darkness snarling at him in a language he had never heard before. Gable stiffened but did not jump to his feet to draw a sword. Instead, his hand merely drifted to his staff which laid beside him, blue eyes locked on the strange creature. It looked elven but it was not tall and fair like any elf he had ever seen, nor did it speak elvish. It was some other manner of being though Gable had never seen it before.

Rywin shrieked and flung herself backward, rearing and boxing the air with her front hooves. Gable didn't shift his gaze from the strange creature.

"Peace Rywin, sooth your fright," Gable said in the common tongue of men. "Stranger, I know not what you say." Gable was assuming the elf-like creature understood him though he was ready to defend himself. Healer he may be but Gable knew well enough how to wield a staff as well as a swordsman with his blade.

Slowly, Gable rose to his full height, realizing the creature was at least several inches shorter than he was but Gable made no move to approach nor back down from the being. Its aura felt angry and cold but, Gable's elven eyes sought the cause for the creature's unhappiness with him. Had it been offended by the elvish song? Or perhaps he just didn't like people?

Being disliked was nothing new to Gable. He'd spent years flying under the radar of humans, keeping his eyes downcast, appearing when humans needed him and vanishing as quickly as possible before anyone realized he was part elf. The south was all but forbidden land to him due to the unrest between humans and elves. Even with only being one fourth elven, he was still mistrusted among humans and wearied among elves.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos gave a low, chilling shriek when the massive horse reared, eyes widening slightly, though he did not back away. Rather, he stepped forward, pulling himself to his full height. While he was still substantially shorter than the stranger, the movement made him seem to grow, though he did not; an intimidating presence.

"Do not lie to me, you worm! The Brightlings cannot have so easily forgotten our language." he hissed in commonspeak. His accent made his voice harsh, dark, and almost grating, but in a way, it seemed terribly beautiful. The Drows had once referred to this as Astrala's Blessing; the ability to be both horrible and wonderful to look at and hear at the same time.

Adrastos spat distastefully on the ground, momentarily revealing a blue tongue, then spoke again, golden eyes narrowed mistrustfully.

"I say again; who are you? And why do you see fit to sneak up on me unawares? Speak quickly!" His fingers itched instinctually to curl around the hilt of Flax, but he kept his hands at his sides, not wanting to incur the wrath of the horse. Even after almost a century of surface-walking, he could never get over his distaste for the wretched beasts. Cave-crawlers were more agreeable mounts in every way.

[Doronlas]

How many storms of unsightly words had Gabriel weathered? He had long since lost count. This one however, was perhaps his most interesting. Probably because it was with a creature he had never seen before but, still, it was a nice shake up from the average human spewing profanity at him. Being the butt of someone's hatred was nothing new for Gable. Either the humans didn't like his elven quarter or elves found distaste in his human part. Dwarves, he seldom met and other fairy folk he found relatively interesting. They found his burning of smudge sticks and runes of protection to be amusing and sometimes interesting. Other than that he often found himself disliked for one reason or another.

If the term "Brightlings" was anything to go by, Gable was assuming he was being hated this time for his elvish blood.

"Some call me a druid or healer, to others I am a mortal elf. To myself, I am Gabriel, son of Gamling. I have never heard an elf referred to as a 'Brightling' but I am merely an ignorant human. If you refer to elves, I apologize to say I know not of your people or your tongue for, I am no elf."

His words weren't scathing or scornful, nor did he lash out in any way. He was renowned for being passive, though some thought it made him a weak fool. Oh well. He was alive wasn't he? That was good enough, plenty good. Instead, Gable inclined his head in a sort of half-bow, a polite greeting in the world of men. He was hoping that he could pass as an ignorant human since his elven features were mainly of a more mental nature. Gable was known for his amazing memory and intuition but only his eyes could possibly give him away as a grandson of the Elderfolk.

Rywin snorted, tossing her head and pawing at the ground with a big hoof. She disliked this strange creature of the dark, its presence made her uneasy but her master would not run. Snorting again, the mare whinnied, shying slightly.

"We meant no harm and I hope you forgive our intrusion. My eyes are weak in the darkness." Again, Gable inclined his head, all too aware that doing so could give the other a chance to part his head from his shoulders.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos clicked his teeth irritably, though his rage had receded. It was an instinctual reaction, and so rarely lasted too long, despite his heritage. He looked this 'Gabriel' up and down, as though appraising a potential enemy for weak points. Indeed, when he glared into the man's eyes he could see that his pupils were round and wide; marks of a Daywalker. His own orbs were possessed of thin, filmy sclera, like a permanently-drawn second eye-lid, that filtered the darkness. Unlike nocturnal creatures, such as cats, who utilize even the slightest sliver of light, he needed none at all; his eyes relied on heat, not light, and he could clearly see the pumping of the newcomer's heart in his chest, though his own was obscured by his Piwafwi.

The disadvantage to this, however, was easily known when he flicked his gaze momentarily to the fire, flinching, though barely noticably. The light was little more than a candle compared to the wretched sun, but it still caused his eyes to burn, head to throb, dimming his sight until he looked away.

He locked his gaze back on Gabriel, his heart straining with dislike, his mind telling him to hurt (though that feeling was a constant for a Drow), but his body untensed, only a little. There was no love lost between himself and humans, but he did not hate them. No, hate took effort, and he wasted no such effort on anything short of Elves and daylight, and perhaps Astrala.

"Then..." he grit his teeth, as though attempting to swallow something bitter. "Forgive my outburst. I was startled." it came out as more of a command than an entreaty, but it still taxed him to try and mean it. Apologies were completely unheard of in the Deeps, and it had taken him decades of surface-walking to wrap his brain around the concept. He'd only recently been able to stomach doing it at all.

"For your future knowledge, if you have one;" threats, however, were as natural to his azure tongue as drinking. "-I am a Drow, though you may have heard us called Darklings, or-" he spat, as though disgusted. "-Dark Elves." His face gave a little spasm of effort, and he bowed, just barely.

"Adrastos is my name." Introductions, pleasantries, manners. Things were so much simpler in the Deeps, where one punched another in the solar plexus to say 'hello'.

[Doronlas]

Relaxing a little now that the Drow seemed less likely to pounce and rip his throat out, Gabriel looked over at Rywin. The darkly colored mare was still dancing unhappily, eyeing Adrastos with mistrust in her eyes. She was sometimes a very good mare, calm at the right times but when she decided to be weary of someone, Rywin could be weary for years. Shaking his head at the finicky mare, Gable rested his walking staff near the pack and tack Rywin had carried. Noticing the "Dark Elf's" discomfort with the flames, Gable deadened the flames down to glimmers of flame and glowing embers. Though he didn't have an elf's completely amazing sight, he could see well enough and if the Drow killed him then so be it. Gable had long since gotten over fearing death by beheading. Drowning and burning however, that was a different story all together.

"I admit ignorance to your people Adrastos but, I am only mortal, my knowledge is limited."

Chuckling to himself, Gable turned his back to the stranger, crouching and rummaging in his saddle bag for a moment. From the pack, he drew a braided rope of dried lavender and white sage. Taking a shallow wooden bowl out as well, Gable coiled the rope of dried herbs in the bowl and turned to the dimmed fire. Taking one end of the herb braid, Gable caught a flickering flame to burn the herbs. He let it burn for a moment, the end of the herb rope glowing red as it burned and smoked slightly. Satisfied it would not spike up and flame, Gable sat the bowl on the ground beside the fire and settled himself near the remains of his dimmed fire. Glancing over at his company, Gable decided to refrain from elvish, lest he have another violent reaction from the other.

"I hope the herbs will not bother you, they are merely for protection of sorts. I have nothing to offer a fellow traveler apart from stories and some herbs though I doubt you are the sort to dabble in company and medicine."

Gable offered a friendly smile and it fit well on his face, as though he were made to smile. It was a warm expression for him, making his blue-grey eyes dance. Many women found him quite charming when he smiled though Gable seldom returned any such affections. That however, was not his goal for Adrastos. He was curious but kept it subtle and merely hoped to make it through the night with his head still on his shoulders.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos sucked air through his teeth in anger when Gabriel turned his back on him, but did his best to quell it. In Drow society, turning your back on someone was considered highly insulting; a bash to their competency as a fighter. However, he worked hard to beat down the instinctual hostility, remembering that turning your back on a hostile being, on the Surface, was usually intended as either a sign of peace, or fool-hardiness.

A pacifist and a fool? he cocked an eyebrow, watching in stern silence as the herb rope was removed from the man's pack. His irrational anger finally flickered out, and he was somewhat glad of the clearer thinking it offered. Most of his race fed on that natural aggression, and he had often been scorned for his willingness to simmer down to an irritable unfriendliness, but it had kept him out of several tight spots over the years.

For a moment he stood still, uncertain of what he should do, but at the comment about the herbs, he put on a scowl and defiantly strode forward, planting himself firmly on the ground before the fire and burning herbs without so much as a 'may I please'.

"Bah." he grunted gruffly, averting his eyes from the low fire. He was grudgingly thankful that Gabriel had been considerate enough to try and ease his discomfort, but he did not let it show.

Clicking his teeth repeatedly, he shot the mare a scowl to seal their mutual dislike, resisting the urge to scoot farther away from her. He did not scoot. Pah! He snorted disdainfully, pushing aside his cloak and reaching into the rucksack secured at his waist, withdrawing a black-stained flask filled with a clear, vaguely purple fluid that appeared perhaps a little thicker in consistency than milk. Pulling the cork out with his jagged teeth, he tossed back a gulp, the cool liquid somehow searing his throat, though much more pleasantly than human alchohol.

[Doronlas]

Coolly ignoring his visitor's rudeness, Gabriel settled himself comfortably near the smoldering remains of the fire, breathing in the herb scents contently. Lavender had always been his mother's favorite scent and the white sage served to ward off dark spirits. Though he doubted such things existed, Gable was never one to be picky when it came to the protection he chose. If one was to protect their body and mind they must also protect their spirit, lest the body and mind be useless without it. He often smudged white sage for the ill and used mint oil for the healing to soothe them into calm rest. Luckily, it had been a while since Gable had had to tend the ill though he had tended many travelers that fell to the hands of bandits.

War was well upon the humans and he knew his place in it. He stood between elves and humans, though not as much as someone with a fully elven mother and fully human father. Still, he was in the middle and as such, serves as a neutral healer to all races. He would not turn away a dwarf for being a dwarf or an elf or human. If Adrastos came to him with his arm hanging by a few tendons, Gable would do his best to heal the wound, despite some naming him a fool for being so open toward giving aid to anyone. To him, race meant only who brought you into the world, not who you were.

Pulling a few leaves from his saddle bag, Gable looked toward Rywin. "Talu-mellon nin, rado-sídh," Gable murmured, offering the leaves to the mare. (Come my friend, find peace.)

Rywin snorted and hung back, lashing her tail unhappily before reluctantly moving forward. Her big velvet-black nose bumped Gabriel's hand without taking the offered leaves, mint. Gable didn't move his hand away to retract the offer. After a moment of glaring toward the Drow, Rywin took the leaves and moved away again. Gable shook his head in wonder at the mare's stubbornness.

"Such poor manners will get you nowhere my dear mare," Gable chided the animal.

In reply he received a loud stomp and snort.

"Ah but I am not the one behaving like an old nag," Gable teased, warming his hands near the low flames. Of course he couldn't understand Rywin in words but he often had one-sided conversations with animals and Rywin was always a willing participant, even though it was unlikely she understood words. She always understood his tone.

Again Rywin whinnied.

"Be that way then, be off with you. Silly mare and your superstitions."

Rywin didn't leave but didn't move out of the shadows, as though the darkness would protect her from a Drow of all things.

Gable for his part, contently ignored the indignant mare, seeming almost as though a random Drow sharing a fire was a normal occurrence for the night, or perhaps, he was alone. Gable spent so many nights alone and it seemed Adrastos was not a talker, therefore Gable went about his own business, teasing Rywin for her unease and stubbornness though she was far from an old nag. Truth be told, Gable had...persuaded Rywin to come with him from a baron's stable when he had been passing through the baron's lands healing sick villagers. The mare had been regal as a duchess but never complained about following him that Gable could tell.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos watched with a sort of detached curiosity as Gabriel went about his business, seeming quite content with his company. He bristled at the sound of the Elvish tongue, which he had been taught to hate since birth, but it mellowed down to a sarcastic bemusement when the man began to 'converse' with his mount. It seemed a very Elf-ish thing to do, he mused.

In truth, before coming to the Surface Adrastos had not even known what Elves really looked like. Astrala's temples, and all the scriptures he had ever read depicted them as disgusting heathens, grovelling on their knees with their eyes cut out, clawing at the bleeding sockets, writhing in mortal agony, or as fiends. In those mosaics and murals a Drow male would usually be seen, forced to his knees and heavily wounded, glaring defiantly into the haughty eyes of a towering Elf, whose boots were bloody from kicking, chin held high in distaste.

Adrastos had been surprised upon actually meeting his first Elf. He was shocked to find that they were, in fact, fair; beautiful even, gentle, and kind. They avoided war and dominion, violence and conquest, and for the most part dedicated themselves to peace. They were anti-Drows, in a sense. Tall where they were short, fair where they were dark, peace-loving where his people were notorious war-mongers.

However, he did not hate them any the less. It had been bred into him already, and there was no getting rid of it; grudges are often permanent in the Darkling mind. He did not value their gentle nature; they were weak, fickle creatures, content to stand by and watch time slip from between their fingers without meaning. And, oh, when he had met an Elf who actually knew what a Drow was...He growled in angry remembrance. Vain, proud, haughty and self-righteous. High-and-mighty, holier-than-thou. Bah! Frivolous, light-dwelling bastards!

He took another gulp from the flask, then stowed it, gratefully inhaling the strong scent of nightshade it elicited. There was another good thing about living topside; plants didn't grow in the Deeps. Mosses, lichens, and luminous fungi abounded, but nightshade was a commodity. Ridiculously expensive, as only once in a while would the occasional Surface-crawling Drow bring some down, and that was usually given to Astrala as an offering. Poisonous to most races, but as lovely as ambrosia to Adrastos's tongue.

"Folk'll think you crazy." he commented bluntly, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on the knees of his crossed legs, slouching forward, and blinking scornfully up at the moon.

[Doronlas]

Looking over at the dark-skinned Drow when he spoke, Gable chuckled a little, looking at the low flames. "My good Drow, if that is the worst people ever think me than perhaps I may yet escape the flames they seem intent to burn me with." Gable grimaced, remembering the villagers that had set his whole family alight. Those were physical flames and yes, he had escaped those more than just once but there were other sorts of flames. Humans lashed out with fiery hate and elves with smoldering dislike and mistrust. The place where half-elven folk and those with less elven blood dwelled, it was a place of fire and at times water if mortals wanted them drowned for their "crimes." What crimes could a man like Gable be accused of?

Well, certain suspicious towns had tried to burn him for "witchcraft" when he had spoken elvish to coax a comatose man from the darkness that had surrounded his mind. Over the years it had grown harder to stay away from such dangerous conditions as the dislike toward elves escalated in the human kingdoms. The year before, Gable had spent much of his time underground in the caverns of the dwarves, seeking even a little respite from the flames of the two races' dislike.

With humans, you had to look human. Gable did but his eyes and voice gave him away, his grace and steadiness obviously not mortal and his mind sharper than any blade. With the elves, you had to speak their tongue and honor their ways perfectly. One mortal slip up for a halfling and you would face their mistrust for centuries.

Glaring at the flames darkly, Gable pulled himself out of his troublesome thoughts. Tonight his worst problem would be if Adrastos decided to sever head from shoulders or worse. That however, did not really worry Gable. He was certain the Drow would do it, but he had bigger concerns than dying by blade. Compared to someone trying to burn or drown him, Adrastos beheading him was merciful.

"Ah the worlds of men and elves are cruel ones" Gable murmured absentmindedly, stroking a pendant hidden in his cloak that his mother had given him though it was out of sight for the Drow. "For both you must be perfect in times of war but one word of elvish to a man and you'll find yourself burning or in prison. Witchcraft they call it these days. Pah!"

Shaking his head, Gable glanced across the lake. He'd been heading toward a village said to be beyond the mountains that rose across the lake but he was in no hurry to get there, that was for sure.

[Adrastos Morandir]

Adrastos raised his silver brows and snorted skeptically, looking Gabriel up and down as if to say 'you?'. If ever the Drow had met a person less likely to be burned at the stake, he had no memory of it. Of course, he was aware of the clashing between Elves and Men, but he had never truly gotten involved, being somewhat of a hermit as he was.

"These days?" he growled. "I'll admit you give the impression of intelligence, but true wisdom eludes you. It has always been like that. The Surface-trash just hadn't taken to targeting a specific race again. Not since the Refuge, I'd wager." The Refuge, thousands of years past by that point, was the time when the Drows had been chased below ground for their violent ways and theophiliatic, sacrificial beliefs. "They think the Darklings are extinct. It was only a matter of time before they targeted the Brightlings. Its human nature."

Though the whole of his little speech had been spoken with vehement anger and bitterness, Adrastos was still somewhat surprised, having spoken more words to another being in the last few minutes than he had in weeks. He scowled and sniffed at the burning herbs curiously, cocking a brow skeptically.

"You call these protection? They wouldn't ward off a cave-toad." He commented drily, looking distasteful. "They smell like flowers, for Astrala's sake."

[Doronlas]

Gabriel didn't miss Adrastos' skeptical look and knew it was well earned. He wasn't old and hunched like a wizard or clothed in black with hidden knives like a blood-thirsty thief. Still, he had the blood of the wrong kind in him and it made him a target of prejudice. Of course he could easily assume Drow's were naturally a violent people though Adrastos seemed simply aggravated most of the time but still, it was quite likely the Drow found his troubles with the two species merely an annoyance. Who would bother with the troubles of a poor healer that rode from town to town trying not to stir up trouble?

He listened passively as the Drow spoke, thoroughly agreeing with his comment about intelligence and wisdom. Men thought him wise from time to time but Gabriel put it all toward simply common sense that most men lacked these days. Wisdom was something that Olivia and Gambling had most likely possessed but Gabriel had never quite caught on to. He simply tried to keep his eyes clear of the hate of races even if at times it was nearly impossible. The haze of hate between races these days was escalating so much that it made the smoke of a wildfire look like a mere thin morning mist.

Shifting slightly, Gabriel looked over at the smoldering smudge braid that he had set aside earlier, Gabriel chuckled. "They are flowers, of sorts. White sage is said to keep dark spirits at bay and protect the soul. Lavender has no true purpose that I know of other than soothing but, I let it smolder to protect those I have lost. It may seem a silly notion but, it helps me sleep at night. My mother was among the few half-elven to live in human realms and was a wise healer. Lavender was her favorite herb so, I keep it on hand for her memory if nothing else."

Reaching toward the bowl, Gable stroked the braided herbs lightly. He would have to weave more smudge sticks soon. Winter was coming fast, he would need to move south soon or find a village to shelter in for the season. Unlike elves, he felt the cold just as his mother had. Winter could kill him, elven blood or no, herbs or no herbs.

Sighing heavily, Gable leaned back slightly, watching the smoldering embers of the fire. "What do you think Rywin? South for the winter or go north?" he asked, glancing at the mare. The black mare didn't reply but was facing north. Gable chuckled. "North it is old girl."

[Adrastos Morandir]

"Hmph." Adrastos grunted, eyeing the herbs skeptically, after a few moments simply shrugging and flicking his bangs back curtly. He could sense love in the mention of Gabriel's mother, and also grief. He snorted; such weak emotions. Bah!

"Your creature seems to be trying to get you killed." he growled matter-of-factly, taking to nudging at the nearly dead fire somewhat apprehensively with a stick. "The way north is clear now, but in about two weeks there's going to be a storm that'll freeze your pasty hide solid. Anyone without firewood is probably going to die."

Indeed, Adrastos had been planning on travelling elsewhere; east, west, south, it didn't really matter; they were all bound to be warmer. The earth had been creaking and groaning with the oncoming chill for days now, and he had not failed to notice it. Even when he was not listening, he could sense the tremor in the air, a constant staccato. The wilds were buckling down for a cold, cold winter, and he intended to be far from it.

He could handle cold; after all, there was no sun to warm Drow bones below ground, and their own body heat was often all they had to rely on. However, he didn't like it one bit. He didn't enjoy intense heat either, but he had come to take mild climates for granted by this point, and he didn't intend on changing that.