“The Song of the Serpent”
48 Ash, 122 Steel
Northeast City Gate of the Solunarian Luxium
The winds were warm but they whipped wildly on this Atraxian morning. Arvælyn had been woken early, as was becoming increasingly common since quitting the life of an actor in the north for… whatever he was in Solunarium. What was atypical however, was today’s instructor.48 Ash, 122 Steel
Northeast City Gate of the Solunarian Luxium
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Sentinel Kyrin, as he would be referred to whilst wearing his Vigil blacks, looked skyward as they crossed through the gates leading beyond the Northeastern city wall. The Solunarian sunrise was obscured by the silhouettes of large, winged shapes circling the skies.
“Thanks for the ‘Father son’ time, Sentinel.” Arvælyn offered, with a jovial smile that was not returned.
“Sentinel Phocion is otherwise engaged, so this introduction falls to me.” He replied in his flat baritone, leading them between the Prætoriæ of the Golden Guard and the Præventores toward the open sands of the military training grounds.
“You are at a disadvantage for coming to this late, but your runic boons ought to more than account for the discrepancy. I suspect the greatest hurdle you will face will be your own nerves.” Kyrin’s eyes flashed with a lustrous golden glow as he turned his gaze northwest toward Mount Sorokyn. A distant shriek answered his gesture and Arry turned to watch as a Wyvern burst up from behind the eyrie and began to soar toward them, seeming to grow ever larger as it approached. Kyrin was correct- Arvælyn’s nerves were on alert as the wings of the massive predatory wafted might winds down toward them, whipping their blonde hair and the light fabric of their black uniforms along with no paucity of sand.
The Atraxian wyvern alighted with a heavy thud on the open sands, and curved its serpentine neck down to regard Kyrin with its yellow, split pupil eyes. A look of recognition seemed to strike the creature, which lowered its head to the sand at Kyrin’s feet, as if bowing in reverence to its master.
“This…” Kyrin leaned forward to place his gloved palm onto the snout of the large draconid, “…is Rhæxys. Employ your Rune to regard his Symphony.”
“Very well…” Arvælyn replied, a bit anxiously. He’d never delved into the soul of such a creature, and he was very averse to offending an acid spitting apex predator with razor sharp teeth but, as Kyrin had already insinuated, he would need to master his fear if was to master a mount. His Rune activated at his wrist, and Kyrin suddenly grabbed his arm to shove his hand onto the scales of Rhæxys’ head.
“Be not bashful, Arvælyn.” He urged, “Listen to the Song of the Serpent.”
The large yellow eyes darted up to regard the younger elf, as Arry shut his own eyes to delve.
“There is… respect for you. I would say even awe, if I am reading correctly.” The Phædryn bastard began, “He is… proud. It feels paternal, somehow…”
“His mate hatched a brood of wyvernlings early in Cinderfall. All of them have survived, thus far. It is a rare thing. For as strong the adults are, the infants are passing fragile.”
“There is unease, because he doesn’t know me. He… tolerates me, in deference to you.”
“But is he hostile or resistant to you?”
“No.”
“Then your first lesson is complete. Now…” Kyrin’s eyes began to glow again, “Let us instill trust.”
Arvælyn felt a shift in the wyvern’s Symphony, as Kyrin asserted his will. It was a gentle acquiescence. Rather than resisting the influence, the creature seemed balked by it, as if being freed of unwanted tension. A low purr was emitted from deep in the long throat of the draconid.
“They are cleverer than I realised… I would have expected reluctance to accept your designs.”
“That assumption is borne of your foreign upbringing, Subvigil. What many do not recognize abroad is that liberty in and of itself is neither virtuous nor a promise of satisfaction. For so many, it is an unending misery, because their freedom is false or they are ill-equipped to manage their own affairs. Is a satisfied slave a slave at all?”
“I… don’t know.”
“A servus in Solunarium is happier than a freeman living hand to mouth in some foreign slum. Our servi are clothed, fed and if they deserve happiness, it can be instilled into them through magical means. There will ever be servants in all societies. I think it says more of our culture that ours are the most satisfied than can be said of the culture in which they are the most ‘free’.”
“’We are all of us slaves. True power is in the knowing.’”
Kyrin actually deigned to answer the younger elf’s quotation with a faint smile.
“You have been studying scripture.” The Sentinel acknowledged. “Now then. Let us mount.” Kyrin stood aright and stalked around to the side of the wyvern. A saddle was strapped to the back of the beast from which hung a chainlink ladder hanging down the broad side of the draconid. Kyrin climbed up first, followed by Arvælyn. The saddle, such as it was, was large enough to seat five people, but Kyrin guided Arry to the first and highest seat.
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“For this first flight I would like you to keep your Mesmer actively engaged. I know it can be wearying, but once you’ve a mount of your own there are physical and verbal commands that may be employed with a bonded mount. Obviously not all riders are Mesmers. We just have a shortcut. Now, urge him up.”
“Just…?”
“Compose a melody and make it… uplifting.”
“Very well.” Arry tightened his grip on the reins and plied his æther into the Symphony of the great serpent beneath him, gently encouraging the creature to rise from its prone position. Rhæxys lifted his great head and turned it to regard the two upon his back, letting out a snort.
“Forward.” Kyrin instructed, to which Arry nodded- Manipulating his Craft to encourage the wyvern to lumber forth, it’s strong hind legs working in concert with the claws on its wings to walk on all of its four limbs through the sand toward the open desert. “Faster. Speak to him. He is accustomed to being led with words.”
“Accelero!” Arry prompted in Vastian, enhancing his phonation with his Craft.
“Louder, boy!” Kyrin commanded,
“Rhæxys! Accelero!”
The wyvern answered with a rumbling purr, before beginning to lope forward.
“Now we take wing, Arvælyn.”
“But I barely-...”
“Take wing, boy!”
“In cælum!” Arry cried from his throat and the Rune at his wrist. The great beast began to tip back onto its hind legs as its wings spread. Arry cried out in shock as the whole of the saddle tipped back and his full weight fell against the backrest of his seat thereupon.
“Hold tightly now, and don’t let your fear into his Symphony!”
“In cælum, Rhæxys!” Arry repeated, causing the wyvern to vault upward into the air, flapping its wings and catching them upon the wind with a rattling screech.
This was not his first time on wyvern-back, but it was his first time holding the reins. He’d expected this to be as scary or scarier than the last time, since it would be his own fault if aught went awry, but strangely the wyvern’s Symphony was a balm to his terrors. Rhæxys was born and built for the skies and there was a relish to flying that permeated his strange Symphony as they climbed over the dunes of Atraxia toward the cloudless, desert sky. A broad grin spread across Arry’s face as he let the electricity of the sensation influence his own Symphony, squinting against the strong winds that only grew stronger as they rose.
“Do as you will, Arvælyn. The skies are yours.” Kyrin’s voice seemed calm even when he needed to raise it over the gusts that surrounded them.
“Ad sinistram!” He called out through a joyful laugh, “Orbem eamus urbem!” Rhæxys wended to the left, turning from the open desert back toward Mount Sorokyn, and soaring around its northern slopes toward the River Vasta. The wyvern let out a bellow, and so did Arry at the same time, though his was less menacing- inaudible to the listeners below, whilst that of Rhæxys carried much farther.
The last time he’d been on wyvern-back as a passenger, Arry had been too scared to take in the sights of the city below. Now that he was the pilot, emboldened by the mood of his mount, he was able to truly appreciate the vistas now available to him. The mighty vasta snaked through the sprawling city, like the serpentine neck of a wyvern, and he could see how far beyond the walls the homes spread. The air smelled faintly of the smoke that plumed forth from Sorokyn at this altitude.
“Sentinel!” Arry called behind him, “You spoke to me of satisfied slaves and the falseness of freedom, but your lesson… It countermands your prior point. This sense of freedom I feel in flight is incredible! I see why societies are loath to give it up!”
“This is a high you are feeling, Arvælyn, like that of sex, drugs or ætheric manipulation. We can be slaves to highs as well as gods or mortal masters, and highs are less concerned with our continued service. But you need not concern yourself with being denied such liberties as the skies. You will serve a greater master who would not deny you such simple pleasures. Now, enough of this sophistry. The heavens are yours. Claim them!”
Arry grinned and turned his attentions to the skies above them, calling out with his voice and soul in unison:
“Rhæxys!” The wyvern cried out in answer,
“Excelsior!”
