Autumn Bindings

[Hekatos]

Autumn Bindings

1st of Ash, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

The sun was still blessedly bare in the sky. A year without it had taught the Hytori to be grateful. The first day of autumn did not feel markedly different from the last day of summer, but they marked it as they always did.

The elves had created many calendars over the ages—solar, lunar, stellar, and calendars based on stars and moons from other worlds—and they were still creating new ones—primarily a new calendar that took into account the new moon. They had countless holidays. Someone set all of them aside, but of course, no singular elf could set all of them aside. There was no pressure to attend festivities, though some were more popular than others

This year, there was a confluence of important—and less important—observances.

As such, there were footraces for the young and unmarried, and young lovers crafted primitive tokens of affection to share. These xoana were also sometimes placed at altars for the Gods, whether one considered themselves a bridal mystic or otherwise. The winners of the footraces would be crowned in olive leaves and allowed to dedicate statues inscribed with their names at the temple of Suion Karaitë, their loves and their works to be blessed by the Goddess.

A huge wooden altar was laid out on a rocky promontory that overlooked one of the small lakes near Silfanore. When night fell, offerings placed thereupon would go up in aromatic smoke to please the Gods. There would be wine and music and dancing and other various revels.

Nearby, Ailuin the King was conversing easily with several of the sixteen women who had overseen preparations for this festival, who had woven the wedding dress for the wooden effigy of Mother Naori that had already been washed in the lake and prepared for travel to meet a similar effigy of Father Eikaen.

A cleric was telling the aition to several people of all ages, from wide-eyed children to those so ancient they actually showed age at all, smiling and nodding with accumulated memories and, it was presumed, well-earned wisdom. There were various versions of the story, and it was generally considered to be a didactic fiction, but it was retold all the same.

Pater Themis watched the races, Suion's Seer on this day.

There were brightly colored tents offering succor from direct sunlight, as well as refreshment. Donations were accepted, but nobody was turned away hungry or thirsty. It was good day, and all were welcome, even human guests like Apprentice Torin Kilvin, who was there with his friends, and Fae'ethalan guests like Destrynrael, who was fluttering near his noble favorite.

[Rhydian ValKor]

► Show Spoiler

Though Rhydian may have seemed dispassionate to most observers, he was far from such. He was exceedingly passionate, albeit very selectively so. But he was also intensely private, and so it was rare to see him commit himself voluntarily to a public, personal endeavour. Today was no different when he elected to embark upon one of the races, though not to broadcast for whom he was competing. Those who knew him well and those who were savvy to the largely unspoken understanding around which his life at court was centred would be well aware of whom Rhydian was likely to honour before the eyes of elves and gods.

Another observable aberration from the Val'Kor prince's norm was that he was publicly dressed in neither the concealing folds of courtly robes nor the light armour for his other courtly functions. He was dressed lightly indeed, for the sake of aerodynamic advantage. The length of his lean, toned torso was bare from the dimple of his sternum to the hips to which clung the tailored trousers Akantha had seen to commissioning for the occasion.

Though he was reluctantly aware of the attention thrust upon the subject of his bachelorhood, which was only exacerbated by the themes of the present festival, he seemed to have deemed his task here more important than whatever discomfort the unbidden eyes might yield.

As he anxiously awaited the outset of his particular race, Rhydian lingered in the lee of the promontory where his family tent had been raised and where others of House Val'Kor and their vassals milled about. There were other young elves keen to contend and well was it known that his was a particularly competitive family when it came to feats of athleticism.

Pursing his lips, his eyes sought out the king as he waved a hand in dismissal of a cordial being offered by a passing servant. Rather than Ailuin's eye, it was his mother's gaze that caught him out. His eyes darted down sharply, before rising to find Pater Themis looming above in observance of the present race.

[Thimryl]

➸Autumn Bindings➸

➸1st of Ash, Year 124, A.o.S➸

➸ Celebrations like these were always fun, even for Thimryl. He found that sitting upon a perch that allowed him to watch the festivities unfold was ideal, however, his fellow company members wouldn't allow him to be a wallflower and not participate in the revelries of the day. Practically being kidnapped he found himself brought over to a group of girls, ranging in age from those around his age to some even older. His fellow soldiers were encouraging him to sing, as they had been bragging that Thimryl had a nice singing voice. Some even bragged about teaching him how to sing.

The pressure was a lot for him, but if there was one thing he loved, it was to sing and to hear songs. Figured he'd indulge them, if only to get them to leave him alone. It didn't help that the crowd of the opposite sex were eager to hear him sing too. He was trying to figure out what song would be quick and easy for him and settled on one he loved to hear his mother sing whenever she thought of one of her fellow brothers and sister-in-arms who fell in battle so long ago.


"When I am laid
Am laid with in the ground
May my sins birth
No hardship, no hardship within your heart
Dont forget me
Dont forget me
Alas
Forget what's become of me
But don't forget who I am
Alas
Forget what's become of me."

It was a somber song, one that he did his best to bring the emotion that was invoked in him whenever he heard his mother sing it. When he opened his eyes after singing, he found that many of the younger girls had been impressed, some of the older ones with tears as some seemed to relate to the song in some way. Once done he found himself escaping adjusting his attire from being jostled by the group with praise for his song. He figured he go and watch the foot race as it had drawn quite the crowd, and upon looking at those who were watching his eyes caught sight of some important faces.

Pater Themis was here, and he couldn't help but feel a level of blush flash over his face as he gazed up at the prince. Furthermore, he saw Prince Rhydian, and his heart went aflutter. The Val'kor line was the head family of the military, and though he aspired to become a knight in the Phoenix King's guard, he also admired the Val'kor family as exemplary warriors. Now even more pressure piled onto him as he was afraid of embarrassing himself in front of the royal houses. ➸


"Common Speech"
"Mythrasi Speech"
"Self-Thoughts"

[Filaurel]

Dour and serious as he was, Filaurel Len'Allen had once frequented many festivals for the joy of them, for the adrenaline and the companionship, the sights, the smells, and even the spiritual easing which came from the thousand rites and regulations of the representatives of the great gods. Now, of course, he found little joy in them, preferring by far to time his public excursions to encounter as few unfamiliar faces as he possibly could. Still, for nostalgia alone he might have come to observe the carefree youth seeking Suion's blessings.

...but it was not for nostalgia he came, but for work.

To attract a clientele, a tailor must keep current on fashions. Private galas and professional shows were sufficient to show him what cuts were prominent in a formal setting, but most of his customers were not looking to dine with the King. No, a festival like this was worth its weight in gold, for the amorous youth and pious elders alike wore clothing they expected to catch eyes and turn heads rather than simply satisfy some obligation at a party.

To that end, Filaurel conducted his research professionally, finding a pavilion with a fine view of the races, bringing with him a pad of papers and charcoal pencil for sketches. He was no professional artist, but a tailor learned to make passable drawings of clothing, and he focused his efforts upon that subject. Still, he wasn't stone. More than once, he found his hand spending more time describing more the curves of a bosom than the ribbons placed upon it. Disappointing, to be so betrayed by his own appendage.

He scanned the crowd as he worked, wanting to ensure that he did not just return home with a half-dozen sketches of half-nude young women, focusing his attention on some of those more concerned with prayer than prettiness. This was as enjoyable, in its own way. As he'd told that fellow a few weeks back, garb was a language unto itself. Observing how a crowd dressed said something about what the people were thinking, and it did the heart good to see how free and optimistic the outfits here were. It seemed that the plague of shadows which had haunted the very skies the year past had finally been banished from the souls of the people.

"I suppose I should see the Mother's dress, too." Filaurel mused to himself, though few people would dare to commission something in the same style as the Queen of the Gods, "See what the masters have come up with this year."

He couldn't recall the festival last year- perhaps it had been cancelled? Or perhaps his control over the Rune had simply been insufficient to let him leave his home by that date. It had been terrifying, for certain, when he'd discovered in the Eclipse that he could no longer move himself thus. Strange how distant those nights seemed, now.

[Akantha SolEilran]

Akantha always enjoyed festivals and parties, and they weren't simply an excuse to put on a new outfit and join the crowds. She did find a way to cram just bout every festival into her schedule, even if some appearances were longer than others. It was utterly impossible to get to all of them, but she certainly did her best. There was much to celebrate with the passing of the eclipse, even if they were still dealing with the voidspawn that came hunting seemingly from nowhere. But the wards had proven most helpful in that regard, and capable Hytori dealt with those that managed to creep in.

She had arrived with her father, King Ailuin, utterly delighted with the results of the gown that had been made for Mother Naori. She had been one of the rare few who had seen the sketches of the design before it was unveiled now, and the Princess of Thorns had kept it close to her chest despite some teasing queries from those familiar with her obsession. Akantha had even gotten a little kinetics boost to make sure she had seen it from each angle. Now, though, the memory of the dress was safely preserved in a mnemonosyte - both under her normal osprey-level of vision, and her Semblance. When it came to fashion, the young Hytori was indeed thorough. It would go with all of her notes that she had gathered from the tailors and their design process so that it would be recorded for posterity... and for her own personal archives.

While she, like Rhydian, was notably unattached, Akantha was not about to take part in the footraces. There were those that would, and even if it was warm and she was not about to sweat - bless the arcane arts that prevented it - she would rather watch and applaud her friend's efforts than hike her dress and run herself. She could; she was in great shape, and she would do well if she chose to, but she had no desire to run today. She had an afterparty to host tonight; and lots to see and do here and now. Akantha's light blue dress was secured at the neck by a large necklace composed of silver and sapphires that covered most of her throat. The fabric was floaty and flowing, her arms and shoulders bare, and her long golden tresses were bound in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, decorated with delicately crafted vines and flowers of silver and gold, accentuated with pearls that wove through the bun and up along the back of her head. She wore a silver bracer on her right arm, from wrist nearly to elbow that bore the same intricate patterns as the jewellery in her hair. The length and drape of the gown hid her high heels, and no matter what ground she found herself on today, they would not be sinking in anywhere.

While the festival primarily honoured Suion, others were represented in a melange, like Naori and Eikaen. She had left Ailuin for now with the women who had worked on the festival, knowing it would be wise of her to go and mingle. She would doubtless catch up to him later, but she was content to drift on through. With luck she would be able to see the redheaded Nightshade's race, so she would keep an eye out for that, but she also found herself along the tents. There were a number of them, and she found one selling dolls and toys made from woven yarn, and she smiled at the older women that were at the booth.

"Good afternoon to you, mammi. These are beautiful," she picked one up, inspecting it and admiring the detail. So much effort went into such crafts - it was hardly a perfect medium for shaping things, after all, much less people and figures, and she knew that a great deal of time, trial and error went into coming up with recognizable figurines. "Might I inquire how much?" she indicated a rather large one that was clearly meant to be Suion, her blue eyes bright.

"There is no rose without a thorn."

[Torin Kilvin]

The chance to see a Sol'Valen festival celebrated had been enough to pull Torin away from his studies and the projects that they had led to. With Sivan at his side, clad in the work of local tailors for the occasion, at least he need not be ashamed. No more so than the shame associated with feeling like an outsider. It was a shame so familiar it felt like pulling on a well worn coat or pair of boots and almost made him feel more comfortable. At least he knew instinctively how to act when everyone he encountered knew intrinsically that they were better than him. If anything, his time being revered and called 'lord' in Kalzasi was stranger than this foreign fete.

So, he ducked his head and lowered his eyes when confronted by disapproving expressions and otherwise tried to take in as much of the local culture as he could. Just as in any other land, the food and drink flowed freely, both of which he had grown used to, after a season of sampling them. Now Torin could identify which dishes he liked and which would turn his stomach sour. He also knew how strong the drinks were compared to what he was used to and that sipping slowly was the wisest course if he wished to remember the day. The language was also becoming something he understood instantly, he had been a reasonable student in it before he'd come, but there was no substitute for being surrounded by a new tongue for months.

Not wanting to attract any more disapproval than his human features already would he did not stand to close to Sivan, did not reach for his hand, and when he spoke to the elf he did so with a quiet that could be seen as deference if outsiders were looking for that.

"What should we do first? What are we allowed to do?"

Activities abounded on all sides, and while the smith had read about the festival, such books were inevitably written by fellow foreigners and there were subtleties that would never be understood well enough to include. Music and magic filled the air in every direction and while he knew it was a foolish idea, Torin opened himself to the information that his first rune could give him. It wasn't as though he were going to get through the day without being overwhelmed as it was. He might as well see all that there was to be seen, and, once his aetheric senses were available, he was glad he had opened to them. It became immediately obvious that the physical decorations and splendor was only a pale lead-in to what was being wrought in magic. The idea of decorating specifically, and seemingly primarily, for those who could observe with the sixth sense of Semblance had never occurred to him. What better way, though, to honor the gods?

In awe he turned in a slow circle, looking for all the world like the country bumpkin he was for all his finery.

"Can you see it?" He asked his friend, not even considering that Sivan wouldn't be using his own Semblance.

[Hekatos]

Autumn Bindings

Sivan had worn a set of clothes from Filaurel's shop more appropriate for a high festival, but he didn't dissuade Torin from wearing his work clothes, although he did make some adjustments—unbutton this, pull out some of that—to make him look like an apprentice maker at a festival, at least. Hytori folk would likely take that cue to politely ask after his trade, and his answer, even if he was humble, would impress.

His answer was merely a knowing smile and a nod. He too could feel how everything had been laid out just so the people moving along lines that formed a giant sigil. Be the magic you want to see in the world was an elven maxim.

"We should eat something," he suggested, pointing to a tent that seemed to have a few things he knew Torin would enjoy. His gaze swept toward where Laurevere was showing off his Fae'ethalan—well, not friend—like an exotic pet to some other Val'Hytori. Sivan didn't sigh. Destyn wanted what and who he wanted.

"And then just... follow your feet. The communal magic tends to pull one where one ought to go." And as they followed the flow of foot traffic along those predetermined lines, he told Torin one of the stories associated with this festival:

"Naori, they say, was for some reason or other angry with Eikaen, and had retreated to the primordial chaos. Eikaen, failing to make her change her mind, visited Cithaeron, at that time despot in Sol'Valen—ahh, in the Age of Dreams, so I don't know where the bounds of the empire were at that point—who surpassed all elves for his cleverness. So he suggested Eikaen make an image of wood, and carry it, wrapped up, in a wagon, and to say that he was celebrating his marriage with a princess. So Eikaen followed the advice of Cithaeron. Naori heard the news at once, and at once appeared on the scene, but when she came near the wagon and tore away the dress from the image, she was pleased at the deceit, on finding it a wooden image and not a bride, and was reconciled to Eikaen. To commemorate this reconciliation we celebrate a festival of xoana because if a person was courting another, they would often give them a xoanon..."

He indicated one of the purposefully primitive wooden sculptures of a person.

"A lot of our old stories make the Dragon Gods sound more like people than perhaps They are. Even as They walked among us, I think we had to make stories to... build a bridge between them. Sort of like... how you can't look at your patron with your Rune wide open or it might burn through it and into your soul. That divine nimbus. Oh, lamb..."

The golden elf had caught a whiff of excellently grilled meat and his stomach started growling and his mouth watering. It would be wise to eat at least a little now so his stomach wouldn't be an extra voice in any conversations he had.

*~*~*

"Your praise is more payment than I could accept, mim'iel," she replied, using an honorific that would translate as daughter of my daughter but implied respect from an elder rather than familial attachment. "Take one, please, and make an offering to Karaitë."

The elder woman wouldn't be so presumptuous as to hope for a pleasing match for the princess, who hadn't made her intentions public. Neither did she mention that her own true many-times-granddaughter had learned at her knee and created a high art version of the ancient folk art. Someone else would surely see it and make some remark. Hytori politesse had ways of communicating things without creating uncomfortable situations for people; that was the point of their etiquette, anyway. Not everyone had received the memorandum.

Bless their hearts.

Many were the Makers and little makers who made sacrifices at Fyraea's altar for Akantha, who was seen by many as doing the Dragon Goddess' work whether Her specific devotée.

*~*~*

Even as one familiar face—Sivan's, as well as Torin wearing work attire from Filaurel's workshop—came into view, a familiar voice broke his concentration.

"Hello, stranger."

Turuher towered over him still, but the soldier was smiling. The light caught his feathers just so, possibly inspiring a pattern for the tailor to consider later. He was rather a gentle giant, most likely used to stepping carefully when on the ground with smaller elves. Filaurel had seen him in the air, though, and that was another matter entirely.

The soldier didn't know if Filaurel was particularly religious or spiritual. The elves made what public sacrifices and showed up for those festivals they felt compelled to; this was as much an expression of community as anything else. What an elf believed in the privacy of their mind, heart, and soul was between them and the Gods.

Certainly, he assumed the man had an interest in garb for the Gods and other things. Perhaps there was a vendor he wanted to support. Perhaps he liked to see bare legs in the sunlight as the young women raced. Perhaps there was a particular one he was looking at... Suion Karaitë was the One to discuss such matters with. Not that he knew the tailor well enough to even make jests along those lines.

"A blessed Season of Ash to you," he said, more formally and more appropriately for the day.

*~*~*

Applause lauded all the young women who completed the race. Pater Themis was smiling beatifically, and even as he placed the laurels upon the brow of the fleetest of foot, novices were wending their way through the crowds to find those scheduled for the next race.

The day's schedule was relaxed, of course, so they were giving plenty of warning.

One waited patiently for the soldier-cum-singer to finish his dolorous song before she informed him that he was expected at the blocks. At the same time, a novice approached the prince from Aerion.

"Your Serene Highness," she said with a shallow bow, "your presence is requested at the blocks."

Both prince and soldier would be escorted as if they were equals, of course. The Gods loved all creatures, or so it was said. Neither was rushed thither, and Pater Themis would greet them all in Suion's name. 'The blocks' were literal and figurative; there were starting blocks for those who chose to compete on that level, but there were few rules. The Gods were watching and most Gods didn't approve of cheaters.

At least, so said most priests.

[Rhydian ValKor]

Rhydian was not particularly prone to indulgences, least of all the public variety. This was a lot of people for him but, ironically, it was so much so that it somehow turned round to being less overwhelming than a well attended banquet. These were crowds into which one might easily disappear. These were throngs more than individuals to his mind’s eye, though he did pick out a few familiar faces in the sea of people.

The Princess Akantha was always hard to miss, given her position at court and penchant for ostentation. Laurevere caught his eye when he took note of a fluttering Fae’ethalan making something of a ruckus with windy wingbeats that ruffled a few skirts quite literally. The description fit that of the one with whom Sivan was associated, whose energy seemed correspondingly frenetic. He would not go out of his way to stand in the path of that storm, though he’d have liked to have chatted with Laurevere… Sivan he found elsewhere in the company of a human. He might have recalled mention of the Kalzasern complement having travelled with such a one, but he wasn’t certain and no details had remained with him if so.

His internal musings intermissed with the approach of a courier inviting him to his race. With a curt nod, he accepted and gestured for them to lead the way to the lists. Or at least such was how Rhydian, more accustomed to jousts than footraces, referred to them in his mental narrative.

He regarded his opponents upon his approach, offering nods of acknowledgement, if not cordiality, as he sized them up taking note of those he recognised and eyeing those he didn’t with even greater scrutiny to steel himself for the impending competition.

He instigated no discourse with stranger or acquaintance, as he took his place and waited for the starting cry to send the row of them surging forth in pursuit of victory.

[Filaurel]

The tailor looked up from his sketch. It was somewhat uncomfortable to crane his neck while seated thusly, with the small of his back pressed up against the pavilion's pillar, but he managed it without repositioning his body. He looked up- and up- and up, until at last he could make out the face of the tall elven figure.

"Turuher!" Filaurel exclaimed in a tone of faint surprise, "It does my heart good to see you well. The blessings of Ash and Ash's spirit upon your head. But what now, are they letting you off the leash for festivals? It seems they have gone soft on the soldiery."

Filaurel's tone was soft and steady as ever, but there was an unprecedented hint of tease to it. Either the atmosphere of the festival was infectious, or it simply did the tailor some good to be out in the open air beyond his shop for once. There was even a bit more color to the man's pale cheeks, though a caricaturist would probably still opt to draw the man as a vampyre.

Seeing Turuher took Filaurel's mind off the matter of bosoms and naked thighs (and what might clothe them, a matter of purely professional interest) and back to thoughts of his most peculiar project. As exciting, in its way, as watching the running of Silfanore's fairest young bachelors and debutantes, and considerably more likely to be professionally advantageous in the long run.

"I am here on business, of course." he expended the energy needed to lift a hand, gesturing to his stack of sketches. Though Filaurel would never make a court artist, they were still drawn with an eye for detail and proportion, and would have been quite fascinating to a puerile eye of any inclination, were the original subjects not standing and cavorting a hundred meters away. "Ever since my first festival, I found it fascinating to see how people changed their costumes for these events. Tell me, do you think that a gala costume is so regarded in the public eye because it is sensationally beautiful, or does it contain the connotations of love, beauty and divine adoration because it is only worn at a festival?"

A philosophical question, but perhaps a practical one for a tailor. Filaurel expected it was a bit of both; either way, he had an excuse to carefully scrutinize quite a lot of bare flesh.

"You know, I expect you would do quite well in those races yourself. Or are you, perhaps, already otherwise engaged...?"

[Castor Green]

Castor had almost decided to forsake the gods.

He’d reason to. His brother long dead to a magic that wasn’t supposed to kill, and his parents dangerously ruined because of it. He’d been mad as long as he could remember. Castor had blamed himself for surviving - and then at his parents for not loving him enough to survive. And then, he’d blamed the elves. He blamed a society where magic was expected, and where the risks were so downplayed they seemed an impossibility.

And yet, no matter who he blamed, his anger wasn’t ever satiated. There wasn’t much use at being mad at himself, nor his parents. His father was long dead and his mother was as good as gone, too. None of them could answer for what happened. The elves, too, couldn’t be blamed entirely. Both Castor and his brother carried enough Hytori in their blood that he’d supposed they imagined him as perfect as them. It’d been as much to shock as anyone when Pollux died in his initiation.

Too much human blood had been their theory.

And the gods? His brother died and none had seen fit to grant him a miracle then. He didn’t want one now. Sure - he was aware that the gods existed and were alive and well weaved through all of Ransera. But he’d never seen one. Plenty of people never did. And it was easier to put all of his anger and sadness in the place where they should be.

And yet.

Seeing the sun after so long made him happy. It felt like a miracle. He didn’t have to love the gods. But he didn’t have to hate them either. He’d find someone else to blame for everything.

---

Castor smiled, winningly, side-stepping between two of the twelve contestants. The air was crisp and breezy, the trees already fading to green to something brighter. Even after the sun returned, he hadn’t learned to love the gods. But he enjoyed parties and free food, or food free enough so long as you pretended you forgot your wallet. And, even more than parties and food, he liked winning.

His magic scoured through the crowd and contestants alike, like a wave - and lapped at the fields they stood in. He could feel every stick and every sudden drop in the ground, every rock, whether it was sharp or not or if it would collapse under his weight or not. And surely, he wasn't the only one. Magic was as thick in the air as joy, bright and round and yellow like the sun.

Despite his human blood, he’d inherited enough grace from the elves to know he was competitive in a race. Lean and lithe and used to stepping between alleyways and running from notice, his body was made for speed as much as anyone else. His feet ground into the cool dirt. His eyes and ears open for the signal to run.