Closed No Mæns Land

[Tom Trite]

✦ No Mæns Land ✦

Spring 80th, 125

By day, a skulking fellow wandered the dunes due west of Bast. The spirits whispered amid the whipping sands, paw-padded feet light upon the grains for their deference to him. Even the sun seemed as though not to bother him more than his predicament. Yes, he could launch himself to the air by the grace of his Soar, but the prospect frightened Tom who held within him a deep-seated fear of heights.

No, the earth was much more to his comfort.

The storms hissed, seeping into Tom's pockets. He turned them out as they weighed him down, grumbling as he walked towards looming, brown smudges in the storm. The very towers of old castles, lost to bygone ages yet leaning on their sides. Wishing a reprieve from the weather, the spry little fellow trudged up until his paws met stone. Winding the breadth of it, he found an opening hollowed out by explorers before him, and he fell inside inside down the shifting sands unto darkness.

Flash. A flame burst to life in the todd's palm, which he threw above him to cast his gaze upon the walls for fear anything might be lurking above. A staircase on its side - it went lower still than where he stood, but that direction was filled in by sand. So, Tom went up, hoping to clear the upper rooms of any beasts before he settled himself for rest to wait out the storm.

Then he caught the scent. It was a strange scent, difficult to parse, but decidedly not natural for a dusty old landmark as this. Tom quashed the flame, going quiet in the dark while he listened with those sensitive ears ahead and behind him. Who or what had seen that golden flame? He inhaled, a shiver running through him as he gave up the climb and dropped back down to hide beneath the stairs where they met the sands, which he pulled atop his ankles and covered himself in that dull green cloak, the hood obscuring his eyes like a little statue hiding in the nook of a shadow.

Of course, there was nothing to hide the presence of him in the arcane sense. The potency of his Aether was obvious to any gifted Mystic, yet there was also that tell-tale glimmer of Glamour by the Alchemy of Kalevalan Dragons roiling in his blood. Enough to yield the possibility that he could have been one of those vile Inari; Kettu were rare beyond the lands of Kalevala, after all.

 

[Serapis]

༺ ☾ Spring 80 year 125 of the third age ☼ ༻

<put what other Metaphor might be found somewhere in your next post; I don't want to make assumptions outside of what's abundantly obvious.>​

More and more of late, Serapis had taken to exiting the city of Bast, embarking on expeditions both official and unofficial. The official ones typically involved taking an entire crew with him, complete with supplies, porters, and in most cases included student archaeologists. His unofficial explorations were usually solo endeavors, things he often relied on his Exodus to return from– usually in the form of an egress to his Pocket Dimension.

In this case, he was a lone figure picking over the bones of a ruin he'd known had been rummaged through by both peers of his and scavengers several times already. Still, the old tower possessed beautiful bas-relief carvings along with a unique elegance to its architecture he found only in structures from its era. Then there was the delusional sort of desire every explorer had; maybe he'd be special and find some long lost discovery those that had come before him had missed.

As a solo traveler and one of sound, complex mind, the Mystic was always, on some level, scanning the world around him through Acclimation. By now, this had become second nature and almost instinctual; he'd be a fool not to, lest somebody come creep up on him. So when the wayward Sofontti stepped into the ruin, he was alerted to its presence; a single, hazy sort of glow at the periphery of his mind.

The professor immediately turned away from the decorated wall he was observing in a bid to not be caught with his back turned, only to moments later see the enkindling light of ignition and then the rise of a smoldering mote of golden Aether– the newcomer was a mage, then. Strangely, just as quickly did the flame arise did it then get snuffed out. Had the other just detected his presence in turn?

Straining his own senses, he heard a shuffling of sand from below the stairs as if something were fleeing, but the soul's presence didn't fade from his perception. Was the other…hiding? The concept was a bit bizarre to him, as many Galsterei– particularly Fulgurists, in his experience– were a bit more bold than the craven compulsion to hide. A boldness earned, he thought, by their survival, for any Galdr initiation was more often a death sentence than not.

Nevertheless, if the person had chosen to scuttle away and hide, surely they'd not be aggressive by nature, he'd reason to himself. At least, unless he cornered them. With that in mind, he'd stride over to the staircase and descend, intent on searching the area with both Divination and Acclimation to find the cowardly wanderer. As Serapis stepped closer to the stranger's hiding spot, his scent would grow stronger and footsteps louder, giving away his approach whether the fox opted to look or not.

The Jin'Norai was dressed in loose fabric that covered almost all of his body excepting his hands and face, all pale mustard in color. His scent was smoky and complex, the one vain feature he clung to even when he traveled. The first scents to reach the nose would be tobacco, pepper and bergamot that'd lead into middle notes of warm leather, geranium and pink pepper, with a base of amber, vetiver, patchouli and velvety ambroxan.

Serapis' search ended nigh immediately as he spotted the soul right away– for one, they were hiding right beneath the staircase, and for another, their Aether was so bright it was almost blinding; he blinked instinctively despite Divination being extrasensory in nature. Why would a creature so immensely powerful be hiding? He was even more puzzled than before.

He would approach the curled up, cloaked figure and squatted down beside him, arms resting on his thighs. Inspecting the figure, much of their anatomy was obscured by cloth, sand, or position, but it was distinct from a typical man. Bidepal, surely, but fox-like, with a fuzzy snout protruding from the hood and visible tufts of orange fur at points. An Inari? Perhaps– but as the Mystic peeled through the bright layers of Aether, he found the figure lacking similar Imber. Every other Inari he'd ever encountered was unmistakably stained with Imber from their predatory nature and deepened further by their defensive need to keep that part of themselves hidden. This one was no predator, which left…Kettu…? Perhaps?

"You do not hide yourself well, little one," he'd say with a smooth, soothing voice and even, friendly cadence.