Ayu Bado-i

"My dear friend:  Have you ever stopped and considered to yourself the vast consequences of your actions?"

Ayu was sitting in the silver sands, letting the fine material slip through her fingers like water.  The warm, dry wind picked it up as it spiraled downward, carrying it away on its invisible current.  She watched it a moment as it swirled away, eventually disappearing into the vast sea of identical material.  She liked the sand.  Sand was everywhere, so it didn't really matter where they went.  It was all the same.

"Hey," he said from behind her, his voice strained.  "Come here, little one.  I need your help."

Ayu stood, sands warming her bare feet, and faced her older brother.  He was hefting up the rolled canvas tent with a grunt, holding a piece of rope in one hand  "Do I have to?" she said with a pout, crossing her arms.  "You're basically a grown-up, can't you do it yourself?"

Nhigo gave her a flat but somehow soft look.  She hated him for that.  Couldn't he ever be angry? "I am an adult, Ayu," he said in his patient voice.  "And you're almost one, too, so you'd best to get into the habit of helping out."

"I'm only thirteen," she protested.

"Old enough to be a mother in some lands.  Be grateful," he said, gesturing to the other side of the drake.  That meant the discussion was over.  Ayu groaned and walked to the other side of the feathery beast, rolling her eyes, and waited expectantly.  It was only a moment before Nhigo set the tent on the drake's back and tossed her one end of the rope.  She caught it as it fell weakly, then ducked beneath the drake's downy gut and took the other end of the rope from Nhigo's callused hand, tying the two together in a tight knot.

She resurfaced from beneath the drake on Nhigo's side, huffing and setting her hands on her hips.  "There," she said.  She didn't know what the task had distracted her from, exactly, but it was probably more exciting than tying knots.

Nhigo ignored her sass and regarded the drake for a moment before looking back to Ayu.  A variety of items hung by rope from its back— boots and daggers, vases full of grain and water, sacks full of trinkets.  It seemed like nothing at all to the mighty creature, which snorted indignantly as Nhigo sized it up.  "I think that's everything, then," said Nhigo.  He stood a moment, frowning.  Sluggish.  Ayu knew her brother didn't want to leave.  Sometimes she agreed.  She came to love the places she lived.  She learned the hills and the valleys.  She knew the best places to dig for water, and she always found the spots where the sandhens liked to gather.

But it could never last.  That's what made life hard.

Her eyes flitted to the right.  A massive, pulsating wall of billowing sand, crackling with lightning, covering the entire western horizon.

The Qahn.

It rolled in slowly, but unstopping.  An inch at a time.  But it would almost definitely swallow the spot they stood now into its raging, merciless storm before dusk.  It was never as distant as it seemed.

So they had to go.  Ayu climbed onto the drake without waiting for Nhigo, placing herself toward its rump.  She'd once been terrified of the creatures.  Six feet tall at the shoulder, covered in brown feathers, equipped with wicked claws and curving teeth, it looked more than capable of tearing her in half without so much as a second thought.  But years around the creatures had softened her aversion.  Now it was just part of life.

Her brother stalled a minute later, but a hot gust of air breezed past, buffeting him with tiny grains of sharp sand.  He winced before hefting himself onto the drake, digging his bare heels into its ribs.  It snorted loudly before breaking into a trot, away from the Qahn.  Away from home.  Toward a new one.

Warm breeze at her back, an ocean of white sand and endless blue sky ahead, the rhythm of the drake's gait lulled Ayu into sleep.

Marcel Vileign

"Knowing you, I expect that you have not."

Marcel sat vacantly as he awaited his verdict.  They'd brought the damned thing in for some reason, as evidence or some other such nonsense.  He couldn't feel but it was staring directly into his soul.  How he hated that grimy mass of slate-grey feathers, pathetic head staring at him with glossy, stupid eyes, jaw slack.  You really couldn't trust a bird with anything.  Not even dying, it seemed.

Well, this is what he got for being a serf, he supposed.  A roost hand, at that.  What happens when a bird randomly keels, and there's nothing obvious to explain it?  Serf right to the chopping block, of course.  The last one to handle the thing before it died, preferably.  As any astute observer would note, the bird clearly exhibited signs of natural death, and one would think that the pointed absence of any external damage would be particularly telling.  But pesky things like "evidence" didn't much matter when it was a serf at fault.

So sat Marcel, sitting with his head in his hands as a bunch of old men in blue cloaks squabbled privately. They shot him occasional angry glances as they deliberated over his fate in barely hushed tones, as though it were mere gossip.  Not that Marcel cared too much either way, he supposed.  They could lock him away for all he cared.  It couldn't be worse than more of the same.  But they could've at least spared him from having to face the blasted bird again.

He tapped his fingers on the polished desk for a bit, blowing some of his thick black hair out of his face.  What was taking them so long, anyway?  Not like there was going to be any actual deliberation as to his innocence.  He was too low on the social ladder for that.  You could see it in the olive tint in his skin, the dull brownness of his eyes, the deep darkness of his hair.  And that was if you even saw beyond calluses on his hands and the scars on his arms.  There was no justice for people like him.  He'd resigned to that reality long, long ago.  Now it was just a waiting game.

The cerulean-clad judges settled down, one clearing his throat loudly.  Marcel whipped his head up, setting his hands back down by his side.  The waiting game was over already.  He was anxious for it to all come to an end.  At least once they issued their verdict, he'd be able to sit in a cell comfortably, and not have to worry about the dozens of eyes pressing into his skull.

"Marcel Vileign," spoke the one in the middle, his accent so thickly central that Marcel could barely parse it even though it was his own name.  "The court has convened and made its decision."

"I saw.  It was pretty fast."

The judge shot him a look of disdain, but didn't acknowledge the retort with a response.  "We have come to the mutual consensus that your sentence shall be banishment from the Ring and all its colonies, effective by next dawn."

Marcel started, his eyes practically popping from his head and his heart lurching into his throat.  "Wait, what?" he sputtered, feeling quite sick.  "No, just lock me up or something, I...  That's not right, it isn't fair—"

"The court has reached this decision unanimously," the man drawled on, apparently unmoved by Marcel's mounting breakdown.  "Its decision will not waver.  You are a criminal and a threat to our society.  The court has determined that your presence can only result in further poisonings—"

"Poisonings!" Marcel exclaimed, disbelief clawing at his heart in competition with anxiety.  "How'd you arrive at that conclusion?  Look, there's obviously been no autopsy, it's clear as—"

"—and the only suitable solution to this issue is to remove you from our society entirely.  There will be no appeal on the matter.  The manor's guards will see you out of the Ring's shadow by the next sun."

Marcel let out a series of meaningless sounds, trying and failing to grasp at coherent words.  Exile... And to think he'd been looking forward to his sentence!  Somehow, they'd managed to make things even worse than they already were.  His spirit was alight with outrage, despair, and an ever-growing prejudiced against the filthy nobility that had flung him into this mess.  Leave it to them to somehow make matters worse, even when you thought it couldn't be done.

A loud cracking sound resonated throughout the room.  The judge said something about adjournment, but Marcel wasn't listening.  He was slumped backward in his seat, staring blankly at the wall.

His mind was spinning as he recollected the days before.  Waking up early.  Feeding the birds before their work day.  Finding the slate-grey one in a heap on the ground.  Eyes rolled back, foam at the mouth.  Reporting it to the house lord.  Accusations.  Screaming.  Beatings.  A trial.

Banishment...

It was little different from certain death.  The law might not kill you outright in this land, but it would sure do its best.  In less than a day, Marcel would be on his own in the wilderness, with nothing to his name but the shirt on his back.  If that.  And for what?  Some sick and doomed bird?

He sat there, mind churning with the injustice of it all, until the guards dragged him up by his arm, forcing him out of the room.  He didn't resist.  There was no sense in it.  All struggling would get him was a few broken ribs and maybe limbs, and what good would he be in the wild with that?  He realised with a sinking feeling that the steps outward were the first in a long, long journey.  The last one he'd ever make.

Aras Rain

"The barriers are beginning to break down, my friend, faster than they ever have before."

The wind in his hair, pressing past his face like the breath of a passionate lover.  There was nothing quite like shooting through the sky like a loose arrow, like lightning.  Like the wind itself.

Aras Rain leaned forward and gripped the feathers of his steed in a tight-handed clutch, veering the massive bird to the right slightly.  He was only perhaps twenty feet in the air, but the ground was a golden blur beneath him.  Ahead, it seemed the sky drew ever near, a rare blue pierced at its centre with the radiant sun.  Golden sunlight painted the fields, and the vast stretches of barley rippled in all direction with the soft touch of the breeze.  Despite the serenity of the scene, his heart was lurching in his chest like a finch in a cage.

Nothing got your blood rushing quite like a good race.

Geralt was coming in fast from behind.  He was perched on a brawny ridge falcon, far enough behind that he was little more than a shapeless speck of dull brown.  Ridge falcons were powerful birds, Aras knew, but they traded that for agility and compactness.  Even this much distance meant little in a bird race, however.  The victory could still be anyone's.  Aras faced ahead again and forced his heels into the ribs of his bird, Gale, prompting a short burst of speed.  Gale beat his mighty wings a few times, launching them forward.  Aras couldn't help but let out a laugh of delight as the adrenaline shot through him.

The waypoint drew near.  A large oak tree, easily a hundred years old, its branches pointing east away from the wind.  It was a singular beacon standing in a sea of nothing but barley— you could see it from a mile away.  Gale rushed toward it, and Aras pulled hard on his feathers the minute they past it.  Gale squawked and turned sharply, shooting back the way he'd come.  In a moment's time he approached Geralt, whose bird was already beginning to show signs of strain.  They exchanged a look for but an instant— from Aras, one of smug satisfaction, and from Geralt one of fierce determination.

Aras leaned forward and focused again, spurring Gale forward.  The compact swift had blasted through the route so many times that he didn't really need the guidance, but piloting the bird is part of what made Aras feel alive.  Control, even if it was just an illusion.  Control of the winds and sky.

The pair of racers, bird and man, dipped a bit lower.  Gale let down a leg cautiously, brushing the soft barley with a claw.  At such high speeds, even such a minor drag could reduce his speed notably, but it didn't matter much with the lead they had.

Or so Aras thought.  As he glared forward, intent on his destination, Geralt and his huffing brown bird pushed next to them.  Aras regarded his opponent in surprise.  The bird was wheezing so loudly it was almost audible over the rush of the wind.  Now the smug look belonged to Geralt.

No words needed to be exchanged.  Aras locked his gaze forward and spurred Gale, prompting yet another burst of speed.  He had to clutch onto the bird's smooth feathers with all his strength not to be blown backward.  Aras tossed his head backward— Geralt was still behind, but just barely.  His bird was sprinting too, but its weariness was taking its toll.  It simply couldn't match Gale's raw speed.

Rain Manor phased into view.  The finish line.  Aras felt the rest of the world melt into nothingness as he and Geralt raced toward it.  Nothing else mattered but the racers and their destination.  Hugging Gale wildly against the furious force of the wind, they continued rocketing forward with no indication of stopping.

No man had ever travelled this fast, Aras was sure of it.  This was more than man.  Riding the zephyr, perfect and wordless union with one's mount— this was godhood.

They shot past the line of elms that marked the boundary between manor and cropland— and, in Aras' case, the finish line.  He let out a triumphant whoop and pulled back, causing Gale to flare out his wings magnificently.  They caught the wind, bringing the bird to a screeching halt.  Flapping wildly, they slowly reached the ground.

Aras let out a breath of resignation as they made landfall.  His whole body was still vibrating from the thrill, but also calming gradually, like boiling water pulled away from the flame.  As his feet touched the ground, he felt a sense of freedom leave him.  He was bound again, his spirit diminished, restrained to the confines of this earth.  He was only a man again.  A victorious man, but a man nonetheless.

It was perhaps thirty seconds before Geralt came bustling in too, landing a bit less gracefully.  He pried himself from his panting falcon, landing on the ground with a small jump and nearly falling before straightening himself and walking over to Aras.  The two men clasped hands, pulling each other together in a sportsmanlike embrace.  "A fine race," Aras said with a genuine smile, his voice raw.

"Indeed," Geralt said, looking more tired than anything else.  He produced a small sack of gold, and handed it over to Aras.  The winner took his prize with a satisfying clink.  "You'll have to start going easy," Geralt admonished playfully, the hints of a smile tugging at his lips.  "Soon you'll have no more poor sods to drain gold from.  You'll have bested them all."

"Ah, it's not all about the gold," Aras said bashfully, even as he tucked the purse away into his pocket.  "It's the thrill of the game.  If you didn't agree, I doubt you would have risen to my challenge."

Geralt smiled sheepishly.  "Fair enough, Master Rain," he conceded.  "Good day."  He walked back over to his falcon and climbed back into its saddle.  The bird looked very irritated at the notion of flying again, but didn't resist its master's prompts.  Within moments, they were in the air again, flying back to their home.  Another race complete.

Aras turned to Gale.  The magnificent creature was blowing heavily from his nostrils, though he was nowhere near as tired as Geralt's bird had been.  Aras was very fortunate to have such a resilient steed.  Gale was the envy of all the lords and lordlings— such a skilled and clever bird had not been seen in decades, if ever.  Aras raised his hand and stroked his feathers admiringly.  Gale shut his eyes and fell into the pet, cooing softly.  "You did well, old friend," Aras said, scratching behind the massive bird's eye.  "You're free to go."  He stepped back and held his hand open in the gesture he'd taught Gale to understand as release.  The bird did not hesitate before flapping mightily and shooting away.

He stood there a moment in reflection, watching with his hands behind his back as Gale faded into the blue sky.  It was such a beautiful day.  What good was it to squander it away inside?  Frowning, he turned around and eyed up his home.  It reached upward in stalwart, Ringish architecture— large rectangular towers reaching upward to support the sheer walls and marvelous glass windows.  It was a manor of grace and beauty, one of the finest in the Ring.  Yet he couldn't bear the thought of spending all day cooped up in it, like his family and so many others did.

As he examined the building, his eyes fell on a window near the upper levels.  A figure stood there, tall and thin.  Though it was too distant to make out in detail, Aras knew exactly who it was.  He could feel those shadowy eyes burning into his skull from a mile away.

Aras turned back around quickly, palms sweating, and looked back toward the sky.  How he wished for the same freedom as Gale: to fly away when it suited him, only returning when called upon...

With that he headed back toward his manor, his saliva feeling heavy and his gut tight.