(USFB): Eleven: Soweyn

The puma paced the circle opposite Razien, both weighing each other out, deciding which limb to take and how best to strike. Every movement was calculated, as had been well trained into each man. Before they engaged, the result was any number of holds, grapples, and impacts. It had gone the way of the wolf a number of times, but the lean, well-muscled cat was not about to let earlier mistakes happen again.

They crashed together, the two opposite fronts of a storm meeting to force a whirlwind down onto the land. The wrists were grabbed, the clutch broken as a knee found the midsection of the opponent. A strike to the chest, across the face, then down to force a muddled perspective. This was met with rising arms, striking away another blow to take the other by his shoulders and shove him back. A moment to reanalyze the situation was all Jaium said a warrior needed in the heat of it. As the opponent returned to the fray, one went low, the other high. Pulling forward with legs locked around the thighs net a score of strikes against the back. Though toppled, the damage was done to the other enough to force a conclusion.

The puma pulled himself up from his tail before whirling and offering Razien a paw. His strike pattern had been more accurate today, enough to hit zones that would drop most men with a surge of shock chasing up and down their muscles. Razien shook off the attempt to help; he needed a moment to still his thoughts and create a better counter for the next scrape he found himself in. Jaium was less willing to grant that luxury, “What went wrong, Moqura?”

“Left myself open, went low when I should have focused on distraction before neutralization.”

“Let’s do it again. Fix your stance, too. If Halice went harder, you’d have broken your back.”

As the two formed up again to spar, Orathone and Litheiuss joined them at the training grounds. The Balyen glared but recovered some aspect of a level-head at the sight of the veteran buck. Though he wasn’t fond of the Westerners, he found Litheiuss less frustrating to work with. That, however, was quickly undone as he stood idly by while the younger man spoke, “Good morning, Balyen Jaium. We require one or two of your men today if you can part with them.”

“What for? Is there a tree blocking your view from the bunkhouse?”

“Not quite. We’re looking to travel to the village of Seras. We need only a guide if you can spare but one of your men.”

Jaium clicked his tongue before regarding his men, “You’d be lucky I expend even a single man for that supposed ‘job.’ You could all very well end up on the hook of one of Goredrinker’s claws. That would make our troubles a bit more. Why don’t you stay put? Leave it to the real men.”

“Look here, Jaium,” Litheiuss interrupted, “Hardly a one of us wants the Yerra to act this way, trying to grant exceptions for his and my countrymen, but we aren’t all so made of willow cottons. Or, here wants to speak with some of the foxes about their Goddess; I think you can understand the reasoning. Even with just one of your cubs to guide us, we’d do well enough against anything that visceral lurker can throw at us. So will you give us over one, or not?”

“Take Moqura. I’m tired of seeing him get his tail stepped on. But you owe me a sparring session later, old boy,” Jaium huffed, dismissing the buck with a more civil demeanor than most saw in the wolf.

Seras was not a village far from Toppled Spire, where the camp and Jaium’s private regiment were set. It had been a temporary home to the foxes once, amid trouble before the coming of their Goddess. From over the first hill across the Camora River, just a few leagues down from the bridge the Children of Black Spire had constructed, one could see the outskirts of the village. At such a distance, the place looked insubstantial to the deer. Neither had seen the town on their way east, but it looked only like a few rows of houses set within fields newly turned for the season. Upon arrival, it was much like an illusion worked before them in real-time.

Razien showed them through the gate, which was never manned with more than one save in times of war. The foxes would claim the gate always watch in the day for the Lady Sirian’s brilliance shined upon it. Just inside the close-knit rows of houses, the deer could see that village fell in gradual well manicured steps from ground level to a drop that would rival that of an old oak. As they gawked, admiring the splendor, unsure if this was the work of the natives or one of the marvels leftover from some other beings’ time on the planet, one of the city watch came to greet them.

She met Razien with a short bow, which he returned; however, he did not bother for the deer as they seemed too enamored with the sight. Adjusting her tunic, short and ventilated for the Summer, she smiled to the wolf, “Light bless you, travelers. What brings you to the abode of the Goddess of the Eternal Sun this day?”

“A curious pair from the West, and perhaps just as well, inquiry for any reports, Guardian-” Razien trailed off, indicating his formal decorum.

Her green-eyed gaze past the bucks again before focusing on the wolf, “Jemine. What report do you mean?”

“The Balyen sent word to your Chief Defender, Biyorn, of the coming forces. The Wyse will be coming in a day to meet again with him and discuss battle plans, but we are curious of any strange sightings.”

“Only your friends. What exactly have they come for?”

Orathone glanced at the woman before taking a moment to study her as well as he had her home. He immediately noticed the height difference between the fox and the wolf, recalling that those of the East were not the same height often. However, as he further examined her, he noted a hatchet hung from the belt beneath her tunic. An armed woman was rare, if almost unheard of in the homelands, with only a few exceptions and those coming after the invasion. It was such an affront Orathone almost neglected the near-naked flesh exposed by the cut of her attire. Distractedly, he murmured, “I had some question about this ‘goddess’ of yours.”

“Ah, another come to gawk and mock us from afar. I will take you to the temple, but it is in the paws of the Soweyn if you will be permitted inside,” she turned about, her tail a brilliant orange and full enough to conceal the marking of her tunic.

They followed Jemine to the second level of the village, wherein at the turn where the path split up from down, set into the cliff wall, stood a grand stone building. It left little room for passage between levels, precisely why a makeshift step had been constructed to shortcut the pass, but the elegant ashen arcades were nothing short of a marvel for the space that it digested. Falling away from the columns, the structure grew squat and cavelike as it butted against and into the wall of earth at its rear. The trio waited at the steps as the guardian entered.

Litheiuss nudged Razien, “Did that woman have an ax?”

“I suppose your guards carry those long knives. We haven’t such things here. You’d sooner see a hammer or cudgel.”

“I think what Lith meant was, was the girl armed?” Orathone interjected, unsure of the wolf’s confusion.

Razien looked curiously at the deer, “She is one of the guardians. I hope she has at least an ax, though perhaps something a little longer in the handle.”

“As I said, lacking some refinement these folk,” Litheiuss whispered to his associate, “Let’s hope the word doesn’t spread among the ladies back at camp.”

“The Soweyn will see you. I expect no troubles of you while you meet,” Jemine reported before directing the men forward.

Razien led the two into the rounded vestibule, where sat the various vessels with which the holy paws would deal their divinities. Arranged on a counter built opposite the mural of the Six Rays, they were placed in order of ascending value. First was the ceramic dish meant for the jem, which would feed the Soweyn and any such servants of the temple. Second was a copper bowl of salted water to wash away the touch of impurity and guard against the vile blood. Third, and final, was a convex disc wherein lay the ashes of offerings made to the sun goddess.

Matching the charred and destroyed matter was the gray-furred Soweyn, who approached from the nave with its concentric rows of seats set into the foundation. He was in no more formal ware than the guardian had been; indeed to the bucks he seemed no better than a beggar. Stripped to the waste, save a well-shined bronze neckpiece with silver inlays presenting a very minimalistic representation of Sirian. Around his waist was what could closer be called a network of knotted rags rather than any proper garment, and this dyed in the furious xanthous of weeping sunflowers. His expression was grim, as though the sight of such foreign bodies disgusted him. Regardless, he spoke in a kind and even tone, “May the light kiss thine eyes of frost, strangers. What might you want with myself on this occasion.”

“Let the sun’s radiance never fail you, Soweyn. These men from far afield have come seeking knowledge of the Goddess. Perhaps you might enlighten them,” Razien returned, ensuring decorum despite a deficit in belief.

Orathone pressed past Litheiuss to stand abreast with Razien directly before the Soweyn, “I’ve been told your Goddess spoke of an ancient one known by the name Casseda vur’Verillia. What can you tell me of this?”

“Tales, that’s what you’ve heard, tales and nothing more. I could believe your companion would tell you them they are from those beyond Seras. We have rare few who come asking, of course, those few who do are ignorant to the lies sowed about the Goddess,” the fox began meandering away, but at a pace that implied they should follow, “Perhaps, perhaps not, your fellow there has told you that which so many proclaim to be a lie regarding the Daughter of the Sun.”

“Lie?”

“Oh, yes, all but those who may have seen her with their own eyes would claim her to be hardly a sight to see, no better than Jemine. But those who were among the Goddess, myself, I saw her when I was but a lad could tell you the truth. Her fur was a fierce and fiery sunset worked with bands of gold and the raging white flame that burns in the rivers at midday. Her beauty is something I can not describe, not with words. And those tails. If so many nearkin found themselves jealous of one, then to have so many equally wonderous would only serve to burn them worse,” he stopped in the middle of the nave and pointed his gaze to an alcove set into the earthen works.

In the gap stood a statue half-finished though beset by three high, narrow windows in the ceiling by colored light. A deep ochre slashed across the left, a nearly snow white at the center, and the brilliance of polished gold to the far end. As though his words had been the direction for the sculptor who had laid paws to the piece, himself sitting not far from it on a bench, taking his ease, the figure was carved from the feet up. The six tails snaked about in a fashion that would have suggested sentience within each furry tendril. Though the body was mostly complete, there was one glaring aspect left untouched. Her head was still a rough shape, not yet chiseled down to size, and gave no suggestion of what Sirian may have looked like. To this, Orathone gave pause, as rare it was to not sculpt such a figure’s features to perfection before carrying on to the less substantial parts of their form. However, the Soweyn grinned all the more fiercely at the confusion on his guests’ faces.

There were no question left to Orathone. He assumed he might gain some greater insight on the ghost of a voice that periodically came to him, but if he would, it was not to be from the Soweyn’s lips. As they exited the temple, their host bade them wait where they were in the vestibule. Razien, among them, seemed the only one to read little into the request as the holy man came to them. He dipped two digits in the salted water and cupped a paw of ash in his other hand. With flourishes of wrists and mumbled incantation, he marked two dots, one over each eye, with the water before pressing the ashes into the wet fur.

Though his fellows seemed put off by such an act, Razien inquired, “What graces the offering bowl today, Soweyn?”

“Pine torn from its roots by a storm early in Spring, a blood-marked rope that snapped a good shren’s neck in a struggle, and the late son of Chief Defender Biyorn. Not the most sacred of flamed articles, but the blessing of one spared the miseries of life serve well.”