Cerulean Cape temporal

change swept over the druids like the silvered rush of spiritwaves against pale sands. the listener was worn thin, a gaunt figure where before she had merely been slim. theirs was a harsh pilgrimage, but it was nearly at its close. through it all, the keeper stood as a constant; a stone-carved sentinel to lean against when the winds of change threatened to tear the listener's mortal form from the earth and send it spiraling forever among the heavens. rising with the sun from an oceanside bath, they sought @Ingram II under the sickly greyish glow of early sunlight. their dark fur was damp and stiffening with seasalt, eyes dulled with exhaustion yet glimmering with secrets and magicks known only to the spirits.

another coastal territory, but it is not yet home. the cape they current linger in is deceptively beautiful; painted with white sands and crystal water that he can see to the very bottom of with a clarity that startles him. the menagerie of creatures are more bizarre than the last and there is no shortage of strange sea critters lingering in the small tidepools that the high tide had left in it's foaming wake.

ingram studies one such shallow pool now, contemplating what — if any of it — was edible; and even if it was if it would taste better than the salty and seaweed heavy tang that hung in the air. he doubts it.

it is as he turns from the tide pool that he sees the listener's approach. trikova, he greets in an affectionate rumble, trying not to let his gaze take in her slimming form worriedly. the journey has taken it's toll on all of them ...but it is her that ingram finds himself worrying the most about.

the keeper lingered seaside, head bent over a shallow pool filled with darting colorful creatures and encrusted with alien growths along the sides and the stony bottom. the listener watched as he stirred, perhaps sensing her presence. her own greeting, a fleeting kiss as she brushed past his cheek and stepped past him to peer down at the pool that had held his attention. trikova, he rumbled, and under his gaze the listener fell away from her like a snake shedding its skin, and in that moment she was only trikova, mortal and frail and uncertain.

then the clouds shifted and the heavens brightened, and under the light she was the listener again.

grim, the prophet began fondly, muzzle dipping to sniff at a partially exposed starfish. past end of land, i see many things. hear whispers. voices are clear now. they lifted their head to look at ingram. druids will find home in sea. then we must learn our home, and learn of others. collect secrets.

morgana is first of three speakers. she will be eyes and ears of druids, and leader to lower druids, as all speakers will be, for the first time, the listener spoke words that would form the core of druid law. you are keeper. not leader, but above speakers. my protector, advisor, knower of secrets. you answer only to me.

when the listener next spoke, a new solemnity lurked under the words. one day i will send you away from our home, with many important tasks. in time, you will return. it will be... harrowing.

the kiss trikova places upon his cheek is fleeting but her brief touch lingers upon his flesh, warming him, seeping into the marrow of his bones; like the touch of a saint upon an apostle's brow. a low noise of affection rumbles within his chest, quiet but present until it is tamed by the sound of her voice.

she details out her plans, and further, their hierarchical structure.

from the speakers — morgana's role — to a bit more of his own as the keeper. it suits him, he thinks; more than content with his role. to be her hidden blade, always at her side and ready to strike when she commanded was an honor to him.

ingram was not, however, entirely pleased to learn that, eventually, he would be sent away from her side but also, it does not inspire surprise within him either. it made sense and he soothes the worst of his urge to protest being sent away.

i can handle it, trikova. he offers hopefully as a form of reassurance to her solemn words that it would be harrowing. he would do as she commanded him and then he would return to her; always. as he had pledged he would.

ever a loyal disciple, grim assured her that he was capable of the task laid before him. i know, the listener said simply, fitting her teeth around the starfish and prying it away from the rock it clung to. she laid it on the sand and pinned it with one pointed paw, lifting her head to look at him. you will not name druids to strangers. only to faithful. we must keep to shadows while we learn.

she paused, searching for the words to continue. speech continued to come slowly to her as she neared maturity, in halting leaps of improvement and long plateaus of struggle. ironic, then, that the listener should follow the long-winded nature of merrick more than the feral silent tongue of the raven-queen. she was finding herself a more versatile creature by the day, in the face of the unnamed god's demands. for her god, she would become anything.

when i left, i went very far away. spirits showed me death and chaos and betrayal. prey dying, and wolves at war. natural things, but no... no life. no sun. balance was gone, and for all her innate violence, the listener was repulsed by it. we journey to hear words of unnamed god, and learn to keep balance. she sighed, and tore into the starfish. there was much to learn.

the druids names, ingram listens as trikova instructs him, were not to be given to anyone but the faithful. to ingram, this makes perfect sense and he offers a sage nod, idly contenting himself with watching her dissection of the starfish she'd plucked from one of the shallow pools of seawater left behind.

understood. the keeper affirms vocally. out and about in the world and even to those that were yet untested and not yet trusted as faithful would know them only as the druids. protecting them by shrouding them in secrecy.

while she speaks of her time away, ingram is respectfully quiet but attentive. his seaglass gaze is steady upon her even as she appears to focus upon her starfish, while he tries and fails to imagine what she had seen. he does not have a very imaginative mind, never one to take to tall tales expect, perhaps most ironically, to the cultural beliefs of his mother even if his once love for her had turned to ice cold hatred that had ultimately guided him to matricide. and to know that he had done it without remorse, without so much as batting an eye perhaps would speak poorly upon him.

but only trikova knew of it ( and well, nyra ); and though he was not ashamed he wasn't exactly keen to announce it to the world, either.

her words of betrayal brought those thoughts to his mind. how praimfaya had betrayed him ( and heda ). how he had returned the favor in kind. or was it justice? could it be betrayal if he'd already been betrayed and was beyond forgiving?

ingram's train of thought is broken in the following seconds when she speaks of a lack of balance and that their job is to bring it as the unnamed god asked of them. admittedly, ingram's mind is swimming, trying to understand it all ...but he is relieved to know that perhaps it is not his job to fully understand nor interpret ( thankfully because he'd be very bad at it ). that was trikova's job. his job was to do as she — and thus the unnamed god — bid him to.

we will. ingram offers his soft affirmation, his belief. for better or for worse, they would leave their mark upon these wilds.

the listener cast a fond look over ingram's dark-masked features when he spoke, appreciative of how the keeper embodied his role. she swallowed the remnants of the starfish and drew her tongue over her lips before she spoke again.

tell me of your birth pack, grim, she requested, wishing to hear of her keeper's origins. one day, his story would become part of the history of the druids. he would be immortalized; the first acolyte, the first keeper. a figure as sacred as the listener herself. his history would need collecting while it was still fresh.

part of ingram desires to ask trikova how the starfish tasted while another part of him wishes not to know. he imagines — as much as he can — and balks at the little peep of morbid curiosity he has. somethings, he tells himself, are better left unknown. how starfish taste, their texture ...is one of those things, for him.

trikova asks him to talk about his birth pack then, and he supposes it is only fair since he has come to know that she was a daughter of ursus.

i was born in a pack called rivenwood. they claim the bypass...or they did. if they were still there or even around ingram didn't know; truthfully, didn't care to know. he was not remorseful for abandoning them to hunt his mother, nor what resulted from that fateful meeting ...but he suspects they would not take the news well, despite that he has no desire to return. he is trikova and blackwater's keeper now. it was nothing special. he does not say it cruelly but just simply.

nothing special. trikova cast a doubtful glance over her companion, yet kept her own counsel. rivenwood. a place the keeper did not wish to speak of, but it would become known to the listener all the same. committing the name to memory, the listener stepped away from the tidal pool and signaled to the keeper that she meant to hunt. join me, the prophet beckoned wordlessly, setting off along the sands with the beginning of a plan brewing in her thoughts. rivenwood...

fade here? <3

she does not pry and for this ingram is grateful.

not that, as far as he was concerned, there was much to share. that he thought he might be the son of it's patriarch mahler, probably — a suspicion based on nothing to go on for praimfaya had taken the truth of his parentage to her grave — but that didn't feel overly important.

he did not anticipate crossing paths with them again anytime soon.

at her beckon, he follows; letting thoughts of rivenwood and those he abandoned there to the waves to wash away.