Any Misery in the Sound of the Wind || Raethva, Aina, and Greagh
Raethva moved through the lowlands.
The hills here were strange to her eyes, furred with green things instead of white snow, with trees that bore soft leaves rather than sharp needles. The air seemed thick in her lungs, almost wet, as though she tried to breath water instead of air. The woman kept her respiration steady by force of long practice, despite a strange urge to hold her breath. The air smelled strange, too, the familiar cold odor of stone almost buried beneath a damp musk she thought must be soil and a bright sharpness which might be the plants. The Aragai tilled what small plots of nearly-flat, thin-soiled land existed in the heights below their city, but even in those places in the heights of summer, the air did not smell like this air.
And the sunlight! It was warmer here than in Aragothe by far; Raethva was warmer than she had ever felt before without a fire raging nearby and furs piled upon her. But somehow, the sunlight, while hot on her face--seemed dimmer as well. It was a strange color, too warm and too golden, and it, like the air, seemed somehow thick--almost viscous as it poured down the slopes.
It was a soft place, the lowlands, she decided. The winds were gentle around her, the ground soft beneath her fur-lined boots. Everything was easy here, there was no challenge to it. Food was abundant and free for the taking, and fresh liquid water ran in thin streams and rivulets from every other crack in the stone.
The lowland vuathai must be soft as well. They followed decadent Daenu and feral Laghd, she knew. Without Daugva's heights to test them, without Aergharíghe's cold brightness to inspire them, how could they be strong? How could they be worthy, or pure? Something like contempt rose up in her and she looked at it carefully as she had been taught, taking the feeling and turning it over and around, understanding it fully--and then setting it aside, discarding it as unhelpful and unneeded.
But a misery she could not set aside trickled through her as the soft breezes swept her dark hair back from her face and the strange dim sunlight reddened her cheeks. This was not her home and never would be, but her own home was lost.
Lost in her own private misery, Raethva did not see the woman at first. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight, then melted back behind an outcropping of rock. Well-hidden now, she peered out at the other woman who sat with her back to the trunk of one of these strange lowland trees. She was Kaeltai, was the stranger, this much at least was clear from her features and garb. But the woman was a lowlander, though; could she be trusted at all? Did Raethva even want to make contact with anyone, now or ever?
Frozen with indecision, Raethva hovered there, just out of sight.