David White
Stories
4
Chapters
1,771
Words
1.0 K
Comments
0
Reading
5 m
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At some point in our journey through the Augur's Orphic faith, the raven’s mantle had changed. The furthest outpost of the Howling Wind Cult estates on Kaukoso Mons was manned by a Sophic cultivator near the peak of his realm. He was an imposing figure, likely chosen for his stature as much as his advancement, with scars and a permanent scowl to accent the controlled malice in his dark eyes. In the faint light cast by his iron lantern’s flame, he looked menacing by any man’s standard. He flinched…-
92 •
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Sorea returned before the sun fell, wheeling above the coastline off our starboard side. The virtuous beast shrieked once to make sure he had our attention and then dipped, diving back over the seaside hills and vanishing from our sight. “Stop,” Sol commanded, and every oar froze. Scythas’ favorable winds went out of the Eos’ sail like a hitching of breath. Our humble sea dogs awaited their orders with grim resolve. “We’re getting off here.” “We can’t leave the ship!” one of the men…
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92 •
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Niko’s companions had harbored their fair share of doubts and misgivings leading up to the wedding, his wife included among them. They had readied themselves for a fight, gathered up any material advantage they could get their hands on, steeled their hearts and grit their teeth as the Eos braved the Ionian Sea again for the first time in years. And why not? Even Niko There was just something about sailing into the setting sun, further west than any civilized Greek cared to go, and knowing that Damon…
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92 •
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There and back again in just under two weeks. All told, it was one of the faster expeditions I’d been a part of. It had taken us three days to sail around the southern tip of the Peloponnesian landmass where Olympia resided, and north up the full length of the Aegean Sea to the unmarked lands of Thracia. It had taken us four more days and four more nights of horseback riding and chthonic wandering to find our infernal drink and return to the Eos with golden cup in hand. We’d made good time sailing…
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92 •
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“You’re a Thracian,” Sol said, the pieces falling into place in his mind as they were in mine. “I was born in Thracia,” Scythas corrected him, with the weariness of long practice. “I was raised in the Hurricane Heights. Since the day I stood under my own power, I’ve refined myself in the Greek style. In every way that matters, I am Greek.” I began to understand. “And yet.” “And yet,” Scythas murmured, “To the natural born citizens of the free cities, I am Thracian. I was, I am,…
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92 •
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Scythas and Sol’s quiet conversation abruptly ended when I joined them at the front of the ship. The Hero glanced at me uncertainly, having no doubt overheard my conversation with Selene - as he overheard most all things that he cared to. Sol acknowledged me with a nod and twisted to lean an arm against the ship’s rail, looking out over the waves pensively. I stepped through the gap that separated the two of them and climbed up onto the Eos’ figurehead, a woman carved from wood with both hands…
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92 •
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By sunset we had returned. The lands of Thracia were vast, and we had traveled them for long days and longer nights. Cultivators of our stature could have made the trip on foot in better time, Heroic cultivators like Scythas and the Scarlet Oracle’s daughter even faster than that - a day, perhaps two. When a refined man wasn’t burdened by a horse’s fragile constitution, much could be done. A mundane horse, that was. Kronia and Atlas returned us to the southern coast that lined the Aegean Sea in a…
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92 •
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Wrathful hands seized me by the neck. They gripped fistfuls of hair that I had allowed to grow far too long, palmed my face, hauled on the white cloth of my chiton and dug their fingers into the gaps between my skin and the beaten bronze breastplate given to me by the Gadfly. My own shadow took me in its hands, and it dragged me down. Down, into the depths. Down, to my knees. I planted my right hand flat against the ground, a finger’s width all that separated my knees from the earth. The veins in my…
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92 •
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Cultivators had a reputation for fearlessness. In many ways, it was well-earned. In the course of their journey, a cultivator’s refinement steadily uplifted them body and soul in a way that put most common worries beneath them. An unrefined mortal feared the bite of a knife because they knew their body was a fragile thing and prone to failure. A cultivator in the Civic Realm could hone their body and suffer the damage gracefully, survive long enough to seek a physician or even close the wound…
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92 •
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They panicked. The ivory gates had spat them out into an underground tomb, a beehive Instead of stepping back into the empty Orphic House, though, they found themselves in another beehive tomb. “What is this?” Scythas demanded. Not so much talking to her as he was the ivy-covered coffin in the center of the tomb. Something stirred in the shadows behind the coffin at the words spoken in the kyrios’ voice. Selene inhaled sharply. A low buzzing noise rose up from the dark. Selene turned and drove…
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92 •
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