Dryad Eyes #49
1,367.
THOR tonight, hopefully!
It should have happened on stage. With a properly trained magician to give it just the right lighting, and to slow their movements down just so that the audience could register the surprise and joy on their faces as they rushed into each other’s arms, it would have tugged at heartstring after heartstring. The scene would get nothing but rave reviews, even if the rest of the play were shit.
Deredon could see all of it playing out in his head. He had done a little work as an actor. While the magician who had directed his shows had been no Zyder or Jameron the Epic, he had at least been competent.
As it stood, this was not a play. It was what all plays were ultimately about, but could never achieve. Reality. True life. Deredon tried to not look bored. Before him, Treyp and Amiendyn came together in a tight, laughing, teary-eyed embrace. If it were a play, Deredon knew that it would ultimately cast his character in the best light if he stood willingly aside, impassive and approving, while the scene played out. That was what he decided to strive for and so, with great effort, he did not once roll his eyes.
“Amiendyn! What are you doing here?” Treyp fired the question off, lapsing into their native tongue in her excitement. Deredon, of course, did not understand a word of it.
“Ytyrra came to see Geran,” Amiendyn replied in kind. “We were all supposed to wait in the mountains, but because of what happened to you she decided that it would be okay if I paid you a visit as well.”
“In the mountains?” Treyp asked, mortified. “In this weather?”
“We are a hardy breed.” Amiendyn answered reprovingly, with a mock scowl. “You know this.”
“Yes,” Treyp agreed. “But that doesn’t make a harsh winter not suck.”
“True,” Amiendyn pursed her lips. Then she indicated Treyp’s companion with her chin. “Who is this, then? The mysterious Matthew you’ve been--?”
“No,” Treyp switched back to the common tongue and cut her eyes at Deredon as she replied. “He is no Matthew.”
“I see.”
“Too bad for him,” quipped the man in question. Deredon was simply unable to resist such an opening.
A skeptical glance was passed between the Dryad women, and then they turned away. Needless to say, they were unimpressed. Deredon was at peace with that. Building his reputation would take time, and patience. This? It was but the beginning.
As Amiendyn lead them through the nearly indistinguishable hallways of the Keep, she and Treyp spoke almost exclusively in their native tongue. Essentially left to his own devices, Deredon observed the nondescript hallways they traversed. What he had expected to see within the Keep, he did not know, but this? Each corridor they entered or passed looked much like all of the others. There were but a few cases where a chair, a shelf, and in one case a withered plant, had been left outside this or that room. Otherwise it was wall after wall, door after door, and torch after torch in the halls that were lit. It was terribly boring. How did anyone manage to learn their way around here?
Perhaps that was the point, Deredon mused.
The door they arrived at was yet another example of monotony. There was not even a number etched into its surface to set it apart from any other door along that particular wall, nor the wall opposite it. Deredon guessed that all of the rooms would be the same as well, diversified only by those who lived inside them. What a terrible place to live, he thought.
An older Dryad opened the door when they knocked, but that was hardly a fair description of her. She could have passed for the same age as the other two but for the barely-there-but-still-there laugh lines and crows feet that decorated her face. Was it not said that Dryads aged so much slower than the average human? If that was true, Deredon could only wonder at this one’s actual age. Wonder was all that he would do, too, for she was much too attractive to offend.
Treyp exclaimed, “Ytyrra!” and then flung her arms around the woman’s neck. That must be her name, then. This was, of course, followed with more laughing, teary-eyed hugs. As before, Deredon did his best to feign interest, or at least patience. It was not an easy task.
“My Treyp,” Ytyrra spoke with warmth, choosing the common tongue as she brought the three of them into the room. It was simple, plain but for the purple curtains that hung in the window. “Who is your friend?”
“Who- oh.” Once more, Treyp cast a curt, sidelong glance at Deredon. “This stranger was kind enough to help me sneak back into the Keep. His name is ‘Deer Dan’ or some such.”
“Deredon,” he retorted instantly, and felt his ears grow hot. “My name is Deredon.”
“Forgive Treyp,” Ytyrra spoke in soothing tones. “She is young, and doesn’t seem to like you very much. She is grateful, however, as are Amiendyn and myself. As I‘m sure my son will be.”
“Think nothing of it.” Deredon declared, gathering his act of nobility about himself like a cloak. “It is I that nearly forgot myself. She has also very clearly had a bad day, and the way in which she met me couldn’t have helped. I am quite certain that she will warm to me later.” He pointedly pretended to notice neither Treyp’s derisive snort nor Amiendyn’s rolling eyes. Then he added, “Did you say son? I am sure he is a fine boy, and I appreciate any good will sent my way, but judging by the look of you he couldn’t be more than a toddler.”
“You shouldn’t try to flirt with me, Deredon.” Ytyrra grinned so very broadly as she brought her hand to touch lightly one side of the young man’s face. “You are very pretty, and will quickly find yourself in over your head. Treyp would break only your pride--”
“Ytyrra!” The Dryad just named exclaimed.
The Eldest Sister chuckled and gently patted Deredon’s cheek, then turned away from him. This left him feeling inexplicably like the fawn that had only just skipped clear of a lunging tiger’s jaws, and uncertain what to make of it. Was she threatening him, hitting on him, or both?
“It is such a relief to see you,” Ytyrra was speaking then in more serious tones, and took Treyp by the hands. “I heard the story that your friend Andrek brought to Geran…”
“Andrek made it?!” Treyp exclaimed. Her face brightened, and her body language spoke of relief and joy. “I thought… I mean, I assumed that he was dead. It--”
“Treyp.” Ytyrra interrupted her. “Listen. He was able to share his story, but Geran sent him back with Aorthain to retrieve you.”
“He--”
“His body was found last night.”
“Damn. Damn.” Treyp squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the tears that welled up and the sudden, throbbing pain behind them. She half-turned, as if she might walk away, but stood where she was. “And what of Aorthain?”
“There has been no sign,” Ytyrra spoke softly, sadly, her sympathy extending as much to those of whom she spoke as it did to her grieving Sister. “They think he did it.”
“I… I need to go. Think.”
“Treyp…”
“Not far.”
She was already in motion, halfway to the door, and showed no sign of stopping. Amiendyn and Deredon both looked to Ytyrra, who simply looked sad. She was going to let Treyp go. Ytyrra understood that, even in times of trouble, a person sometimes needed space to collect themselves.
Treyp was met inside the doorway by Matthew, who had just been about to enter the room. He lifted a hand upon seeing her. Whether it was meant to stop her or to greet her did not matter. Treyp’s reaction was the same.
“Don’t touch me!” She snapped. Her open hand connected with his wrist. Fortunately Matthew was quick and knew her strength. He moved with the blow and stepped away from her, watching as she fled weeping down the corridor.
THOR tonight, hopefully!
It should have happened on stage. With a properly trained magician to give it just the right lighting, and to slow their movements down just so that the audience could register the surprise and joy on their faces as they rushed into each other’s arms, it would have tugged at heartstring after heartstring. The scene would get nothing but rave reviews, even if the rest of the play were shit.
Deredon could see all of it playing out in his head. He had done a little work as an actor. While the magician who had directed his shows had been no Zyder or Jameron the Epic, he had at least been competent.
As it stood, this was not a play. It was what all plays were ultimately about, but could never achieve. Reality. True life. Deredon tried to not look bored. Before him, Treyp and Amiendyn came together in a tight, laughing, teary-eyed embrace. If it were a play, Deredon knew that it would ultimately cast his character in the best light if he stood willingly aside, impassive and approving, while the scene played out. That was what he decided to strive for and so, with great effort, he did not once roll his eyes.
“Amiendyn! What are you doing here?” Treyp fired the question off, lapsing into their native tongue in her excitement. Deredon, of course, did not understand a word of it.
“Ytyrra came to see Geran,” Amiendyn replied in kind. “We were all supposed to wait in the mountains, but because of what happened to you she decided that it would be okay if I paid you a visit as well.”
“In the mountains?” Treyp asked, mortified. “In this weather?”
“We are a hardy breed.” Amiendyn answered reprovingly, with a mock scowl. “You know this.”
“Yes,” Treyp agreed. “But that doesn’t make a harsh winter not suck.”
“True,” Amiendyn pursed her lips. Then she indicated Treyp’s companion with her chin. “Who is this, then? The mysterious Matthew you’ve been--?”
“No,” Treyp switched back to the common tongue and cut her eyes at Deredon as she replied. “He is no Matthew.”
“I see.”
“Too bad for him,” quipped the man in question. Deredon was simply unable to resist such an opening.
A skeptical glance was passed between the Dryad women, and then they turned away. Needless to say, they were unimpressed. Deredon was at peace with that. Building his reputation would take time, and patience. This? It was but the beginning.
As Amiendyn lead them through the nearly indistinguishable hallways of the Keep, she and Treyp spoke almost exclusively in their native tongue. Essentially left to his own devices, Deredon observed the nondescript hallways they traversed. What he had expected to see within the Keep, he did not know, but this? Each corridor they entered or passed looked much like all of the others. There were but a few cases where a chair, a shelf, and in one case a withered plant, had been left outside this or that room. Otherwise it was wall after wall, door after door, and torch after torch in the halls that were lit. It was terribly boring. How did anyone manage to learn their way around here?
Perhaps that was the point, Deredon mused.
The door they arrived at was yet another example of monotony. There was not even a number etched into its surface to set it apart from any other door along that particular wall, nor the wall opposite it. Deredon guessed that all of the rooms would be the same as well, diversified only by those who lived inside them. What a terrible place to live, he thought.
An older Dryad opened the door when they knocked, but that was hardly a fair description of her. She could have passed for the same age as the other two but for the barely-there-but-still-there laugh lines and crows feet that decorated her face. Was it not said that Dryads aged so much slower than the average human? If that was true, Deredon could only wonder at this one’s actual age. Wonder was all that he would do, too, for she was much too attractive to offend.
Treyp exclaimed, “Ytyrra!” and then flung her arms around the woman’s neck. That must be her name, then. This was, of course, followed with more laughing, teary-eyed hugs. As before, Deredon did his best to feign interest, or at least patience. It was not an easy task.
“My Treyp,” Ytyrra spoke with warmth, choosing the common tongue as she brought the three of them into the room. It was simple, plain but for the purple curtains that hung in the window. “Who is your friend?”
“Who- oh.” Once more, Treyp cast a curt, sidelong glance at Deredon. “This stranger was kind enough to help me sneak back into the Keep. His name is ‘Deer Dan’ or some such.”
“Deredon,” he retorted instantly, and felt his ears grow hot. “My name is Deredon.”
“Forgive Treyp,” Ytyrra spoke in soothing tones. “She is young, and doesn’t seem to like you very much. She is grateful, however, as are Amiendyn and myself. As I‘m sure my son will be.”
“Think nothing of it.” Deredon declared, gathering his act of nobility about himself like a cloak. “It is I that nearly forgot myself. She has also very clearly had a bad day, and the way in which she met me couldn’t have helped. I am quite certain that she will warm to me later.” He pointedly pretended to notice neither Treyp’s derisive snort nor Amiendyn’s rolling eyes. Then he added, “Did you say son? I am sure he is a fine boy, and I appreciate any good will sent my way, but judging by the look of you he couldn’t be more than a toddler.”
“You shouldn’t try to flirt with me, Deredon.” Ytyrra grinned so very broadly as she brought her hand to touch lightly one side of the young man’s face. “You are very pretty, and will quickly find yourself in over your head. Treyp would break only your pride--”
“Ytyrra!” The Dryad just named exclaimed.
The Eldest Sister chuckled and gently patted Deredon’s cheek, then turned away from him. This left him feeling inexplicably like the fawn that had only just skipped clear of a lunging tiger’s jaws, and uncertain what to make of it. Was she threatening him, hitting on him, or both?
“It is such a relief to see you,” Ytyrra was speaking then in more serious tones, and took Treyp by the hands. “I heard the story that your friend Andrek brought to Geran…”
“Andrek made it?!” Treyp exclaimed. Her face brightened, and her body language spoke of relief and joy. “I thought… I mean, I assumed that he was dead. It--”
“Treyp.” Ytyrra interrupted her. “Listen. He was able to share his story, but Geran sent him back with Aorthain to retrieve you.”
“He--”
“His body was found last night.”
“Damn. Damn.” Treyp squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the tears that welled up and the sudden, throbbing pain behind them. She half-turned, as if she might walk away, but stood where she was. “And what of Aorthain?”
“There has been no sign,” Ytyrra spoke softly, sadly, her sympathy extending as much to those of whom she spoke as it did to her grieving Sister. “They think he did it.”
“I… I need to go. Think.”
“Treyp…”
“Not far.”
She was already in motion, halfway to the door, and showed no sign of stopping. Amiendyn and Deredon both looked to Ytyrra, who simply looked sad. She was going to let Treyp go. Ytyrra understood that, even in times of trouble, a person sometimes needed space to collect themselves.
Treyp was met inside the doorway by Matthew, who had just been about to enter the room. He lifted a hand upon seeing her. Whether it was meant to stop her or to greet her did not matter. Treyp’s reaction was the same.
“Don’t touch me!” She snapped. Her open hand connected with his wrist. Fortunately Matthew was quick and knew her strength. He moved with the blow and stepped away from her, watching as she fled weeping down the corridor.