Ni on two thousand years ago now, I had begun a project of expansion. In multiple regards, the entire process pleased me. The reservoir itself is massive, much of what the natives call “the Valley” was responsible for covering it. Early on, however, much of what had been intended to keep couldn't contain so much raw force. The reservoir began to crack, and I knew then what I had to do. Find some way to keep it from leaking, any leak at all would redistribute itself throughout the local organics and would inevitably find its way back, but it still gave reason for concern. I have committed too much, paid too high a price to allow it all to slip through my fingers.
The following week was an exercise in drudgery. When Dorian came home after his misadventure with Ohmer, his mother was shocked at the amount of free time he was going to be allotted. She apparently had too many errands to run, maps to review, and plans to set in motion that she felt she had to give Dorian a few tasks to keep him occupied.
When he thought cleaning out the rugs, reassembling his old crib, and re-organizing the outrageously oversized shed for the hunters were shitty jobs, he then had to clean the outhouses. Not just the private outhouse at Dorian's home, oh no, that would have kept the experience a private practice of self-disgust. Instead, the disgusting process had to become one of public concern as he had to clean the hunter's and the cook's outhouses as well.
That's when Dorian met Hans. Hans was an older man, thin as a rail and works harder than the gods had on creation. He simply didn't stop, he was bent and twisted, but he just kept going. A lifetime of working the shovel and hoe had left his spine slightly crooked, but despite his warped figure, chewing on his brache, he'd work the entire day away. Brache was a roasted and dried herb that grows easily within the town limits. When chewed, or sucked upon, it would create a stimulant effect.
Hans offered a bit to him, his hands humongous and scarred, and, figuring what the hell, Dorian chewed on it for a bit. The taste wasn't the worst thing he'd ever tried, that is until the burning sensation ran from the back of his tongue down to his stomach. His guts reeled, and he almost lost his breakfast. All he could think to do was wash it down with water. Pulling out his water skin he took a good pull, washing the water around his mouth before swallowing.
“Hey, son? You're not gonna swallow-” Hans cut off before finishing his sentence.
“What?” Dorian replied, stupidly.
“Oh, you shouldn't have drank it down boy,” he cackled mischievously. “S'pose it'll make the workday go quicker.” He turned as he spoke, and continued cackling, shaking his sunbaked bald head.
Dorian’s insides burned, not from any literal flames, but from the acrid taste of the brache. It was as if his mouth had become a furnace, stoked by curiosity and a dash of rebellion. For a few exhilarating minutes, he worked with a fervor that surprised him—like a hummingbird having drank too much tea, darting from task to task.
But then reality caught up. His lungs protested, wheezing under the strain of this new intensity. And his stomach? Well, it felt like a soggy sponge, soaked by the brackish liquid despite his desperate gulps of water. Everything inside him grumbled in protest, like a choir of disgruntled voices.
Unable to suppress it any longer, Dorian stumbled toward a nearby tree, dry heaving as if trying to expel the very memory of that ill-advised experiment. Gods, why had he thought this was a good idea?
That experience set the tone for Dorian's whole week. He started to look forward to his duties at the cookery, and this day’s meal offered an excuse to get out of privy duty. He forgot the potatoes, or rather his father hadn't included them, but the meal didn't have much else to it but some kind of dark meat, a red broth and turnips. It was spiced, and relatively thick, but because it was light on ingredients, everybody filled up on bread. He had to show up the next day to cook fresh bread for the village. He figured thirty loaves would be enough, but it took nearly the same amount of time to cook thirty as it would be to cook sixty. So, assuming that the dirtiest work for most the year would likely be done while most the village was away, since nobody in their right minds should be subjected to such humiliation in front of the general populous, he opted to err on the high side. He cooked eighty loaves. It wouldn't be a noticeable difference when the tallies were done, he'd just excuse the cost for a lack of a starch in the prepared soup. If anything, Dorian figured, these people deserve a bit more for their contributions. Even if they were brache addicts.
Ever so often, when he went to get a drink of water or wash up, his caste, Ohmer, would crane his head out, lap up some water, and go back to sleep. He accidentally banged against the little critter once, and to his astonishment it actually made a “clank” sound, as though Ohmer was really a caste. He went to touch it, and it was soft. It was so strange, because most the time Dorian didn't even notice him. Oddly enough however, he felt it when he banged it or touched it. Despite actually being there to begin with, and a bit of water here and there, he really wouldn't register that the little chameleon was even there. It was incredibly natural, and Dorian liked knowing that he wasn't alone. Ohmer was a curious thing really. Dorian really didn't know what to make of it, but ever so often he'd sneak it bits and scraps. The caste would stretch out, then it was all teeth at the end of the line. After Ohmer finished, it would just pull back to its resting position.
Sometimes he would get an intuition or a small thought that seemed to start from the creature. He thought it was just fanciful thinking, until one time he received a sense that someone was behind him, and when he turned, he wasn't even shocked at the sight Hans coming back from lunch. He knew it before he turned, knew the exact step Hans was taking. That's when he began to suspect that his bond to Ohmer was more than just an emotion, there was an intuitive connection.
At night, when he was alone with the Garru, he found that telepathic communication no longer worked with it. As though Ohmer had become a part of himself, he could bring the beast up to inspect it with a thought, telepathy not required. Typically, It would uncurl itself, and slither around him cheerily. Dorian simply couldn't resist petting its striped coat until they both slept. When Dorian woke, it would be back to being a caste.
For the first few days, Dorian was a bit suspicious of the little bugger, but every time he had a poor thought it would chime up in his mind’s eye. Once, he wondered whether or not Ohmer was some kind of parasite, and the level of offense Ohmer felt at the thought was worse than if he had insulted his father's cooking. Afterwards, in a fit, Ohmer had offered to leave. The feel he had from it was that it would never stay where it wasn't wanted, but Dorian simply couldn't part with the gentle animal.
When Dorian expressed this, he received a mirror thought back. Ohmer ironically saw him the same way, a gentle animal. Though it slightly offended Dorian, he understood it as a gesture of mutual faith. Dorian decided if the creature was just using him for safety, or to some kind of end, it would have left already. From the perspective of most creatures, if it got what it wanted it just moved on, but Ohmer wasn't so simple or base. He was like a lone puzzle piece, lost in corner or lodged under a rug. He had been left long enough that his puzzle had been tossed away, leaving a single piece behind. Dorian hadn't felt incomplete before, but having Ohmer with him was like the completion of a puzzle. The new relationship was a comfort, and responsibility, that he never knew he needed.
Despite being a quiet companion, he was incredibly versatile. For example, one night while walking to the outhouse, the winds were whipping, and it was quite cold. The winters chill had been drawing closer of late, cold enough at night to see your breath if the wind was up. As Dorian shivered, Ohmer vibrated, and to his surprise Ohmer stretched out from his caste, elongated up his arm and across Dorian's shoulders. Fur emerged, buffeting the chill and keeping Dorian warm. Ah, my silent sidekick, you're too good to me.
Though Dorian couldn't see it, he could feel Ohmer's scowl at being called a sidekick.
Finally, after a week of turmoil and despair, the first groups starting filtering into Metan. Dorian had planned ahead, preparing some hot soups with warm bread. Soups made a great staple, and if he used some of the starchier vegetables, he could get a soup going well enough to fill people up without angering his father too much.
The procession of people first coming through were all ragged and tired looking. They sort of just popped up as the widened path they hailed from was still sharply cut off by the nearby trees. They had a defeated cast about them, head bowed, and dragging their feet. Their packs weren't laden with supplies or anything, very little had been brought back at all. A curious thing, most the time the autumn trade in was very lucrative for Metan.
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Towering over the rest of those with them, Dorian's father Rand came limping into town. He was using his stave as a walking stick, one leg obviously bandaged. Not thinking, Dorian ran to his father wanting to know what had happened.
“Da?!” He shouted and he ran up. Lately, Dorian had noticed he had an easier time running. In fact, often he found himself running to something he really didn't have to run to, but whether it be impatience or a desire to run, he wasn't sure.
“Hello, my boy.” Rand smiled broadly before grimacing as he stepped towards his son. “Where's your mother?” He came to a rest, putting most his weight on his staff. That poor piece of wood.
“She's at the trapper's house, working on some kind of plan for something or another. I tried not to bother her too much, every time I had she found something awful for me to do.” Rand laughed at his son's words, but abruptly became serious. “Go and fetch her, would ya? I'd make the jaunt over myself, but I twisted my ankle about a day ago. Go on now, we've all got much to tell.”
Dorian agreed to get his mother, and then explained that he had prepared some food for the weary travelers. Rand perked up, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You did? And what did you cook then?” Dorian explained, and his father made his way over to try some, announcing to everyone on the way about how his “thoughtful son had taken steps to keep everyone fed.” Dorian was a little bashful about taking praise. Dorian suspected that his father knew this and was using that knowledge to get Dorian out of there faster. Clever old man.
Dorian made his way to the trapper’s house, running in little spurts until he felt his lungs burning. It wasn't that he was in a hurry, he just felt like if he didn't do something soon, he'd burst. It was odd that he could note this emotion, catalog it to his youth, and still succumb to the emotion regardless. It felt like being swindled or played for a fool. He didn't like that feeling, it made him want to lash out or throw a tantrum. Maybe the last lonely week had allowed his thoughts to run amok, and this was simply the consequence of not controlling those thoughts. The worst part of brooding was that he never seemed to focus on what had made him happy, always he would dwell on Bo, and whether he'd see him and be forced to make a getaway. Or he would focus on how he had yelled a Quena or think about how he had let go of Kurt while Kurt was risking his own life to save him. It was all just whirling about him, and he hated himself for all the time wasted in regret.
So caught up in his own thoughts, Dorian hadn't notice Kurt catching up to him until he was barreled over by him. Kurt laughed a “ha-ha!” just before he pounced on his younger brother. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, which swiftly turned to a little wrestling match. It happened often, which led to Dorian developing a kind of turtle technique to wear his brother down. He would pull in his limbs, to the best of his ability, tuck his chin, and try to lever a wrist or an arm. He never got the arm, the whole point was to simply wear his brother out to the point that he'd give up. This time, however, he never even got to the point of being able to turtle in. He was thrown down, put on his back, and his wrists were pinned in less than three seconds.
“I yield, I yield, you jerk!” Dorian cried, arching away from his brother. Kurt just rolled off and laughed.
“I've been wanting to do that for six days.” He announced with a sigh.
Dorian grimaced as he ran a mental check on Ohmer. He seemed just fine, looking every bit the line wood caste. The form of communication between them had become so intuitive that Dorian had to mentally isolate himself from Ohmer. He asked it if he'd do the honor of pulling a prank on his older brother. This seemed to excite the Garru, and it sent Dorian a sensation that tingled.
Standing up, grasping his caste tight, Dorian put on an expression of complete horror. “What did you do?!” Dorian gave a shout as Kurt looked over at him. Dorian removed his hand and his caste started pulsing. In and out it breathed, expanding and contracting like a lung. He gave a sharp wail, like every time his caste became engorged it hurt.
Kurt just stared with eyes wide and unblinking. Dorian arched his back, pushing his arm out in front of himself. “Kurt, you've done it now. It doesn't like... surprises.” Dorian gasped the words out. He did the best he could to keep the smile off his face as he said, “Oh no, I think... I think it's hungry.”
“What?!” Kurt's voice squawked, pitching several octaves higher than Dorian had ever heard.
That's when his caste exploded outward, a mass of churning black. Hundreds of elongated teardrops, a shape Dorian was beginning to appreciate, massed and coiled upon themselves. It created the shape of a worm, and the writhing mass created a cyclonic contortion at its front, making the image of a massive gaping mouth.
Kurt was completely frozen, mouth and eyes open, face a mask of terror and shock. Mouth agape, Kurt just plopped onto his backside, staring so intently he likely hadn't noticed. This was too much for Dorian, and Ohmer for that matter. As the mass fell away into the shape of the Garru, Dorian fell to the ground sputtering with laughter. Ohmer writhed about him, taking on his own form and purring his “ru-ru” noise. The vibration from the animal was joyous, and somehow the joy was emanating from it.
Still laughing, he said, “Kurt, I'd like you to meet Ohmer, my silent saboteur.” The vibrating paused for a moment, then resumed. “He's a Garru I met the day you left.”
Kurt was still in shock, his mind trying to grasp the situation, and failing. “That's not any kind of Garru I've ever heard of.” Kurt stated in an all too quiet tone.
“Relax big brother, he's a friend.” Dorian smiled at his brother as Ohmer resumed the shape of a caste. Dorian walked over and offered a hand to his brother. Kurt took it, but reluctantly.
“That was, uh, that was... wow.” Kurt said, keeping quiet. “Glad you didn't have to spend the whole week alone?”
Dorian smirked, then nodded. “I'm off to get mom, Da told me to go get her. Said there was something important she needed to discuss. Do you know what's going on? Dad got intense there for a sec, and he seems pensive.”
An expression flashed across Kurt's face, whether it was consternation or constipation, Dorian wasn't sure. “Yeah, I think I have an idea of what he wants to talk to her about, but before I tell you about it there's something you need to know.”
Dorian raised an eyebrow, looked at his brother, then rolled his hand. When Kurt didn't respond, Dorian said, “I shall allow you to speak, may you never say the great Dorian lacks propriety.” He raised his chin, taking a tone of mock supremacy.
Kurt gave Dorian a bemused look but got serious. “Dorian, I don't know how to say this, but Quena got caught.” Kurt looked away, “I'm sorry Dorian. I know you were holding on to something for her, but she's gone now. She's in the monastery, with the other Priorius.”
Dorian's stomach felt like it was in his knees, and though he didn't really think he had a real crush on her, she was the only Priorius he had a chance to talk to. Grim as it was, and even though he hated himself for it, he knew his only real loss was in the knowledge he could have gleamed, not so much the relationship he could have built.
Grimacing, Dorian asked, “How has Diana taken it?”
Kurt gave a small hiss before replying through a frown. “Not well, I'm afraid. We were all together when it happened, she was tagging along as we walked the fairgrounds. Two kids, not much older than I, came out of nowhere. It happened so fast, Diana hadn't even noticed when I bolted after them. They moved so fast, and Q didn't even struggle, didn't even make a sound. When I caught up to them, I grabbed one by the robe to pull him back, but he would barely budge. Instead of falling over he just tilted back. I yelled something like “What the hell do you think you're doing?” After he didn't respond, I moved to hit him and he blocked me with some black shield.” Kurt showed his hand, displaying the damage. Where he had struck the shield his knuckles were bruised and scabbed. After a moment he continued. “They said something about it being an official mandate by the high priest, that her family should just forget about her, that she was being summoned to serve the gods. It all sounded rehearsed, and the worst was that Diana hadn't even caught up by then. When I finally found her, I had to tell her myself. She blamed me and stormed up to the monastery, I didn't see her again until we left. When I tried to console her, she rebuked me. She said it was my fault, Dorian, and even if she is just grieving, I can't help but feel responsible.”
Kurt's posture was one of defeat, shoulders and back slumped forward, staring off at the ground. Dorian walked up to his much taller brother and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You're not responsible Kurt, you did more than she did when the time came. Don't let it get you down, I warned her multiple times to watch herself. For some people, it's easier to blame others, and for us, it's easiest to blame ourselves. You don't need to do that, Kurt.”
Kurt wasn't really moved, and Dorian knew it would take him some time to get over it all. “Come on, I have to get mom before the rest of the village makes it back.” Kurt looked up and nodded.
They resumed the pace they always had, Dorian taking longer strides to keep up with his brother, just like they had when Dorian was walked home from the caretakers more than four years ago. It was the most normal thing to them, the way they walked away their troubles. Finding that rhythm together always returned their mindsets to one of mischievous nonchalance. In that mindset, they could always work through their problems, in that mindset anything was possible. In due course the worries they seemed to accumulate no longer hindered them. So, they just walked finding their tempo, until Kurt finally drew himself out of his shell.
They were near the trapper's house before Kurt finally spoke. “Oh shit, the other thing. I can't believe I forgot about the other thing.” Kurt slapped his forehead and rubbed his eyes. “Dorian, something happened during the Autumnal equinox festival. Kresson didn't show, there were a lot of rumors going around about them. Some said they got sick with some new disease, others said they were going to refuse trade, but most people said that there was serious unrest in Kresson. Dorian, don't take my word on it, but I think Kresson is trying to start a rebellion.”