Mountainkeep is a large, intricately built city. Layers of civilisation peek through the fragmented architecture that accumulated over the centuries. Any newcomer would be hard-pressed to find their way around easily. For Osthryn, who had lived several centuries herself and was well-accustomed to traveling, the city is quite young and easy to navigate. Within her first few weeks of arriving at Mountainkeep, she had confidently mapped out large swathes of the most prominent districts. On days like today, she takes great joy in wandering the streets alone, without Oswald to hurry her curious observations along.
Her wandering on this bright Norostag morning brings her to a lively market square below the Temple District. A market square that she had been meaning to visit, since Martina would not stop singing its praises. True to Martina's word, there is no shortage of shiny baubles, beautifully woven baskets, or proud craftsmanship on display. One stall in particular draws Osthryn's attention immediately. A man sits off to the side of his stall weaving an intricate tapestry, his fingers tying off the knots faster than one would register they were there.
"What would you charge me to watch you work?" Osthryn asks, openly admiring the shades of green weaving an evolving image. The practiced speed of his hands evoke a technique Osthryn first saw when she was merely a hatchling.
The man hardly looks up from his work, "If you would like the tapestry when I am done with it, two silver pieces. If you would merely like to watch, then have a seat and keep me company."
He gestures to a cushion in the corner of his stall. Osthryn plucks two silver pieces from her pocket that she places on the table beside him. She takes the proferred cushion and places it on the ground across from him, sitting on her knees to watch.
"I think I last saw my grandmother do this."
It is easiest to reference a non-existent grandmother figure when relating to human beings on the things that came from many years ago. She does need to remember when it is appropriate to update "my grandmother" with "my grandmother said that when she was a baern..." or, "my mother told me that my great-grandmother...", but a life of four hundred years is short enough for her "grandmother" to suffice in many cases.
The man looks up for a second with a smile, “You’re a while from home eh, lass?"
Osthryn shrugs, "I have traveling feet -- though I doubt I am much farther from home than you are."
"My home lies a mere two streets west. Though yer speech and kirtle tells me that ye hail nearer to the lands of my ancestors than I."
"I came down through Bettramon, does that narrow it down for you?" Osthryn asks, resting her chin on her hands as her eyes followed the swift fingers. In the back of her mind she tracks her shape -- wearing her human form is deeper than a second skin, a fully transformed Dragon is indistinguishable from the creature whose shape it takes. It is two hundred years at least since the last time her guise had slipped. Nonetheless, like a good-luck charm, she runs through the rhyme in her thoughts for what could be the tenth time that day: Talons be nails, claws be hands. Spines be hair, tied in bands. Scales begone, and fangs dissolve. Might merely a maiden appear when they see you. As if to ensure it works, she taps her forefinger on her cheek three times. It is a nearly imperceptible tic, but it is constant.
"Bettramon? Now that is a lovely coincidence! My ancestors traveled from there long ago, but still we keep the crafts and the stories. Mine own grandmother who taught me the knots told me the story that goes with this scene I am weaving. Do you know it, the story of the fairy hills?" The man asks, looking at Osthryn expectantly. His hands do not slow in their work.
"I know of the fairy gnolls, but that is likely semantics," Osthryn replies with a gentle smile, "how does your story go?"
"Well now, how my nan always told it," the man begins, his crows' feet creasing at the memory, "In a town not too far north, but not too close to home, was a young lady who loved the world and everything in it. No eyes were as green as hers when she let them weep -- for the love of the suffering and the joy of the blessed alike. Upon a day she came upon trouble. Falsely accused, she ran farther north, pleading that the hills hide her. The fairies heard her, and the goddess Cointha took pity on her, so the hills opened up and swallowed her whole.
She is not buried, but welcomed into a large grotto. Fairies danced and sang while they feasted. The walls of the hill were lit by the glow of the content spirits of the righteous dead. Sensing her urgency, and at the goddess Cointha's behest, they ushered her through the twisting tunnels that led south. The young lady escaped harm, and lived a long life in gratitude to the goddess Cointha's mercy and the fairies that guided her. Every springtime, when you visit a green hill, you may just catch a glimpse of her grateful spirit through an open fairy hill."
Osthryn stares quietly into the distance while she digests the story. The contrasts with the version she knows, likely due to centuries of diverging culture, are clear, but she feels she prefers this story to the original.
"It is a more beautiful story than the one I know," Osthryn sighs wistfully, "In a small village to the North of Bettramon, there was a young witch with a restless soul. Try as she might, she could not resist the temptation of pulling her tricks and hexes. On the eve of the Solstice, the chief of the village and his son trapped her in one of her own wiles. Knowing she could not escape, she dove into a fairy gnoll. The fairies made a deal with her: that they would hide her if she stayed and played music for them for one hundred years. This, she did.
"Her time passed, and the fairies let her leave. Sure her peril had passed, she stepped out into the sun - barely aged a day. She neared the village, not one soul could recognize her. But she could not stay. Before she could enter the mead-hall, a wind from the South Wing blew, revealing her true age, and turning her to dust."
"I agree with you, the Tapester's story is far better," came a voice from the young man now sitting on the ground next to her.
"Silovar!" Osthryn jumps, catching herself as she nearly topples over in fright.
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