Acrophobia

"Wēs hāl."

Osthryn is pulled from studying the cobblestones as they pass beneath her boots. She looks up to see Silovar with a steaming mug of tea cradled in both hands, leaning on the front doorway to Oswald and Martina’s home. A house call from her library shadow was not within her expectations of this evening. Silovar cocks his head as he awaits her response, as if she has no reason to be confused at his presence. Osthryn mockingly copies the gesture.

"Silovar."

"Osthryn."

“Can I ask why you are here this evening?" Osthryn asks, slowly adjusting to the latest of Silovar’s abrupt manifestations.
“What, I can’t drink tea with my favourite scribe?" Silovar teases, clutching his chest in mock offense. She gives him a flat stare. He wouldn’t have come all the way down here to simply have tea, would he? There must be something he wanted to ask Oswald in particular. “Old Man Oswald said I should wait for you, though. Seems like an easy existence – pawning questions that you can’t answer on to your apprentice."

“And this isn’t something that you could have put in a query card?" Osthryn smiles, ascending the first stair to enter her home. However, the impertinent, unmoving Silovar blocks her way as he remains standing in the doorway, nursing his mug of tea. He shakes his head. “Not this one, I am afraid. Query cards are a bit too one-sided and impersonal to suffice.

“You keep me in such suspense," Osthryn sighs, the balance of Silovar’s company weighing against her desire for a solitary evening. “Will you at least allow me to unburden myself of the day while you finish your tea? I will be in much better shape for conversation once I have at least washed my face."

Silovar theatrically steps to the side, showing her in. Osthryn does not suppress her eye roll at the ironic gesture. Inside she sees Oswald sitting with his back to her, a mug of tea in one hand and a quill hastily scribbling notes of some kind in the other. Her gaze meets Martina’s questioningly, the latter having just stood up from the table to greet her, who shakes her head in response. Relieved that this "personal and two-sided" question does not appear to be related to a Dragon-identity suspicion, she goes to her bedroom to hopefully cast off the many bothersome thoughts that had accumulated throughout the day. 

Sufficiently changed into a plainer kirtle, and with a freshly washed face, Osthryn re-emerges in the kitchen. Oswald is still scribbling, his tea-mug forgotten and cold beside him. Silovar stands mug-less at the door, and looks up with a smile when he sees her. Osthryn moves to sit at the table, but Silovar puts out his hand to beckon her.

“Let’s go for a walk. I am keen to show you some rumoured local fairy hills in compensation for your time."

A walk sounds like a pleasant diversion to Osthryn now that it is offered to her, and a promised trip to fairy hills overshadows any reservations she might otherwise have. Besides, a walk in the fresh air might just dispel the unease the increasing frequency of her nightmares and the brief spring snow evoked in her last few nights. She pushes the chair she had taken for herself back under the table. 

hey soon fall comfortably in step with one another, Mountainkeep at dusk creates a cozy ambience, the suns hanging low over the mountain peaks above them casting a warm glow. The cobblestones soon give way to a winding footpath that leads along the slopes of the Drakesbergen Mountain Range as they pass through the western gate. Osthryn estimates that they will soon be plunged into a premature darkness as the mountains obscure the waning light.

As if reading her mind, Silovar turns his palm up and stretches it out before him, a small orange flame licking his skin. She looks yet again on in fascination at the unabashed openness with which he uses magic. She wonders if she will ever grow used to it here.

“While this walk is a welcome break from the day’s thoughts," Osthryn breaks the silence, “I would like to hear this personal and interactive question of yours."

Silovar studies her. “Not one to beat around the bush, huh?" he smiles. “My question, well, questions, mostly have to do with Dragons in the North. Have you ever been able to detect one in disguise?"

Cold dread plunges though her spine faster than any cliff-falling could ever do to you. Why would he ask such a question? The flames in Silovar's hands absorb the whole of Osthryn's focus. Unconsciously, She rises her and to her cheek, tapping her finger three times. The flames draw her in, fighting against her thoughts that race to find an appropriate answer, luring her into a memory that threatens to envelop her completely in this moment.

“Osthryn?" Silovar prompts, concern seeping into his voice. The flames cast eerie shadows on his face in the rapidly waning twilight. Osthryn blinks, Silovar’s soft tone chasing away the dark thoughts. She feels lightheaded, and after a moment steadies her breath. Clearly the accumulated thoughts of the day had lingered with her.

This line of questioning feels deeply uncomfortable, however open the South is supposed to be to Dragons. She is unsure how much she can trust Silovar with this information, or how he would react to her identity. Ideally, Osthryn would not want to divulge any details at all, but she is here now, and her best hope is to redirect the conversation as candidly as she possibly can.

“Not easily. I certainly haven’t detected one," Osthryn responds tersely. She is not lying, being detected is akin to a death sentence in some villages. Dragons are good at hiding by default, and the only Dragons that she knows of are her elders and those whom they directly introduced to her. She knows that a Dragon can theoretically be detected by another, and that her elders have that ability. That, however, is a skill that she had never had the chance to learn. Not that she ever wanted to. Being able to detect your kin would put one more point of failure between their disguise and the rest of the world.

She continues despite her better judgement, the inexplicable, easy familiarity she seems to feel with Silovar tearing at her paranoia: “I know of stories, and I have seen, where folk witches are accused of having draconic heritage for appearing to wield too much power. Dragons are regarded as winged devils in Bettramon." Her heart thunders in her chest, but there is nothing she could have said that would betray her.

Silovar nods his head, continuing their trek up the path winding ever upwards. The slope eases down into the valley on one side, and Osthryn keeps herself close to the tree line, away from the edge.

“Are you a folk witch?" Silovar asks at length.

“I do practice a little folk-magic, and I love a good herb garden," Osthryn bluffs, her voice sounds more even than it feels, “Does that fit your definition, Silovar?"

“I think my magely intuition detects just a little more talent than you are letting on, Osthryn," Silovar challenges, the lightness in his tone contrasted by the seriousness in his expression. The shadows cast on his face contributes to the true solemnity of his statement. Osthryn gives Silovar a sidelong look, her hackles raised. Silovar continues undeterred.

“It tells me that your magic runs deep. Far deeper than herb-gardens and a few folk spells," Silovar continues, his voice low.

Osthryn remains silent. Silovar appears to acknowledge her reticence for a moment, but that moment soon passes. “It tells me that you must have been accused yourself."

As she tracks his movements closely, wondering what his hidden intentions are, she realises with a sharp jolt of fear down her spine where they are standing.

Silovar stands off the path, the four moons in their various phases replacing the light from his dismissed palm-flame in the dark. She instinctively moves toward him, raising her hand to stall him when she sees the heels of his feet cresting dangerously over the edge. Osthryn can barely make out a slowly growing grin on the silhouette of Silovar’s face.

“Silovar, what..."

Silovar turns his head up to the sky, spreading out his arms. With a sudden kick, he tips over backwards, disappearing over the cliff in an instant.

“SILOVAR!!!" Osthryn shrieks, her cry echoing back through the night air. She rushes forward and scrambles on her hands and knees to the cliff’s edge, the soil between her fingers doing little to still the rapid beating of her height-repulsed heart.