====July 23, 2013
====Alys, Rakshamanith
====In the aftermath of the "lesson", Alys gives into fear.

Who Alys, Rakshamanith
What In the aftermath of the "lesson", Alys gives into fear.
When There is 1 turn 8 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
Where Om Kurmmaya Namah, Igen Weyr

alone.jpg raksha.jpg


Om Kurmmaya Namah
Trailing vines stop at the weyr's entrance, where two options are given. A small escape to the faintly acrid scented couch upon which the green normally rests. This hidden escape is masked by the thickness of vegetation, not visible from the ledge proper. Entrance to the inner weyr is held private by the presence of a screen of silken material depicting long-necked birds in flight against a pale, shell pink background. Ducking behind the screen finds the living area of the weyr, which is portrayed by furniture quite a bit less fine than the screen that protects the weyr from the outside weather. Standard fair: low-set table, low-set chairs, spruced up in cloths done in pale pastel colors. The private area is masked by a slight curve of the weyr itself, hidden within a small pocket of stone that only has room enough to hold a bed, nightstand and dresser. Should a visitor make it that far into the depths of the pair's private world, the bed would be found to be clothed in the same variations of pastel colors: pink, blue, green, and orange. A crack in the stone walls that encompass the living area is only large enough for the greenrider herself to slip out of the Order of her inner place of solace to the Chaos that is Rakshamanith's couch, without having to go to the trouble of fighting the brambles, trees and vines of the ledge. Separation is best served by stone walls, of which, Alys is just fine with.
It is Spring and 55 degrees. It is cloudy.
Obvious exits:
Couch Desert's Oasis


Fear.

Alys lays crippled by it, staring up at the struggling plants that she's surrounded herself with, on the edge of her ledge. It quickens her breath and congeals her thoughts into sluggish bits and pieces that have but one desire in mind: alleviate the fear. Yet, she can't, for fear is insidious and it comes from without rather than within. When the fear's song reaches its crescendo, the greenrider is plunged into the cool depths of the rainforest.

« Do not fear. » The complexity of the lush greenery is woven into audible sound, the croaking of frogs becoming the primary sound that soothes the wounded soul. The upper story of the jungle is where Alys is cradled, where golden sunlight can still penetrate and the darkness of the understory is only a forest-green illusion of shadows in the deeper recesses of the rainforest.


Memories of the day before are sifted through – not the story Jesha wove, for smells and sounds were caught in Rakshamanith’s filter, choosing to uphold some of the maya in which to aid the protection of her rider; so only flashes of memory are what were given. The thrill, the fear, the pain of losing a loved one; all very real, but all emotions, accompanied by visions of what needed to be seen, not by what others wanted to be seen – until the ones that inspired the fear are reached. “Rakshamanith…” Alys can still feel the soft blankets where her body rests, eyes closed. She can still hear the sounds of an ending day, but here, too, she stands. Lost in the green’s depths.

“I know I’m not the best, but I am not inspired. How can they let that monster take over the wing?” it’s a strained whisper that comes from very real lips, forgetting in the moment to whisper it along the mindlink.

Ribbiting sounds rise; a thousand upon a thousand soft burbling croaks give the green’s voice a undeniable depth. « There are other wings, Alys. » Practicality is not left behind in the face of comfort, for rather truth is comfort. This confidence in the way things are meant to be is the heartbeat of the forest, an echoing tantric hymn.


“Another wing…” Alys struggles with the idea, not for real wing leadership but for the fear of what the other wings may be like. “I can’t live in fear. Fear of being outcaste at the whims of a madman. I can’t live, always expecting that my home here will be taken away for a mistake.”

Far below, in the hidden depths of the jungle, a rotting tree falls, sending up hints of decay and freshly churned earth. Golden eyes of a watching predator waits to pounce, to rip away the veil between truth and lies. « Thread is the ancient enemy, Alys. You cannot fly with me to battle the ancient foe if you cannot see beyond the fear of the here and now in order to be ready. » The soft warbling accompanies the cycle of life and death as far away, in the heart of the jungle, something shifts, moves.


“I…” Alys whispers, though she knows that Rakshamanith speaks the truth, though what to do about it is something entirely different. Not that she’s a coward (well sometimes she is). “Who do I go to? If the Weyr’s leadership is okay with… people living in fear?” Presumably, by ‘everyone’, the greenrider means herself since she’s never been given to care much about anyone else.

« You will know what to do. When it’s time. » Rakshamanith’s calm warbling is woven of the many voiced sounds of frogs in their native habitat. High above the canopy, avians fly cartwheels against a too-blue sky, while the red speckle in the eye presented to her rider burns with the birth of worlds. Life and death; the cycle for her has never been jarring. Where death comes, life blooms; displayed in the way the forest overtakes the fallen tree in time-lapsed perfection. « You will know. »


Alys takes comfort from her lifemate, and finally gets up from her prone position. She fixes her hair – a superficial girl at heart – and puts on clothing that shows far too much skin in rebellion against the newtimer views. Flaunting their disgust with a pretty smile and come-hither looks. Her only true indulgence is taking a moment to sew a bell onto the swath of fabric from her trader childhood, the tradition continued even though her family — minus Tula – languished in the past. The sisal jingles merrily, the numerous bells jingling sweetly as the greenrider sews today’s bell.

A bell for every day of her life; someday it will be the shroud to carry her body away, and its sweet music will be the last song she sings.

Finally, she is ready for what the world holds outside the safety of her personal weyr, the mask is in place. The pretty smiles and bitchy attitude are the front behind which Alys, the girl, hides.

The future remains, of yet, undecided.
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